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The Lion's Mouse

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Title: The Lion's Mouse

Author: C. N. Williamson
        A. M. Williamson


        
Release date: July 4, 2007 [eBook #21998]
                Most recently updated: January 2, 2021

Language: English

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THE LION'S MOUSE

by

C. N. & A. M. WILLIAMSON

Frontispiece By Harry Stacey Benton







Garden City New York
Doubleday, Page & Company
1919

Copyright, 1919, by
C. N. & A. M. Williamson
All Rights Reserved, Including That of Translation into Foreign
Languages, Including the Scandinavian




[Illustration: _Suddenly he became conscious of a perfume, and saw a
young and beautiful woman hovering at the door._

_'Oh, do help me!' she said._]




CONTENTS


       I. THE LION

      II. THE NET

     III. THE MOUSE

      IV. THE MURMUR OF THE STORM

       V. ON THE WAY TO THE CAR

      VI. THE PARCEL WITH THE GOLD SEALS

     VII. THE QUEEN'S PEARLS

    VIII. BEVERLEY TALKS

      IX. THE BLUFF THAT FAILED

       X. THE BLUFF THAT WON

      XI. O'REILLY'S WAISTCOAT POCKET

     XII. THE HORIZONTAL PANEL

    XIII. "THERE CAN BE NO BARGAIN"

     XIV. THE STONE COPING

      XV. THE NUMBER SEVENTEEN

     XVI. A QUOTATION FROM SHAKESPEARE

    XVII. THE MYSTERY OF THE BOUDOIR

   XVIII. DEFEAT

     XIX. THE BROWN TRUNK

      XX. MURDER

     XXI. "KIT!"

    XXII. THE VOICE THAT DID NOT SEEM STRANGE

   XXIII. "WHAT'S DONE CAN'T BE UNDONE"

    XXIV. ROGER'S APPOINTMENT AT THE CLUB

     XXV. KRANTZ'S KELLER

    XXVI. THE GIRL IN PINK

   XXVII. WHEN BEVERLEY CAME HOME

  XXVIII. MR. JONES OF PEORIA

    XXIX. ACCORDING TO THE MORNING PAPERS

     XXX. WHAT CLO DID WITH A KNIFE

    XXXI. THE NINE DAYS

   XXXII. "STEPHEN'S DEAD!"

  XXXIII. THE PATCH ON THE PILLOW

   XXXIV. TRAPPED

    XXXV. THE TIME LIMIT OF HOPE

   XXXVI. "WE DO THINGS QUICKLY OVER HERE"

  XXXVII. THE TELEGRAM

 XXXVIII. WHO IS STEPHEN?

   XXXIX. ON THE ROAD TO NEWPORT




THE LION'S MOUSE




I

THE LION


Roger Sands had steel-gray eyes, a straight black line of brows drawn
low and nearly meeting above them, thick black hair lightly powdered
with silver at the temples, and a clean-shaven, aggressive chin. He had
the air of being hard as nails. Most people, including women, thought
him hard as nails. He thought it of himself, and gloried in his armour,
never more than on a certain September day, when resting in the Santa Fé
Limited, tearing back to New York after a giant's tussle in California.
But--it was hot weather, and he had left the stateroom door open.
Everything that followed came--from this.

Suddenly he became conscious of a perfume, and saw a woman hovering,
rather than standing, at the door. At his look she started away, then
stopped.

"Oh, do help me!" she said.

She was young and very beautiful. He couldn't stare quite as coldly as
he ought.

"What can I do for you?" was the question he asked.

He had hardly opened his mouth before she flashed into the stateroom and
shut the door.

"There's a man.... I'm afraid!"

Though she was young and girlish, and spoke impulsively, there was
something oddly regal about her. Princesses and girl-queens ought to be
of her type; tall and very slim, with gracious, sloping shoulders and a
long throat, the chin slightly lifted: pale, with great appealing violet
eyes under haughty brows, and quantities of yellow-brown hair dressed in
some sort of Madonna style.

"You needn't be afraid," he said. "Men aren't allowed to insult ladies
in trains."

"This man hasn't insulted me in an ordinary way. But I'm in dreadful
danger. American men are good to women, even strangers. You can save my
life, if you will--or more than my life. But there's only one way." Her
words came fast, on panting breaths, as though she had been running. The
girl had stood at first, her hand on the door-knob, but losing her
balance with a jerk of the train, she let herself fall into the seat.
There she sat with her head thrown wearily back, her eyes appealing to
the eyes that looked down at her.

A queer fancy ran through the man's brain. He imagined that a woman
being tried for her life might look at the judge with just that
expression. "What do you mean?" asked Sands.

He had resisted the jerk of the train, and was still on his feet.
Instead of answering his question, the girl begged him to sit down.

"I can't think properly while it seems as if you were waiting to turn me
out," she said.

Sands sat down.

"I hardly know how to tell you what I mean. I hardly dare," the voice
went on, while he wondered. "It's a tremendous thing to ask. I can't
explain ... and if I hesitate it will be too late. I don't know your
name, or your character, except what I judge from your face. The way to
save me is to keep me in this stateroom with the door shut, as far as
Chicago."

"Good heavens! That's...." Sands was going to end his sentence with
"absolutely impossible!" But he stopped in the midst. Her eyes made him
stop. It was as if he were pronouncing a death sentence. He was silent
for a few seconds.

"I'd have to say ... no, I could not say you were my wife, because
everyone knows I've not got a wife. I'll say you are my cousin: say
you've come late. I want you to have this stateroom, and I'll take
another ... or a section. I--I could do that."

"Will you?" she breathed.

"Yes. I will."

He said this almost sullenly. He was thinking: "Pretty smart new dodge!
Neat way to get a stateroom all the way from Albuquerque to Chicago."

"I'll go out now and fix things up with the conductor," he promised. "We
must settle on a story. You came on board at Albuquerque just now?"

"Yes. The last minute before the train started. I have a berth in this
car. I thought I was safe, that everything was right for me. Then I saw
the man ... not the one I expected; worse. He wasn't in this car, but
the next. I saw him standing there. He was looking at some ladies
passing through. One had on deep mourning, and a crepe veil. Perhaps he
believed it was I. I turned and rushed this way. Your door was open, and
you ... you looked like a real man. That's all."

"What about your baggage?"

"I have nothing. I ... was in a hurry."

"In what name did you make your reservation?"

"Miss Beverley White. White isn't my real name: Beverley is ... one of
my names. I can't tell you more."

"All right. The porter will get some toilet things for my cousin whom
I'm to chaperon from Albuquerque to Chicago, and who nearly missed the
train owing to illness. He'll bring your meals in, as you're not able to
leave your stateroom."

"That's what I'd have asked," she said. "I may trust the porter?"

"The porter knows me. Your idea is," he went on, his hand on the door,
"that the man you don't want to see will try pretty hard to see you?"

"Yes. When he searches the train and can't find me (I'm sure he's begun
the search already) he can't be certain I'm on board, but he won't give
up easily. If the deepest gratitude----"

"I don't need consolation. Any other instructions to give before I leave
you?"

"No. Yes ... there's one thing. Will you take charge of a very small
parcel? I daren't keep it myself, in case anything unexpected should
happen.

"It is inside my dress," the girl explained. For an instant she turned
her back, then, rebuttoning her blouse with one hand, held out to him in
the other a long, thick envelope, unaddressed, and sealed with three
gold-coloured seals. Roger took the parcel.

"You see how I trust you," she said. "This packet is the most valuable
thing I have in the world, yet I feel it is safe."

"You told me you didn't know my name. But if I'm your cousin you'd
better know it. I'm Roger Sands----"

"Roger Sands, the great--what is the word?--corporation lawyer? The man
who saved the California Oil Trust king?" She looked surprised, almost
frightened.

"It isn't a 'Trust,' or I couldn't have saved him. That was just the
point."

"How lucky I am to have such a man stand by me! For you will?"

He slipped the long envelope into an inside breast pocket of his gray
tweed coat. "It's as safe there as in a bank," he assured her. "Now I'll
go and make everything straight. If you want me, you've only to ring for
the porter and send me word. I won't come till you do send."

Whether or no her terror was justified, Roger resolved to give it the
benefit of the doubt. Instead of trying to secure another stateroom, he
would try to get a section close to Stateroom A, in order to play
watch-dog.

It wasn't difficult to do. The section he wanted was engaged from the
next stopping place, but an exchange could be made. The Pullman car
conductor took it upon himself to attend to that. Sands' suitcase, coat,
and magazines were arranged on both seats, and he sat down to keep
guard. The porter had been told that Miss White wasn't to be disturbed
unless she rang, except at meal times, when he--Sands--would choose
dishes from the menu and send a waiter from the dining-car.

A few toilet things were somehow procured by the negro, and handed into
Stateroom A, with a contribution of novels, magazines, and a box of
chocolates, from Miss White's cousin.

Night, Roger realized, would be the dangerous time, if danger there was,
and he decided not to sleep. Lying awake wasn't, after all, very
difficult, for the portrait of the girl was painted on Roger's mind. He
saw things in that portrait he'd seen but subconsciously in the
original. He thought that her beauty was of the type which would shine
like the moon, set off with wonderful clothes and jewels. And from that
thought it was only a step to picture the joy of giving such clothes and
jewels. The man was surprised and ashamed to find himself thrilling like
a boy.

Daylight released him from duty. He dressed, and had his section made
up. Though all peril--if any--had vanished with the night, Roger
couldn't bring himself to leave his post for breakfast until he saw the
porter tap at the door of Stateroom A in answer to a ring.

"I hope Miss White's feeling better," he said to the negro, when the
door shut once more.

"Yes, sah, she wants her room fixed up. Ah'm gwan do it raight now, but
Ah'm bound to give yuh the lady's message fust. She thought you'd like
to heah she's mighty well, considerin'. An' she'll thank yuh, suh, to
order her some coffee an' toast."

Roger added cantaloupe to the order, and a cereal with cream. The
mysterious girl hidden in his stateroom was no longer an adventuress,
sponging on his idiotic generosity: she was an exquisite, almost a
sacred, charge. As he ate his breakfast in the dining-car he saw a man
he knew sitting directly opposite him at the next table. Their eyes
encountered. Roger felt that the other had been staring at him and
hadn't had time to look away. He bowed, and paused at the table which he
was obliged to pass on his way out.

"How do you do, O'Reilly?" he said, with a slight stiffness. He would
have preferred to walk past with no more than the nod, but in that case
the man would believe his late absent-mindedness had been deliberate.
Roger didn't wish to leave this impression. Justin O'Reilly was nearly
ten years younger than he, but had got the better of him once, and not
long ago. Sands was too proud to let it seem as if the memory rankled.

O'Reilly rose and shook the offered hand. He was tall and lean, and
brown-faced as a soldier back from the war. He had a boyish air, younger
than his thirty-one or thirty-two years: but under that look was the
same sort of hardness and keenness which was the first thing a stranger
noticed about Sands.

"I'd no idea you were out west."

"It's been a flying trip," O'Reilly answered.

"Queer I missed seeing you before. Suppose you've been on board since
Los Angeles?"

"I caught sight of you last night for the first time," said the other.
"I'm not in your car, and I've been resting up. I came on board tired.
One usually does come on board tired!"

"Yes," said Roger. "Well, we shall knock up against each other now and
then, here in the diner."

"Sure to. I shall be spending a few days in New York before Washington,"
O'Reilly volunteered.

"Right! But don't let your coffee get cold for me." Roger passed on.

If his thoughts had not been focussed on the occupant of Stateroom A he
would have wondered a good deal as to what had taken Justin O'Reilly on
a "flying trip" west. This was O'Reilly's first year in Congress, and
he'd manoeuvred to make himself a conspicuous figure in Washington one
way or other. His own present interests could not, Roger thought, be
interfered with by Justin O'Reilly. The man was a Democrat, and opposed
on principle to the cause of John Heron, whom Miss White had called the
"California Oil Trust King": but personally the two were friends, even
distantly related, and O'Reilly would wish to do Heron no secret injury.

When he got back to his own car Sands found the porter waiting.

"Lady's through breakfus, suh, and would like to see yuh w'en
convenient," was the message: and two seconds later Stateroom A's
rightful owner was humbly knocking at the door.

The girl's beauty struck the man anew as she smiled him a welcome. She
was as well groomed as if she had had a lady's maid.

"Has anything happened? Have you had any trouble on my account?" she
inquired.

When Roger said no, nothing had happened, she drew a breath of relief.

"No one in any way noticeable has tried to get acquainted with you?"

"The conductor and porter and a waiter or two are the only persons I've
exchanged a word with--except a fellow I know slightly, named O'Reilly,
a Congressman from California. I suppose he doesn't interest you?"

"No man interests me ... unless the one who is saving my life," the girl
answered surprisingly. As she spoke, a wave of rose-colour poured over
her face, and she turned quickly away in confusion. Roger felt that she
had blurted it out, scarcely knowing what she said until too late.
Instead of liking her less, he liked her better. He brought forth the
envelope to show. It had been under his pillow all night, he told her.

"I don't know what I should have done without you!" she said, with a
gratitude that was almost humble. There'd be a certain blankness, Roger
couldn't help seeing, when the time came to do without _her_!

"When we get to Chicago," he asked, "how can I help you there?"

"Oh, I expect to be met by a friend. I suppose I shan't see you again:
but I shall never forget."

Roger Sands felt a horrid twinge of some unpleasant emotion. He loathed
the "friend" who would take the girl away from him.

"But Chicago's a long way off," she said when he did not speak. "It must
seem a wild story to you, but the danger I'm in ... the danger that this
envelope is in ... won't be over for one minute till you've put me into
my friend's hands. You will do that, won't you? You'll see me through
till the last?"

"I will," said Roger.

"And meanwhile you'll come and call on me in the stateroom sometimes if
you don't mind?"

Roger smiled. A silver lining began to glimmer through the cloud.

By good luck he knew no one on board save O'Reilly, who fortunately was
in another car, and he hoped that few people knew him. He could not
resist her invitation. He began by deciding to spend a half hour with
his "invalid cousin" now and again. As through the veil of beauty he
caught glimpses of something like character within, Roger felt that the
mystery thickened.

The inevitable moment came. The porter was brushing men's hats and
coats. Suitcases were being fastened up. The Limited was slowing down in
the big station. Then, and not till then, did Miss White show herself at
the door of Stateroom A. Sands, who had knocked to tell her that she had
better come out, was waiting to guard her for the last time. Neither had
much to say. The hope of haven had not raised the girl's spirits. As
Sands gave her a hand, stepping on to the platform, he saw Justin
O'Reilly, already out of the train and looking about with the air of
expecting someone. O'Reilly took off his hat, with an unnecessarily
cordial smile for Sands. At heart they were enemies. Roger took the
smile to mean amusement at sight of his companion. He felt annoyed. Miss
White was looking straight ahead, a brilliant colour staining the cheeks
usually pale.

The rendezvous, she had explained to him, was at a news stand. "There!"
she said, "that is where he will be. There's such a crowd, I can't see
him yet."

They neared the news stand, and as "Miss White" was a tall girl whose
head could be seen above the hats of average women, he expected a man to
start eagerly forward. But no man separated himself from the crowd. She
was beginning to look anxious: there was no flush on her cheeks now.

"Where can he be?" she said. "Something must have happened."

"Taxi broken down, perhaps," Roger tried consolation.

"Oh, if only it's nothing worse! I must just wait. But you, Mr. Sands, I
oughtn't to ask...."

"You needn't," Roger cut her short. "I'm not going to desert you."

"I might have known you wouldn't. He can't be long!"

"What about the envelope? Will you have it now?" Roger asked. She had
begged him to keep it until they were out of the train.

"Not yet. I daren't. You're sure it hasn't been stolen from you? Do
please make certain!"

He put his hand inside his coat, and felt the envelope, which was safe,
of course. "It's there, as large as life."

"Thank heaven!" she breathed.

Minutes passed: fifteen minutes; twenty; thirty. The girl was white as
ashes, and dark shadows lay under her eyes. "All hope is over!" she
said, as Sands glanced at his watch, when they had stood for
three-quarters of an hour. "Some terrible thing has prevented him from
meeting me. I don't know what's going to become of me now!"




II

THE NET


"You made no plan what to do if your friend didn't turn up?" Roger
enquired. "Have you any other friends in Chicago?"

"Not one."

"Have you ever lived here, or stayed here?"

"No."

If he had now been capable of suspecting her, all his first suspicions
of Miss Beverley White would have marshalled themselves in his brain.
Nothing had happened during the whole journey to justify her fantastic
story of mysterious danger. As for the wonderful envelope, who could
tell that it didn't contain blank paper? But Sands had got beyond this
stage. If he were a fool, he asked to be nothing better.

"Is that friend you talk of more than a friend?"

"No, only a person I trusted for reasons I can't tell you."

"I see. And you don't know what will become of you since he's failed
you, and you're turned adrift in a strange town?"

"I don't know at all. I feel stunned--as if it didn't matter."

"It does matter to a girl like you, left alone without friends in a big
city where you're a stranger. Have you money?"

"I had enough and more than enough for my journey here, enough to pay
you back for all you've done. I expected to get more money, and to be
looked after in Chicago. Perhaps I can find work."

"Do you think after all that's passed I can go coolly on my way leaving
you alone in Chicago? I may be a fool, but I have another proposal to
make." He paused.

She looked up as if startled.

"What do you say to marrying me and going on to New York as my wife?"

For a minute he thought she was going to faint. She seemed suddenly to
become limp. She swayed a little on her feet, and he caught her arm.

"You're tired out, standing so long," he exclaimed.

"No, it's not that. Forgive me. It was almost too much, finding out the
height of your goodness. Yet, 'height' is the word!"

"You'll marry me, then!" he cried.

"No," the girl answered, "I thank you with my whole heart, but I can't."

"Why ... why?" he stammered. "Unless you're married already."

"I'm not married. No man has ever been anything to me. I swear that to
you! But I can't tell you any more about myself."

Roger did not speak for a minute. At last he said:

"See here, you and I have got to talk. We can't do that where we are,
with people jostling us this way and that. There's one thing certain.
However this ends, I'm not going to leave you alone in Chicago. We've
got plenty of time. Will you let me take you to a quiet restaurant? We
can thrash matters out across the table."

"Very well," she agreed.

Roger knew Chicago. When he had arranged to have his luggage put in safe
keeping, he got a taxi and took the girl to a dull but good place, sure
to be practically empty at that hour. They sat down at a table in a
corner, and Sands ordered an oyster stew.

"Do you dislike me?" he began his catechism. "Could you like me enough
to think of me as a husband, if we'd met in a conventional, society sort
of way?"

"Yes, I could. I do want you to know that. You've been so splendid to
me."

"So far so good, but I haven't been splendid. I've fallen in love with
you. I haven't been in love before ... that is, not since I was twenty.
I've never had time...."

"You haven't taken much time in doing it now!" She gave a queer little
laugh with a sob in it.

"I've learned the lesson that time isn't the thing needed. I want you
more than I ever wanted anything in my life, and I'll take you ... as
you stand."

"You haven't stopped to think ... to count the cost," she said. "Imagine
what it would be for a man like you to have a wife he knew nothing
about, just a single figure cut off its background, in a picture he'd
never seen. People would ask: 'Who was she?' and there'd be no answer."

"They'd not ask me that," said Roger obstinately. "And I wouldn't care
what they asked each other. I'm not a society man, though I might enjoy
putting my wife on the top floor. And I can do that with you if I
choose! You say I'm a man of importance. I'm important enough anyhow to
take the wife I want, and to put her where I want her to be."

"Yes, perhaps. But it wouldn't be only for a little while that I'd not
be allowed to tell you about myself. It would be for always. You
couldn't love me enough to be happy in spite of that."

"I could be happy," Roger insisted, "if you'd love me."

"I'd adore you! But...."

"Then there isn't any 'but'. I don't say I shouldn't like to know all
about my wife and her people and her past. Still, I'd rather have you
with a future and no past than any other woman with both. I can't do
without you, and I'm going to have you ... now, to-day, as soon as I can
buy a license and get a parson to make us man and wife."

"But if you should regret it?"

"I never will be sorry, if you'll do what you just said, adore
me ... half as much as I'll adore you."

Her eyes gave him a beautiful answer. Roger Sands felt that nothing
could make him regret the coming of such a romance into his hustling
life.

This, then, was the story behind the sensation when Roger Sands came
back from a short trip to California bringing a wife, a girl who had
been a Miss Beverley White, a girl nobody had ever seen or heard of
before.




III

THE MOUSE


On the same September day, in Moreton and Payntor's department store in
New York, might have been seen a wisp of a girl "cheeking" a manager
into giving her a situation on the strength of her being Irish.

By chance, the side door of the big Sixth Avenue shop opened for Clo
Riley (her true, Irish, baptismal name was Clodagh, but she didn't think
that would "go" in New York), on the day when Roger Sands' stateroom
door, on the Santa Fé Limited, opened for a very different girl and for
Romance. No one would have thought that they could be in the same
story--the mysterious Vision and the little, sharp-faced thing from
County Cork. Yet without Clo Riley it would have been another story
altogether, even though, for more than six months, she and Mr. and Mrs.
Roger Sands never heard each other's names, nor saw each other's faces.

It was in the April after her marriage that Mrs. Sands came upon an
advertisement in a newspaper. Moreton and Payntor were making a splash
about their lately started department for antique furniture. They had
obtained "eight magnificent, unique pieces of satinwood furniture
painted by Angelica Kaufmann, bought by a representative of Moreton and
Payntor, from a titled family in England."

