← catalogue

Miss Maitland, Private Secretary

by Geraldine Bonner · English · Gutenberg #35504 · 455,179 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Miss Maitland, Private Secretary
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Miss Maitland, Private Secretary

Author: Geraldine Bonner

Illustrator: Arthur Ignatius Keller


        
Release date: March 6, 2011 [eBook #35504]
                Most recently updated: April 7, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35504

Credits: Darleen Dove, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISS MAITLAND, PRIVATE SECRETARY ***




                    MISS MAITLAND PRIVATE SECRETARY
                          BY GERALDINE BONNER




  AUTHOR OF "THE EMIGRANT TRAIL," "THE GIRL AT CENTRAL," "TREASURE AND
                        TROUBLE THEREWITH," ETC.




                             ILLUSTRATED BY
                              A. I. KELLER




                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
                       NEW YORK            LONDON
                                  1919




                          COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY
                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY




         COPYRIGHT 1918, 1919, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY




                PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




[Illustration: _Rising into the white wash of moonlight came Suzanne_]




CONTENTS


  · LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
  · CHAPTER I—THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
  · CHAPTER II—MISS MAITLAND GETS A LETTER
  · CHAPTER III—ANOTHER LETTER AND WHAT FOLLOWED IT
  · CHAPTER IV—THE CIGAR BAND
  · CHAPTER V—ROBBERY IN HIGH PLACES
  · CHAPTER VI—POOR MR. JANNEY!
  · CHAPTER VII—CONCERNING DETECTIVES
  · CHAPTER VIII—MOLLY’S STORY
  · CHAPTER IX—GOOD HUNTING IN BERKELEY
  · CHAPTER X—MOLLY’S STORY
  · CHAPTER XI—FERGUSON’S IDEA
  · CHAPTER XII—THE MAN WHO WOULDN’T TELL
  · CHAPTER XIII—MOLLY’S STORY
  · CHAPTER XIV—A CHAPTER ABOUT BAD TEMPERS
  · CHAPTER XV—WHAT HAPPENED ON FRIDAY
  · CHAPTER XVI—MOLLY’S STORY
  · CHAPTER XVII—MISS MAITLAND IN A NEW LIGHT
  · CHAPTER XVIII—THE HOUSE IN GAYLE STREET
  · CHAPTER XIX—MOLLY’S STORY
  · CHAPTER XX—MOLLY’S STORY
  · CHAPTER XXI—SIGNED "CLANSMEN"
  · CHAPTER XXII—SUZANNE FINDS A FRIEND
  · CHAPTER XXIII—MOLLY’S STORY
  · CHAPTER XXIV—CARDS ON THE TABLE
  · CHAPTER XXV—MOLLY’S STORY
  · CHAPTER XXVI—THE COUNTER PLOT
  · CHAPTER XXVII—NIGHT ON THE CRESSON PIKE
  · CHAPTER XXVIII—THE MAN IN THE BOAT
  · CHAPTER XXIX—MISS MAITLAND EXPLAINS
  · CHAPTER XXX—MOLLY’S STORY




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


Rising into the white wash of moonlight came Suzanne
You’ve done one thing to me that you are going to regret
His face was ludicrous in its enraged enmity
Ferguson saw him in silhouette, a large, humped body with bent head


                    MISS MAITLAND PRIVATE SECRETARY





CHAPTER I—THE PARTING OF THE WAYS


Chapman Price was leaving Grasslands. Events had been rapidly advancing
to that point for the last three months, slowly advancing for the last
three years. Everybody who knew the Prices and the Janneys said it was
inevitable, and people who didn’t know them but read about them in the
"society papers" could give quite glibly the reasons why Mrs. Chapman
Price was going to separate from her husband.

His friends said it was her fault; Suzanne Price was enough to drive any
man away from her—selfish, exacting, bad tempered, a spoiled child of
wealth. Chappie had been a first-rate fellow when he married her and
she’d nagged and tormented him past bearing. _Her_ friends had a
different story; Chapman Price was no good, had neglected her, was an
idler and a spendthrift. Hadn’t the Janneys set him up in business over
and over and found it hopeless? What he had wanted was her money, and
people had told her so; her mother had begged her to give him up, but
she would have him and learned her lesson, poor girl! Those in the
Janney circle said there would have been a divorce long before if it
hadn’t been for the child. _She_ had held them together, kept them in a
sort of hostile, embattled partnership for years. And then, finally,
that link broke and Chapman Price had to go.

There had been a last conclave in the library that morning, Mrs. Janney
presiding. Then they separated, silent and gloomy—a household of eight
years, even an uncongenial one, isn’t broken up without the sense of
finality weighing on its members. Chapman had gone to his rooms and
flung orders at his valet to pack up, and Suzanne had gone to hers,
thrown herself on the sofa, and sniffed salts with her eyes shut. Mr.
and Mrs. Janney repaired to the wide shaded balcony and there talked it
over in low tones. They were immensely relieved that it was at last
settled, though of course there would be the unpleasantness of a divorce
and the attending gossip. Mr. Janney hated gossip, but his wife, who had
risen from a Pittsburg suburb to her present proud eminence, was too
battle-scarred a veteran to mind a little thing like that.

As they talked, their eyes wandered over a delightful prospect. First a
strip of velvet lawn, then a terrace and balustraded walk, and beyond
that the enameled brilliance of long gardens where flowers grew in
masses, thick borders, and delicate spatterings, bright against the
green. Back of the gardens were more lawns, shaven close and dappled
with tree shadows, then woods—Mrs. Janney’s far acres—on this fine
morning all shimmering and astir with a light, salt-tinged breeze.
Grasslands was on the northern side of Long Island, only half a mile
from the Sound through the seclusion of its own woods.

It was quite a show place, the house a great, rambling, brown building
with slanting, shingled roofs and a flanking rim of balconies. Behind it
the sun struck fire from the glass of long greenhouses, and the tops of
garages, stables and out-buildings rose above concealing shrubberies and
trellises draped with the pink mantle of the rambler. Mrs. Janney had
bought it after her position was assured, paying a price that made all
Long Island real estate men glad at heart.

Sitting in a wicker chair, a bag of knitting hanging from its arm, she
looked the proper head for such an establishment. She was fifty-four,
large—increasing stoutness was one of her minor trials—and was still a
handsome woman who "took care of herself." Her morning dress of white
embroidered muslin had been made by an artist. Her gray hair, creased by
a "permanent wave," was artfully disposed to show the fine shape of her
head and conceal the necessary switch. She was too naturally endowed
with good taste to indicate her wealth by vulgar display, and her hands
showed few rings; the modest brooch of amethysts fastening the neck of
her bodice was her sole ornament. And this was all the more commendable,
as Mrs. Janney had wonderful jewels of which she was very proud.

Five years before, she had married Samuel Van Zile Janney, who now sat
opposite her clothed in white flannels and looking distressed. He was a
small, thin, elderly man, with a pointed gray beard and a general air of
cool, dry finish. No one had ever thought old Sam Janney would marry
again. He had lost his wife ages ago and had been a sort of historic
landmark for the last twenty years, living desolately at his club and
knowing everybody who was worth while. Of course he had family, endless
family, and thought a lot of it and all that sort of thing. So his
marriage to the Pittsburg widow came as a shock, and then his world
said: "Oh, well, the old chap wants a home and he’s going to get it—a
choice of homes—the house on upper Fifth Avenue, the place at Palm Beach
and Grasslands."

It had been a very happy marriage, for Sam Janney with his traditions
and his conventions was a person of infinite tact, and he loved and
admired his wife. The one matter upon which they ever disagreed was
Suzanne. She had been foolishly indulged, her caprices and extravagances
were maddening, her manners on occasions extremely bad. Mr. Janney, who
had beautiful manners of his own, deplored it, also the amount of money
her mother allowed her; for the fortune was all Mrs. Janney’s, Suzanne
having been left dependent on her bounty.

