CHAPTER XIIITHE BLOTTED PAGE
MARIAN Van Ness turned the latch-key and stepped into her apartment with reluctance. After her visit to the hairdresser she had persuaded Evelyn, against the latter’s better judgment, to take a light dinner down town with her and had prolonged the walk home because of her desire for companionship. It was Mammy’s “church night,” and Marian dreaded the long evening by herself before the return of the faithful old servant who had been her mother’s personal maid years before. Mammy was a privileged character, and her shrewd comments and homely maxims frequently wiled away the tedium of evenings at home.
When Marian felt the strain of over-work and long hours at the State Department Mammy, on her return, would put her to bed and nurse her as she had done in infancy. Her large black hand possessed a magic touch healing, in its soothing influence, every tortured nerve and bringing sleep in its train. She would have made her fortune asa masseuse, but loyalty to her “chile” kept her in devoted attendance, sharing Marian’s varying vicissitudes with fortifying courage.
Marian’s light footfall made no sound as she crossed the tiny dining room on her way to the kitchenette opening from it. A peep inside disclosed Mammy dozing in a comfortable arm wicker chair. Marian’s surprised ejaculation awoke her.
“Laws! Honey,” she ejaculated, straightening her white turban. “Yo’ am late to-night; jes’ take yo’ tings off an’ Mammy’ll hab supper in a jiffy.”
“Don’t trouble, Mammy, I had my dinner down town.” Marian looked up at the kitchen clock. “You are late, dear; hurry and get your things on.”
“I isn’t goin’ to church dis evenin’, Honey.”
“You are not!” Marian’s surprise increased; for Mammy to miss her weekly devotional was almost unheard of. “Aren’t you well?”
“Oh, yes, I’se well, but I’se tired,” Mammy sighed as she reached across to a corner and pulled forward an electric vacuum cleaner. “I’se been a wrestlin’ wif dis hyar contraption ’most all day. ’Taint any use ob talkin’, Honey, de store-man cheated yo’, fo’ dis hyar cleanin’ machine ain’t no good, de vaccium’s done gone out ob it.”
Marian concealed her amusement from the tender old eyes watching her. “I’m afraid, Mammy,you are too addicted to dusters and brooms,” she remarked.
“’Deed I ’spects dat’s so, Honey; an’ ole broom knows whar de dust is.” Mammy followed Marian into the parlor. “Yo’se lookin’ kinder peaked, Honey; is dey aworkin’ yo’ as hard as ebber?”
“Every one works hard these days, Mammy.” Marian handed her hat and gloves to the servant and threw herself on the sofa which stood in front of the window. “I’ll just sit here and rest a bit. You go to bed, Mammy, and don’t worry over this apartment; it is the most spotlessly clean place in town.”
“Yes, Honey.” Mammy carried Marian’s belongings into her bedroom and returned with a light weight summer afghan which she spread over Marian, who had curled up in a corner of the sofa and was lying back with closed eyes. She did not stir and Mammy, with a final pat, stole from the room and went back to her quarters, there to doze in comfort.
Marian lay quietly on the sofa for more than an hour, and when she sat up darkness had succeeded the twilight. Too tired to move, she leaned back and propped her elbow on the window ledge and looked out. The view was more attractive than that generally seen from back windows; the rows of neat back yards, however, were devoid oflight and the houses they belonged to were also lightless except the Burnham mansion.
From where she sat Marian could see that lights burned in the octagon-shaped wing of the mansion on several of its floors, and her familiarity with the house’s architectural arrangements enabled her to locate the different rooms. Mrs. Burnham had neglected to pull down the shades in her boudoir and Marian saw her knitting by the aid of a movable standing electric lamp, while Peter Burnham, sitting before the desk, was examining some papers. In the room above only a faint light glowed and Marian wondered if the housekeeper, Mrs. Ward, had left her bedroom and resumed her duties.
Marian’s eyes traveled downward to the open windows of Evelyn Preston’s bedroom, but they were dark; evidently Evelyn was either lying down or had gone to another part of the house. Even as she looked a light flashed in Evelyn’s room and in the sudden illumination she had an excellent view of the white walls of her friend’s room. Even as she watched Evelyn crossed before the windows and a second later the light was switched off. For many minutes thereafter Marian sat in darkness.
The front door bell sounded with such sharp suddenness that Marian started up in alarm.Throwing the afghan aside and switching on the electricity she hurried to the door before Mammy, whose doze had developed into heavy slumber, could pull herself out of her chair. A trusted State Department messenger stepped inside the entrance hall and handed Marian a sealed envelope.
“I was instructed to wait,” he explained, and took a chair just inside the parlor.
First stopping to pull down her window shades Marian hurried to her desk, and, taking the pages from the envelope, she proceeded to decode the messages written thereon. She had almost completed the task when, on starting a fresh page, her fountain pen commenced to leak and sent a stream of ink across her writing. With an impatient exclamation she picked up a fresh piece of blotting paper and checked the flow of ink, then continued the decoding. When her work was completed she gathered up the dispatches and the original messages and, placing them in a large envelope, carefully sealed the package with red wax and a ring bearing her crest.
The messenger, who had alternately read the evening paper and several magazines to occupy his time, rose with alacrity at her approach. Taking the envelope he buttoned it securely in an inner pocket of his coat.
“Rush work to-night,” he said. “They sent mehere in a taxi-cab so that if I didn’t find you in I could locate you elsewhere.”
“Why didn’t you telephone beforehand?”
“Central reported your ’phone out of order,” he smiled. “Ain’t it fierce? Good-night,” and opening the door he stepped outside and almost on top of Dan Maynard whose hand, outstretched to ring the bell, struck him sharply on the chest. With a muttered word of apology the messenger hastened toward the elevator and left Marian and Maynard facing each other.