Beverley Sands (her husband called her "Bev") loved painted satinwood,
when it was good. How she knew that things were good or bad, Roger
sometimes wondered: but she did know. Roger had taken a house at Newport
which had come into the market, and Beverley was picking up "beautiful
pieces" with which to furnish it. The house would, they hoped, be ready
to move into by June.

When she read Moreton and Payntor's advertisement, Beverley decided to
see the satinwood suite and buy it if genuine. Her present wealth
emphasized her astonishing, incredible happiness. "He gives me
everything I want, he trusts me to do everything I like," she thought.
Life was wonderful. Slowly she was coming out from under the cloud of
fear, and had ceased to be afraid of Something terrible that might
happen.

Roger went every morning to the offices of the firm which had his name
at its head. She had breakfasted with him in a kind of super-dressing
gown which Roger said was like an opal seen through a sunrise mist. As
her maid hooked up her frock she sang for happiness. She wished she
could earn it by making someone else happy. Roger didn't count in that
way. The credit would be to do things for a person you didn't love.

"To the first creature I meet to-day, who needs help, I'll give it," she
said to herself. "I'll do something big ... like sacrificing on an
altar."

She went out in Roger's latest present, a limousine car, so silent and
so swift that it travelled like a cloud-shadow. Outside the car was dark
blue; inside, the pale azure of a robin's egg. Beverley told the
chauffeur to drive to Moreton and Payntor's, avoiding traffic because
she was in a hurry. To do this, he approached the shop by passing
through a side street in which was the entrance for employees, as well
as that leading to minor departments, and so connecting with the main
shop. It was comparatively a quiet street, but to-day there was a crowd.
Something had happened, and only a moment ago, for a policeman was just
coming up. The chauffeur would have hurried by to spare Mrs. Sands what
might be an unpleasant sight, but on one of her impulses she stopped
him. The car windows were open. Beverley heard the words "Poor child"
and "Ambulance." She opened the door and jumped out. Because she was
beautiful and beautifully dressed, and had a fine car, people made way
for her.

On the pavement a girl was lying. There was some blood, and that would
have made Beverley sick, if the face streaked red hadn't struck her as
the most tragic, the most pathetic face she had ever seen. It was so
ghastly white, so thin, and yet so young!

"What is it? What's happened?" she inquired of the innermost group.

"Chucked herself out of a fourth story window," a fat woman answered.
"Somebody was beastly to her, I guess."

"Is she dead?" Beverley asked.

"Not yet ... though she must be a bag o' broken bones. She'll die on the
way to hospital, likely, in the ambulance, with nobody to care."

At that instant, as if she heard the terrible words, the girl's eyes
opened. It seemed to Beverley that they looked straight at her.

Suddenly she remembered her own resolve. It had been almost a vow: "To
the first creature I meet to-day who needs help I'll give it."

Here was the creature. If ever there were an appeal in human eyes, it
was in these. Perhaps it was an unconscious appeal. Perhaps the brain
had been stunned asleep, but the deep-down soul was awake. It was
calling to Beverley's soul, and the call had to be answered, or the vow
would be broken. Roger Sands' wife dared not break such a vow lest she
should be punished and lose her magical happiness.

She hated the sight of blood. She wanted to think that, if the girl were
dying, she could do no good. Yet, while reason argued, instinct had
already decided that this was the claimant of the vow. Beverley knelt
down beside the curiously flat-looking body which lay on the pavement.
Her dress dipped into a widening pool of blood, but she did not sicken
as she had thought she would. And to her own surprise she found her hand
stroking back a lock of dark red hair from the upturned face. Poor,
thin, child's face!

"Don't be afraid, you're going to be loved and cared for," she promised.

By this time a doctor had arrived. He, too, knelt by the sufferer. He
spoke to Beverley, thinking she had some acquaintance with the injured
girl. The police had cleared away the sensation seekers, but the lovely
lady of the blue automobile was left in peace. She seemed to be helping
the doctor.

"Keep off, please, keep off," the policemen repeated. "The ambulance'll
be round any instant."

But the ambulance did not take its cue. This was strange, for the
service was splendidly prompt. A man ran up bringing news that there'd
been a collision with a trolley. No one was hurt, but it meant a delay
before another ambulance could be called and respond.

"Can't we take her away in my car?" asked Beverley. "Oh, why shouldn't I
have her at my house? She's only a child, so thin and frail! Loving care
might save her. I'd have a trained nurse in. I'm Mrs. Roger Sands. You
may know my husband's name."

The name of Roger Sands was impressive. So was Beverley, and so was the
car. The ambulance wasn't at hand, and time pressed. It seemed as if the
offer might be accepted. The doctor was the physician engaged to attend
the employees of Moreton and Payntor, and had authority in the
neighbourhood. To test Mrs. Roger Sands' character he abruptly ordered
her into the surgical department--"ground floor, close by the side
street entrance"--to "fetch out a stretcher and be quick." Beverley
responded without hesitation, and in two minutes a startled boy appeared
with a canvas thing like a cot.

The doctor and one of the policemen got the childish body on to this
while Beverley darted to her waiting chauffeur. He--Robbins, an elderly
Englishman--was furious, but short of giving notice then and there,
could do nothing save obey. The folding chairs were pulled out: on one
was piled the car's best ornament, a large chinchilla rug, and some blue
silk cushions. These gave support for the foot of the stretcher, its
head resting on the seat; and the other folding chair was taken by the
doctor who, sitting there, could hold his patient safely in place. Mrs.
Roger Sands scrambled up beside her chauffeur, and did not even notice
that the man's face was a thundercloud.

Robbins could have cried. His last situation in England had been with a
duke. He would still have occupied it, had he not long passed the
"smart" age. Roger Sands had thought him an excellent guardian for
Beverley. Robbins didn't approve of America, but he had approved of his
mistress. There had seemed to him something queenly about her which
"reminded him of home," but to-day he was ashamed of her: to drive
through the streets of New York sitting on the front seat beside him, as
if she were a lady's maid! Worse than all, her dress, her gloves, were
stained with blood. As for the inside of the new car, it would be
ruined. The man felt responsible, and believed that his master would
consider him so. Sitting beside Mrs. Sands, with the look of an inferior
Roman statue on his square face, the chauffeur resolved to see Mr. Sands
before the tale of this morning's work could be told by Sands' American
chauffeur, who drove him to and from the office. The Englishman decided
to bribe the American to "lend his job" that afternoon. They could
arrange an excuse. Harter had a cold. But, as it happened, Roger Sands
read of the affair in a second edition of an evening paper while he
waited for his car.

To see Beverley's name in big letters gave him a shock. He became
conscious that somewhere within him had always been a horror of finding
his wife's name in a newspaper, heading "scarelines." His first feeling
as he read on was of relief. Why, this was nothing!

Some reporter had worked up the incident into a romance, and his editor,
appreciating Roger Sands' importance, had given it nearly a whole
column. On the surface it was a tribute to Mrs. Sands' goodness of
heart; but as Roger's rush of thankfulness passed, he began to see an
unpleasant side of the business.

The reporter had interviewed various persons in the firm of Moreton and
Payntor. He had learned that the girl befriended by Mrs. Roger Sands was
employed in the restaurant for women "assistants." By certain of these,
she had been suspected of small thefts. They had watched her, and it was
in the midst of a "scene" following an accusation, that the waitress had
suddenly flung herself out of a fourth story window. She was an Irish
girl not long in New York. Her name was Clo Riley, and she had been in
the employ of Moreton and Payntor for nearly seven months. She had made
no friends, and was considered "Mysterious."

At the Park Avenue apartment of Mr. and Mrs. Roger Sands an interview
had been refused; but the reporter had learned from a servant that, if
the invalid were "a dear relative" of Mrs. Sands, she could not be more
lovingly cared for. The largest and handsomest spare room had been
hastily prepared, a trained nurse engaged, and a famous surgeon had been
called in consultation with the doctor who had undertaken the case.
Following these details came a description of Mrs. Roger Sands, gleaned
from an "eye witness" of the "sensational scene" enacted in the street.

The story developed strangely to Roger. He saw something behind it. He
knew things about Beverley which, he trusted, few others knew, and saw
the affair in another light.

Roger's marriage experiment was a success. He was glad that he had taken
the girl "as she stood." To have what she had called a "figure cut off
its background out of an unseen picture," was better than to have lost
forever a figure of such beauty. He believed that Beverley was as good
as she was sweet, but she had been right in her prophecy; it was
hideous, sometimes, to see her outlined against darkness.

The incident had happened close to Moreton and Payntor's department
store. Beverley had been in the habit of going there lately. She might
have had a reason for choosing that shop. Indeed, it struck Roger as
incredible that even her impulsiveness could lead her so far, for a
stranger's sake. Besides, why hadn't she telephoned? It looked as if she
were determined to carry out her scheme before he could oppose it.

In this mood he went to his automobile. He was surprised to see Robbins,
but not sorry, because Robbins had been mixed up in the morning's
affair.

"What's this I've been reading in the _Evening Star_?" he broke in.

Here was luck for Robbins! He began to excuse himself for the disgrace
which had fallen upon the new car. "It was the mistress's order, sir,
and I had no choice; but I can't help thinking if she'd known what a
mess the blood would make, she'd 'ave let me call a taxi."

"Another lining is easily put in," said Roger, coolly; but he was angry
for the first time with Beverley. Of all women, she was the one who
ought to think twice before doing a thing to get herself talked about;
but she never thought twice. As he drove homeward, doubts of her crowded
into his mind.

At home, Beverley was in the room which had been turned into a hospital
ward. The nurse had called her, to announce that the "patient" had
returned to consciousness and had begun asking questions.

"I saw it would worry her to be put off," went on Sister Lake, "so I
told her a few things. She remembered throwing herself out of the
window, and the fall, and then waking up, lying in the street. She said
she'd dreamed of an angel-girl bending over her. When she heard what
you'd done, she insisted on speaking to you."

"I'll go at once!" Beverley exclaimed.

"Just for a few minutes," the nurse hinted.

Beverley let herself be led in. The room looked strange to her. The
servants, directed by the doctor, and later by the trained nurse, had
swiftly, noiselessly made the changes before the girl came back to
herself. The curtains had been taken down, and rugs cleared away from
the parquet floor. Most of the furniture had disappeared, and on a glass
table were a number of bottles. The bed faced the door, and as Mrs.
Sands softly entered a pair of eyes looked at her. Beverley's heart
jumped as her eyes met them. She had not known how immense and dark they
were, or that they were beautiful.

The nurse drew Mrs. Sands near to the bed, and issued her orders before
the girl could open her lips.

"Neither of you must talk much," she commanded. "Mrs. Sands has come to
let you see that she exists, and you can thank her if you like, but she
mustn't stay many minutes."

"Sister Lake is right," said Beverley. "You mustn't excite yourself.
You're going to get well; and this is your home."

"I'm not excited," the girl answered, in a low, monotonous voice, hardly
above a whisper. "But I had to see you, and tell you this one thing. I
didn't want to live, because ... I was miserable, and everyone hated me;
still, it seemed awful to die. You saved me. I wish to live now, if only
to show you what gratitude can be. I expect you're awfully rich. I'm
poorer than any church mouse. It doesn't look as if I could do anything
for one like you. But who knows? There was a mouse once helped a lion.
It gnawed a hole in a net. I feel as if the time must come when I can do
as much, because I want to so dreadfully. That's all!"




IV

THE MURMUR OF THE STORM


It seemed that everything were to go wrong with Roger Sands that day. He
had felt for the last few months that a cloud had risen between him and
John Heron, whose cause he had won in California. If ever a business man
owed a debt of gratitude to the brains of another, John Heron owed such
a debt to Roger Sands, who had risked not only his reputation, but even
his life against the powerful enemies of the alleged "California Oil
Trust King." Heron had appeared fully to appreciate this; and before
Roger left for New York had been almost oppressively cordial, begging in
vain that Roger would visit him and his wife, a famous beauty with
Spanish blood in her veins. He had written once, immediately after
Sands' departure, and had telegraphed congratulations on reading the
news of Roger's marriage. But the friendly reply had remained
unacknowledged. The wedding present of a gold tea service had been
accompanied by no letter, only a card with the names of "Mr. and Mrs.
John Heron." With Sands' thanks the correspondence ended.... This had
vexed Roger, who liked Heron and was not used to being slighted. The
only thing he could think of was Beverley's failure to enclose a note to
Mrs. Heron in his letter of thanks. She had argued that the present was
for him, really, and that if she wrote Mrs. Heron it would look
"pushing."

Roger let the matter slide, and had written in his wife's name and his
own. At last he read in some newspaper that "Mr. and Mrs. John Heron
intended shortly to start for the east, where they would spend the
summer." Without waiting to consult Beverley he wrote, saying he had
read the news, and he and his wife hoped for a visit in their Newport
house as soon as it was ready. He had written, not from the office, but
from home, with the Park Avenue address on the paper. To-day, as he
entered his study, his eye lit on an envelope with John Heron's writing
upon it.

The letter lay on the top of others on his desk, and instead of going to
find Beverley at once, as was his lover's custom, he sat down to read
his correspondence.

The first letter he opened was Heron's, which consisted of a few lines
on one page. Roger's eyes took in the whole at a glance.

     DEAR MR. SANDS:

     My wife and I are obliged to you for your kind invitation, but
     owing to the fact that we have already made a great number of
     engagements I fear we shall be unable to give ourselves the
     pleasure of accepting.

     Yours truly,
     JOHN HERON.

The blood rushed to Roger's forehead. He realized that this was a
deliberate insult.

The last letter had begun "Dear Sands," and had been signed "Yours
gratefully ever." Roger was even more furious than mystified. "Next time
he wants me to pull him out of a death trap, he can whistle for his
pains!"

At that instant Beverley tapped at the door, and half opened it to peep
in.

This irritated Roger. He had told her from the first that she need not
knock at his study door.

"How often have I begged you not to knock?" he broke out at her. "Come
in if you want to."

It was the first time he had ever spoken crossly. Beverley started, and
the look on her face, instead of overwhelming Roger with remorse,
hardened him.

Beverley's colour had been bright, but she turned pale as Roger flung at
her his scolding words. Seeing the letter in her husband's hand the
blood streamed back to her cheeks. If she could possibly have known and
recognized Heron's writing, it might have seemed that the sight of it
had struck her with fear. But no such far-fetched thought occurred to
her husband.

"I--I'm sorry!" she said hastily. "I heard your voice--I supposed
someone was with you----"

Roger forgot that he had spoken aloud. In silence he let the girl cross
the floor and sit down in the easy chair she called "hers." She dropped
into it as if her knees had given way, and looked at Roger. When he did
not speak, she could bear the suspense no longer.

"You--you're reading a letter--I interrupted you?"

"The letter's of no importance," said Roger, throwing it upon the desk.
"It's only from John Heron to tell me that he and his wife won't be able
to come and see us at Newport. One would suppose by his tone that he was
offended. Probably Mrs. Heron expected you to gush over the wedding
present, and has put him up to snubbing me because you didn't."

"You asked the Herons to visit us? I--didn't know----"

"I did ask them," Roger cut her short. "I heard they were coming East."

"Oh, Roger, I couldn't have met them! If they'd accepted I should have
had to be ill, or--or go away!" Beverley exclaimed on one of her
impulses, which instantly she appeared to regret. "I'm glad you don't
like Mr. Heron's letter, because--you'll never ask them again! I haven't
done anything to annoy you, have I?"

"You know best whether you have or not."

"What do you mean?"

"Is it necessary to ask? I came home intending not to question you. But
I must make one comment: you're surprised that I invite a friend to
visit us without consulting you. That seems inconsistent with what
you've done. I've read the evening paper, and----"

"Oh, Roger! It's in the paper ... about that poor child and me?"

"Naturally! You and I aren't nonentities."

"You don't think I did wrong?"

"Wrong's a big word. You've done something foolish, and inconsiderate to
me."

"What harm can the child do to you?"

"That depends upon what sort of 'child' she is! Perhaps you can give me
a better account of her than the _Evening Star_ gives!"

"I can't give you any," said Beverley, in a trembling voice, "except
that she was the most pitiful thing I ever saw ... so young and
desperate, lying in pools of blood."

"Which pools of blood you transferred to your new motor car, my present,
that I thought you valued."

"Roger! What did the motor matter, compared with saving a life?"

"Saving a life wasn't in question. An ambulance would have been on the
spot in a minute to take the girl to a hospital."

"She wouldn't have had love in a hospital. I felt it was for lack of
love she'd tried to kill herself...."

"A girl who steals her companions' money can't expect to have their
love...."

"Oh! So that's what the newspaper says? I don't believe she stole. Wait
till you see the poor little thing, Roger."

"I don't want to see her. Now she's here, she'll have to stay till she
dies, or can be safely moved. I've no wish to be cruel. But when she can
go, I want her to do so. I don't mind giving...."

"You do mind giving faith and sympathy!" Beverley burst out. "Why should
you take me on faith, and refuse it to another? You knew nothing about
me ... I know nothing about this child...."

"Ah, you're sure you know nothing about her!" His tone was bitter.

"What could I know?" she echoed. "I brought her straight home, and she
hasn't been able to talk ... except a few words."

"It occurred to me as rather odd you should do so much for a complete
stranger."

"Oh, I see! You think I knew her ... before?"

"I thought it possible. Her name put the idea into my head. I heard you
say it once ... in your ... sleep ... Riley ... or something like that."

For the third time Beverley blushed, one of her fatal, agonized blushes.
The rush of blood forced tears to her eyes; and a certain strained look
in them, a quivering of the lips, brought back to Roger's mind a picture
of her in the train. That was the first time he had seen her blush. She
had said--he remembered well--"You are the only man I'm interested in,"
and had blushed furiously. He had been sure then that she was no
adventuress. She had looked like a frightened child, and she looked like
one now. With that picture of the girl in the train came back another
recollection. She had asked if any man had inquired for her, or if any
"noticeable" person had sought his acquaintance. He had replied that
he'd not spoken with a soul except a man he knew slightly, a Congressman
from California named O'Reilly. He supposed that O'Reilly didn't
interest her? Upon this, with a desperate blush, she had made her
startlingly frank reply.

As this came back, Roger's heart was no longer soft. What a fool he had
been, that day in the train, not to connect the girl's change of colour
with his mention of O'Reilly! She might have blurted out her compliment
to excuse the blush, instead of the blush having followed the
compliment. Good heavens! could Justin O'Reilly have been the man from
whom she wished to hide?

"Perhaps the name you spoke in your sleep was O'Reilly!" he flung at his
wife.

Beverley gathered herself together.

"So all this time," she said, "you have been suspicious of me! And I was
so happy. I thought you were happy, too, but it's just as I was afraid
it would be, if I married you. You can't endure the strain!"

"I have endured the strain," Roger defended himself; "because I loved
you as few men have ever loved, but the question is, have you deserved
it all?"

"This is the moment I felt must come!" she said. "If I had only myself
to think of, don't you know I'd have told you everything? I warned you
how it would be ... how I should have to keep the secret not for a
little while, but for always! If you don't believe, if you think I lied
when I said no man had ever been anything to me ... if you think I lie
now, when I say I never saw or heard of this girl till I found her in
the street.... I can go out of your life.... I can go to-day!"

As she spoke slowly, sentence by sentence, with a sobbing breath
between, Beverley looked straight into her husband's eyes. Hers did not
falter though they swam in tears. With her last words, she rose and
stood facing him as he sat at his desk.

Roger gave her back gaze for gaze, as if he would read her secret
written in cypher on her soul. He saw that she meant what she said. A
word from him, and their experiment was at an end. She would go. It
seemed to him that never had her beauty been so gentle, so womanly.

"You shan't go!" he cried, springing to his feet. "I can't give you up!"

But she held him off.

"No!" she panted. "I won't stay if you want me only in that way--because
you have a kind of love for me, whether you believe in me or not. I love
you too much to be shamed by you! Either you trust me, or you don't. Say
which it is, and I'll stay, or go."

"I've got to trust you! I do!" The words seemed to burst from him. "You
know I love you more than all the world. It would kill me to lose you."

"I'd rather die from the shock of losing you, Roger, than from such a
hateful pain, going on and on----"

"It shan't go on," he said. "I've been happy, too. I'm a changed man
since the hour I saw you and loved you. It's only to-day I've been
wretched. Forgive me, Bev--and God forgive you if----"

"There's an 'if' for you?"

"No--no, there's no 'if' any more. You're to forgive me----that's all!"

"Oh, I do! The hard thing would be not to forgive. But--can we go on
being happy again, just as if nothing had happened?"

"Of course we can, silly child. Nothing has happened." Roger had her in
his arms now. He kissed her over and over again, till she gasped for
breath. "This has only cleared the air. As for that beastly child, I
don't care if she's a murderess. Keep her forever, if you choose. Train
her as your maid----"

"But she's not 'beastly!' And she's not the kind to have for a maid. I
think she's a lady. She seems----"

"Well, do whatever you like with her. Can I go further, to show you I
want to atone?"

"No, you can't, Roger----" Beverley nestled her face into his neck. "I
adore you!"

She closed her eyes, but opening them she happened, looking over Roger's
shoulder, to see John Heron's letter on her husband's desk. A faint
shiver ran through her body, and Roger felt it.

"What's the matter, my darling?" he asked.

"Nothing!" she answered. "A mouse ran over my grave."




V

ON THE WAY TO THE CAR


Beverley found that she could "be happy again, as if nothing had
happened" between her and Roger. For one thing, it was wonderful to feel
that she had the power to "save" a fellow-being, and wonderful to be
worshipped as Clo worshipped her. Of course, Roger "worshipped" her,
too, but it was Beverley who looked up to him. Clo looked up to her.
When Beverley went into the room presided over by Sister Lake, the
child's great black eyes dwelt upon her as the eyes of a devotee upon
the form of a goddess "come alive." Roger Sands' wife felt simply that
she was repaying God for saving her, by what she was able to do for this
Irish girl.