His wife, who had managed everything else so well, resented these
criticisms on what should have been the completest example of her
competence. She also resented them because she knew they were true. With
all her cleverness and all her capability she had not succeeded with her
daughter. The girl had got beyond her; the unfortunate marriage with
Chapman Price had been the climax of a youth of willfulness and
insubordination. Suzanne’s affairs, Suzanne’s future, Suzanne herself
were subjects that husband and wife avoided, except, as in the present
instance, when they were the only subjects in both their minds.

Presently their low-toned murmurings were interrupted by the appearance
of Dixon, the butler, announcing lunch.

"Mrs. Price," he said, "will not be down—she has a headache."

Mrs. Janney rose, looking at the man. He had been in her service for
years, was one of the first outward and visible signs of her growth in
affluence. She was sure that he knew what had happened, but her face was
unrevealing as a mask, as she said:

"See that she gets something. Will Mr. Price take his lunch upstairs?"

"No, Madam," returned the man quietly, "Mr. Price is coming down."

It was a ghastly meal—three of them eating sumptuous food, waited on by
two men hardly less silent than they were. It wouldn’t have been so
unbearable if Bébita, Suzanne’s daughter, had been there to lift the
curse off it with her artless chatter, or Esther Maitland, the social
secretary, who had acquired a habit of talking with Mr. Janney when the
rest of the family were held in the dumbness of wrath. But Bébita was
spending the morning with a little chum and Miss Maitland was lunching
with a friend in the village.

Chapman Price, as if anxious to show how little he cared, ate everything
that was passed, and prolonged the misery by second helpings. Mrs.
Janney could have beaten him, she was so angry. Once she glanced at him
and met his eyes, insolently defiant, and as full of hostility as her
own. They were vital eyes, dark and bold, and were set in a handsome
face. At the time of his marriage he had been known as "Beauty Price"
and it was his good looks which had caught the capricious fancy of
Suzanne. In the eight years since then they had suffered, the firmly
modeled contours had grown thin and hard, the mouth had set in an ugly
line, the brows had creased by a frown of sulky resentment. But he was
still a noticeable figure, six feet, lean and agile, with a skin as
brown as a nut and a crown of black hair brushed to a glossy smoothness.
Many women continued to describe Chapman Price as "a perfect Adonis."

When they rose from the table he stood aside to let his parents-in-law
pass out before him. They brushed by, feeling exceedingly uncomfortable
and wanting to get away as quickly as their dignity would permit. They
dreaded a last flare-up of his temper, notoriously violent and
uncontrolled, one of the attributes that had made him so unacceptable.
In the hall at the stair foot they half turned to him, swept him with
cold looks and were mumbling vague sounds that might have been dismissal
or farewell, when he suddenly raised his voice in a loud, combative
note:

"Oh, don’t bother to be polite. There’s no love between us and there
needn’t be any hypocrisies. You want to get rid of me and I want to go.
But before I do, I’d like to say something." He drew a step nearer, his
face suddenly suffused with a dark flush, his eyes set and narrowed.
"You’ve done one thing to me that you’re going to regret—stolen my
child. Yes," in answer to a protesting sound from Mr. Janney, "_stolen_
her—that’s what I said. You think you can hide behind your money bags
and do what you like. Maybe you can nine times, but there’s a tenth when
things don’t work the way you’ve expected. Watch out for it—it’s due
now."


[Illustration: _You’ve done one thing to me that you are going to
regret_]


His voice was raised, loud, furious, threatening. The dining room door
flew open and Dixon appeared on the threshold in alarmed consternation.
Mr. Janney stepped forward belligerently:

"Chapman, now look here—"

Mrs. Janney laid a hand on her husband’s arm:

"Don’t answer him, Sam," then to Chapman, her face stony in its
controlled passion, "I want no more words with you. Our affairs are
finished. Kindly leave the house as soon as possible." She turned to the
butler who was staring at them with dropped jaw: "Shut that door, Dixon,
and stay where you belong." The sound of footsteps at the stair-head
caught her ear. "The other servants are coming: we’ll have an audience
for this pleasant scene. We’d better go, Sam, as Chapman doesn’t seem to
have heard my request for him to leave, the only thing for us is to
leave ourselves."

She swept her husband off across the hall toward the balcony. Behind
them the young man’s voice rose:

"Oh don’t have any fears. I’m going. But I may come back—that’s what you
want to remember—I may come back to settle the score."

Then they heard his footsteps mounting the stairs in a long, leaping
run.

In his own room he found his valet, Willitts, a small, fair-haired young
Englishman, closing the trunks. The door was open and he had a suspicion
that the footsteps Mrs. Janney had heard were probably Willitts’. He
didn’t care, he didn’t care what Willitts had heard. The man knew
anyhow; they _all_ knew. There wasn’t a servant in the house or a soul
in the village who wouldn’t by to-morrow be telling how the Janneys had
thrown him out and were planning to get possession of his child.

He strode about the room, tumbled the neat piles of cravats and
handkerchiefs on the bureau, yanked up the blinds. In his still seething
passion he muttered curses at everything, the clothes that lay across
chair backs, the boots that he kicked as he walked, finally the valet
who once got in his way. The man made no answer, did not appear to
notice it, but went on with his work, silent, unobtrusive, competent.
Presently Chapman became quieter; the storm was receding. He fell into a
chair, sat sunk in moody reflection, and, after studying the shining
toes of his shoes for some minutes, looked at the man and said, "Forget
it, Willitts. I was mad straight through."

It may have been a capacity to make such amends that caused all servants
to like Chapman Price. Willitts, who had been in his service for nearly
a year, was known to be devoted to him.

An hour later, when they left, the house had an air of desertion. The
large lower hall, with vistas of stately rooms through arched doorways,
was as silent as the Sleeping Beauty’s palace. Chapman’s glance swept it
all—rich and still, gleams of parquette showing beyond the Persian rugs,
curtains too heavily splendid for the breeze to stir, flowers in glowing
masses, the big motor, visible through the wide-flung hall door, a
finishing touch in the picture. It was the perfect expression of a
carefully devised luxury, a luxury which for the last eight years had
lapped him in slothful ease.

As he came out on the verandah steps a voice hailed him and he stopped,
the sullen ill humor of his face breaking into a smile. Across the lawn,
running with fleet steps, came his daughter Bébita. Laughing and gay
with welcome, she was as fresh as a morning rose. Her hat, slipped to
her neck, showed the glistening gold of her hair back-blown in ruffled
curls; her rapid passage threw her dress up over her bare, sunburned
knees, and her little feet in black-strapped slippers sped over the
grass. Healthy, happy, surrounded by love which she returned with a
child’s sweet democracy, she was enchanting and Chapman adored her.

"Where are you going, Popsy?" she cried and, dodging round the back of
the motor, came panting up the steps. Chapman sat down on the top, and
drew her between his knees. Otto, the chauffeur, and Willitts with the
bags, watched them with covert interest, ready to avert their eyes if
Chapman should look their way. The nurse, an elderly woman, came slowly
across the grass, also watching.

"To town," said the young man, scrutinizing the lovely, rosy face, with
its deep blue eyes raised to his.

"For how long?" She was used to her father going to town and not
reappearing for several days.

"Oh, I don’t know; longer than usual, though, I guess. Going to miss
me?"

"Um, I always miss you, Popsy. Will you bring me something when you come
back?"

"Yes, or maybe I’ll send it. What do you want?"