“May I come in?” he asked. His voice was very winning and there was a certain wistful appeal in his eyes as they met hers which possibly accounted for the sudden color in her cheeks. She stood in doubt for a brief second, then stepped back to admit him.
“I won’t take up much of your time,” he commenced, laying his hat down on the desk and turning to face her as she stopped in the middle of the parlor. “I have a message from René La Montagne. It is rather long——” He glanced about and then back at her.
“Then suppose we sit down.” Marian was regaining her old poise. Moving over to the sofa she ensconced herself on one end of it as Maynard pulled forward a chair. “You look”—staring at him steadily—“a trifle weary.”
“I am.” Maynard pushed back his short hair from his temples. “These are strenuous days;” his manner grew more earnest as he bent forward. “Now for my message; René desires to know if you will accompany Evelyn to Rockville, Maryland, next Tuesday.” She looked at him inquiringly and he added, “René plans to marry Evelyn there.”
She did not answer immediately. “Can René secure a license?” she asked finally.
“Yes.” His penetrating gaze never wavered as he studied her. “You will help them?”
“I will.”
Maynard lowered his voice. “Do you quite realize what your promise implies?” he asked anxiously. “The Burnhams will bitterly resent your part in Evelyn’s marriage, and they are in a position to make things most unpleasant for you.”
“Are they?” Marian’s back stiffened. “I am not afraid of the Burnhams or—any one.”
Maynard sat back and glanced away from her. “Then you are fully determined to assist Evelyn and René to elope?” he asked.
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Marian eyed him in surprise, “Because of my affection for Evelyn.”
“You think, then, a hasty marriage is wise?”
Marian’s fingers played with the afghan. “Circumstancesalter cases,” she said composedly. “Evelyn and René are very much in love and deserve their happiness.”
Maynard again leaned nearer. “You have so much sympathy for another’s romance and for your own you have none. Do you never think of yourself?”
“Too much.” Marian’s smile was strained. “I would rather you left my feelings and my affairs out of the discussion.”
“Certainly; but——” Maynard hesitated a long moment. “Your husband——”
“Died long ago.”
Both her voice and manner precluded further questioning, and biting his lip Maynard sat back and contemplated her in silence. A deeper appreciation of her beauty stirred his pulse to a quicker beat; anxiety and hard work, which embitters some natures, had softened and rounded out Marian’s character. Maynard was unaware of the passing seconds as he sat musing, and Marian, controlling her restless longing to be alone, sat like an image, thankful that she had a back to lean against and the side of the sofa on which to rest her elbow. She felt inexplicably weary. Why would Maynard persist in raising the specter of the past? How could he allude to——
A loud ring of the bell came as a welcome relief to Marian.
Before she could start to answer it old Mammy appeared in the entrance hall from the dining room, having gone there upon awakening to find out whose voice it was she heard talking to Marian. The next instant she had ushered James Palmer into the parlor.
“Don’t get up, Mrs. Van Ness,” he entreated, moving forward with as much speed as his bulk permitted. “I only stopped in for a moment. Don’t think me unneighborly if I confess I came to see Maynard,” laying his hand on the latter’s shoulder.
Marian laughed vexedly. Did every one in the apartment house keep tab on her visitors, or was it only Palmer’s curiosity which had brought him there to find out if by chance Evelyn and her French lover were with her? Palmer’s next remark to Maynard caught her by surprise in its direct answer to her unspoken question.
“The elevator boy, Jim, told me you were looking at the vacant apartment next to this, Maynard, and he had seen you afterward stop at Mrs. Van Ness’ door, so,” added Palmer, “I took the chance of finding you here.”
“Do you wish anything, Palmer?” Maynard rose reluctantly; he had hoped to prolong histête-à-têtewith Marian.
“It is nothing so very important,” replied Palmer. “Peter Burnham has telephoned several times to ask if you were with me; he wants you to play chess with him. I tried to locate you in several places, as I judged from Burnham’s voice that he was getting excited and I thought a game with you might quiet him down.”
“We can try it.” Maynard, picking up his hat, inadvertently knocked several papers from the desk. Picking them up he laid them with the red blotter back on the desk, and then he turned to Marian and held out his hand.
She shook it with perfunctory courtesy. “Do I understand you have taken the next apartment?” she asked and there was a catch in her throat which Palmer was quick to detect.
“I plan to.” Maynard preceded Palmer to the door. “You will find me a quiet neighbor. Good night.”
Palmer, following Maynard closely, was surprised at the speed with which the door was closed behind him, almost upon his back in fact. He was about to comment upon it, but his companion’s preoccupied expression and air induced him to remain silent.
Mammy, who had shut the door with such precipitancy, leaned against its panels and looked with staring eyes at Marian.
“I’se recognized him now, Honey,” she gasped. “At las’ I’se recognized him, I mean his voice——”
“Stop!” Marian laid a warning finger on the old woman’s trembling lips. “We mustn’t tell all we know. Come and help me get to bed. I am tired, oh, so tired,” and to Mammy’s consternation she burst into violent weeping as she ran into her bedroom.
One—two—three—chimed the clock on the mantel in Marian’s parlor and the sound drowned the faint noise made by the turning of the lock of the front door; the next instant the door opened and a figure slipped in, listened a moment, then slipped with incredible swiftness into the parlor. A second later a flashlight played over the furniture, never ceasing in its rapid movement until the rays of light disclosed the scrap-basket. The intruder turned over its contents, then the basket was replaced, and once again the flashlight played about the parlor, to linger longest on the desk.
Underneath a pile of correspondence lay a piece of red blotting paper. The intruder picked it up; a few words were discernible on its almost unused surface. With a soft sigh of thankfulness the intruder pocketed the blotter and silently stole from the apartment.