As soon as Clo was allowed to talk she insisted upon telling Beverley
about herself. There was, apparently, no romance or mystery in the story
of her eighteen years of life. Her mother had died when she was less
than three, but Clo could "remember her perfectly." It wasn't only the
photograph she had (a badly taken one of a young woman with a baby in
her arms), but she could see her mother's colouring. Oh, such lovely
colouring! Not dark red hair, like her own, but gold, and eyes more
brown than gray. And mother had been only twenty-four when she died. Clo
had to admit that most of what she knew of mother was from the Sisters
who looked after the orphans. Yes, it was in an orphan asylum that the
child had been brought up. About father she knew nothing, except that
mother had "lost" him before her baby was born, and that he "came from
America." Evidently his name had been Riley, because mother was Mrs.
Riley, and Clo was Clodagh because "that was a name in mother's family."

The Sisters had been particularly kind. Mother had given Clo into their
care, because she lodged, and had fallen ill, in the street of the
orphan asylum. There had been a little money, which was placed in a bank
for the child. The Sisters had known that mother was a lady; but the
orphan girls, when they grew up, were supposed to be put into service.
Neither Clo nor the Sisters had wanted her to be a servant, and when she
was sixteen a situation was found for her as "companion" to an old lady.
Clo "stuck it out" for nearly two years. Then she ran away and sailed
for the United States, her unknown father's land, with the sixty pounds
which was her fortune. This money was all spent, and she was nearly
starving when she snatched at what she could get with Moreton and
Payntor.

"But I just couldn't eat and dress on my wages," Clo explained, in her
soft, rich voice, rather deep for so young and small a girl, and made
creamy by a touch of Irish brogue. "One has to do both in New York. I
was so hungry all the time, if the girls left a crust on their plates I
used to hide it. I expect the way I'd look to see if there'd be anything
left gave them the idea I was a sly piece. They thought I put on airs,
too. Me! P'raps it was my not knowing their kind of slang. And it's true
I did steal once, or almost the same thing as steal. There was a dollar
bill on the floor under a table one afternoon. 'Stead of trying to find
who was the owner, I slipped it inside my dress. I must have been nearly
off my head, or I'd never have done it, darling Mrs. Sands! When the
time came to go home to my room that night, I didn't go. I went to a
restaurant, and I ate. I ate a whole dollar's worth of dinner, just so I
couldn't give any money back if I changed my mind next day. Well, next
day was the day you know of. And what with knowing I was a thief, and
the girls knowing it, too--though there was no proof--I thought the best
thing for a lost child was to die!"

Beverley had by this time "made everything right" for Clo at Moreton and
Payntor's. Indeed, Mrs. Roger Sands having taken her up, she had become
quite a classic figure of romance among her late enemies. When Beverley
told the girl that when she got well she wouldn't have to go, but could
stop and be "a sort of secretary," Clo Riley almost had a relapse from
the shock of joy.

By the end of May Clo's broken ribs had mended. The first day when she
was up and dressed, able to go downstairs, and out for a spin in the
renovated blue car, she was a very different looking girl from the
battered wisp of humanity whose blood had stained the "robin's-egg"
cloth and silk.

It was Sunday, and Clo was burning with excitement. She was to meet her
Angel's husband for the first time. She had pictured him a dragon. The
Angel loved him, but the Angel was such a saint, and would love any old
husband. Clo imagined that Beverley had been poor (she must have known
poverty to be so sympathetic!) and that she'd married an elderly man
because--well, not entirely because he was rich (that wouldn't be like
an Angel) but because she needed protection. Clo expected to see a
grumpy graybeard.

Roger expected to see a washed-out invalid of indefinite type, a young
woman of the shabbiest shop-girl order.

What Clodagh saw, when she followed Mrs. Sands into the study, was a
strong, dark man, not old at all, apparently, and almost interesting
enough in looks to be worthy of the Angel. Still, she was not sure she
was going to like him.

What Roger saw was a small, slender girl, too childish, too impish, to
think of as a "young woman." She had a little oval face with a pointed
chin. It was pale, but not washed-out, and her lips were red. An
obstinate, impudent mouth, Roger thought. As for her eyes--he had never
seen such great eyes in a human face. They were like holes in a blanket,
so big, so black, as they stared up at him. She had curly auburn hair,
that looked even redder than it was, in contrast with her eyes. But
though the face was impish, not pretty precisely, with its high cheek
bones and impertinent chin, he had to admit that it was noticeable, and,
in some odd way, attractive. The girl was charmingly dressed. He might
have known that Bev would see to that. Clo was a surprise to him, as he
was to her. Each saw that the other was a distinct and interesting
personality; and Roger realized that Beverley was right; the girl had
the air of being a lady. There was something else about her, too, which
piqued him. He could not make out what it was. Did she look like someone
he knew?

He was polite, as he had promised to be, and called Clo "Miss Riley."
When Beverley said that they were going out for the invalid's first
drive, Roger replied that he was glad; but Clo, catching his eye,
fancied she saw a sarcastic gleam.

"He's thinking of the time I came here in that same car," she told
herself. "I know I must have spoilt it--got it all messed up with blood.
Probably he had to give a lot for doing it over. And my goodness, the
dollars of his that Angel has been pouring out for me every day since!
No wonder he looks sick! But some day I shall pay. I don't know how,
only I shall--I shall!"

Beverley and Clo went down in the gorgeously decorated elevator.

"If Angel lived in a garret, it would be a palace to me," she reflected.

A hall porter opened the door of carved bronze over glass. Without
seeming to look, he took in every detail of the slim figure in white
cloth; the small white hat tilted over the dark red hair, the tiny white
shoes, the dainty ankles in silk stockings. Clo could have laughed
aloud. Of course, the giant in livery knew the whole story. He was
contrasting the way she came out with the way she had come in.

Drawn up at the pavement was the glittering blue automobile, with the
statuesque Robbins at the wheel. Clo remembered both, with a queer, sick
pang. She had not been wholly unconscious when the stretcher was pushed
into the car. "What I owe this darling woman!" was the thought she
breathed like a prayer.

As the two crossed the pavement--tall, beautiful Beverley and quaint
little Clo--a man who must have been loitering close by started toward
them with a limping step, and took off his hat.

"Is this Mrs. Roger Sands?" he asked.

Beverley stopped short, within a yard of her car. For such a graceful,
softly moving person, her movement seemed jerky. Clo glanced from the
man to Mrs. Sands in surprise. One would say the Angel looked
frightened, only that would be absurd! Besides, the man wasn't a
creature worth being afraid of. He was short, and very thin, as if he
had been ill. He hadn't a nice face. Sallow and sickly it was, like a
prison bird, with hollows under the red-rimmed eyes. He was badly lame,
too, if he wasn't pretending; and altogether, in spite of her newly
mended ribs, Clo felt that she herself would be equal to knocking him
down.

"Yes, I am Mrs. Sands," Beverley answered, as if against her will. "I
don't--but perhaps someone has sent you with a message?"

"In a way, yes, that's it," said the man. "I had a message for you. I'm
the man sent to meet you in Chicago, September 21st of last year."




VI

THE PARCEL WITH THE GOLD SEALS


There was a second of suspense for Clo, and then Beverley spoke quietly:

"Oh, I see! That's very interesting," she said. "I hope--the news is
good?"

"It's a long message," the man answered. "I was told to let you have it
in person. I thought you'd be goin' out sooner or later. If your husban'
'ad bin along, I'd have left a line, but----"

"Never mind what you would have done, please," Beverley cut him short.
"The best thing I can think of now, is this" (she hurried on in a low
tone, and Clo who had stepped aside, nearer to the car, did not catch
the words), "Take a taxi, and follow my automobile. We're going into the
Park. When you see us stop, you must stop too, at a distance.

"I shall get out and let the motor, with my friend in it, go on without
me for a while. Then we can talk. Do you understand?"

"I'll be there," said the man.

He touched his hat and moved away, as if his errand were done.

"Drive slowly through the Park," Beverley instructed Robbins, and gently
made Clo get into the car before her. "I'm so sorry to have kept you
standing, dear," she said. "I hope you don't feel weak or 'tottery'?"

Clo did feel very weak, not from fatigue, but from excitement. She
replied that she felt "grand." And Mrs. Sands forgot to say that she was
glad.

The girl glanced at the older woman, and saw that she was staring
straight ahead, with a withdrawn look in her eyes, which told that she
saw nothing. Clo's heart beat fast. This drive was to have been a
glorious experience. She had seen Central Park more than once, and had
walked there, miserable in her loneliness. Now, though she looked out of
the window, it was to let Beverley feel that she was not being stared
at. The girl saw only a blur of colour, as if a kaleidoscope turned
before her eyes.

At last Beverley spoke.

"Dear child," she said, "I'm sure you understand that the man who was
waiting for me brought a message I'm anxious to hear. And--I'm sure of
another thing--that I can trust you!"

"I'd die any minute for you, sure I would!" she cried.

"I believe you would! But I don't want you to die. All I want is for you
to listen while I explain----"

"As if you needed to explain to me!" the girl broke out.

"I don't need to, perhaps, yet I wish to say just this: I love Roger
dearly. I've told you so often enough! I'd give anything on earth not to
have a secret from him. But to save a life--not my own--there is a
secret I must keep. This man and his message are part of it. Now, that's
all I'm going to explain, except that--that nothing must be said."

"I'd bite my tongue out sooner!" Clo protested.

"Thank you, dear! Now we've had this talk, it's a comfort, not a worry,
having you with me. You won't mind if I send you on while I get down and
walk in the Park?"

"I'd love it!" said Clo.

At once Beverley took the speaking tube and ordered the chauffeur to
stop. He drew up at the side of the road. They were in the midst of the
Park now, an exquisite green and gold world of peace and beauty.

"I feel like taking a little exercise," Beverley said to Robbins, as she
stepped out of the car. "Miss Riley isn't strong enough to walk. Go as
far along Riverside Drive as Grant's Tomb, and then come back, but
slowly, so she can see everything. You'll find me waiting here."

It seemed that Robbins carried out his instructions too laboriously. Clo
didn't like the ferret-man, and she didn't believe that Beverley liked
meeting him.

When at last Robbins brought the car back to the rendezvous there was
the tall graceful figure in gray, standing alone.

"Oh, have we kept you?" the girl cried, throwing open the door before
the automobile stopped.

Beverley did not answer, or seem to hear. She did not even look at Clo.

"Home!" she said to Robbins. "As fast as you can!"

Clo was shocked into silence, and hardly breathed when Beverley had sunk
on to the seat, covering her face with her hands. The car had nearly
reached the Sands' corner of Park Avenue before the elder girl spoke.
Then she said abruptly, as if waking from a dream:

"Forgive me! I couldn't talk! I'm in dreadful trouble! I must ask you to
help me. Are you strong enough to take a longer drive, and to walk a few
steps alone?"

"Rather!" said Clo.

"Well, when we stop in front of our house, sit still in the car. I don't
want Sister Lake or Roger to know we're back. I'll run in, get a parcel
which must be taken to a certain place, and give it to you. Then Robbins
will drive (I'll tell him) to a hotel on Broadway, called the
Westmorland. I never heard of it before, but it seems that it's near 33d
Street, and quiet and respectable. Go into the restaurant and order tea.
While you're there, that man you saw will come into the room, and you'll
hand him the packet. That's all."

"It sounds too easy," Clo said.

"I hope it will be easy. I'll bring you a latch-key when I come down
with the parcel. Let yourself in when you get home, and go straight to
your room. I don't want you to fib, but try to make it seem to Sister as
if we'd just come back. She'll think it strange if she knows I've sent
you out on an errand by yourself."

"She shan't know," the girl promised.

"You _are_ a comfort! You see, I told Roger I'd be at home by four, and
I couldn't be, till long after if I took the parcel myself. I shall only
just be in time as it is. Here we are at the door! Now I'll rush. In
five minutes I hope to be with you again. Oh, if only Sister Lake isn't
at the window!"

The five minutes passed, and Beverley didn't return. Clo watched the
silver-gilt clock under the vase of violets. Ten minutes; fifteen
minutes; no Mrs. Sands! The girl was wondering whether she ought to wait
indefinitely, or seek her friend to see what had happened when Beverley
appeared. She was breathless with haste.

"Here, take this, and do just as I told you to do," she said, thrusting
into Clo's hands a bag, not a parcel. "Inside you'll find what I spoke
of, and money to pay for your tea. I had to hide the parcel. I can't
stop to explain more now." She turned to the chauffeur, and hastily
ordered him to drive to the Westmorland Hotel. Miss Riley had to meet a
friend there; Robbins must wait till she was ready to come home.

Only as the car slowed down in front of the third-rate hotel did Clo
touch the hasp of the gray suede bag. It was not locked, and save for a
crumpled dollar bill, its sole contents was a large, unaddressed
envelope fastened with three gold seals. On each of these seals was the
same elaborate monogram, which Clo did not try to make out; but it was
not composed of Beverley Sands' initials. Evidently the parcel had been
crammed into the first handy receptacle, for it was all but too big to
go in, and Clo found it difficult to extract without damaging the seals.
Leaving the bag on the seat, she hid the envelope under the smart, white
cloth cape which went with her new frock.

The restaurant of the hotel opened off the hall. At that hour, a little
after four o'clock, there was no one in the room but a waiter. Afternoon
tea was evidently not a daily custom of the Westmorland's guests, but
when it was brought at length, the ferret-man had not yet arrived.

"Oh, dear, what shall I do if he doesn't come?" Clodagh asked herself,
thinking fearfully about the chauffeur--and about Sister Lake.

Just then the face of the ferret man appeared at the door. He glanced
about, fixed the girl with his red-rimmed eyes, slouched into the room,
and limped briskly to the table.

"Hello!" he exclaimed, with a familiar grin, and pulled out a chair to
sit opposite Clo. He kept on his hat. His breath reeked spirits, and the
girl was disgusted, but she was the faithful servant of Mrs. Sands, and
the waiter was staring.

"Here's the parcel Mrs. Sands sent. She particularly wanted me to get
back as soon as possible."

The long envelope, with the gold seals uppermost, was lying on the
table. Clo removed a napkin she had laid over it, and pushed the parcel
across the table. As she did this she rose.

"Looks right enough!" remarked the ferret man, sitting still. "This
is what she told me to expect: long white envelope, three gold
seals----" He picked the parcel up, holding it to his sharp nose and
near-sighted eyes. "Yeh, munergram, or what yuh call it, right, too."

"Then that's all," said Clo, Beverley's dollar bill in her hand. "I'll
call the waiter----"

"Don't be too previous, cutie, _if_ you please!" and a not immaculate
hand helped itself to a fold of her dress. "Yuh an' me ain't workin'
this show on our own. You're for Mrs. Sands, I'm fur--well, I'm fur
someone I guess is even more particular than her. It's as much as my
job's worth to let yuh make your get-away till I've had a squint inside
this yere envelup."

"Mrs. Sands didn't tell me there was anything to wait for after I'd put
it in your hands," Clo objected. "I don't see----"

"It's me that's got to see. Now yuh keep yer hair on, gurlie, while I
lamp this thing. No good tryin' the sneak game, because I'd be on to yuh
like a thousand o' brick before yuh'd took a step----"

"I've no intention of running away," Clo assured him, with a dignity
copied from her idol. "Mrs. Sands has nothing to hide."

The man chuckled, as with a knife taken from the table he opened the
envelope without breaking the seals. He did this slowly. Clo sat down
again.

The ugly hands drew out from the envelope another smaller envelope.
There were no seals on it, but the flap was stuck with gum. The man
swore under his breath as he used the knife again. Clo was deeply
interested. Her idea was that the fellow would pull out a quantity of
greenbacks; but in an instant she saw that she had guessed wrong. There
were many sheets of paper folded together, at least a dozen, and this
seemed to astound the man. With a jerk he opened out the sheaf of
papers, and having stared an instant, slammed them on to the table.
"Curse her, she thought she'd do us, did she?" The words tumbled out
between his brown, broken teeth, as he dashed his fist on to the papers.
"So this is why she sent you--you catspaw!"

Clo was far from being a coward. Her hot, defiant temper rose at the
least alarm, but she was so amazed at the result of her errand that she
was struck dumb. Mechanically her eyes had turned to the papers. She saw
that the upper sheets consisted of blank stationery taken from a train,
the Santa Fé Limited.

"If you're trying to scare me, you can't," she said. "You're acting like
a fool. If something's gone wrong in your business, it isn't my fault,
and I'm sure it isn't Mrs. Sands. If there's a trick, she's tricked,
too. Try to have common sense."

The girl's fearless gaze and quickly spoken words calmed the man.

"It's darned rot to say my lady who stayed at home ain't in the trick.
Why, dumbhead, this paper shows! She was on board the Limited. Gee!
Don't I have cause to know that? It's easy as slidin' off a log to see
what she done. She helped herself to what was in this yere envelope, an'
filled it with train stationery. Then she sealed it up with the same
kind o' seals. Stole the stamp and wax on purpose. Thought she could get
away with it. I take off my hat to her."

"I know nothing except that I agreed to bring the parcel," said Clo.

"You go back to her ladyship as fast as you can scamper, and tell her I
wasn't soft enough to bow myself off the stage without peepin' at what
Santa Claus had put in my stockin'. Tell her 'twould only o' bin a
matter o' time if I hadn't peeped. As it is, it's a matter o' less time.
Tell her a life will pay for this, and she jolly well knows whose!"

The man had ceased to bluster, and now that he had got himself in hand
again his fierce eyes and his low, hissing voice thrilled the girl as
his threats had not thrilled her. This time he allowed her to rise,
which she did, tottering slightly. She had forgotten about paying for
her tea, but the dollar bill lay in a crumpled wad on the table. The man
placed one of his oddly repulsive hands over it.

"I'll see to the waiter," he said. "I'm stayin' in this hotel. You cut
along and tell your lady friend she's got till ten o'clock to-night to
explain herself, not a minute more. Good day to you, Miss Baby Doll!"

Without answering, Clo walked out of the room, ashamed that her knees
were weak, and hoping that she could get safely to the car without
making a fool of herself. Physically, it was a great relief to lie back
against the soft cushions of robin's egg blue, and shut her eyes. What
would Angel do when she heard how dreadfully the errand had failed?

Clo had forgotten the difficulty of making Sister Lake believe, without
a fib, that she and Mrs. Sands had only just come in from their drive
together. But she remembered as she went up in the elevator. It was very
late now--long after five. Sister was sure to be cross; but if she were
cross only with Clo, and not Mrs. Sands, that wouldn't matter.

Few things work out according to expectations. Sister Lake had been at
the window, it seemed, when the car brought back Mrs. Sands and Clo
before four o'clock, and had been alarmed when the former descended to
hurry alone into the house.

"I was afraid you'd fainted," she said when Clo arrived at last. "I flew
out of this room to go down in the elevator, and bumped into Mr. Sands
in the hall, and while I was apologizing and making him understand she
appeared on the scene."

"My goodness, the fat _is_ in the fire!" Clo thought desperately. Aloud
she said: "Well?"

"She said you wanted to go to tea with someone, and she was hurrying to
her room to get money for you, so that you could stand treat. I
objected, as I had a right to do," went on Sister Lake. "You're still my
patient, if my time is up to-morrow. And if you have a relapse I shall
be in a nice fix, as I'm due at Mrs. Jardine's Tuesday morning! Mrs.
Sands really acted very queer, she was so determined you should go. Even
when her husband backed me up, she was as obstinate as--as--if she
wasn't such a sweet woman, I should say a pig!"

"It was my fault," pleaded Clo. "I'm not tired a bit." Yet as she
argued, a voice was saying inside her head: "No wonder the poor darling
was a long time coming down with the parcel!"

But this, though exciting enough, was as naught beside the great
question: "What would Beverley say, what would she feel, when Clo had to
confess all that had happened at the Hotel Westmorland?"




VII

THE QUEEN'S PEARLS


Roger also had a secret that Sunday. He waited for Beverley and Clo to
be gone (reminding his wife that she had promised to be back by four)
and then called up the Belmont Hotel by telephone.

"Give me Count Lovoresco's room," he said, and presently a foreign
conception of the word "Hello!" rumbled through the receiver.

"Hello, Count," Roger replied, recognizing the voice. "My wife's safely
off. I'll send my own car round at once. Now you've got the letter of
confirmation we can settle our business. What? You're ready? Thank you.
My man'll be at the hotel as soon as you can get down. Good-bye."

Fifteen minutes later a dark, dapper, elderly man with magnificent eyes
was ushered into Roger's study.

"You've brought the pearls, of course?" Roger asked.

"Yes, Mistaire Sand, I bring ze pearls," announced Count Lovoresco.

"And the letter from the Queen?"

"From 'er Majesty's secretaire," Count Lovoresco corrected. "'Ere it
is." He drew from a breast pocket a square envelope with a crown and a
monogram on the flap. This he handed to Sands, and as the latter opened
it, he took from another pocket a purple velvet box, oval in shape,
about eight inches long by two in height. On the cover appeared a gold
crown, and the same monogram as that of the envelope. Roger had seen
this box and its contents; so, instead of watching a tiny gold key
fitted into a miniature padlock, he read the letter authorizing Count
Lovoresco, in the name of his Queen, to sell in America a rope of
pearls, for the benefit of the soldiers' orphans of her country.