"A ’lectric torch—one that shines. Polly’s got one"—Polly was the little
friend she had been visiting—"I want one like Polly’s."

"All right. A ’lectric torch."

"I’m going to get one, Annie," she cried triumphantly to the nurse;
"Popsy’s going to send me one." Then turning back to her father, "Take
me to the station with you?"

Willitts and the chauffeur exchanged a glance. The nurse made a quick
forward movement, suddenly gently authoritative:

"No, no, darling. You can’t drive now. It’s time to go in and take jour
rest."

Bébita looked mutinous, but her father, drawing her to him and kissing
her, rose:

"I can’t honey-bun. I’m in a hurry and there wouldn’t be any fun just
driving down to the village and back. You run along with Annie now and
as soon as I get to town I’ll buy you the torch and send it."

The nurse mounted the steps, took the child’s hand, and together they
stood watching Chapman as he got in. Willitts took the seat beside the
chauffeur, adroitly disposing his legs among a pile of suitcases, golf
bags, umbrellas and walking sticks. As the car started Chapman looked
back at his daughter. She was regarding him with the intent, grave
interest, a little wistful, with which children watch a departure. At
the sight of his face, she smiled, pranced a little, and called:

"Good-by, Popsy dear. Don’t forget the torch. Come back soon," and waved
her free hand.

Chapman gave an answering wave and the big car rolled off with a cool
crackle of gravel.

The village—the spotless, prosperous village of Berkeley enriched by the
great estates about it—was a half mile from Grasslands’ wrought-iron
gates. The road passed through woods, opening here and there to afford
glimpses of emerald lawns backed by large houses, with the slope of
awnings above their balconies. On either side of this highway ran a
shady path, worn hard by the feet of pedestrians and the wheels of
bicycles.

As the Janney motor turned out into the road a young woman was walking
along one of these paths, returning to Grasslands. She appeared to be
engrossed in thought, her step loitering, her eyes down-cast, a slight
line showing between her brows. Out of range of the sun she had let her
parasol droop over her shoulder and its green disk made a charming
background for her head. She wore no hat and against the taut silk her
hair showed a glossy, burnished brown. It was beautiful hair, growing
low on her forehead and waving backward in loose undulations to the
thick knot at the nape of her neck. Her skin was pale, her eyes, under
long brows that lifted slightly at the outer ends, deep-set, narrow and
dark. She was hardly handsome, but people noticed her, wondered why they
did, and then said she was "artistic-looking," or maybe it was just
personality; anyway, say what you like, there was something about her
that caught your eye. Dressed entirely in white, a slim, sunburned hand
coiled round the parasol handle, her throat left bare by a sailor
collar, she was as trim, as flecklessly dainty, graceful and comely as a
picture-girl painted on the green canvas of the trees.

At the sight of her Chapman, who had been lounging in the tonneau,
started and his morose eye brightened. As the motor ran toward her, she
looked up, saw who it was, and in the moment of passing, inclined her
head in a grave salutation. Chapman leaned forward and touched the
chauffeur on the shoulder.

"Just stop for a minute, Otto, I want to speak to Miss Maitland."

She did not see that the car had stopped or hear the footstep on the
grass behind her. Chapman’s voice was low:

"Hullo, Esther. Don’t be in such a hurry. I’m going."

She wheeled, evidently startled, her face disturbed and unsmiling.

"Oh! Do you mean _really_ going?"

"Yes. Parting of the ways—all that sort of thing."

He eyed her with a curious, watching interest and she returned the look,
her own uneasily intent.

"Why do you stop to tell me that," was what she said. "Everybody knew it
was coming."

He shrugged and then smiled, a smile full of meaning:

"I thought you’d like to hear it—from _me_, first hand. I’ll be a free
man in a year."

She stood for a moment looking at the ground, then lifting the parasol
over her head, said:

"If you’re going to catch the three forty-five you’d better hurry."

His smile deepened, showed a roguish malice, and as he turned from her,
raising his hat, he murmured just loud enough for her to hear:

"Thanks for reminding me. I wouldn’t miss that train for a farm—I’m
devilish keen to get to the city."

He ran back to the waiting motor and the girl resumed her walk, her step
even slower than before, her face down-drooped in frowning reverie.

There was no chair car on the three forty-five and Chapman had to travel
in the common coach, Willitts and the luggage crowded into the seat
behind him. It was an hour and a half run to the Pennsylvania Station
and he spent the time thinking over the situation and arranging his
future. His business—Long Island real estate—had been allowed to go to
the dogs. He would have to get busy in earnest, and, with his friends
and large acquaintance to throw things in his way, he could put it on a
paying basis. His expenses would have to be cut down to the bone. He’d
give up his chambers, a suite in a bachelor apartment—Willitts could
find him a cheap room somewhere—and of course he’d give up Willitts.
That had been already arranged and the faithful soul had asked leave to
help him in the move and stay with him till a new job was found. He
would keep his car—it would be necessary in his business—and could be
stored in the garage at Cedar Brook where he’d spend his week-ends with
the Hartleys. Joe Hartley was one of his best friends, knew all about
his marriage and had counseled a separation more than a year ago. He’d
probably spend a good deal of his time at Cedar Brook, it was a growing
place; unfortunate that it should be the next station after Berkeley,
but it could not be helped. He was bound to run into the Janney outfit
and he’d have to get used to it.

The train was entering the tunnel when he gave Willitts his
instructions—go to the apartment and pack up, then see about a room. He
himself would look up some places he knew of, and if he found anything
suitable he’d come back to the apartment and the things could be moved
to-morrow. They separated in the depot, Willitts and the luggage in a
taxi, Chapman on foot. But that part of the city to which he took his
way, dingy, unkempt, remote from the section where his kind dwelt, was
not a place where Chapman Price, fallen from his high estate as he was,
would have chosen to house himself.




CHAPTER II—MISS MAITLAND GETS A LETTER


It was Thursday morning, three days after her husband’s departure, and
Suzanne was sitting in the window seat of her room looking across the
green distances to where the roof of Dick Ferguson’s place, Council
Oaks, rose above the tree tops. Council Oaks adjoined Grasslands, there
was a short cut which connected them—a path through the woods. Before
Mrs. Janney bought Grasslands the path had become moss-grown, almost
obliterated. Then when she took possession the two households wore it
bare again. The servants found it shortened the walk from kitchen to
kitchen; Mr. Janney often footed its green windings; Dick Ferguson’s
father had been one of his cronies, and Dick Ferguson himself was the
most constant traveler of them all.

Council Oaks was a very old place; it had been in the Ferguson family
since the days when the British governors rolled over Long Island in
their lumbering coaches. Before that the Indians had used it for a
council ground, their tepees pitched under the shade of the four giant
oaks from which it took its name. The Fergusons had kept the farm house,
built after the Revolution, adding wings to it, till it now extended in
a long, sprawl of white buildings, with the original worn stone as a
step to its knockered front door, and the low, raftered ceilings, plank
floors, and deep-mouthed fireplaces of its early occupation.

There Dick Ferguson lived all summer, going to town at intervals to
attend to the business of the Ferguson estate, for, like the young man
in the Bible, he had great possessions. The dead and gone Fergusons had
been canny and thrifty, bought land far beyond the city limits and sat
in their offices and waited until the town grew round it. It was known
among the present owner’s intimates that he disapproved of this method
of enrichment, and that his extensive charities and endowments were an
attempt to pay back what he felt he owed. He was very silent about them,
only a few knew of the many secret channels through which the Ferguson
millions were being diverted to the relief of the people.