"This clears the deck," remarked Roger. The cover of the oval box was
raised, and lying in a series of concentric grooves he saw the pearls
which he intended to buy for Beverley. They were two hundred and fifty
in number, as he knew, and were graduated in size, the largest being as
big as a giant pea. All were exquisitely matched in shape and colour,
and the one fault--if fault existed--was a blue whiteness disliked by
some connoisseurs. Roger was aware, however, that Beverley loved
snow-white pearls.

"Any minute Simon Lecourt may be here," he said to Lovoresco. "When he's
looked at the things, I'll sign and hand you my cheque for two hundred
and sixty thousand dollars."

Lovoresco smiled under his dyed moustache, but the wonderful eyes, for
which men of his race are famous, lit angrily.

"You are ze most prudent of gentlemen!" he exclaimed. "Your great
Franco-American pearl expert, 'e 'as valued ze pearls one time already
at 'is own place, under your eye, Mistaire Sand. Now 'e 'as to come to
your 'ouse! Mazette! But you must tink me a smart one, saire, if I could
change false tings for real in ze last minute!"

"I think some other smart men might have changed them without you or me
being smart enough to know the difference," Roger explained. "I believe
in making a ship watertight before she goes to sea."

"You are right," Lovoresco said, shrugging his shoulders. "I am pleased
once more to meet ze expert."

"Mr. Simon Lecourt," announced the butler.

At a quarter to four--the cheque having been signed--Roger was shaking
hands with the jewel expert he had summoned, and bowing to Count
Lovoresco. The pearls were his, and he was impatient for Beverley. In
five or six minutes she ought to arrive.

Beverley stepped into the lift as Count Lovoresco and Simon Lecourt
stepped out. As they passed she heard Roger's name, and her heart
jumped. These were strangers to her, but they had perhaps been calling
on Roger. What if they were connected with the past terror which had
begun lately to seem as dim as a dreadful dream? What if they had been
telling Roger?

Such a thought would not have come, save for the scene she had gone
through. With her nerves keyed to breaking point she went up to her own
floor with somewhat the sensation she might have had in stepping from
the tumbril to the guillotine. It was all she could do not to scream at
Sister Lake in the hall; and when Roger appeared also it seemed to
Beverley that she would faint.

Roger did not share the nurse's interest in Clo's outing; but he wanted
Beverley.

"Good girl!" he exclaimed, trying to be gay. "You're back ahead of time.
Send one of the servants down with money for Miss Riley. Come into the
study; I've got something to show you. When you've seen it you'll know
why I asked you to be home by four."

"I'll be there in a minute!" Beverley answered. "Let me take off my hat
first. I've rather a headache!"

She turned toward her room, hoping that Roger would wait in the study,
thus giving her a chance to find what she had to find, and take it to
Clo in the waiting auto. But Roger, remorseful already for his disloyal
thought connecting her with O'Reilly, followed.

"If you'd a prophetic soul," he said, "your headache would go. Are you
good at guessing, Bev?"

The girl was at her wits' end. Already she had almost fibbed, in
explaining Clo's errand. If only, now, she could have five minutes'
grace!

"You ought to know I never guess anything right!" she laughed. "It's not
quite four. Show me the wonderful thing just as the clock strikes!"

Roger pulled out his watch. "All right, baby!" he teased her. "You've
got just three minutes and a half. Perhaps you think a woman needs that
time to take off her hat; I'll show you you're wrong!"

He neatly extracted a hat pin which Beverley had twisted into her veil.
Then off came the hat. Roger led his wife by the hand to the door of his
study. Beverley was in despair. Her one cause for thankfulness lay in
the fact that he had forgotten Clo. If he'd remembered to send down
money, the girl would have been bewildered, and perhaps have come in to
ask for instructions. There was room in Beverley's brain for no other
thought than "How am I to get that parcel and give it to Clo?"

"Shut your eyes," said Roger. "The clock's going to strike four now;
don't open your eyes till it stops."

Beverley obeyed, as in that mood she would have obeyed an order to stand
still and be shot through the heart. "One--two," slowly struck the
grandfather clock in the corner; and she felt something cool and heavy
dropped over her neck. "Three--four!" the clock finished. "Open your
eyes," Roger gave the signal.

"Oh!" cried Beverley, almost aghast. On her delicate gray dress the
double line of pearls glistened like huge drops of dew on a spider-web.
The rope hung down below her waist, and each pearl had a light in its
heart as if it held the ghost of a rainbow. "It can't be true! It's a
dream!" the girl stammered. She loved pearls, and knew that these were
marvels beyond common knowledge. But oh, if they could have come to her
at another time!

She managed, however, to put a world of emotion into one kiss and clasp
of her arms. Her silent anguish was disguised as awe. By this time she
had an inspiration. She felt like the Queen of New York, she said. She
must run to her room for a look in the glass, as there was only a weird
old convex mirror in the study. In just a minute--or maybe two
minutes--she would come back. She could have sobbed out "Thank God!"
when Roger, laughing at her vanity, let her go. This time he did not
follow. He stood examining the purple velvet case with the Queen's crown
and monogram. He had not told Beverley the price he had given for the
pearls. He wondered if she guessed that they had cost a fortune. Why
didn't she come back?

Beverley had not even thrown a glance at the mirror. In her own room she
tore open the drawer where her handkerchiefs were kept in rose-scented
sachet cases. The largest of these cases she snatched, throwing the
contents back into the drawer. With fingers that shook, she ripped the
top of the padded silk cushion, and extracted a long envelope sealed
with three gold seals. She would hardly have remembered the Queen's
pearls had the rope not caught in the key of the drawer as she turned
hastily to go. Before she could save it, the string broke, and pearls
big as peas began falling like hailstones.

With a cry, she caught the broken ends of the rope together, dragged it
over her head and bundled it into the drawer among scattered
handkerchiefs. She did not even stop to close the drawer. As for the
fallen pearls--a dozen at least--there was no time to think of them, or
of what Roger would say when he heard of the accident.

Crushing on her hat, which still lay on the bed where Roger had thrown
it, she ran from the room, stuffing the envelope into her handbag. Luck
favoured her. She got out of the flat and into the lift without being
seen.

When five minutes had passed and Beverley was still away, Roger decided
to join her. He opened the bedroom door, and looked in. Something rolled
away from Roger's foot on the threshold. He stooped and picked the thing
up: it was an enormous pearl.

A shock of fear thrilled through him. He thought that news of his
purchase might already have reached the underworld. In these few
minutes, while he calmly waited for Beverley, she might have been
murdered. Things like that did happen. He stepped on a second pearl, and
saw that others lay on the pale rose carpet. He stood staring. At the
foot of the bed a tall screen had been placed to keep the light from
Beverley's eyes in the morning. What if behind it he should find her
lying?

As he braced himself to go and look, Beverley herself came into the
room. It seemed that she shrank at sight of him.

"I thought you'd been kidnapped or killed!" he gasped. "What's
happened?"

"N-n-nothing," she stammered. "It was only--we forgot about Clo--I had
to take her that money. I----" She broke off, seeing the pearl in
Roger's hand. "Oh, wasn't it dreadful that the rope snapped?" she
hurried on. "I wanted to get back to you quickly. I knew the pearls were
safe here. I just shut the door, and ran down."

"So I see," Roger said drily. All the joy he had felt in his splendid
gift was gone.

"What are a few pearls more or less compared to Miss Riley's
convenience?"

"Oh, Roger!" Beverley burst into tears. "Don't look at me like that!
Don't speak to me like that! You think I don't value the pearls? I
do!--for themselves, and for your love! I acted on impulse----"

"Quite so. You've done that before. Don't apologize, my dear girl. It's
not worth it. I care less for the things than you do. Ring for your maid
and let her sweep them up. I dare say she'll find them all to-day or
to-morrow!"

"No," said Beverley, fighting back the hysterical sobs that choked her.
"No, I won't have anyone look for the pearls but myself. Unless you,
Roger, would show your forgiveness by helping me?"

"I have an appointment," he answered. "I'm late for it now. I shall have
to go at once."

It was not true. He had no appointment. But he felt that he must be
alone, and out of doors, in the fresh air.

Clo Riley, returning from her errand at the Hotel Westmorland, did not
see him as she tripped from car to door, but Roger on his way home saw
the girl hurry in as if each second were important. Hardly had she
vanished when a man strolled round the corner. He was walking slowly,
and looking up at the façade as if interested. Roger, at the farther end
of the block, recognized Justin O'Reilly.




VIII

BEVERLEY TALKS


Clo remembered Beverley's instructions, and went straight to her own
room, but the threat of the ferret-man rang in her ears. "Tell your lady
friend a life will pay for this. She's got till ten o'clock to-night,
and not a minute more."

It was now after five, and Sister Lake was firmly bent upon undressing
her charge. Clo had to let herself be tucked into bed. Meekly also she
received the order to lie quite still and rest till dinner time.

Rest! As though she could rest, not knowing what ought to be done next
to help the Angel! A passive plan occurred to Clo, which could do no
harm, and her quick wit suggested how best to carry it out.

"I'll be as good as gold," she promised, "if you'll forgive me, Sister,
and do me a favour. I feel sick because I spoilt your afternoon! You
stayed in, waiting for me to come back, instead of taking your walk.
Will you go out now, instead? I'll rest better if you will. Do, please!"

All Clo's Irish powers of persuasion were needed to coax Sister into
consenting. Eventually she relented. Clo could have sung for joy as
Sister Lake bade her "good-bye for an hour." As the door of the room
closed, the girl began counting the seconds which must pass before the
outer door shut.

"Sixty-two--sixty-three--she ought to be gone!" Clo was whispering, when
her heart sank. The room door opened. She feared that Sister Lake had
changed her mind; but it was the Angel who came in.

"I was racking my brain how to get rid of Sister when I saw her go out,"
Beverley said. "I'm sure you managed it. I've been desperate. You can't
think what things have happened! Tell me, did all go well?"

The blow must be struck. In a few words Clo described the scene at the
Westmorland; told how the ferret-man had kept her waiting; how he had
said that the envelope looked all right, but had insisted upon opening
it; how he had flown into a rage at finding only folded sheets of blank
paper.

"Blank paper!" Beverley gasped. "But that's impossible! I know what was
in the envelope. There were letters. The man must have tricked you."

Clo shook her head.

"I was watching him. He had no time, or chance, to play a trick. The
blank paper was there, and nothing else. It was writing paper, quite a
lot of sheets that seemed to have been taken from some train, 'Santa Fé
Limited,' or a name like that."

Beverley gave a cry, as if she had been struck over the heart.

"Let me think," she groaned. "How can that have been? Writing paper
taken from the train?"

Suddenly she turned, and came back to the bed, putting out her hands in
a groping way to Clo. The girl caught and held them tightly. They were
very cold.

"Angel! is there nothing I can do?" she whispered.

Beverley sank on the bed once more.

"My head feels as if I'd been given ether," she said. "I can't think
things out clearly. That isn't like me! A terrible day! One shock after
another. If I talk to you, will you swear by all that's sacred never to
give away one word?"

"I swear by my love for you. That's the most sacred thing I have, except
my locket with mother's picture," the girl answered.

"You see," Beverley went on, "I've no one else but you, Clo. If I told
my husband anything, I should have to tell all. I daren't do that. Not
because I couldn't trust him. But I've taken an oath ten times more
solemn than the one you took just now, to keep a secret that isn't only
mine. Another's life depends on the secret being kept. To save that life
I was forced to do what I hate to think of. And it's no concern of
yours, but it would be Roger's if he had the faintest inkling! Now, I'm
going to tell you one or two things, and you must use your brains to
explain the mystery. You're clever, and true as steel. You've proved
that! Suppose a case; suppose you'd undertaken a dangerous mission. You
have in your charge some documents which could make or break a man. You
know you'll be followed. You nearly miss your train, but you jump on
board at the last minute. You see a man--not the one you expect, but
another just as much to be feared--more, perhaps, because he's a great
deal cleverer, if not so violent. You think you're lost, but you find a
friend, a man who helps you. You give him the envelope that has the
papers in it--a sealed envelope. You've seen it, Clo! He keeps it
through the journey. At a stopping place on the way he offers to hand it
back to you, but you refuse. You feel that the thing is safer with him.
Later, in New York, he returns the envelope intact, the seals unbroken.
This friend who comes to the rescue is the soul of honour. Never since
that moment has the envelope been out of your own keeping. Yet it is
opened to-day for the first time, and the papers that were in it are
gone, changed for stationery of that train, the 'Santa Fé Limited.' How
can this have been done? Who did it?"

"The other man must have done it, the one who followed you on to the
train."

"But he was never near Rog ... never near the man who ... oh, I might as
well tell you right out that it was Roger who kept the envelope for me.
I'll tell you the name of the other man, too. It's sure to slip out! His
name is Justin O'Reilly."

"O'Reilly?" Clo echoed. "How dare the brute have a name like mine?"

"Why, so it is like," said Beverley. "But there's an 'O,' and he spells
it differently."

"Beast! He'd better, or I'd have to change," snapped Clo. "Well,
whatever his name is, I believe he must have stolen your papers. Can you
go back, and live over again every step of the way?"

Beverley shut her eyes, and began to think aloud. "The morning after we
started Roger mentioned meeting an acquaintance ... a man named
O'Reilly. He didn't dream the name meant anything to me. They exchanged
only a few words when Roger passed O'Reilly's table at breakfast time.
Nothing could have happened then, I know. Afterward, I never heard of
their meeting again through the whole journey. I should have heard, if
they had, I think. Roger was with me a good deal. At Chicago.--Let me
see!...

"I'm calling it back to my mind. Roger helped me out of the train.
O'Reilly was out already. He stood on the platform, looking for
someone--or so it seemed. We went quite close to him, but not close
enough for even the smartest pickpocket in America to steal the envelope
from Roger."

"Where was the envelope then?" the girl wanted to know.

"In an inside breast pocket of Roger's coat; not an overcoat. It was
September. The weather was hot."

"Wouldn't it be easy for any one looking for the envelope to see that
Mr. Sands had something thick and long in an inside breast pocket, and
suspect what it was?"

"Any one might suspect. No one could be sure. It would have shown more
plainly if Roger had worn his coat buttoned. He didn't, on purpose."

"Still, his coat not being buttoned would make it easier to steal the
envelope, if somebody very clever got a chance to try."

"Perhaps. But O'Reilly could never have done such a thing. It would take
a trained thief."

"Can people send off telegrams from those Limited trains?" Clo took up
her catechism again.

"Yes, of course they can."

"Would there have been time for this O'Reilly chap to wire Chicago,
after he followed you on board the train, and have a man meet him?"

"Yes, plenty of time."

"Well, what if he wired to some detective people, and told them to send
him the 'smartest pickpocket in America'?"

"But ... the police couldn't ... wouldn't ... do such a thing!"

"I don't mean the real police," Clo explained. "Haven't you often read
books about private detectives? I have. They might get reformed thieves
to work for them. Can you remember what O'Reilly did next, after you
both passed him on the platform?"

"No. I didn't look back."

"You don't know, then, whether the person he seemed to expect ever
turned up?"

Beverley shook her head. "Roger and I went straight ahead to a newsstand
where _I_ expected to meet a person. Two or three minutes after we
passed O'Reilly we were mixed up in a big crowd, almost fighting our way
through...."

"Oh, a big crowd!" Clo broke in. "A chance for that pickpocket. Suppose
he came the minute you had turned your backs on O'Reilly, and he sent
his trained thief after you, hot foot, to get that envelope?"

"Ah, but you've forgotten something!" cried Beverley. "A thief might get
the envelope: I'll admit that. But how could he have another one exactly
like it, with the same seals, the same monogram, to put into Roger's
pocket, when he took the original?"

"He could only have it if O'Reilly could have given it to him. Could he
have done that?"

Suddenly Beverley began to see. A vivid idea sprang into her head, and
was imaged in her eyes.

"You've thought of something!" Clo exclaimed. "You see how O'Reilly
might have got the seal with the monogram, and the gold wax, and an
envelope like the one you had?"

"Oh, yes. I do see!" Beverley groaned. "He could have brought the things
from--from.... But never mind. That part's nothing to you."

"I want only to know the part you want me to know," said Clo.

"It isn't a question of what I want. It's a question of my sacred oath,"
Beverley answered. "There was a house where I had been, to get the
envelope. O'Reilly was there, too. Someone ... no matter who! ... could
have given him all the things, so he could change envelopes if he got
the chance. Oh, child, I keep stumbling on to a path where I dare not
step."

"We'll go back to the train," said Clo. "If O'Reilly had the gold wax
and the seal, and the right kind of envelope, he could have made his
plan, and sent his telegram, and had everything ready for the right
minute ... in the Chicago station."

"Ye--es, he could. But it's almost impossible!"

"It's more possible than Mr. Sands' changing the envelopes, isn't it?"

"That is the one impossible thing. The worst remains. I have lost the
papers! Whether O'Reilly has them or someone else, I can't get them
back. Without them, I'm ruined!"

"You shan't be!" Clo cried, twining her thin arms round her idol's
waist. "You must be saved somehow. We've got till ten o'clock to think."

"If I were the only one, it wouldn't matter so much," Beverley said.
"But there's somebody who can be tortured as well as killed, if I have
no bribe to offer. Those papers gave me all the power I had."

"Wouldn't money...." Clo began, but Beverley cut her short.

"No money I could get would be of any use," she said. "A million might
be!"

"See O'Reilly and make him give up the papers!" cried Clo. "Oh, but is
he in New York?"

"He doesn't live in New York, but he's here now. I know, because that
man you saw, Peterson, told me. It was part of a threat he held over my
head that O'Reilly and some people connected with him should be in town
just now. I know the hotel he's staying in, the Dietz. But even if
O'Reilly would come, how could I see him without Roger knowing? It
wouldn't be possible!"

"I'll somehow make O'Reilly come," the girl promised. "I don't know how,
yet, but I know I will, if you can get Mr. Sands out of the house."

Beverley shuddered. "How horrid that sounds ... as if I were plotting
against him, the way women do who deceive their husbands."

"Well, anyhow, if O'Reilly took the papers, would he still have them, do
you think?" asked Clo, with the sudden eagerness of one who catches in
desperation at a new idea.

"It's just possible. I can see a reason why he might have been asked to
keep them," Beverley answered.

"If that's so, would he put them in a bank, or a safe somewhere, or
would he bring them to New York?"

"There might be a special motive for him to bring them to New York ... I
think there would be a motive."

"Well, it seems to me, the sort of man I imagined he is, would be too
smart to have such things on him if he came to your house, and didn't
mean to give 'em back to you. It would be tempting Providence, so to
speak!"

"If I were the kind of woman he thinks I am, he'd not expect me to stop
short of murder to get those papers," and Beverley laughed a bitter
little laugh.

"Good! If he comes to you and leaves the papers at his hotel, a certain
thing will happen, but it's safer for you not to know--till afterward."




IX

THE BLUFF THAT FAILED


"You must tell me!" Beverley insisted. "Tell me at once!"

"While Mr. O'Reilly is here with you, Miss Riley without the 'O', will
be at his hotel, in his room, helping herself to his--I mean
your--papers."

"My child, you're mad!" Beverley gasped.

"Not so mad as _he_'ll be when he finds out," crowed the girl. "Hurray!
The whole business is settling itself in my head. The one trouble is Mr.
Sands. The rest will be all right. Think what to do about him, Angel;
think hard!"

Beverley thought until her brain whirled.

"I might suggest Roger's dining at his club," she said. "But how I
should hate to do that! He's vexed already. He has a right to be! This
afternoon he gave me a wonderful present, a rope of pearls that belonged
to a Queen. It must have cost a quarter of a million! I hardly stopped
to thank him, I was in such frantic haste to get the envelope to you.
The rope caught in the key of a drawer; the string broke, and a lot of
pearls ran all over the carpet. I didn't wait to pick them up. I ran
down to you, and I was gone so long Roger went to my room to look for
me. I came back and found him picking up pearls. I felt my excuses did
more harm than good. Roger pretended that he had an engagement. I saw by
his face he wanted to walk off his anger in the fresh air. If he does
walk it off--if he comes back ready to make up, and I send him away
again, perhaps that will finish it! Things may never be the same between
us any more!"

"He was angry because you didn't seem to care enough for his present,"
said Clo. "But if you can get him out of the house for an hour or so,
and at the same time prove that you adore the pearls; how does that plan
strike you?"

"How could I do both?"

"Beg him to go fetch a pearl-stringer, and bring her back here himself,
to-night. Say you can't rest or sleep till the pearls are restrung."

"You forget it's Sunday, and----"

"I don't forget. But I know a pearl-stringer. She isn't just any old
pearl-stringer, who might thread on a wax bead here and there, and keep
a pearl or two up her sleeve. She's the best pearl-stringer in New York.
The big jewellers and lots of swell society women have her. It's queer
the way I came to know her, but it makes it good for us. We were
crossing a street, she and I. I didn't know the woman from Adam--Eve, I
mean. But it was slippery, and she missed her footing. I dragged her
back, just in time, and held her up. She's a little woman, no bigger
than me, or I couldn't have done it. But I got her on the sidewalk
again, and she was grateful. She's Irish, too, and she invited me to go
and see her the next Sunday. It's out at Yonkers, where she lives, in a
nice little house she's bought. I went there once. She said if she could
do some favour for me, she'd love to. But it's no favour I'll be asking,
except for her to come out on a Sunday evening. So the only thing is to
fetch her. Do you think Mr. Sands will go?"

"It depends upon how he feels when he comes in," said Beverley. "But
Sister Lake would never let you out again."

"I shan't ask her. I'll get up and dress while you see if Mr. Sands is
back. If I hear from you that all's well, I'll slip out before Sister
comes."

"Clo, you're wonderful!" Beverley exclaimed. "How can I thank you
enough?"