But none of this seriousness showed on the outside. If you didn’t know
him well Dick Ferguson was the last person you would suspect of a sense
of responsibility or a view of life that was anything but easy-going and
light-hearted. People described him as a nice chap, not a bit spoiled by
his money, just a big, jolly boy, simple and unaffected. He looked the
part with his long, lank figure, leggy as a young colt, his shock of
light brown hair that never would lie flat, his freckled, irregular face
with gray eyes that had an engaging way of closing when he laughed. He
did this a good deal and it may have been one of the reasons why so many
people liked him. And he also had a capacity for listening to
long-winded tales of trouble, which may have been another. He was
twenty-nine years old and still unmarried, and that was his own fault as
any one would tell you.

When Sam Janney married the Pittsburg widow Dick Ferguson became a
friend of the family. He fitted in very well, for he was sympathetic and
understanding and the Janneys had troubles to tell. He heard all about
Chapman’s shortcomings; a little from old Sam who was not expansive,
more from Mrs. Janney, and most from Suzanne. He was very sorry for her
and gave her good advice. "A poor little bit of bluff," he called her to
himself, and then would stroll over to Grasslands and spend an hour with
her trying to cheer her up.

He spent a good many hours this way and the time came when Suzanne began
to wait and watch for his coming.

Sitting now in the cushioned window seat she was wondering if he would
come that morning and she could get him off in the garden and tell him
that Chapman was gone. She saw herself saying it with lowered eyes and
delicately demure phrases. She would frankly admit she was glad it was
over, glad she would be free once more, for in the autumn she would go
to Reno and begin proceedings for a divorce.

At this thought she subsided against the cushions, and closed her eyes
smiling softly. Seen thus, the bright sunlight tempered by filmy
curtains, she was a pretty woman, looking very girlish for her
twenty-eight years. This was partly due to her extreme slenderness and
partly to her blonde coloring. Both had been preserved with sedulous
care: the one matter in which she exercised self-restraint was her food,
the one occasion on which she showed patience was when her maid was
washing her hair with a solution of peroxide.

Every window in the large, luxurious room was open and through them
drifted a flow of air, scented with the sea and the breath of flowers.
Then rising on the stillness came the sound of voices—a man’s and a
woman’s—from the balcony below. They were Mr. Janney’s and Miss
Maitland’s—the secretary was preparing to read the morning papers to her
employer.

Suzanne opened her eyes and sat up, the smile dying from her lips. The
dreamy complacence left her face and was replaced by a look of brooding
irritation. It changed her so completely that she ceased to be
pretty—suddenly showed her years, and was revealed as a woman, already
fading, preyed upon by secret vexations.

She rose adjusting her dress, a marvelous creation of thin white
material with floating edges of lace. She went to the mirror, powdered
her face and touched her lips with a stick of red salve, then studied
her reflection. It should have been satisfying, delicate, fragile, a
lovely, ethereal creature, with baby blue eyes and silky, maize-colored
hair. It was not to be believed that any man could look at Esther
Maitland when she was by—and yet—and yet—! She turned from the mirror
with an angry mutter and went downstairs.

On the balcony Miss Maitland was looking over the papers with Mr. Janney
opposite waiting to be read to. Suzanne sat down near them where she
could command the place in the woods where the path from Council Oaks
struck into the lawn. With a sidelong eye she noted the Secretary’s hand
on the edge of the paper—narrow, satin-skinned, with fingers finely
tapering and pink-tipped. _Her_ fingers were short and spatulate,
showing her common blood, and all the pink on them had to be applied
with a chamois. Miss Maitland began to read—the war news first was the
rule—and her voice was a pleasure to hear, cultivated, soft, musical.
Suzanne, for all her expensive education and subsequent efforts, had
never been able to refine hers; the ugly Pittsburg burr would crop out.

A gnawing fancy that she had been fighting against for weeks rose
suddenly into jealous conviction. This girl—a penniless nobody—had a
quality, an air, a distinction, that she with all her advantages had
never been able to acquire, _could_ never acquire. It was something
innate, something you were born with, something that made you fitted for
any sphere. Immovable, apparently absorbed in the reading, Suzanne began
to think how she could induce her mother to dispense with the services
of the Social Secretary.

When the war news was finished Miss Maitland passed on to the news of
the day. On this particular morning it was varied and interesting: A
Western senator had attacked the President’s policy with unseemly vigor;
the mysterious murder of a woman in Chicago had developed a new suspect;
a California mob had nearly killed a Japanese student; and in the New
York loft district a strike of shirtwaist makers had attained the
proportions of a riot in which one of the pickets had stabbed a
policeman with a hatpin.

Mr. Janney was shocked at these horrors, but he always liked to hear
them. Miss Maitland had to stop reading and listen to a theory he had
evolved about the Chicago murder—it was the woman’s husband and he
demonstrated how this was possible. Then he took up the shirtwaist
strike with a fussy disapproval—they got nothing by violence, only set
the public against them and their cause. Miss Maitland was inclined to
argue about it; thought there was something to say for their methods and
said it.

Suzanne listened uncomprehending, unable to join in or to follow. She
had heard such arguments before and had to sit silent, feeling a fool.
The girl didn’t know her place, talked as if she were their equal,
talked to Dick that way, and Dick had been interested, giving her an
attention he never gave Suzanne. Mr. Janney was doing it now, leaning
out of his chair, voicing his hope that a speedy vengeance would
overtake the picket who had made her escape in the mêlée.

The conversation was brought to an end by the appearance of Mrs. Janney.
It was time for the mail; Otto had gone for it an hour ago. Before its
arrival Mrs. Janney wanted their answers about two dinner invitations
which had just come by telephone. One was for herself and Sam—Sunday
night at the Delavalles—and the other was from Dick Ferguson for
to-night—all of them, very informally—just himself and Ham Lorimer who
was staying there.

Mr. Janney agreed to both and in answer to her mother’s glance Suzanne
said languidly, "Yes, she’d go to-night—there was nothing else to do."

"And he wants you too, Miss Maitland," said Mrs. Janney, turning to the
Secretary. "You’ll come, won’t you?"

Miss Maitland said she would and that it was very kind of Mr. Ferguson
to ask her. Mr. and Mrs. Janney exchanged a gratified glance; they were
much attached to the Secretary and felt that their lordly circle ignored
her existence more than was necessary or kindly. Suzanne said nothing,
but the edges of her small upper teeth set close on her under lip, and
her nostrils quivered with a deep-drawn breath.

Mrs. Janney gave orders for messages of acceptance to be sent, then sank
into a chair, remarking to her husband:

"I’m glad you’ll go to the Delavalles. It’s to be a large dinner. I’ll
wear my emeralds."

To which Mr. Janney murmured:

"By all means, my dear. The Delavalles will like to see them."

Mrs. Janney’s emeralds were famous; they had once belonged to Maria
Theresa. As old Sam thought of them he smiled, for he knew why his wife
had decided to wear them. In her climbing days, before her marriage to
him had secured her position, the Delavalles had snubbed her. Now she
was going to snub them, not in any obvious, vulgar way, but finely as
was her wont, with the assistance of himself and Maria Theresa.

The motor came into view gliding up the long drive and the waiting group
roused into expectant animation. Mr. Janney rose, kicking his trouser
legs into shape, Miss Maitland gathered up the papers, and Mrs. Janney
went to the top of the steps. In the tonneau, her body encircled by
Annie’s restraining arm, Bébita stood, waving an electric torch and
caroling joyfully:

"It’s come—it’s come. It was sent to me, in a box, with my name on it."

She leaped out, rushing up the steps to display her treasure, Annie
following with the mail. There was quite a bunch of it which Mrs. Janney
distributed—several for Sam, a pile for herself, one for Suzanne and one
for Miss Maitland. They settled down to it amid a crackling of torn
envelopes, Bébita darting from one to the other.

She tried her mother first:

"Mummy, look. You just press this and the light comes out at the other
end."

Suzanne’s eyes on her letter did not lift, and Bébita laid a soft little
hand on the tinted cheek:

"Mummy, do _please_ look."

Suzanne pushed the hand away with an angry movement.

"Let me alone, Bébita," she said sharply and, getting up, thrust the
child out of her way and went into the house.

For a moment Bébita was astonished. Her mother, who was so often cross
to other people, was rarely so to her. But the torch was too enthralling
for any other subject to occupy her thoughts and she turned to her
grandfather, reading a business communication held out in front of his
nose for he had on the wrong glasses. She crowded in under his arm and
sparked the torch at him waiting to see his delighted surprise. But he
only drew her close, kissed her cheek and murmured without moving his
eyes:

"Yes, darling. It’s wonderful."

That was not what she wanted so she tried her grandmother:

"Gran, _do_ look at my torch."

Gran looked, not at the torch at all but at Bébita’s face, smiled into
it, said, "Dearest, it’s lovely and I’m so glad it’s come," and went
back to her reading.

It was all disappointing, and Bébita, as a last resource, had to try
Miss Maitland, who, if not a relation, was always sympathetic and
responsive. The Secretary was reading too, holding her letter up high,
almost in front of her face. Bébita laid a sly finger on the top of it,
drew it down and sparked the torch right at Miss Maitland.

In the shoot of brilliant light the Secretary’s face was like that of a
stranger—hard and thin, the mouth slightly open, the eyes staring
blankly at Bébita as if they had never seen her before. For a second the
child was dumb, held in a scared amazement, then backing away she
faltered:

"Why—why—how funny you look!"

The words seemed to bring Miss Maitland back to her usual, pleasant
aspect. She drew a deep breath, smiled and said:

"I was thinking, that was all—something I was reading here. The torch is
beautiful; you must let me try it, but not now, I have to go. I’ve read
the papers to Gramp and I’ve work to do in my study."

Any one who knew Miss Maitland well might have noticed a forced
sprightliness in her voice. But no one was listening; Suzanne had gone
and Mr. and Mrs. Janney were engrossed in their correspondence. She
stole a look at them, saw them unheeding and, with a farewell nod to
Bébita, rose and crossed the balcony. As she entered the house, the will
that had made her smile, maintained her voice at its clear, fresh note,
relaxed. Her face sharpened, its soft curves grew rigid, her lips closed
in a narrow line. With noiseless steps she ran through the wide foyer
hall and down a passage that led to the room, reserved for her use and
called her study. Here, locking the door, she came to a stand, her hands
clasped against her breast, her eyes fixed and tragic, a figure of
consternation.




CHAPTER III—ANOTHER LETTER AND WHAT FOLLOWED IT


Suzanne, her letter crumpled in her hand, had gone directly to her own
room. There she read it for the second time, its baleful import sinking
deeper into her consciousness with every sentence. It was in typewriting
and bore the Berkeley postmark:

    "_Dear Mrs. Price_:

    "This is just a line to give your memory and your conscience a
    jog. Your bridge debts are accumulating. Also, I hear, there are
    dressmakers and milliners in town who are growing restive. If
    there was insufficient means I wouldn’t bother you, but any one
    who dresses and spends as you do hasn’t that excuse. Perhaps you
    don’t know what is being said and _felt_. Believe me you
    wouldn’t like it; neither would Mrs. Janney. It is for her sake
    that I am warning you. I don’t want to see her hurt and
    humiliated as she would be if this comes out in _The
    Eavesdropper_, and it will unless you act quickly. ’There’s a
    chiel among you takin’ notes’ and that chiel’s had a line on you
    for some time. So take these words to heart and as the boys say,
    ’Come across.’

    "_A Friend._"

Ever since the opening of the season the summer colony of which Berkeley
was the hub had been the subject of paragraphs—more or less
scandalous—appearing in _The Eavesdropper_. The paper, a scurrilous
weekly, had evidently some inside informer, for most of the disclosures
were true and could only have been obtained by a member of the
community. Suzanne, whose debts would make racy reading, had quaked
every time she opened it. So far she had been spared, and she had hoped
to escape by a gradual clearing off of her obligations. But she had not
been able to do it—unforeseen things had happened. And now the dreaded
had come to pass—she would be written up in _The Eavesdropper_.

Though her allowance had been princely she had kept on going over it
ever since her marriage and her mother had kept on covering the deficit.
But last autumn Mrs. Janney had lost both patience and temper and put
her foot down with a final stamp. Then the winter had come, a feverish,
crowded winter of endless parties and endless card playing, and Suzanne
had somehow gone over it again, gone over—she didn’t dare to think of
what she owed. Tradespeople had threatened her, she was afraid to go to
her mother, she told lies and made promises, and at that juncture a
woman friend acquainted her with the mystery of stocks—easy money to be
made in speculation. She had tried that and made a good deal—almost
cleared her score—and then in April all her stocks suddenly went down.
Inquiries revealed the fact that stocks did not always stay down and
reassured she set forth on a zestful orgy of renewed bridge and summer
outfitting. But the stocks never came up, they remained down, as far
down as they could get, against the bottom.

She felt as if she was there herself as she reviewed her position.

She couldn’t let it be known. She would be ruined, called dishonest; the
yellow papers might get it—they were always writing things against the
rich. Dick Ferguson would see it, and he despised people who didn’t pay
their bills; she had heard him say so to Mr. Janney, remembered his tone
of contempt. There would be no use lying to him for she felt bitterly
certain that Mr. Janney had told him what her mother gave her. There was
nothing for it but to go to Mrs. Janney and she quailed at the thought,
for her mother, forgiving unto seventy times seven, at seventy times
eight could be resolute and relentless. But it was the one way out and
she had to take it.

When no engagements claimed her afternoons Mrs. Janney went for a drive
at four. At lunch she announced her intention of going out in the open
car and asked if any of the others wanted to come. All refused: Mr.
Janney was contemplating a ride, Suzanne would rest, Miss Maitland had
some sewing to do on her dress for that evening. Both Suzanne and Miss
Maitland were very quiet and appeared to suffer from a loss of appetite.
After the meal the Secretary went upstairs and Suzanne followed.

She waited until Mr. Janney was safely started on his ride, then,
feeling sick and wan, crossed the hall to her mother’s boudoir. Mrs.
Janney was at her desk writing letters, with Elspeth, her maid, a
gray-haired, sturdy Scotch woman, standing by the table opening packages
that had just arrived from town. Elspeth, like most of Mrs. Janney’s
servants, had been in her employ for years, entering her service in the
old Pittsburg days and being promoted to the post of personal attendant.
She knew a good deal about the household, more even than Dixon, admired
and respected her mistress and disliked Suzanne.

The young woman’s first remark was addressed to her, and, curtly
imperious, was of a kind that fed the dislike:

"Go. I want to talk to Mrs. Janney."

"That’ll do, Elspeth," said Mrs. Janney quietly. "Thank you very much.
I’ll finish the others myself." Then as the woman withdrew into the
bedroom beyond, "I wish you wouldn’t speak to Elspeth that way, Suzanne.
It’s bad taste and bad manners."

Suzanne was in no state to consider Elspeth’s feelings or her own
manners. She was so nervous that she blundered into her subject without
diplomatic preliminaries, gaining no encouragement from her mother’s
face, which, at first startled, gradually hardened into stern
indignation.