"Thanks from you to me! That's good! Just wait, Angel, anyhow, till I've
done something. Oh, I forgot to give you the pearl-stringer's address.
It's Miss Blackburne, 27 Elm Street, Yonkers. And tell Mr. Sands to
mention my name. It might make a difference. She doesn't like leaving
her mother in the evenings, but she'd do it for me."

Beverley was gone for fifteen minutes. When she flew in again she was
surprised to see Clo in bed as before. But hardly was the door closed
when the girl threw back the coverlet, to show that she was fully
dressed.

"I was afraid Sister might pop in--by an evil chance," she explained.
"I've only to put on my hat. Well, is it all right?"

"Roger will go," said Beverley. "He's 'phoning now for his car. I'm
putting off dinner till half-past eight so he can have plenty of time to
get home and change. He didn't make any difficulty when I told him about
the pearl-stringer and wanting her at once. He agreed with me that it
would be best to do such an errand himself, if it were to be done. And
he was very kind. But his manner was different. I'm frightened."

"Don't be," said Clo. She was up now, had pinned on the pretty white
hat, and was fastening her smart little cape. "I'll go first to the
Westmorland and see our man; he said he'd be in, waiting till ten. I'll
tell him things are in train, but he must give you till midnight, if
necessary. From there perhaps I can 'phone the Dietz Hotel. It wouldn't
be safe here. By that time O'Reilly ought to be in his room dressing for
dinner. He'll see me, I'm sure, and the rest will arrange itself. Now,
I'm off before Mr. Sands' automobile comes, or Sister Lake. If she finds
the door shut and all quiet she'll think I'm asleep. Go back to your
husband, Angel, and I'll slip away on my little jaunt."

"I've brought money for you," said Beverley. "Take this purse. There's
change for taxis and lots of bills besides--fifty or sixty dollars."

Two minutes later Clo was in the street. The first thing that happened
to her was a small piece of luck. She had been dreading the walk to a
taxi-stand, when she saw a car about to drive away from a house near by.
It was a public vehicle. Clo hailed the chauffeur and gave the
Westmorland as her destination.

"Mr. Peterson" was in, according to promise.

"You again, is it? I looked for Mrs. Sands," he grumbled.

"I'm her messenger for the second time," said Clo, "and probably I shall
be for the third, when it comes to settling up. If you get what you
want, it doesn't matter who brings it, I suppose?"

"Then you suppose wrong. My business is with a woman, not a kid! All the
same, if you've got anything for me----"

"I haven't--yet!" Clo snapped him up. "It isn't time. But I'm on to
where the thing is, and how to get it. Only it may take till after ten
o'clock. That's what I came to say."

"Save your breath! Ten o'clock's the time. If she doesn't want me to go
back on my bargain she'd better not go back on hers."

He looked more than ever like a ferret, the girl thought.

"Mrs. Sands made no bargain as to time," she said. "And talking of time,
what about the time _you've_ done?"

Peterson gave a cackling laugh. "What's the female for 'Smart Aleck'?"
he sneered. "Guessed by my complexion, did yuh? Well, I don't need to
make no secret of it. My gardeens wished me good-bye and Lord bless me
when the nine months they run me in for was up."

Clo thought she could come close to guessing what the charge had been,
and it would have needed more than the word of a ferret to assure her of
his "innocence." The man was a born sneak-thief or pickpocket. His hands
were slim and small as a girl's. Perhaps if temptation had been put in
his way while he "waited at the newsstand" for Beverley, all those
months ago, he had been unable to resist and thus had missed his
appointment. Not that the girl much cared as to this detail; it was not
her affair. But it was odd, almost "creepy," how the links were being
joined together in the chain of evidence against O'Reilly, the man who
had followed Angel into the Limited--the man against whom Clo had
presently to try her wits. What concerned her most was that her first
attempt at bluff had failed. Something in Peterson's manner forced her
to believe that he had indeed served out his full sentence, and for the
moment had nothing to fear from the police. Clodagh hid her
disappointment with a little swagger.

"It suits us just as well as you, to finish up at ten o'clock and get it
over," she said. "If we can, we will. If we can't, you'll have to wait.
The way things are, you have to be in with us, you see, not against us."

"Oh, do I? I ain't so sure!" he flung back. "I ain't sure my fine
madam's not in the game t'other way round--and her husband, too. I know
now that she and Roger Sands travelled in the same train from where she
started. Blowed if I see why she'd do it, but it might be they fixed a
frame-up between them. I can see why it would suit Sands, if it wouldn't
her, and a man's stronger than a woman. Sands was working for John Heron
at the time. That means a lot."

"It doesn't mean that Mrs. Sands would be disloyal to her word. I know
she's true as steel," Clo insisted. She spoke crisply, but her thoughts
wandered. They had caught at the name of John Heron; Beverley had never
mentioned it. The girl had no means of guessing how it might bear upon
the case now in her small, determined hands. She did not see how, or
where, she could have heard it before, yet it did not sound strange to
her. The feeling she had on hearing it puzzled and even thrilled her
vaguely. It was as if the name, "John Heron," had been whispered into
her ear in a dream--a dream not forgotten, but buried under other things
in her brain. The girl was suddenly alert. There was only one fact which
she grasped with straining certainty. In that buried dream there were
other sounds connected with the whispered name: sounds of sobbing, as of
someone crying in the dark.

"Anyhow," Peterson went on, "there was a frame-up, and those that was in
it has got to pay me for what I went through. That's partly why I'm here
in Noo York. If I don't have those papers by ten I'll show up at the
Sands flat and ask for the missis."

"You wouldn't find Mr. Sands at home," the girl cut in. "He's out. When
he comes back he's likely to go away again at once."

"Aw, he is, is he?" echoed Peterson. His personality waked up
secretively, like that of some weak, night animal hiding in a wood. Clo
eyed him, striving to make him out.

"Better go home, kiddy," he advised. His tone was good-natured. "Shall I
see you back to where you live, or----"

"I have another errand to do," the girl announced with dignity. She had
meant to telephone from the Westmorland to the Dietz, and learn if
Justin O'Reilly was in; but now she determined not to do so. Better
waste a little time rather than Peterson should hear her inquiring for
O'Reilly. Instead of waiting to telephone, she walked to the door and
asked a half-baked youth in hotel livery to call her a taxi.

"If ferret-face tries to follow I'll lead him a dance!" she thought. But
ferret-face seemed to read her mind, and be willing to relieve it.

"So long!" he said. "I've got a job o' work, too. It will take me till
about ten. After that I shall be lookin' for a call from you or her
ladyship."

He turned his back and sauntered to the elevator. Before the taxi had
arrived he had been shot up to regions above.

"So that's all right!" Clo muttered to herself, spinning toward the
Dietz. Yet, as she said the words, she wondered if it _was_ all right.
Why had Peterson's whole personality made a kind of "lightning change"
on hearing that Sands (whom he expressed a wish to see) would not be at
home that night? Ought she to 'phone to Beverley and put her on guard?
Yes, she would telephone from the Dietz, while waiting to see O'Reilly.
It would be safe, because Roger by this time should be far away.




X

THE BLUFF THAT WON


Justin O'Reilly had a modest suite in the magnificent Dietz. It adjoined
the luxurious suite of Mr. and Mrs. John Heron, and consisted of a small
sitting-room, a bedroom, and bath. He was tying his necktie when the
telephone bell rang. He grabbed the receiver as if it were a snake that
had to be throttled, and gave it a grudging "Hello!"

"A lady to see you," a voice answered.

"She wasn't told I'm in, I hope? A nice thing for a well-regulated hotel
if----"

"No, but she says it's important. She's Miss O'Reilly."

Miss O'Reilly! The man of that name was perplexed. The only Miss
O'Reilly who, as far as he knew, could possibly call on him, was the
last woman he would have expected to do so. He had come to New York
largely in the hope of seeing her. She had refused to see him.

"Tell her I'll be down in three minutes," he replied.

"She particularly doesn't want you to come down. She says she has some
private news for you, and asks if you'll see her in your own
sitting-room."

"All right," he tried to answer calmly. "Have the lady shown up."

He rushed back into his bedroom to wrestle once more with the tie. He
must be ready to receive Miss O'Reilly at the door, and his waistcoat
and coat were yet to put on. But it could be managed. The suite was on
the fifteenth floor, and a full minute's walk from the lift for an old
person like Miss O'Reilly. Bungling everything in his haste, he tried to
think what it might mean. It looked as if she must have changed her
mind, and be ready to sell him her house, the dear old house on which he
had set his heart. Perhaps she would demand a higher price than he had
offered. Well, he must pay it somehow. Heron would lend him the
money--but no, there were reasons why O'Reilly didn't wish to accept
favours from Heron, often as they had been pressed upon him. As he
slipped into his coat, he heard the expected rap at his sitting-room
door, and hurried to open it. A page-boy, acting as guide, had run ahead
of the lady, to knock.

"Miss O'Reilly to see Mr. O'Reilly," he announced, with Irish relish of
the Irish name. Then he erased himself. O'Reilly stood on the threshold,
waiting for the right lady to appear, and meanwhile dodged back from the
wrong one, a small, slim flapper in white, who for some reason had
paused before his door. She stood quite still, and stared up at him
unwinkingly, as a child stares.

"I beg your pardon," O'Reilly said, wanting to laugh. "May I pass? I
must look for a lady who----"

"I'm the lady," the creature in white intervened. "That is, I am if you
are Mr. O'Reilly."

"O'Reilly's my name," he admitted. "But I was expecting--or--perhaps my
cousin sent you?"

"Perhaps I am your cousin," suggested the girl who (Justin saw, now that
he looked her deliberately in the face) had the biggest, blackest eyes,
and the whitest skin he had ever seen. She had, also, red hair under a
fetching hat. Although the child was no beauty, she had an amusing,
elfin air.

"Delighted, I'm sure," he felt obliged to answer. "I thought I had only
one cousin in the world, Theresa O'Reilly, of Gramercy Park. But----"

"It sounds like the chorus of a song; 'Theresa O'Reilly, of Gramercy
Park,'" Clo was unable to resist remarking, with her strongest brogue.
"Will you please ask me in?" she said. "My errand's very pressing."

Mechanically the man stepped aside and let her walk into the room. He
began to suspect that he had been "spoofed." He did not invite the young
person to be seated, but looked at her expectantly. Her first move was
to shut the door. She did not speak.

"May I know your name?" he inquired, as they faced each other.

"The same as yours, but for a letter or two," said Clo, marking time.
"That's why I may be a cousin; one never knows. I didn't come to talk
about the family tree, though, Mr. O'Reilly. I came to beg--not for
money, so don't be frightened."

"I'm not conscious of fear," laughed O'Reilly. He couldn't help
laughing. He didn't believe the girl's name was the "same as his." "If
I'm not afraid, I am curious," he confessed. "What are you going to beg
for, if not money? Is this a message from my cousin----?"

Clo ceased suddenly to be impish. She had got into the enemy's fastness
by her impishness, but she could go no further on that line. This man,
being the exact opposite of the type expected, upset her plan. A big
danger was that she might like this O'Reilly instead of hating him, he
was so pleasant and gallant-looking, more a protector than a persecutor
of women. She might hesitate to cheat or trick him in whatever way came
handy, and thus fail the Angel on top of all her boasts. In her hot
little heart Clo prayed for the wisdom of the serpent, and as her elfin
face took on anxious lines, she became more interesting to O'Reilly. Her
white face looked pinched and desperate. "If I were Marat, and she
Charlotte Corday," was the thought that jumped into his head, "she would
stab me."

"It's a good thing for me you have a cousin, or maybe you wouldn't have
let me in. I know now why God gave me the name of Riley. I guess he'll
forgive me for borrowing the 'O.' I was obliged to get to you somehow.
That was the one way I could think of."

"It was a pretty smart way," O'Reilly flattered her. "But you haven't
told me----"

"I will. Only--I think I'll have to sit down. I feel rather--queer----"

"Good lord! You can't faint here!"

"I won't, unless you make me, I'll promise that!" She had her cue now.

"Sit down, for heaven's sake!" said O'Reilly, pulling up the biggest
chair in the room. Clo sank into it. Closing her eyes, she drew in a
gasping breath which made her girlish bosom heave.

The man stood by, feeling absurdly helpless.

"Shall I ring for brandy?" he suggested.

"No--please!" She opened her great eyes again. "Only listen. I've come
from Mrs. Roger Sands--to beg you for those papers of hers."

"Mrs. Roger Sands! Her papers? I know nothing of any papers belonging to
Mrs. Roger Sands," O'Reilly exclaimed. "What papers are you talking
about?"

"The ones you hired a man to steal when the train got to Chicago."

O'Reilly started. "Whose accusation is that?" he asked sharply.

"Not hers; it's mine."

"Yours! Once again, who are you? What are you in this?"

"I'm nobody! I'm only--a lion's mouse."

O'Reilly did not ask what it meant to be a lion's mouse. He understood.
His mind was not less quick than hers.

"And I'm the net you hope to gnaw! Miss Mouse, your little teeth will
find me tough. I may say I'm a patent, ungnawable net. The best thing
for you is to go home as fast as you can and tell those who sent
you----"

"I sent myself," Clo explained, with tired obstinacy. "I told you I had
to see you somehow. Oh, Mr. O'Reilly, you don't look the sort of cruel
pig I thought you would be. If you dreamed what Mrs. Sands is going
through you'd give her back the papers. Don't pretend not to know what I
mean."

"I won't pretend anything," O'Reilly said. "I do know what you mean, and
I got the documents (which were not the property of Mrs. Sands) more or
less as you think I got them. But no mouse, no mastodon could induce me
to hand them over to your friend."

Clo's eyes travelled over his person. He looked slim and soldierly in
his well-made evening clothes. There could be nothing thicker than a
watch, and that a thin one, in his pockets.

"If you would see Mrs. Sands, maybe you'd change your mind," she
pleaded, in her creamiest Irish voice. "Take me back to her, and take
the papers along. Then, if you----"

"I can't do either," was O'Reilly's ultimatum. "I'll take you downstairs
and put you in your car if you've got one, or a taxi if you haven't.
But----"

"You'll have to take me home," said Clo. "I won't try to start without
you. I've gone through enough. I'll just let myself collapse. I promised
not to faint unless you made me. Now you are making me."

"You deserve to be thrown out of the window!"

"I have been, once," the pale girl announced. "It was four storeys up,
and all my ribs were smashed. This is my first day out of bed. I thought
I could manage it, if you were kind. I'd gladly die for Mrs. Sands. And
if I do----"

"Brace up!" O'Reilly cried. "I'll take you home. I know where the house
is. I passed it this afternoon. There was a man who----But no matter.
Have you got a car below?"

Clo was almost past answering; almost, not quite. But weakness was her
"cue," as well as the line of least resistance. Having now an incentive
to let herself go rather than "brace up" as O'Reilly urged, she enjoyed
collapsing. Yet something within was on guard, and knew that O'Reilly
had to be watched.

He dashed to the telephone and ordered a taxi. Then he returned to the
girl in the chair. Her eyes were half shut, a rim of white showing
between the lashes. The man could not help believing the queer story she
had gasped out, about the fall, and the broken ribs, and this being the
first day she had left her bed. That would account for her thinness and
paleness. He touched her hand, which hung over the arm of the chair.
There was no glove on it, and the pathetically small thing was icy cold.

"She's fainted, fast enough," he growled. Clo heard the words dimly, as
though she had cotton wool in her ears. Her duty was to trick the man,
but she didn't like doing that duty.

O'Reilly gently laid down the tiny paw he had taken in his. It was limp
as the hand of a dead girl. Clo would have felt less compunction if he
had dropped it roughly. He took a few brisk steps, as though he had come
to some decision. She forced herself back from the brink of
unconsciousness to realize that he was going toward the door--not the
outer door, through which she had entered, but another. He opened this,
and Clo saw that beyond was a bedroom. Quickly he went to a table where
stood a tall glass jug filled with crushed ice and water. His back was
turned to the girl as he began pouring the jug's contents into a
tumbler, but suddenly, as if on a strong impulse, he turned. Clo did not
even quiver. Something told her that the thing she had prayed for was
about to happen.




XI

O'REILLY'S WAISTCOAT POCKET


O'Reilly's first look into the sitting room was not for the girl.
Involuntarily, it seemed, he sent a lightning glance to the left, to
that side of the room farthest from the big chair where she sat. Clo's
desperate need to know what was in his head inspired her with
clairvoyance. Consciousness lit her brain once more. She was sure that
she had read his thoughts. He feared that after all she was fooling him.
He was saying in his mind: "What if she meant me to go and fetch this
water while she looks for what she wants to find?"

Now Clo was certain at last, not only of his having the papers, but that
they were in the room, somewhere on that left side, where his glance had
flashed. It was hard to keep still, without the flicker of an eyelash;
but she believed, as O'Reilly came back to her, that she had stood the
test of his stare.

He moistened his handkerchief, and gingerly dabbed the girl's forehead.
It was a relief to "come to," to be able to start, and draw a long
breath.

"There! You're better, aren't you?" he asked.

"Yes," she breathed. "I should like to go home, but I'm afraid----"

"Don't be. I'm going with you," he said. "By this time a taxi's waiting
for us. Do you think you can walk if I give you my arm?"

"I'll try," Clo answered, gratefully.

No pretence of weakness was needed. She felt like a rag. O'Reilly took
her by the hand, and with an arm round the slim waist raised the girl to
her feet. Once up, she swayed as if she might fall, but he held her
firmly. "Lean against me," he said, in a kind voice.

She had never before been so near to a man in her life. "You're very
good to me," she whispered. "I should like you, please, to remember that
I thank you."

"I'm sorry I said you deserved to be thrown out of the window," O'Reilly
absolved himself. "Whatever else you may be, you're a good plucked one.
Now, here we are at the door. Are you sure you can walk to the elevator?
Hang on to my arm."

She hung on to it.

They reached the lift, which came to them in a few seconds, unoccupied
save for the youth who ran it. Clodagh kept up bravely until she was
seated in the taxi, and could have kept up until the end without too
great an effort, for her collapse had made her feel rested. It was not,
however, the girl's métier to "keep up." The task was but half
accomplished. The hardest part was to come.

She knew--or thought she knew--that O'Reilly had the papers, that they
were in New York; not only in New York, but in his private sitting room
at the Dietz Hotel. They were in some hiding-place there; and for an
instant he had feared her knowledge of its existence. He had expected
her to try, while his back was turned, to steal its contents. Clo's
nimble brain, deducing all this from what had happened, deduced
something else as well. The man would have had no fear if the secret
were impossible for an outsider to learn. It could not be impossible. It
couldn't even be difficult, if she might have solved the puzzle while
his back was turned. For her, O'Reilly's uneasiness was a hopeful sign.
Somewhere on the window side of his private parlour at the Dietz the
papers which Angel needed were hidden. Each second during the girl's
slow progress to the lift, her descent, and her short walk to the taxi,
was spent in sorting out these deductions.

Those big black eyes of Clodagh Riley's had not been given her in vain.
One swift glance during the cold-water treatment had shown her many
details useful to remember. On one side of the window was a desk. In the
desk was a drawer, and the key thereof was in the keyhole. It seemed
improbable that secret papers should be kept in such a place, but
circumstances might have forced O'Reilly to leave them there.

On the other side of the window was a kind of buffet, with glass doors
and shelves and a closed cupboard, but Clo had less hope of this than of
the desk. There might be a less obvious hiding hole than either, perhaps
a sliding panel in the wall. There must in any case be a key, and that
key must be on the person of O'Reilly.

She would have to use all her wits to get it while they were together in
the taxi! And there was the key of the suite to get also; but that would
be easier. She had seen O'Reilly take the big key from a table, as they
went by, slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket. Forced to
support his half-fainting guest, he had not put on an outer coat, so the
key was within reach of clever and determined fingers. Clodagh's were
determined, and--she hoped--clever.

With this design burning in her head and tingling in her hands, she
decided to faint again as they started for home, and keep O'Reilly
occupied every inch of the way.

"I'm afraid--I'm not so strong--after all----" she sighed, as the taxi
door shut, and proceeded to "flop" like a large rag doll. Her head fell
on the man's breast, and rolled across to his left arm, her hat askew.

"I'm very ill," she moaned. "Something hurts so! My hat-pin----" And her
voice trailed into silence.

"Poor child!" the man exclaimed, completely taken in at last. The
hat-pin was sticking in very deep! Not that she minded a little pain.
But the great thing was to keep O'Reilly's hands busy.

Clumsily, obstinately, he fumbled among the meshes of ostrich plume
wound around her hat. The head of the pin eluding him there, he tried
beneath the brim, his fingers tangling in thick waves of hair. They were
soft waves, softer and silkier than the ostrich plume. No man with blood
in his veins could have touched them without a thrill. The girl on his
breast, her face on his arm, one hand holding her up, another caught in
her hair, O'Reilly was conscious of electric shocks.

His hands and attention thus engaged, Clo got the chance she'd waited
for. Delicately, stealthily, like the "mouse" she called herself, she
extracted the door key from O'Reilly's pocket. So far, so good. But the
next deed would try her mettle. Lightly as a flitting shadow the small
fingers moved over the man's waistcoat, from the belt line to the
breast. She could feel his heart thump, and almost started, but
controlled herself.

Clo had noticed that men often wore a short chain or ribbon, attached to
a watch, and hanging from the waistcoat pocket with a seal, a society
badge or a lucky souvenir. O'Reilly wore no ornament of that sort; but
there was a watch, a thin watch which she could feel through the cloth,
and some flat object with it. If she could slip a finger into that
pocket without his knowing!