It was a hateful scene, degenerated—anyway on Suzanne’s part—into a
quarrel, a bitter arraignment of her mother as unloving and ungenerous.
For Mrs. Janney refused the money, put her foot down with a stamp that
carried conviction. She was even grimmer and more determined than her
daughter had expected, the girl’s anger and upbraidings ineffectual to
gain their purpose as spray to soften a rock. Her decision was ruthless;
Suzanne must pay her own debts, out of her own allowance. Yes, even if
she was written up in the papers. That was _her_ affair: if she did
things that were disgraceful she must bear the disgrace. The interview
ended by Suzanne rushing out of the room, a trail of loud, clamorous
sobs marking her passage to her own door.

When she had gone Mrs. Janney broke down and cried a little. She had
thought the girl improved of late, less selfish, more tender. And now
she had been so cruel; the charge of a lack in love had pierced the
mother’s heart. Mr. Janney, returned from his ride, found her there,
looking old, her eyes reddened, her voice husky. When he heard the
story, he took her hand and stroked it. His tact prevented him from
saying what he felt; what he did say was:

"That bridge money’ll have to be paid."

"It will _all_ have to be paid," Mrs. Janney sighed, "and I’ll have to
pay it as I always have. But I’m going to frighten her—let her think I
won’t—for a few days anyway. It’s all I can do and it may have some
effect."

Her husband agreed that it might but his thoughts were not hopeful.
There always had to be a crumpled rose leaf and Suzanne was theirs.

He accompanied his wife on her drive and was so understanding, so
unobtrusively soothing and sympathetic, that when they returned she was
once more her masterful, competent self. Noting a bank of storm clouds
rising from the east, she told Otto to bring the limousine when he came
for them at a quarter to eight. Inside the house she summoned Dixon and
said as the family would be out "the help"—it was part of her beneficent
policy to call her retinue by this name when speaking to any of its
members—could go out that night if they so willed. Dixon admitted that
they had already planned a general sortie on "the movies" in the
village. All but Hannah, the cook, who had "something like shooting
pains in her feet, and Delia, the second housemaid, who’d got an insect
in her eyes, Madam. But it wasn’t the hurt of it that kept her in, only
the look which she didn’t want seen."

At seven the storm drove up, black and lowering, and the rain fell in a
torrent. It was still falling when Mr. and Mrs. Janney descended the
stairs, a little in advance of the time set, for, while dressing, Mrs.
Janney had decided that her costume needed a brightening touch, which
would be suitably imparted by her opal necklace. This, being rarely
worn, was kept with the more valuable jewels in the safe of which
Elspeth did not know the combination. Of course Mrs. Janney did, and at
the foot of the stairs she turned into a passage which led from the
foyer hall into the kitchen wing. It was a short connecting artery of
the great house, lit by two windows that gave on rear lawns, and at
present encumbered by a chair standing near the first window. Mrs.
Janney recognized the chair as one from her sitting room which had been
broken and which Isaac, the footman, had said he could repair. She gave
it a proprietor’s inspecting glance, touched the wounded spot, and
encountering wet varnish, warned Mr. Janney away.

In the wall opposite the windows the safe door rose black and
uncompromising as a prison entrance. It was large and old fashioned—put
in by the former owner of Grasslands. Mrs. Janney talked of having a
more modern one substituted but hadn’t "got round to it," and anyway Mr.
Janney thought it was all right—burglaries were rare in Berkeley. The
silver had already been stored for the night, the bosses of great bowls,
flowered rims, and filagree edgings shining from darkling recesses. The
electric light across the hallway did not penetrate to the side shelves
and Mr. Janney had to assist with matches while his wife felt round
among the jewel cases, opening several in her search. Finally they
emerged, Mrs. Janney with the opals which after some straining she
clasped round her neck, while Sam closed the door.

As they reëntered the main hall Suzanne came down the stairs, tripping
daintily with small pointed feet. She was very splendid, her slenderness
accentuated by the length of satin swathed about her, from which her
shoulders emerged, girlishly fragile. She was also very much made up, of
a pink and white too dazzlingly pure. With her blushing delicacy of
tint, her angry eyes and sulkily drooping mouth, Mr. Janney thought she
looked exactly like a crumpled rose leaf.

"Where’s Miss Maitland?" she said to him, ostentatiously ignoring her
mother.

Before he could answer Esther’s voice came from the hall above:

"Coming—coming. I hope I haven’t kept you," and she appeared at the
stair-head.

The dress she wore, green trimmed with a design of small, pink chiffon
rosebuds and leaves, was the realized dream of a great Parisian
_faiseur_. It had been Mrs. Janney’s who, considering it too youthful,
had given it to her Secretary. Its vivid hue was singularly becoming,
lending a warm whiteness to the girl’s pale skin, bringing out the rich
darkness of her burnished hair. Her bare neck was as smooth as curds,
not a bone rippled its gracious contours; the little rosebuds and leaves
that edged the corsage looked like a garland painted on ivory.

It was a good dinner, but it was not as jolly as Dick Ferguson’s dinners
usually were. Before it was over the rain stopped and a full moon shone
through the dining room windows. Suzanne had hoped she and Dick could
saunter off into the rose garden and have that talk about Chapman, but
he showed no desire to do so. They sat about in long chairs on the
balcony and she had to listen to Ham Lorimer’s opinions on the war.

As soon as the motor came she wanted to go—she was tired, she had a
headache. It was early, only a quarter past ten, and the night was now
superb, the sky a clear, starless blue with the great moon queening it
alone. Mr. Janney would have liked to linger—he always enjoyed an
evening with Dick—but she was petulantly perverse, and they moved to the
waiting car with Ferguson in attendance.

Mrs. Janney settled herself in the back seat, Suzanne, lifting
shimmering skirts, prepared to follow, while Miss Maitland waited humbly
to take what room was left among their assembled knees. She was close to
Ferguson who was helping Suzanne in, and looking up at the sky murmured
low to herself:

"What a glorious night!"

Ferguson heard her and dropped Suzanne’s arm.

"Isn’t it? Too good to waste. Does any one want to walk back to
Grasslands?"

Suzanne, one foot on the step, stopped and turned to him. Her lips
opened to speak, and then she saw the back of his head and heard him
address Esther:

"How about it, Miss Maitland? You’re a walker, and it’s only a step by
the wood path. We can be there almost as soon as the car."

"You’ll get wet," said Mrs. Janney, "the woods will be dripping."

Mr. Janney remembered his youth and egged them on:

"Only underfoot and they can change their shoes. Dick’s right—it’s too
good to waste. I’d go myself but I’m afraid of my rheumatism. Hurry up,
Suzanne, and get in. They want to start."

Miss Maitland said she wasn’t afraid of the wet and that it would not
hurt her slippers. Suzanne entered the car and sunk into her corner. As
it rolled away Mr. and Mrs. Janney looked back at the two figures in the
moonlight and waved good-byes. Suzanne sat motionless; all the way home
she said nothing.




CHAPTER IV—THE CIGAR BAND


Esther and Ferguson walked across the open spaces of lawn and then
entered the woods. Ferguson had set the pace as slow, but he noticed
that she quickened it, faring along beside him with a light, swift step.
He also noticed that she was quiet, as she had been at dinner; as if she
was abstracted, not like herself.

He had seen a good deal of her lately and thought of her a good
deal—thought many things. One was that she was interesting, provocative
in her quiet reserve, not as easy to see through as most women. She was
clever, used her brains; he had formed a habit of talking to her on
matters that he never spoke of with other girls. And he admired her
looks, nothing cheap about them; "thoroughbred" was the word that always
rose to his mind as he greeted her. It seemed to him all wrong that she
should be working for a wage as the Janneys’ hireling, for, though he
was "advanced" in his opinions, when it came to women there was a strain
of sentimentality in his make-up.

On the wood path he let her go ahead, seeing her figure spattered with
white lights that ran across her shoulders and up and down her back.
They had walked in silence for some minutes when he suddenly said:

"What’s amiss?"