But now they were in Park Avenue, not far from the imposing apartment
house at the corner, where Mr. and Mrs. Sands lived. Clo availed herself
of a slight bump, and showed signs of sliding off the seat. O'Reilly,
who had just extracted the hat-pin and stuck it into his coat, steadied
her with an effort. Fortunately there was no need to look out and stop
the chauffeur. That afternoon O'Reilly had passed the building, informed
by Count Lovoresco who lived there, and had looked up with a certain
curiosity. He remembered the number, and in leaving the Dietz had been
able to give the address.

The taxi stopped, and O'Reilly prepared to carry the fainting girl into
the house. She would be a light load. As he got out of the taxi with Clo
in his arms a man came forward.

"Won't you let me help you, sir?" he civilly inquired.

"You may run ahead," said O'Reilly. "I can manage the young lady
myself."

The man who had offered his services disappeared into the house, and
found the porter, a substantial person in livery. Clo conveniently
revived when placed on the seat of the lift. O'Reilly sat by her side,
supporting the limp body, her hat in his hand, while the porter shot the
elevator up to the Sands' floor.

"Lord a'mighty!" the old fellow exclaimed, "if this ain't the poor child
that's been an invalid all these weeks! Mrs. Sands will be in a way!
Must be near eight weeks since this little gal was brought in on a
stretcher, lookin' like dead. She ought to be in bed."

"Somebody should have looked after her," said O'Reilly.

"That's it, sir. Her nurse is out, gaddin'."

"Brute!" Clo heard O'Reilly mutter. And leaning comfortably against his
shoulder she felt wicked, treacherous, because she had more than once
applied the same epithet to him. Whatever happened, never would she do
that again!

The elevator stopped. The porter touched the electric bell at the Sands'
door, and almost instantly a manservant appeared. His cry of surprise
brought Mrs. Sands herself out from a room at the end of the hall. The
porter tried to explain everything; failed; broke off to question
O'Reilly; O'Reilly answered; Beverley exclaimed; and among them, all was
confusion. Clo, looking through half-shut eyes over her bearer's
shoulder, saw a shadow flit between the portières. Had some one come in?
If so, who could it be? Or was it only the shadow of a blowing curtain
she had seen? The question did not strike her as important just then,
for if any one had passed it was doubtless a servant or, at worst,
Sister Lake. Besides, Clo had much to think of; how to come back to
consciousness quickly without rousing suspicion, and, when officially
alive again, how to escape for the next errand.

The rush of air and babble of excited voices gave her an excuse to gasp,
and stammer out a conventional "Where am I?"

"We'll get you to your room, dear," said Beverley; and Clo wondered if
her acting had deceived Angel. "The butler can----"

"No, thanks, I'll manage her by myself," O'Reilly broke in and carried
the white bundle along the hall.

"This is her room," Mrs. Sands explained to him. "If you will put her on
the bed...."

"No--please! Take me on into the next room, Sister Lake's room. I must
be there. I'll tell you why presently," the girl pleaded.

Beverley threw open the door between the two rooms, hurried ahead, and
turned on a light.

"Now, lay me on this bed," Clo commanded.

Having obeyed, O'Reilly stood as if awaiting further orders. Clo glanced
from him imploringly to Mrs. Sands. "I've gone through such a lot!" she
moaned. "I've suffered so! I felt I could never get home alive. Please,
Mr. O'Reilly--you've been kind--don't let it all be for nothing!"

"What do you want of me?" he stiffly inquired.

"Only for you to talk to Mrs. Sands. In that next room--my room. Nobody
will disturb you. If the nurse comes back, she'll come into her own room
first. That's why I asked you to bring me to it. I couldn't persuade you
to give me the papers. Perhaps even Mrs. Sands can't persuade you. But I
beg, I pray you, to give her the chance. Listen to what she has to say."

"Very well," he answered, grudgingly. "I'll do what you ask. But I'll do
it for your sake."

Beverley had remained on the threshold of the next room. Now she
retreated into it. O'Reilly followed; but at the door he turned.
"Good-bye," he said to Clo.

"Good-bye," she echoed. "And thank you again--for everything."

She had more to thank him for than he knew--the contents of her tightly
clutched hand.




XII

THE HORIZONTAL PANEL


Following Mrs. Sands, O'Reilly left the door between the two rooms open;
but Beverley stepped quickly back and closed it.

"She's grand, the darling!" thought Clo. "Trust her to forget nothing.
Her shutting that door proves how she counts on me."

The girl was deadly tired, and her head ached, yet she struggled up as
the door clicked. O'Reilly had brought in her hat and dropped it on a
table. There was no hat-pin, but Clo crushed the soft toque down over
her masses of red hair, and hoped she was not untidy enough to be
conspicuous. Unsteadily she tottered to another door--the door that led
into the corridor. This faced a narrower passage to the kitchen and
domestic offices of the flat. Clo would have to take that way because,
if she ventured into the lift and showed herself in the hall below, the
porter might take alarm. He might fear that Mrs. Sands' protégée was
trying to escape for some sly purpose of her own, and refuse to let her
go till he had telephoned upstairs.

In a quaint outside pocket of her new frock Clo had put the purse given
her by Beverley. Through her adventures she had remembered to make sure
occasionally that it had not dropped out. Now she opened the purse,
selecting two ten-dollar bills and two of five dollars.

"That ought to do for 'em all," she said, "even if the lot are at home."
And, money in hand, she ventured to the kitchen door. Only the chef and
a woman assistant were at work.

"I'm Clo Riley, the girl Mrs. Sands has been good to," she eagerly
explained. "I'm well again, and I have to go out. Mrs. Sands has a
visitor, and I don't like to disturb them. Will you let me down your
way?" So speaking she laid a ten-dollar bill and a five-dollar bill side
by side on a table. She made no reference to the money, nor any gesture
indicating it; nor did the others appear to see it.

The chef escorted her in silence to the servants' elevator. There was a
button to push, and down the girl went, rejoiced at passing another
stage of her journey. Five minutes more, and she was in a taxi, tearing
back to the Dietz Hotel.

This time she marched boldly to a lift in a long row of half a dozen.
"Fifteenth floor, please," she said, as if she owned the hotel; and was
taken up without question. "Thanks to my swell clothes!" she thought.
"Not far would I get in this place if I had on my old black!"

Armed with O'Reilly's key Clo threaded her way through several corridors
and arrived at the door of his suite. Her fingers shook so that she
could not find the lock, and as she fumbled for it, the door of an
adjoining suite opened. The nerve-tried girl started as if she had been
shot, and dropped the key on the carpet.

"Silly fool!" she scolded herself as she stooped to retrieve it, and to
hide her face. If only the people (she knew by the voices they were man
and woman) would pass before she had to look up! But they were in no
hurry to pass. They had paused in front of their own door, and were
talking in low tones--about her, Clo was sure!

In a big hotel, the chances were ten to one against their knowing
O'Reilly. Raising her head, she tried to eye the pair with airy
arrogance.

"I mustn't seem to care," she thought, and tried to wither them with a
look before again attacking the keyhole. The woman was beautiful, a
glorious, dark creature, gorgeously dressed and jewelled. But oddly it
was the man who riveted Clo's attention, the man whose eyes gave the
girl an electric shock. He was a tall, lanky, middle-aged individual,
with auburn hair and a close-cut red beard streaked with gray. He walked
with shoulders bent, and had no distinction, despite his well-cut
evening clothes. But from under a pair of beetling black brows there
flashed a light which took Clo's breath away. She didn't know what to
make of his look. It was as if she'd been struck by lightning.

"My goodness, after all he must be a friend of O'Reilly's!" she feared.
Even that supposition wasn't enough to account for the flash.
Frightened, she slid the key into the lock, and almost falling into the
room slammed the door behind her. She did not need to lock it, for
without a key it could not be opened from the outside.

"I can hold the fort a few minutes now, whatever happens!"

In the corridor John Heron and his wife lingered in front of their own
door.

"Well, if that's not the queerest thing I ever saw or heard of!" Heron
exclaimed.

Coming out of their suite, they had caught an impressionist glimpse of a
figure in white bent over the keyhole, then the figure had stooped for
the dropped key, and mechanically they had paused in surprise.

"I wonder if she's made a mistake in the room?" Mrs. Heron had
whispered, and Heron had returned:

"Yes, I think that must be so. She'll find it out and go somewhere else.
O'Reilly isn't----"

There he had stopped short when the girl raised her head to face them;
and when she presently vanished into his friend's room like a whirlwind,
he neither finished his sentence nor answered his wife.

"What's the matter, Jack?" Mrs. Heron asked. "How odd you look!"

("Jack" was not a nickname that suited Heron, but his wife thought it
debonair.)

"Why don't you speak?" she persisted.

"I was thinking," Heron said at last.

"Thinking what we ought to do?" his wife caught him up. "Shall we knock
and ask O'Reilly if he's ready to go down with us?"

"No. We can't do that."

"I suppose not. But weren't you going to say it isn't like O'Reilly to
have a girl calling on him in his rooms?"

"I don't remember what I was going to say," he snubbed her. "It doesn't
matter, anyhow. After all, why shouldn't he? What is it to us?"

"Well, I feel queer about it," objected Dolores Heron. "The creature may
be a hotel thief?"

"Nonsense!" fumed the man. "The girl was a child--sixteen or seventeen.
We can't mix ourselves up in such an affair. Let's mind our own
business."

"You needn't be so cross. I haven't done anything," Dolores reproached
him. They went down together, and sat side by side on a rose-coloured
brocade sofa in the immense salon generally known as the "hall." Not one
of the ladies present was handsomer than Mrs. Heron, not one had more
beautiful jewels or a more perfect dress, and all the men openly admired
her--except her own husband.

Upstairs the girl in question was making the most of every moment. The
queer little key attached to O'Reilly's watch couldn't belong to the
desk, still, there might be a box inside the desk which it would fit.
Clo searched everywhere and everything. At last, it seemed that nothing
was left to try, when suddenly she recalled a paragraph in a newspaper.
She had seen it in a Sunday Supplement. Why, yes, Miss Blackburne, the
pearl-stringer, had given her the paper that Sunday long ago at Yonkers,
to read on the journey home. The paragraph described the up-to-date
feature added to some important hotel. Small safes had been placed in
the walls of rooms for the benefit of guests, each key being different
in design from every other. Clo could not remember the name of the hotel
referred to. Perhaps it was this one. If not, the Dietz wasn't likely to
let a rival get ahead of it. The girl stared at the wall. Any one of
those panels might conceal a safe! There were lots of panels of
different sizes, painted a soft gray and edged with delicate white
mouldings. To test each would take hours (unless she had luck and hit on
the right one first) for there might be a spring hidden in the flowery
pattern of the moulding. But--it was to the left side of the room that
O'Reilly had flung his anxious glance. She would begin, and hoped to
end, her work on the left side. A few minutes spent in thinking out the
situation, however, might save many minutes by and by. About those
panels, for instance? Which were the most likely to hide a secret?

A frieze or skirting-board of gray painted wood ran round the room to a
height of three feet above the pink-carpeted floor. Above this frieze,
distributed at regular intervals, were large plaster panels, two on each
side of the room, forming backgrounds for gold-framed, coloured prints;
and between these were small, narrow panels, ornamented with
conventional flower designs. Beneath and above the latter were panels
still smaller, placed horizontally, and outlined with white curlicues
and flutings. They were about four inches in height by ten inches in
length; and on the left side of the wall there were two.

"Just the right size for nice big jewel boxes," Clo thought. "And the
lower one's just the right height to open without stretching up. If I
were putting a safe into a wall that's the place I'd choose!"

She passed her finger round the edge of one, the white-fluted edge,
rather like the decoration of a fancy cake. Nothing happened. No spring
clicked. She tried the other with the same result, then stood
disappointed, only to return to the attack with new inspiration.

"I bet it pulls out!" she told herself. And--oh, joy, oh triumph!--it
did pull out as she pressed her sharp little nails under the white
fluting. The whole thing came away from the wall like the loose side of
a box, having been kept in place by thin prongs of metal. Behind this
cover was a steel or iron door of practically the same dimensions as the
panel. It also was painted gray, and showed a tiny keyhole like a slit
made with a pair of sharp scissors.

Clo deposited the cover close by on the desk, where it would be within
reach if wanted in a hurry. Then she inserted the key attached to
O'Reilly's watch. It slipped into place. It turned. It opened the small
iron door, and Clo peered into the aperture. In the receptacle lay a
pile of greenbacks held together with a paper band. There was also an
envelope, but not the envelope the girl had pictured. It was larger,
longer, wider, and thicker. It seemed to be made of coarse linen, and
instead of the dainty gold seals with the monogram there were five
official-looking red ones. Clo's heart contracted. It seemed too bad to
be true. But there was plenty of space in this envelope to contain the
other, as well as its contents.

"I'll have to open the thing and look," Clo half decided. But if she
did, how could she make sure of what she wished to know? If the envelope
with the gold seals had been removed, she had no means of recognizing
the documents it had contained.

She took the linen envelope from the safe, and turned it over. Upon the
other side was an address, written in a strong, peculiar hand: "Justin
O'Reilly, care of The Manager, Columbian Bank, New York City," she read.

There was just one reason to believe that the envelope contained Mrs.
Sands' papers; Clo's own strong, instinctive conviction.

Tentatively she pressed one of the seals. It cracked across. Another
went the same way, and as she touched the third there came a sound of
talking outside the door. "Open it for me with your pass-key, please," a
man said. It was O'Reilly's voice.




XIII

"THERE CAN BE NO BARGAIN"


When Beverley Sands had shut the door between Clodagh's room and Sister
Lake's, she stood silent before Justin O'Reilly.

"Well, Mrs. Sands," he said, "I must congratulate you."

"On--what?" she stammered. She looked very young and humble, not at all
the proud princess who had captured Roger Sands against his will.

O'Reilly answered, still smiling his cruel smile, "It's not too late for
congratulations on your marriage, is it? By the way, perhaps one wishes
well to the bride and congratulates the bridegroom! I mean nothing
invidious."

"You mean to hurt me all you can!" Beverley cried.

"I'm on the other side, Mrs. Sands."

"Don't I know that!" she answered bitterly. "I've known since I saw you
on board the Santa Fé Limited that day last September. I expected--some
one else, not you. But I guessed in an instant why you had come."

"I accepted the obligations of friendship," O'Reilly deigned to explain.
"And that brings us to one of the subjects for congratulation: your
friend. A wonderful young person. I congratulate you highly upon her.
She informed me that she'd gladly die for you. Judging from her looks,
she isn't far from doing so. I'm sure you must want to go to her now.
Oh, by the by, one more congratulation: the pearls."

"How did you know?" Beverley forgot her humiliation in sheer amazement.

"Weren't you told that Heron was trying to buy them for his wife?"
O'Reilly waived her question with another.

"No, indeed! They were a surprise present to me this afternoon from my
husband. If I'd known that Mr. Heron...."

"You don't expect me to believe you'd have sacrificed them to Heron, or
his wife, do you, Mrs. Sands?" O'Reilly laughed.

"I almost think I would. I'll give the pearls up to Mrs. Heron if you'll
do as--as Clodagh Riley asked you to do. Oh, for pity's sake! I'd pay
more than the pearls for those papers. I'd pay with my life if that
would be of any use. I know it wouldn't. But the pearls--can't we
bargain with the pearls?"

"We can't bargain at all, Mrs. Sands," O'Reilly said gravely. "I must
go. I have an engagement to dine with the Herons. I should like to hear
how my namesake is, and then I will be off."

Beverley had expected little from an appeal to this man's pity, but the
coincidence of Heron's desire for the pearls was so strange that it
ought to mean something. It seemed terrible that such a chance should be
wasted. Could she persuade Roger to let her give up the pearls? O'Reilly
would look at the wonderful things and report upon their beauty. The
Herons might be tempted to treat with her. In any case, the scheme was
worth the trial.

Silently she went to the door that she had closed, and peeped into
Sister Lake's room. It was no surprise to her that Clodagh should have
vanished. That was part of the plan. Her exclamation was for O'Reilly's
benefit.

"The child's gone!" she cried. "That means she's feeling better. She
must be in my room--or in my boudoir. Will you come with me? We'll look
for her. It will be on your way out."

O'Reilly followed into the hall. Beverley, thinking quickly, went to the
door of her own special sitting room, which adjoined her bedroom. A
backward glance told her that the man had stopped facing the vestibule
which gave exit from the flat. "Wait one moment," she said. "I'll see
where Clodagh is." As she touched the door of the boudoir she was
surprised to find it yielding before she turned the handle. This was
odd, because she remembered shutting it the last time she came out. She
had left the room only at the moment when O'Reilly brought in the
half-fainting girl; and she had been particular to close the door
because of the pearls. She had placed them on a table in the boudoir,
ready for the pearl-stringer. Not that she feared their being stolen!
Her own maid had been sent out for the afternoon. Two of the other
servants had been given a holiday. Only the butler, the cook, and his
assistant were at home, and all three had been in Roger's employ for
years. They were above suspicion, and besides, they knew nothing of the
pearls. Not a soul knew, save herself, Roger, Clo, and now O'Reilly.
Roger had started off in his car before she brought the pearls from her
bedroom into the boudoir. Who, then, had opened the door? Perhaps, after
all, Clo had not dared attempt the second adventure. Perhaps she was
still in the flat, and for some reason to be explained later, had taken
refuge in the boudoir?

A glance, however, showed that the girl was not there. The electric
light flashed upon a room untenanted. There was the magnificent but
broken rope in its case, wound in gleaming, concentric circles, the
unstrung pearls retrieved from the floor grouped together on the purple
cushion. The door stood open between boudoir and bedroom. Beverley
thought that this had been shut also, though she was not sure. "Clo!"
she called softly. There was some slight sound, or she imagined it.
Quickly she went to the bedroom door, and peeped in, flooding the place
with light. Clo was not to be seen. Turning off the electricity again
Beverley went out to O'Reilly in the hall.

"Come with me one moment," she said. "I've something to show you."

O'Reilly hesitated.

"Is your friend there? Does she wish to speak to me?" he asked.

"Come and see," Beverley persisted. She led the way into the boudoir,
and reluctantly her companion crossed the threshold. Mrs. Sands pointed
to the pearls. "I wanted so much to show them to you. See how wonderful
they are! Mr. Heron's so proud of his wife. I could arrange some plan,
I'm sure, if--if----"

A door slammed, and Beverley's sentence broke off with a gasp.
Mechanically she shut down the cover of the velvet case. If Roger had
come back; if, after all, he had only pretended to go for the
pearl-stringer! She dared not guess what he would think at finding
O'Reilly with her in his house. Too well she remembered the day of their
one quarrel, when he had brought up this man's name in connection with
Clo's, when he had accused her of crying it out in her sleep.

"Mr. O'Reilly," she said, very quietly, "that may be my husband coming
home. If it is, you will have to meet him. It can't be avoided. But I
should like to speak to him first, if you will wait in this room for a
moment."

Without giving him time to answer she ran out. Minutes passed. Justin
heard voices, women's voices. One, it seemed to him, was raised in
anger. After all, it couldn't be Sands who had come! O'Reilly grew
impatient, and fumbling for his watch he found it gone. Great Scott!
Stolen! He remembered a certain small key attached to the chain. In a
flash of enlightenment the whole plot mapped itself out before his eyes.
Furious, his impulse was to dash from the room and denounce the chief
culprit. But Beverley Sands' appeal to his chivalry stopped him like a
chain round his feet.

Now she called his name, and he opened the door.

"It was my friend's nurse who came in," she said. "She threatens to
leave at once. I must talk with her, try to soothe her down before my
husband comes. He hasn't arrived, after all--and may not for a long
time. But the way I felt when I thought he was here, shows me I oughtn't
to keep you. Tell me once and for all before you go, now you've seen the
pearls; is there any hope?"

"None whatever," O'Reilly cut her short. "I'm going, Mrs. Sands. You
need have no fear of me where your husband's concerned, though I
understand now exactly why I was brought here, why I was kept till you
were afraid to keep me longer. Your little friend is as smart at picking
pockets as she is at acting. Again, I congratulate you upon her. But the
effort's going to be wasted. Good-night."

Beverley stood still, and let him go. She had no answer to make.
Precisely what he meant by his accusation she did not understand, but
she knew that, while she detained him, Clo had indeed dared the great
adventure. For a moment Beverley thought of the pearls almost with
distaste. That they should come to her to-day, when she cared for
nothing in the world but the lost papers, was an irony of fate. She did
not return to the boudoir. She forgot the mystery of the open door, and
neglected to close it. She was nervously anxious to excuse herself to
Sister Lake. Above all, it was her duty to defend Clo. She must confess
that it was upon her errand the girl had defied authority.

"Please don't blame the child," she pleaded. "She knew I needed
something done for me--a thing I couldn't do myself. So she made this
sacrifice. You must forgive us both."

But Sister Lake was not to be placated. If Miss Riley were well enough
to do Mrs. Sands' errands by day and night, a nurse's services were no
longer needed. Sister Lake considered herself well paid, and would
accept no present in addition. The butler was summoned to call a taxi
and attend to sending down the small luggage. Meantime the Queen's
pearls were forgotten.




XIV

THE STONE COPING


This was bad luck! Clo had not expected O'Reilly to track her down so
soon. But he was at the door. There was only that frail barrier of wood,
and the space of a few seconds between them! He had discovered the loss
of his door key, and doubtless the other loss as well. He had guessed
who was the thief, and what was the thief's motive. He had hurried home.
A moment more--just the little delay of fitting in a pass key--and he
would catch the culprit red-handed; he would deprive her of the spoils!

Clear as a "cut in" from some moving picture, a scene rose before
Clodagh's eyes. She saw herself at grips with O'Reilly. She saw him
wrench the envelope from her hands as she resisted. She saw herself
sobbing over her failure and Angel's lost hopes. That picture mustn't
come true! The key attached to the watch-chain, she had removed from the
safe door, and had laid watch and all on a buffet. Beside them she had
placed the door key. Now, as the chambermaid chattered in the corridor,
and O'Reilly made light of his loss, Clodagh moved faster than any
figure in a moving picture. She snatched up everything on the buffet,
pushed all into the safe, softly shut the steel door, concealed it with
the panel which slipped readily into its groove, and fled into the
adjoining bedroom.

Lights from across a court showed that the sole doors were those of a
bath and a clothes-closet. There was no way out from the bedroom.
Entrance and exit to the suite were to be had only through the sitting
room.

"I might have known," Clo reflected. Too late she recalled that through
the nearest door had appeared the couple in evening dress. She was
caught like a mouse in a trap (poor mouse, who had meant to gnaw the
encircling net!) caught unless--unless! Her heart gave a leap as she saw
the one way out.

The night was warm, and the window had been opened wide to let in the
blue dusk. Light from opposite windows giving on the court shone upon a
stone coping. It was broad, as copings go, broad enough for some white
roses dropped from a window above to lodge without falling farther. It
was this conspicuous splash of white on the dark stone which put into
Clo's mind the word "unless."

The chambermaid was rattling her pass key in the lock. If the thing were
to be done, it must be done now! Yes, that stone coping ran all the way
along under O'Reilly's window as well as those opposite. It was quite
fourteen or fifteen inches in width, Clo thought, and was placed twice
as many inches below the window sill. It would be easy to step down on
to the ledge; and only a short distance away was the window of the next
room, a room in the suite occupied by the couple she had seen. That
window was open, like O'Reilly's. Clo could be sure of this, because the
lace curtains were blowing out in the draught from some other window.
They were of thick lace covered with embroidery, and if one could catch
hold of a curtain as it blew the stuff wouldn't tear. As for the stolen
envelope, it was safe in one of those odd, new-fashioned pockets of
hers. Hastily she made it more secure with a big pin, by which she
fastened it to the cloth of her dress. Thus both hands were free. But it
took courage to start!

"Oh, I must, I must do it!" she thought, her body ice, her soul aflame.
"It's for Angel! If I don't look down, I shall be all right. And even if
I fall and smash like an egg I'll be no worse off than before she saved
me. I'll be back just where I was that day."

Uninvited, the chambermaid had followed O'Reilly into the next room. She
was talking volubly, hoping that he'd mislaid the door key, that it
hadn't been stolen. Clo, in making her dash for the bedroom, had quietly
closed the door between, but she could hear that the two were talking.

Anyhow, the girl tried to think, it was the first step that cost! Once
outside the bedroom window, plastered against the wall, the danger of
being caught was over. O'Reilly would search the clothes-closet, and
peer into the bath. Then he would suppose that the bird was already
flown. Never would he dream that a girl would dare what she meant to
dare.

Oddly enough, that reflection decided Clo to act. For the moment, fear
left her free. She stepped briskly over the window sill with one foot,
and landed on the ledge. It felt solid, almost comforting; but as she
groped for it with the other foot, horror caught her again, poured
through her veins like iced water and made her heart feel a dead thing.
She tried not to think of anything except that kind curtain flapping in
the wind. She clung to the window-frame with fingers so damp that they
slipped on the stone. Holding on for dear life--yes, life was dear, now
it hung by a thread!--she edged along, her cheek scraping the wall as
she moved. One step, two, three--another would take her so far that she
must let go of the window frame. Could she reach the blowing curtain? A
few moments ago it had seemed to beckon. Now she depended on it the
white folds eluded her hand. If the wind dropped, she was lost. She
couldn't help thinking of all the things she wished not to think of. She
thought of that immense depth below her narrow perch. She didn't believe
the man or woman lived strong-minded enough to forget it!

As she reached out with her free arm for the curtain, a light sprang up
from the room she had left. O'Reilly was there, searching for her. It
had been simple to say, while she stood on a solid floor, that he would
not look out of the window. But he might look out: he might hear her
feet shuffling along the ledge. If his head appeared now, she would
fall.

The girl began to shake all over like a winter leaf on a high branch.
She would have to go, she thought. But the curtain was blowing very
near, so near that she ventured another step. The lace brushed her
fingers. With a last effort she grasped a fold. Courage came back. Now
she had let go of O'Reilly's window frame. She had passed on beyond hope
of return, and yet she had no firm grasp upon the curtain. Before it
could give the support a rope gives a climber, she must slowly,
patiently, draw it toward her inch by inch until she had it taut.

"Angel, are you praying for me?" she wondered. Because she could not
pray for herself. She could only count. Dimly, she felt it odd that it
should calm her nerves to count each time her fingers closed upon the
curtain. But it did calm them.

"Seven, eight, nine, ten." The fold of lace began to be taut. Drawing it
toward her, she started on once more on that endless journey of a few
inches. Thank heaven, the light in O'Reilly's bedroom had been switched
off. The man must have given up the chase, and gone back to the sitting
room. For the present she was safe from him. But what a queer word
"safe" was, just then. "Eleven, twelve, thirteen." Thanks to the curtain
rope, she had almost reached her goal. "Fourteen, fifteen." She had got
so far that she could let the curtain go and fling her arms over the
window sill. She threw her body upon it, and lay still for an instant,
utterly spent now the strain was over. But was it over? No, not yet. If
her feet slipped from the coping, she would have no strength for the
effort of climbing in at the window. She would hang for a minute and
then--drop.

"The papers," she reminded herself, for a mental tonic. "They're so
nearly safe now. Brace up, Clo! A minute more and you'll be out of
trouble."

The room beyond was, like O'Reilly's, unlighted. Thank goodness, there'd
be no squalling lady's maid to give an alarm. Clo allowed herself time
to breathe, resting on the window sill. Then she prepared to draw
herself over. Wrapping the curtain round her right hand, and clutching
the lace firmly with her left hand, she found a heavy piece of furniture
just inside the window. It seemed to be a dressing-table with a mirror
suspended between two spiral posts. Grasping one, Clo pulled the table
closer, till it refused to move. This gave a lever on which she might
depend. She clung to the curtain and post, till she could plant first
one knee, then its fellow, on the window sill. It seemed an easy thing
to do, and would have been easy had not her strength been nearly spent.
Her quivering muscles responded slowly to this last call, but they did
respond. Soon she was kneeling on the window sill. Then one foot was
over, groping for the floor. She had just found it when a key grated in
a lock, and before she could hide behind the curtains a door opened
wide. A flood of light streamed in from the corridor, and outlined her
white form against the blue background of the night.




XV

THE NUMBER SEVENTEEN


To go back meant death, and the loss of Beverley's papers. Besides, she
had been seen. For once, Clo's wits refused to work. Like a frozen
flower, she remained motionless in the window.

The figure in the doorway was that of a man. The light coming from
behind made his face a blank for her eyes, but the girl saw that he was
taller than O'Reilly and of a different build. Perhaps it was the owner
of the suite, he who had gone out with the beautiful woman. The man made
no move. He stood in the doorway as if rooted to the floor. "My God!"
Clo heard him mutter.

"The fool takes me for a ghost," she thought. "Now's my chance, before
he plucks up courage!"

Down came the other white shoe on the carpet with no more noise than a
rose-petal falling. Then followed a second of indecision. Should she
risk pushing the man aside, and fleeing past him into the hall? No, her
touch would break the spell. She must go on with the ghost-play, and
vanish in the dark!

Light from outside showed her the open door of an adjoining room. Thence
came the draught which had set the curtains blowing. Clo took a few
floating steps toward the man, then dodged aside, and disappeared into
the room beyond. Softly she closed the communicating door and slid the
bolt. Almost opposite where she stood opened a cross passage leading to
a wing of the hotel. With a bound she reached it, not daring to look
behind, yet listening with the ear of the hunted for the hunter, as she
ran. Coming to a staircase the girl plunged down it two steps at a time.
On the floor below, however, she ventured to moderate her pace. This was
the dinner hour; most of the guests would be in the restaurant, or out
of the hotel for the evening; but there would be servants about. Clo
forced herself to descend sedately, flight after flight of stairs, not
daring to enter a lift. At last, when it seemed that she had come to
earth from the top of Jacob's ladder, the stairway ended. Timidly
following a passage that opened before her, she ventured into a wide,
important hall.

There was a cloakroom in the hall. Ladies were going into it and coming
out. Clo heard music in the distance and saw a marble balustrade. This
balustrade was for her a landmark. She knew by it that she must have
reached the story above the ground floor, and that the large corridor of
the cloakroom opened on to a gallery overlooking the main hall. She had
glanced up and admired that marble balustrade when she first entered the
hotel. She had seen also a wide marble staircase leading up to the
gallery. It must be near, she thought, but it was a way of exit to
avoid. If O'Reilly were on guard below, or even if he had merely
telephoned her description to the office, she and the stolen envelope
would be promptly nabbed in the hall below. She had dared too much to be
tamely taken now. Mirrors were let into the panels of the wall, and Clo
paused before one, pretending to straighten her hat. She wanted time to
make up her mind.

The ladies who left their wraps in this upstairs cloakroom must be
dining in private rooms on the same floor, she thought. "Out there in
the gallery their men will be waiting for them," the girl told herself.
"And maybe that's where my man is waiting for me!"

One of these ladies, opening a gold chain bag to pull out her
handkerchief, dropped a bit of paper with a number on it--Clo's
favourite number, 17. It fluttered close to her feet; she stooped and
picked it up. Common sense told her that the numbered slip was a
cloakroom check. It might mean salvation. She walked leisurely into the
cloakroom, though her nerves were a-jerk like the strings of a
jumping-jack. "My cousin has asked me to come and fetch her wrap," she
explained to a bored attendant. "There's a draught through the dining
room. This is her check."

The woman accepted it without a word. She presently produced a long wrap
of black chiffon, lined with blue. "Number seventeen. Here you are,
miss." So speaking, she removed the duplicate check, which had been
pinned to a frilled hood of the cloak. At sight of that hood a weight
lifted from Clo's heart. It was more ornamental than practical, but it
would be immensely useful to her. If she had been given her choice of
cloaks, she couldn't have done better. Seventeen was bringing her luck.

"Oh, I believe I'd better leave my hat!" she said to the attendant, as
if on a second thought. Unsuspiciously the woman took it, pinned a bit
of paper to the lining, and handed the duplicate to Clo. "Nobody's got
seventeen now, so I'll give it to you again." This seemed a good omen:
seventeen for the second time! With the cloak over her arm she sauntered
out of the room. Then back she went to the foot of the stairs, where was
a quiet niche behind a big, potted palm, and close by was one of those
convenient panel mirrors. Thus refuged, Clo slipped into the wrap, and
arranged the floppy hood. It was far from becoming, for the frill fell
almost to her eyes; but it hid the tell-tale red hair, and showed little
of her face save the end of an impudent nose and the tip of a pointed
chin. The cloak, made for a taller figure than Clo's, came nearly to her
feet, and holding it together the white dress became invisible.

"Now for it!" she thought, like a soldier who goes "over the top" to
charge the enemy. Head down, hood flapping, cloak floating, she sailed
along the corridor and out into the gallery beyond. Yes, there was the
marble staircase, and below was the great, bright hall; but in this
disguise she could pass O'Reilly if he had assembled half the detectives
in New York. So she tripped down the stairs, sedate, unhurried as the
care-free girl whose cloak she had borrowed. Arrived in the hall, she
knew her way out, and could hardly subdue the triumph in her voice as
she said "Taxi, please," to an attendant porter.

"Where shall I tell him to go, miss?" came the question as she stepped
into the cab; and for half a second she hesitated. By a clock she had
seen in the hall it was just half-past eight. There would be time to go
home, time for Angel to open the envelope and see if the contents were
right, time to tell Angel her own adventures, and time to rest before
keeping her tryst with Peterson.

She gave the number of the house in Park Avenue where Roger Sands lived.
The door of the taxi shut with a reassuring "click." It was heavenly to
lean back against the comfortable cushions! She ought to be entirely
happy, entirely satisfied. Perhaps it was only reaction after so many
hopes and fears, this weight that seemed to press upon her heart. Yet it
was an obstinate weight. It grew heavier as the taxi brought her nearer
home.




XVI

A QUOTATION FROM SHAKESPEARE


    "Not easily jealous, but, being wrought,
    Perplexed in the extreme."

The words describing Othello's torment rang in Roger Sands' ears.

The words kept time with the purring throb of the motor that sped him on
his wife's errand. Certain it was that he had not been easily jealous!

He had married a girl with a secret to keep, and he had never questioned
her. He had made her a queen; and he was her loyal subject. She ruled
him and his kingdom. Only to-day he had given her a queen's pearls. They
were his atonement for an hour of distrust. How had she rewarded him?
Roger reviewed the afternoon, since the presentation of the pearls, and
there were details which he saw in a new light. So desperate had been
her mysterious haste that she had broken the rope of pearls, and had not
even stopped to pick up the scattered splendour.

Roger Sands' heart had been hard toward his wife when they met. He had
settled upon a policy of silence for the present, while in
self-protection he watched developments. He agreed quietly to Beverley's
request that he should fetch the pearl-stringer, though feeling a cold,
sick certainty of her motive in making it.

He went, as he had given his word that he would go, to 27 Elm Street,
Yonkers. Miss Blackburne herself answered his ring: and when the name of
Clo Riley was mentioned, she said at once that she would accompany Mr.
Sands. Roger was kept waiting only while Miss Blackburne took leave of
her mother, gathered together her materials, and packed a small bag; for
it was clear that, if the pearl-stringer were to finish her work in one
sitting, she would have to spend the night in Park Avenue.

The little woman, whose face seemed almost featureless to Roger Sands,
was interested in the man as well as in the mission. The pearl-stringer
had often heard of him in various ways; and her work took her into a set
who knew, or gossiped, about his private affairs. She had listened to
women's talk concerning Mrs. Sands, "the girl from nowhere," and, though
Miss Blackburne was "good as gold," she did enjoy a little spicy
scandal. She could in future make herself quite interesting to some of
her regular clients by telling how she had worked for Mrs. Roger Sands;
and not only for their sakes, but her own, did she look forward to this
"job."

Secretly, Ellen Blackburne planned some day to write a volume of
reminiscences, and she had a "feeling," as she sat in discreet silence
beside Roger Sands in his car, that to-night she would get material for
particularly good notes. She was conscious that his nerves were tensely
strung. "It's just as if he were sitting in a thunder cloud charged full
of electricity, with me getting some of the shocks," she told herself,
thinking of her notebook, where she would make entries when she got
home.

It was nearly a quarter past eight when Roger's latch-key opened the
door of his apartment. Miss Blackburne was impressed, not only by the
magnificence of the hall, but by the originality of its decoration.

Roger, having let himself and the pearl-stringer in with his latch-key,
regretted that he had done so. He did not want to see Beverley alone
just then. It would be better to have her summoned by a servant. Miss
Blackburne was too observant of tiny details not to notice that he
stepped back and pushed the electric bell outside the door, which he had
not yet closed. And when he said to the butler: "Please tell Mrs. Sands
that I have been able to bring back Miss Blackburne," the small student
of character guessed at once that he wished to avoid meeting his wife.

The hall was large, and furnished like an extra drawing-room, therefore
it was not inhospitable that Roger should leave the pearl-stringer alone
there, with the excuse that he must dress for dinner. He was, he
explained, going to his club. As he made this announcement, however, and
before the butler could carry the message to Mrs. Sands, a dazzling
vision appeared. It could be no other, Miss Blackburne felt, than Mrs.
Sands herself; and she was right, for Beverley had dressed with unusual
speed, yet with unwonted pains, in order to be ready for Roger's return.

The vision came into the hall before the butler had been able to deliver
the message, and his wife's arrival whilst the man was present gave
Roger an opportunity he would not miss. There was a question he wished
to ask the old servant, in Beverley's hearing, but he had not expected
the chance to come so soon. The butler retreated, stepping aside
respectfully to let Mrs. Sands pass. But before the man could efface
himself, and before greeting Beverley, Roger exclaimed, "Oh, by the by,
Johnson, has any one been here since I went out?"

"Yes, sir," the butler replied, "one gentleman has been. He----"

But the vision intervened. "The gentleman wasn't a visitor, Johnson,"
she said, a sharp note in her voice, almost an agonized note. "You ought
to explain to Mr. Sands that he came only to bring Miss Riley home."
Then she hurried on, snatching the explanation from the servant's mouth,
though she had ordered him to make it: "The poor child came back quite
done up, nearly fainting. She had to be helped in, almost carried. The
man stayed just long enough to hear that she was better. Is it Miss
Blackburne you've been lucky enough to find, and bring back to me?"

All this rushed out in a breath. The lovely lady in white and silver
smiled at the small person in brown pongee. But Roger Sands was not a
man easy to play with.

"Yes, it is Miss Blackburne," he quietly answered. "What was the
gentleman's name, Johnson? Did you hear it?"

There was a trifling pause while the servant replied. Mrs. Sands was
still faintly smiling, a mechanical smile, and her eyes were suddenly
dull as glass.

"Yes, sir, I believe I heard the name mentioned," Johnson admitted. "I
thought it was the same as the young lady's; Riley or O'Riley. As Mrs.
Sands remarks, sir, he wasn't exactly calling, so the name wasn't
announced. It only reached my ears."

Roger looked straight at Beverley. The gaze was a challenge. "Was it
Justin O'Reilly who came?" he inquired; and his eyes said: "if your
conscience is clean, you'll understand that I'm not trying to extract
any confession. I give you the chance to clear yourself, here and now,
that's all."

But Beverley's face was flooded with one of her painful blushes, that
always came when she wanted them least. She realized, too late, that
Roger had enquired of Johnson because he suspected, perhaps even knew,
that O'Reilly had been in the house.

"Yes, it was Justin O'Reilly who came and stopped about ten minutes,"
she answered, trying to keep her voice as calm as Roger's. "But this
isn't very interesting to Miss Blackburne. It was good of her to give up
her Sunday evening! Shall we----"

"Just a moment, please," Roger broke in, still in that deadly quiet
voice which, it seemed, could betray nothing to a stranger, but for
Beverley was a knife at her heart. "I must go out presently. Before
starting to dress I should like to hear the latest news about your
protégée. She looked all right, and not inclined to faint, when I saw
her tripping into the house, just before I came in from my walk some
time ago. By the by I think Mr. O'Reilly must have been with her then.
He was passing the house, I noticed."

"I don't know anything about that," the answer came slowly. "Clo didn't
mention seeing Mr. O'Reilly at that time. She rested and went out again
later. Johnson was speaking of her _second_ return."

Beverley knew that her husband could easily have questioned Johnson
behind her back, and then have entrapped her perhaps, through her
ignorance of what had passed. He had chosen instead, to be as frank as
he was hard; and while she suffered, Beverley thanked her husband for
cold justice.

"I must dress now," Roger said heavily. "I am dining at my club."

Murmuring some civility to Miss Blackburne, Sands turned away. A moment
more, and his wife heard his bedroom door shut. At the sound it seemed
that her heart must die in her breast! She felt a sensation of physical
sickness, and would have given anything not to have the pearl-stringer
on her hands. Here the woman was, however, and could not be treated with
discourtesy!

"You will dine with me, of course, before beginning your work," Beverley
said, trying to be cordial. But Miss Blackburne smiled and shook her
head. She had had "high tea" at home with her mother, and could eat
nothing more, she replied, thanking Mrs. Sands.

"I'll take you to my boudoir," Beverley said kindly to the little woman
in brown. "The pearls are there. You'll be surprised at their beauty."

Miss Blackburne let her hostess lead the way. "There's a drama here, all
right!" she told herself. "Has it anything to do with the pearls? But I
shall know soon, I bet!"

The Vision opened the door of a charming room. The light was already
switched on, and the new-comer noticed that a door stood wide open
between the boudoir and the bedroom, which, also, was lighted. Miss
Blackburne guessed that Mrs. Sands had only just finished dressing in a
hurry as her husband came into the house. Perhaps, on account of the
pearls, her maid had been released from duty. Anyhow, someone had
forgotten to turn off the lights, and ... but Mrs. Sands herself was
explaining.

"I left the door open between my room and this while I dressed," she
said, "because of what you see on this table. I thought it might as well
be here, as anywhere else, all ready and waiting for you."

She made a nervous gesture, and Miss Blackburne saw on the table
indicated a large oval case of purple velvet, slightly old-fashioned
looking, and adorned with a splendid gold crown. The pearl-stringer knew
something about crowns and coronets: duchesses, countesses, baronesses,
and small fry like that. But this crown was royal. She was going to get
good "copy" for her notes!

Beverley's hand moved toward the purple case. She was in a desperate
hurry to get her business with Miss Blackburne over, and escape into the
hall again. She must try to have a word with Roger before he went,
though she dared not--literally dared not--go to his room.

"You'll see the pearls, and----" she had begun, when her ears caught the
sound of an electric bell; a loud, insistent peal.




XVII

THE MYSTERY OF THE BOUDOIR


"It's Roger," Beverley thought. "He's ringing for Johnson--perhaps to
ask more questions!"

"I must speak to my husband," she said to Miss Blackburne. "The pearls
are in that case. There are two hundred and fifty. About thirty came
unstrung. You'll see for yourself how they ought to be graduated. I'll
be with you again in a few minutes."

She flew to the hall, hoping to intercept Johnson before he could reach
Roger's room. But the man was not on his way there. It was the sound of
the door-bell she had heard. Johnson was in the act of admitting a girl
in a black chiffon cloak lined with blue. A large frilled hood pulled
over the wearer's eyes hid the profile from Beverley. The girl turned;
it was Clo.