She slackened her gait so that he came up beside her.

"Amiss? With what, with whom?"

"You. What’s wrong? What’s on your mind?"

A shaft of moonlight fell through a break in the branches and struck
across her shoulder. It caught the little rosebuds that lay against her
neck and he saw them move as if lifted by a quick breath.

"There’s nothing on my mind. Why do you think there is?"

"Because at dinner you didn’t eat anything and were as quiet as if there
was an embargo on the English language."

"Couldn’t I be just stupid?"

He turned to her, seeing her face a pale oval against the silver-moted
background:

"No. Not if you tried your darndest."

Dick Ferguson’s tongue did not lend itself readily to compliments. He
gave forth this one with a seriousness that was almost solemn.

She laughed, the sound suggesting embarrassment, and looked away from
him her eyes on the ground. Just in front of them the woodland roof
showed a gap, and through it the light fell across the path in a
glittering pool. As they advanced upon it she gave an exclamation,
stayed him with an outflung arm, and bent to the moss at her feet:

"Oh, wait a minute—How exciting! I’ve found something."

She raised herself, illumined by the radiance, a small object that
showed a golden glint in her hand. Then her voice came deprecating,
disappointed:

"Oh, what a fraud! I thought it was a ring."

On her palm lay what looked like a heavy enameled ring. Ferguson took it
up; it was of paper, a cigar band embossed in red and gold.

"Umph," he said, dropping it back, "I don’t wonder you were fooled."

"It was right there on the moss shining in the moonlight. I thought I’d
found something wonderful." She touched it with a careful finger. "It’s
new and perfectly dry. It’s only been here since the storm."

"Some man taking a short cut through the woods. Better not tell Mrs.
Janney, she doesn’t like trespassers."

She held it up, moving it about so that the thick gold tracery shone:

"It’s really very pretty. A ring like that wouldn’t be at all bad.
Look!" she slipped it on her finger and held the hand out studying it
critically. It was a beautiful hand, like marble against the blackness
of the trees, the band encircling the third finger.

Ferguson looked and then said slowly:

"You’ve got it on your engagement finger."

"Oh, so I have." Her laugh came quick as if to cover confusion and she
drew the band off, saying, as she cast it daintily from her finger-tips,
"There—away with it. I hate to be fooled," and started on at a brisk
pace.

Ferguson bent and picked it up, then followed her. He said nothing for
quite suddenly, at the sight of the ring on her finger, he had been
invaded by a curious agitation, a gripping, upsetting, disturbing
agitation. It was so sharp, so unexpected, so compelling in its rapid
attack, that his outside consciousness seemed submerged by it and he
trod the path unaware of his surroundings.

He had never thought of Esther Maitland being engaged, of ever marrying.
He had accepted her as some one who would always be close at hand,
always accessible, always in town or country to be found at the
Janneys’. And the ring had brought to his mind with a startling
clearness that some day she _might_ marry. Some day a man would put a
ring on that finger, put it on with vows and kisses, put it on as a sign
and symbol of his ownership. Ferguson felt as if he had been shaken from
an agreeable lethargy. He was filled with a surge of indignation, at
what he could not exactly tell. He felt so many things that he did not
know which he felt the most acutely, but a sense of grievance was mixed
with jealousy and both were dominated by an angry certainty that any man
who aspired to her would be unworthy.

When they emerged into the open he looked at her with a new
expression—questioning, almost fierce and yet humble. Sauntering at her
side across the lawn he was so obsessed with these conflicting emotions
that he said not a word, and hardly heard hers. The Janneys were
awaiting them on the balcony steps and after an exchange of good-nights
he turned back to the wood trail and went home. In his room he threw
himself on the sofa and lay there, his hands clasped behind his head,
staring at the ceiling. It was long after midnight when he went to bed,
and before he did so he put the cigar band in the jewel box with the
crystal lid that stood on the bureau.

The Janney party trailed into the house, Sam stopping to lock the door
as the ladies moved to the stair foot. Suzanne went up with a curt
"good-night" to her mother, and no word or look for the Secretary.
Esther did not appear to notice it and, pausing with her hand on the
balustrade, proffered a request—could she have to-morrow, Saturday, to
go to town? She was very apologetic; her day off was Thursday and she
had no right to ask for another, but a friend had unexpectedly arrived
in the city, would be there for a very short time and she was extremely
anxious to see her. Mrs. Janney granted the favor with sleepy
good-nature and Miss Maitland, very grateful, passed up the stairs, the
old people dragging slowly in her wake, dropping remarks to one another
between yawns.

A long hall crossed the upper floor, one side of which was given over to
the Price household. Here were Suzanne’s rooms, Chapman’s empty
habitation, and opposite them Bébita’s nurseries. The other side was
occupied on the front by Mrs. Janney and the Secretary with a line of
guest chambers across the passage. In a small room between his wife’s
and his stepdaughter’s Mr. Janney had ensconced himself. He liked the
compact space, also his own little balcony where he had his steamer
chair and could read and sun himself. As the place was much narrower
than the apartments on either side a short branch of hall connected it
with the main corridor. His door, at the end of this hall, commanded the
head of the stairway.

Mr. Janney had a restless night; he knew he would have for he had taken
champagne and coffee and the combination was always disturbing. When he
heard the clocks strike twelve he resigned himself to a _nuit blanche_
and lay wide awake listening to the queer sounds that a house gives out
in the silent hours. They were of all kinds, gurglings and creaks coming
out of the walls, a series of small imperative taps which seemed to
emerge from his chest of drawers, thrummings and thrillings as if winged
things were shut in the closets.

Half-past twelve and one struck and he thought he was going off when he
heard a new sound that made him listen—the creaking of a door. He craned
up his old tousled head and gave ear, his eyes absently fixed on the
strips and spots of moonlight that lay white on the carpet. It was very
still, not a whisper, and then suddenly the dogs began to bark, a trail
of yaps and yelps that advanced across the lawn. Close to the house they
subsided, settling down into growls and conversational snufflings, and
he sank back on his pillow. But he was full of nerves, and the idea
suddenly occurred to him that Bébita might be sick, it might have been
the nursery door that had opened—Annie going to fetch Mrs. Janney. He’d
take a look to be sure—if anything was wrong there would be a light.

He climbed out of bed and stole into the hall. No light but the moon,
throwing silvery slants across the passage and the stair-head, and
relieved, he tiptoed back. It was while he was noiselessly closing his
door that he heard something which made him stop, still as a statue, his
faculties on the qui vive, his eye glued to the crack—a footstep was
ascending the stairs. It was as soft as the fall of snow, so light, so
stealthy that no one, unless attentive as he was, would have caught it.
Yet it was there, now and then a muffled creak of the boards emphasizing
its advance. The corridor at the head of the stairs was as bright as day
and with his eye to the crack he waited, his heart beating high and
hard.

Rising into the white wash of moonlight came Suzanne, moving with
careful softness, her eyes sending piercing glances up and down the
hall. Her expression was singular, slightly smiling, with something sly
in its sharpened cautiousness. As she rose into full view he saw that
she held her wrapper bunched against her waist with one hand and in the
other carried Bébita’s torch. He was so relieved that he made no move or
sound, but, as she disappeared in the direction of her room, softly
closed his door and went back to bed.

She had evidently left something downstairs, a book probably—he could
not see what she had in the folds of the wrapper—and had gone to get it.
If she was wakeful it was a good sign, indicated the condition of
distressful unease her mother had hoped to create. Such alarm might lead
to a salutory reform, a change, if not of heart, of behavior. Comforted
by the thought, he turned on his pillow and at last slept.