"I'll go with you to your room," Beverley said, controlling her voice
for the benefit of Johnson, and trying not to show how frantic was her
haste. It was only when she had noiselessly closed the door of the big,
bare room, that she dared let herself go.

"What's happened?" she implored. "Why are you dressed like this? Of
course you haven't got the papers?"

"I dressed like this to make a get-away," said Clo. "I stole the cloak.
I'll tell you everything by and by. But first, you must find out for
yourself whether I've got the papers. I've got something--something in a
thick envelope. That's all I know."

She threw off the cloak of the girl at the Dietz, and unpinned the
pocket which held the precious package--the pocket which, thanks to the
pin, had guarded its contents through the whole series of her
adventures.

Beverley took the large linen envelope, not even thanking Clo. Neither
noticed the omission.

"Addressed to Justin O'Reilly!" she exclaimed. "It's the right size. But
what makes you think it may have my envelope inside?"

"Because it was carefully hidden in a safe in the wall. I thought of
opening it to make sure. There wasn't--enough time."

"I'll open it ... now!" said Beverley. Her words were firm, yet she
hesitated, and turning, the envelope over, stared at the five
official-looking red seals. What if it should contain legal documents
belonging to some client of O'Reilly's?

"Tap--tap!" came at the door.

Beverley laid the envelope on the glass table, where Clo's medicine
bottles once had stood. Over the red seals she flung her handkerchief,
lest it should be Roger at the door.

Meanwhile, Clo had answered the knock and revealed Johnson.

"Madam, the lady who came with Mr. Sands wishes to see you immediately;
it's very urgent," he announced.

"Say I'll be there in a few minutes," she replied. "I can't come just
yet."

Johnson departed. "Madam will come in a few minutes," he repeated to
Miss Blackburne, who had been anxiously awaiting him at a half-open
door. "I think," he added, "she is busy, miss."

"In that case," suggested the pearl-stringer, "perhaps you'd better call
Mr. Sands."

"Very well, miss, I'll do so." Johnson turned away, and Miss Blackburne
retreated to the boudoir.

But it occurred to Clo that Roger might be summoned if Beverley delayed.

"Something must be worrying Miss Blackburne," she said. "I wonder if
it's anything you'd like Mr. Sands to mix up in, or if you'd rather
attend to it yourself? You know, we've lots of time before ten o'clock.
If the papers are in this envelope, it's all right. If not, there's
nothing doing."

Just why Beverley did not want Roger to go to her boudoir she hardly
knew, unless she feared that a pearl might be missing, and that Roger
would be more vexed than he was already. Whatever the motive in her
mind, she felt suddenly impelled to haste. Even with Clo she could not
leave the envelope. Wrapping it in the handkerchief to hide the address,
she hurried off with it in her hand.

"You sent for me, Miss Blackburne?" she asked, as she threw open the
door.

The pearl-stringer stood by the table, looking pale and strange.

"Oh, Mrs. Sands," she exclaimed, "you told me the pearls were in their
case, but they're not. I found it empty. You must have laid them
somewhere else."

Beverley wondered whether she had become temporarily insane, and had
hidden the pearls in a place already forgotten. But in her heart she
knew that nothing of the sort had happened.

"No," she said, answering herself as well as Miss Blackburne, "I didn't
touch the pearls after I put them away, and brought them in here. Oh,
please don't tease me! This is too serious!"

"Tease you!" echoed Miss Blackburne. "Why, Mrs. Sands, I wouldn't do
such a thing! I wish to goodness I'd insisted on your staying till I'd
opened the case and counted the pearls. I don't think I was ever so
foolish before! Now, maybe you'll believe that I've sto----"

"No--no!" exclaimed Beverley, calmed by the other's distress. "Of course
I believe nothing so foolish. Even if you--what nonsense to speak of
it!--but even if you wanted the pearls, you couldn't hide them. Let me
think! Let me go back in my mind over everything that happened. I was in
the next room practically all the time when I wasn't here. The door was
open between. I could have seen any one who came in. Oh, the pearls
can't have been stolen. There's been nobody to steal them."

"What about our little friend, Clo Riley?" Miss Blackburne asked. "Could
she possibly know anything? Mightn't she help with some suggestion? I
thought hers one of the brightest, quickest minds I ever met. Indeed, I
owe my life to its quickness."

Beverley forgot to answer. The pearl-stringer's words had sent her
thoughts travelling along a new path. Suddenly she became aware that she
had deceived Miss Blackburne and herself. When she made that statement,
she had not reflected. Clo's return, in O'Reilly's company, now seemed
so long ago that she had not cast her mind back so far in connection
with the pearls. She had thought of what she had done since O'Reilly's
refusal of her request, and his departure. She had pictured herself as
having seen the pearls in their case since then. But she had not done
so. She had seen only the closed case, and had naturally taken it for
granted that the pearls were in it. As a matter of fact, she had not
actually seen them since she herself closed the velvet case. Could Clo
possibly have dashed into the boudoir and hidden the pearls?

"I'll speak to Clo," she finally replied, with a dazed look after a
silence that puzzled Miss Blackburne.

"Please stay here. I'll be back in three or four minutes, and bring Clo
with me, if she's well enough."

Clo, denuded of the stolen cloak, had flung herself upon the bed to
rest, and call back the force of her vitality for a later effort. Her
nerves were throbbing like hot wires, and she jumped at the opening of
the door.

"Oh, I'm glad it's you!" she sighed, at sight of Beverley. "Have you
opened the envelope?"

"The envelope!" Beverley repeated. "Oh, Clo, I thought nothing on earth
could have put it out of my head for a second. But Miss Blackburne
called me to say the pearls have disappeared. I forgot the envelope. I
must hurry back. Did you do anything with the pearls, on your way out?"

Clo looked aghast. "Good gracious, no!" she cried. "I went through the
kitchen, and down the servants' elevator. Oh, Mrs. Sands--Angel--you
don't think----"

"Nonsense! You're as bad as Miss Blackburne!" Beverley cut her short. "I
thought that, for some reason, you might have hidden them. Now I know
you didn't. Clo, this is the most terrible day--except one--in my life.
I must find the pearls or Roger will never forgive me. And only a few
minutes ago they were nothing, compared with the papers!"

Clo's wits, drowned in horror for an instant, came to the surface again.
"What if O'Reilly took the pearls for revenge!" she blurted out. "Did he
know--was he anywhere near them?"

Beverley, who had been standing by the bed, sank down upon it, and
stared. "He did know," she said slowly. "And--and he was alone in the
room with the pearls for some minutes if I remember rightly. You see,
Sister Lake arrived. She was angry about your being out. I tried to
soothe her. It was no use. She left, bag and baggage, in injured
dignity. O'Reilly was in my boudoir. Oh, Clo, it must be he who took the
pearls!"

The girl herself had said it: yet, when the words were repeated by other
lips than hers, it gave her a shock. O'Reilly's face rose before her
eyes. "I don't believe he did it!" she was surprised to hear her own
voice cry out aloud.

"You suggested it yourself!" exclaimed Beverley.

"I know," the girl confessed. "The idea popped into my head. But it
can't be true. He's not that sort, whatever else he may be!"

"He went off furious with you, with us both," Beverley said. "It must
have been he who stole the pearls. There's a strong motive--something
for him to hold over us, and force us to give the papers back."

"If we've got them!" cut in Clo.

Beverley sprang up. "I'm lost in this!" she faltered. "There are too
many things against me. I can't cope with them all at once. I must go to
the boudoir and get that envelope, whatever happens."

"What shall I do?" asked Clo.

Beverley was already at the door, and had opened it.

"If I don't come back to you in five minutes, it will be a sign I want
you to come to me."

When the door had shut behind her Angel, the girl felt she would be
thankful for the five minutes' respite. She lay flat and straight as a
figure on a marble tomb, yet she could not rest for thinking of
O'Reilly. His eyes seemed to be looking into hers. By shutting them, she
could not shut him out. When she thought that the five minutes must have
passed, she slid wearily off the bed.

"I must go to Angel," she said half aloud. But she had not got to her
feet when, without knocking, Beverley flung the door open.

Instantly Clo guessed that some new and worse misfortune had happened.

"This time it's the end. I give up!" Beverley panted. "The envelope has
gone with the pearls. I hadn't even opened it. I don't know what was
inside."

"Gone! The envelope gone!" gasped the girl. "Gone--from--where?"

"From the table in the boudoir," Beverley answered. "I laid it there
when Miss Blackburne told me about the pearls. It was there when I came
to you. Miss Blackburne hasn't left the room. She didn't even see the
envelope. I've searched everywhere for it--but it's gone."




XVIII

DEFEAT


All Clo's efforts and schemings wasted! She had tricked, stolen, risked
her life, in vain. The envelope was gone.

"You can't have looked everywhere," she insisted. "The thing must have
got tucked out of sight--unless Miss Blackburne ... but no, she's as
good as gold!"

"I'm sure you're right about her. She is good," said Beverley.
"But ... she says nobody came into the room while she was
there.... I asked her. Otherwise I might have thought that
Rog----" The sentence broke. "I wanted to see you alone," Angel began
again, "so I came back. You've been so wonderful to-day, you've made
me depend upon you. If there were anything to do, you'd be the one
to do it. But there's nothing ... is there? I can't see any light,
can you?"

"Let me help you to look for the envelope," said Clo.

"Come, then," said the other, in a toneless voice, unlike her own.
Together they went to Beverley's boudoir, where there was a little
interlude of greetings between Clo and Miss Blackburne. Then, Clo was
beginning her search for the lost envelope when Roger Sands slowly
passed the half-open door. Beverley had left it ajar, not because she
wished to call him (that desire had fled with the news about the
pearls), but in order to see that he went out. She stood with her back
to the door at the moment, but on the wall directly opposite hung a long
mirror. Clo guessed, by the slight start Angel gave, that she must have
caught sight of his reflection. He turned and came back.

"If he asks to see the pearls!" was the thought in Clo's head. Her eyes
met Beverley's and read the same terror there.

Roger spoke to Miss Blackburne, pausing on the threshold.

"What do you think of the baubles?" he asked with elaborate
carelessness. "Are they above the average?"

The two girls held their breath. Would the pearl-stringer give the
situation away?

But Miss Blackburne, true to herself, was discretion incarnate.

"I've not seen enough of the pearls, yet, to form an opinion," she
replied, "but my impression is that they must be altogether
exceptional."

"I'm glad your impression is good," said Roger. He turned to his wife.
"I may not be back till late. Don't sit up for me. Good-night."

Beverley followed him into the hall.

"Roger!" she pleaded. "You're doing me a most horrible injustice. I
can't bear it!"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You can't help knowing," she said, "It's about Justin O'Reilly. You
think I----"

"Have I accused you of anything?" he challenged, brows raised, eyes
blank.

"No. But----"

"Your imagination seems to be even more lively than your conscience is
sensitive, my dear girl. What have you done, that I should accuse you?"

"I've done nothing, Roger, that you----"

"All right, then. Why borrow trouble? I must hurry, or I'll miss my
appointment. Good-night again. Sleep well!"

Roger left her without a backward glance. Beverley felt that she was
caught in the folds of a vast net.

What was it Clo had said, that day? "There was once a mouse who gnawed a
net----" Poor mouse, it had tried to-day to gnaw the net! It had gnawed
one small hole, but even before the prisoner could struggle to get free,
the hole had closed again. Still, the mouse was ready for another bout.
It was a brave, bold mouse--a subtle mouse! For some strange reason her
sole hope was in Clo.

During her absence the girl had searched the boudoir from end to end.
Her sharp eyes had not missed a cranny big enough to hide a pin, to say
nothing of a rope of pearls or a large envelope with five red seals.
Both the pearls and the envelope must have been stolen. Were there two
thieves, or only one?

With Roger's departure, and Beverley's return, the three women could
talk with freedom, especially after Mrs. Sands' announcement to the
butler that he would not be needed to serve dinner.

Miss Blackburne reiterated that she knew nothing of the envelope. She
had had no thought for anything except the pearls. Their loss put her
into an embarrassing position unless Mrs. Sands intended informing Mr.
Sands and the police at once of what had happened.

"I saw by your face you didn't want me to speak when your husband came
in," she said to Beverley, "so I hedged, and did the best I could
without lying. I realized that you would want to be the one to break the
news. But I suppose you have told him now? He'll send the police, or
some private detective, won't he, to take evidence while I'm here?"

"I do want to get them back," Beverley answered. "But I haven't told my
husband, and we can't have the police, or even a detective. That must
seem not quite fair to you, Miss Blackburne. Whatever happens, you
shan't suffer, I promise. I believe I know who has taken the pearls. If
I'm right, it isn't exactly a theft. Perhaps if I go the right way about
it, I can get them again. What's the good of worrying my husband, when
in a day or two there may be nothing to worry about?"

"M-m-m," muttered Miss Blackburne, "I think you're wrong, Mrs. Sands. I
have a feeling that Mr. Sands suspects."

"That the pearls are gone? How can he?" Beverley cried.

"I don't know, I only feel," the little woman repeated.

As the two had talked, Clo watched Miss Blackburne's face. It was with
her as the pearl-stringer had said of herself: she "did not know--she
could only feel" that the good little woman had something on her
conscience, something that she was obliged to hide.

Clo had by this time succeeded in clearing her mind from cobwebs.

Suddenly a light shone like flame upon the mystery. "Peterson!" was the
name that printed itself upon the girl's brain. "If he could have got
into the flat, he could have stolen both the pearls and papers. Does
Miss Blackburne know something, and if she does, why won't she tell?"

It occurred to Clo that, if she could have a few words with Miss
Blackburne alone, perhaps the puzzle might be solved.

"Angel," she said, "if there's been a thief in this house, perhaps he's
here still. With two manservants, you ought----"

Beverley waited for no more. Any straw was worth catching at. She
couldn't wait to ring for Johnson. She rushed out of the boudoir, hoping
to find the butler in the dining room. He was there. And while she
explained that something had been stolen, that the flat must be
searched, Clo got the chance she had wanted.

"Miss Blackburne, you're my friend!" she exclaimed. "This means life or
death to me. I'm responsible for that envelope we've lost. Do, for the
love of heaven, tell me what happened in this room while Mrs. Sands went
out and left you here alone."

The pearl-stringer remained silent. She met Clo's great, imploring eyes
without shrinking, but the girl saw that she breathed hard.

"If you don't want me to die, tell me!" Clo implored.

"My child, I would tell you, if I could," she stiffened herself. "But,
you see," she finished, "there's nothing to tell. So, I can't."




XIX

THE BROWN TRUNK


Clo realized that there was no more to be said, since to accuse Miss
Blackburne of lying would make matters worse. When Beverley came back,
to say that the servants had been questioned, and the flat searched in
vain, the girl had made up her mind what to do next. There were two
things, one of which had better be done at once; the second, which must
be done before ten o'clock. The first was to settle with Miss
Blackburne; and get rid of her. The second thing was to keep the
appointment with Peterson. It was more important, Clo thought, to see
him than to see O'Reilly, though she expected Angel to suggest an
immediate talk with O'Reilly in person or by telephone. She hoped to
bring Beverley to her point of view.

"Of course, I rely on you to let me clear myself if you don't find your
pearls the way you hope," Miss Blackburne reminded Beverley. "I'm sure
you'll let me know when you have news. Meanwhile, there's nothing to
stay for, is there? I might as well be with mother."

It was arranged that she should go home in a taxi, to save the time
which must be wasted, waiting for Beverley's car. Mrs. Sands paid, of
course, and gave the pearl-stringer a present of fifty dollars, "to make
up for her trouble."

It was not late, as time goes, but on this night of stress and ordeal,
nine-fifteen was a terrible hour. The instant Miss Blackburne was out of
the house, the two girls turned to each other, and clasped hands.

"Thank God, she's gone!" Beverley breathed. "Now I'll call up Justin
O'Reilly, and----"

"Wait till I tell you something I've thought of, then you can decide,"
Clo cut in. "I believe that horrible creature, Peterson, may be the
thief, not O'Reilly. How he could have got into the flat, and out again,
I can't see. But he probably specializes in stunts like that! He has the
face--and the fingers--for it. I shouldn't wonder if he terrorized poor
Blacky. She's not cut out for a heroine, is she? Maybe the man was under
the table in the boudoir. Maybe he warned her that, if she gave him away
afterward, he'd do for her and all her belongings. That would scare
Blacky blue! She worships her mother. I haven't got the tangle
straightened out in my head yet. But this new idea looks good to me, so
far. If Peterson's the thief--if he's pocketed the papers and the
pearls--it seems to me he'll try and make a quick get-away. Let us jump
on him now, at the Hotel Westmorland, before he expects us, and before
bothering with O'Reilly. These pearls must be well known. Peterson can't
get rid of them, even to a fence, for any big sum. I think he'd
exchange, for money, and less important jewels that he might dare to
sell. Haven't you got something that your husband's forgotten--or won't
mind if he doesn't see you wear?"

"Yes," Beverley answered. "I have six or seven hundred dollars by me.
There's a diamond muff-chain, too, and a tiara that Roger himself thinks
too old looking for me. He proposed to have the stones reset--but that's
months ago. He has forgotten, I'm sure, for he's given me so many other
things since. I could bargain with the chain and tiara--and perhaps a
few bracelets and rings."

"Let me take the jewels and money in a bag to the Westmorland. I can
leave it at the desk while I do the bargaining. It's best to be on the
safe side, if you're a mouse holding up a ferret! Besides, there's a
question we've 'most lost sight of in this business, Angel. We're not
sure the right papers were in the envelope I took from O'Reilly. They
might be something else he valued."

"Why, yes!" cried Beverley. "For a moment I counted on their being the
right ones--the ones I must give Peterson----"

"Well, I've only to see him to make sure," Clo went on. "He may lie, but
I know I can tell by his face. Angel, waste no time on O'Reilly. There's
not one second to lose! Get your jewels together, and I'll go."

"We'll both go," said Beverley. "Don't object; it's useless! I won't
have you go alone. You've done more than enough already. I'm a wretch to
let you slave for me, your first day out of bed! But I daren't call at
Peterson's alone, not because I'm afraid for myself, but because of
Roger. Besides, I can depend on you to keep your head."

"Very well," Clo consented. "The first thing that occurs to me is this:
we must put on plain coats and hats. My new hat I left at the Dietz: I
had to! But you'll lend me something. And we'll not 'phone for a taxi.
Best slip away and not let the servants know we've gone. If you've a
latch-key, we may go and even get back without a soul being the wiser."

"Come to my room and choose wraps for us both, while I collect the money
and what jewels I dare spare," Beverley said. As she spoke, she ran in
front of Clo, and opened a safe in the wall not unlike the hiding place
Clo had rifled at the Dietz.

The girl selected two automobile coats, one of gray silk, the other of
brown, both intended to match the colours of dresses, but inconspicuous
and plain. There were toques made of the same material, with thin veils
attached. Clo took for herself the brown coat, which was shorter than
the gray, and pulled the brown toque well over her red hair. By this
time Beverley had stuffed a roll of greenbacks, a chain of platinum set
with brilliants, half a dozen sparkling rings and bracelets, and a
flexible diamond tiara, into a dark leather handbag. Clo helped her into
the long gray coat which covered her evening dress; and the two stole
out of the flat like flitting shadows. They went down in the elevator,
but the hall-porter was off duty for the night, having left a young
understudy in charge.

The girls walked fast to the nearest taxi stand, Clo trying not to
breathe hard and so remind Angel of her weakness. As the chauffeur
slowed down in front of the Westmorland, Beverley held up her wrist
watch for Clo to see.

"Twenty-five minutes to ten," Clo assured her confidently. "I only hope
he won't have gone out. Now, you wait for me in the taxi, Angel, while
I----"

"No, you're to wait for me," Beverley decided. "I can do more with the
man than you, because there are things you don't know. But don't wait
here. It's too far away. I might need you in a hurry. We'll keep the
taxi, so there'll be no delay in getting off, and we'll both go into the
hotel together. You came this afternoon, so you had better ask for
Peterson. We can make up our minds what to do next when we get the
answer."

A moment later a tall young woman in a gray motor cloak, and a small
young woman in a brown cloak, entered the hotel. The veils that covered
their close-fitting toques and fell over their faces were not thick, yet
in the electric light the gauze took on a disguising glitter. The pair
in their plain wraps, were not conspicuous figures even in a third-rate
hotel like the Westmorland, and the clerk whom they approached was not
moved to curiosity.

"Mr. Peterson? He's in; came in over an hour ago, and mentioned that he
expected a caller; party to go right up."

"He's expecting us, one or both," Clo cut in hastily. "What's his
number?"

"658, top floor," said the clerk. "The elevator's just over there to the
left--see?"

"We'll go up together," Clo whispered, "and then, if you really think
best to see the man alone, I'll hang about somewhere in the hall till
you come out and call me."

Beverley made no reply. Already she was fathoms deep in thought. The
musty-smelling lift shot them up to the top floor; Beverley, stepping
out ahead of Clo, had the air of having forgotten her existence. The
girl's anxiety deepened. The best she could do was to guide her friend
through dimly lighted, dark-walled corridors, to the right number, 658.
Beverley had, before they left the taxi, given the money and jewels into
her companion's hand. Clo's over-strained nerves began to take their
revenge. This shabby hotel was an evil place. To her it seemed that each
closed door hid something secret and sinister. They met no one between
the elevator and Peterson's room. Involuntarily, the two paused an
instant in front of number 658 before knocking. No sound came from
within. If Peterson were in his room, apparently he was alone. Beverley
tapped--a sharp, nervous tap.

"Come

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