CHAPTER V—ROBBERY IN HIGH PLACES


The next morning Mr. Janney had to read the papers to himself for Miss
Maitland went to town on the 8:45. He sat on the balcony and missed her,
for the Chicago murder had developed several new features and he had no
one to talk them over with. Suzanne, who never came down to breakfast,
appeared at twelve and said she was going to the Fairfax’s to lunch with
bridge afterward. Though she was not yet aware of Mrs. Janney’s
intention to once more come to her aid, her gloom and ill-humor had
disappeared. She looked bright, almost buoyant, her eyes showing a
lively gleam, her lips parting in ready smiles. She was going to the
beach before lunch, and left with a large knitting bag slung from her
arm, and a parasol tilted over her shoulder. It was not until she was
half way across the lawn that old Sam remembered her nocturnal
appearance which he had intended asking her about.

She was hardly out of sight when Bébita and Annie came into view on the
drive, returning from the morning bath. Bébita had a trouble and raced
up the steps to tell him—she had lost her torch. She was quite
disconsolate over it; Annie had said they’d surely find it, but it
wasn’t anywhere, and she _knew_ she’d left it on the nursery table when
she went to bed. In the light of subsequent events Mr. Janney thought
his answer to the child had been dictated by Providence. Why he didn’t
say, "Your mother knows; she had it last night," he never could explain;
nor what prompted the words, "Ask your mother; she’s probably seen it
somewhere." Bébita accepted the suggestion with some hope and then,
hearing that her mother would not be home until the afternoon, fell into
momentary dejection.

Mrs. Janney was to take her accustomed drive at four and her husband
said he would go with her. Some time before the hour he appeared on the
balcony, cool and calm, his poise restored after the trials of the
previous day and the disturbed night, and sat down to wait. Inside the
house his wife was busy. Several important papers had come on the
morning mail and these, with the opals, she decided to put in the safe
before starting. After they were stored in their shelves and the opals
back in their box she could not resist a look at her emeralds, of all
her material possessions the dearest. She lifted the purple velvet case
and opened it—the emeralds were not there.

She stood motionless, experiencing an inner sense of upheaval, her heart
leaping and then sinking down, her body shaken by a tremor such as the
earth feels when rocked by a seismic throe. She tried to hold herself
steady and opened the other cases—the two pearl necklaces, the sapphire
rivière, the diamond and ruby tiara. As each revealed its emptiness her
hands began to tremble until, when she reached the white suède box of
the black pearl pendant, they shook so she could hardly find the clasp.
Everything was gone—a clean sweep had been made of the Janney jewels.

Moving with a firm step, she went to the balcony. In the doorway she
came to a halt and said quietly to her husband:

"Sam, my jewels have been stolen."

Mr. Janney squared round, stared at her, and ejaculated in feeble
denial:

"Oh _no_!"

"Oh yes," she answered with the same note of grim control, "Come and
see."

When he saw, his old veined hands shaking as they dropped the rifled
cases, he turned and blankly faced his wife who was watching him with a
level scrutiny.

"Mary!" was all he could falter. "Mary, my _dear_!"

"Last night," she nodded, "when we were out. The place was almost empty.
I’ll call the servants."

She went to the foot of the stairs and called Elspeth, old Sam,
bewildered by this sudden catastrophe, emerging from the safe, as pale
and shaken as if he was the burglar.

"Last night, of course last night," he murmured, trying to think. "They
were here at eight. I saw them, we saw them, anybody could have seen
them."

Elspeth appeared on the stairs and came running down, Mrs. Janney’s
orders delivered like pistol shots upon her advance:

"I’ve been robbed. The safe’s been opened and all the jewels are gone.
Go and call the servants, every one of them. Tell them to come here at
once."

Elspeth knew enough to make no reply, and, with a terrified face,
scudded past her mistress to the kitchen. Mrs. Janney, her attention
attracted by sounds of distracted amazement from her husband, mobilized
him:

"Go and get Miss Maitland. We’ll have to send for detectives. She can do
it—she doesn’t lose her head."

Mr. Janney, too stunned to be anything but meekly obedient, trotted off
down the hall to Miss Maitland’s study, then stopped and came back:

"She’s in town; she hasn’t got back yet."

"Tch!" Mrs. Janney gave a sound of exasperation. "I’d forgotten it. How
maddening! You’ll have to do it. Go in there to the ’phone"—she
indicated the telephone closet at the end of the hall. "Call up the
Kissam Agency—that’s the best. We had them when the bell boy at Atlantic
City stole my sables. Get Kissam himself and tell him what’s happened
and to take hold at once—to come now, not to waste a minute. And don’t
you either—hurry!—"

Mr. Janney hasted away and shut himself in the telephone closet, as the
servants, marshaled by Dixon and Elspeth, entered in a scared group.
They had been taking tea in their own dining room when Elspeth burst in
with the direful news. Eight of them were old employees—had been years
in Mrs. Janney’s service. Hannah, the cook, had been with her nearly as
long as Dixon; Isaac, the footman, was her nephew. Dixon’s large,
heavy-jowled face was stamped with aghast concern; the kitchen maid was
in tears.

Mrs. Janney addressed them like what she was—a general in command of her
forces:

"My jewels have been stolen. Some time last night the safe was opened
and they were taken. It is my order that every one of you stay in the
house, not holding communication with any one outside, until the police
have been here and made a thorough investigation. Your rooms and your
trunks will have to be searched and I expect you to submit to it
willingly with no grumbling."

Dixon answered her:

"It’s what we’d expect, Madam. Me and Isaac both know the combination
and we’d want to have our own characters cleared as much as we’d want
you to get back your valuables."

Hannah spoke:

"We’d welcome it, Mrs. Janney. There’s none of us wants any suspicion
restin’ on ’em."

Delia, the housemaid with the inflamed eye, took it up. She was a
newcomer in the household, and in her fright her brogue acquired an
unaccustomed richness:

"God knows I was in my room at nine, and not a move out of me till sivin
the nixt mornin’ and that’s to-day."

Mr. Janney, issuing from the telephone closet, here interrupted them. He
addressed his wife:

"It’s all right. I got Kissam himself. He’ll be here on the 5:30."

She answered with a nod and was turning for further instructions to
Dixon when Suzanne entered from the balcony. Up to that moment Mr.
Janney had forgotten all about his nocturnal vision; now it came back
upon him with a shattering impact.

He felt his knees turn to water and his heart sink down to inner,
unplumbed depths in his anatomy. He grasped at the back of a chair and
for once his manners deserted him, for he dropped into it though his
wife was standing.

"What’s all this?" said Suzanne, coming to a halt, her glance shifting
from her mother to the group of solemn servants. She looked very pretty,
her face flushed, the blue tint of her linen dress harmonizing
graciously with her pink cheeks and corn-colored hair.

Mrs. Janney explained. As she did so old Sam, his face as gray as his
beard, watched his stepdaughter with a furtive eye. Suzanne appeared
amazed, quite horror-stricken. She too sank into a chair, and listened,
open-mouthed, her feet thrust out before her, the high heels planted on
the rug.

"Why, what an awful thing!" was her final comment. Then as if seized by
a sudden thought she turned on Dixon.

"Were all the windows and doors locked last night?"

"All on the lower floor, Mrs. Price. Me and Isaac went round them before
we started for the village, and there’s not a night—"

Suzanne cut him off brusquely:

"Then how could any one get in to do it?"

There was a curious, surging movement among the servants, a mutter of
protest. Mr. Janney intervened:

"You’d better let matters alone, Suzanne. Detectives are coming and
they’ll inquire into all that sort of thing."

"I suppose I can ask a question if I like," she said pertly, then
suddenly; looking about the hall, "Where’s Miss Maitland?"

"In town," said her mother.

"Oh—she went in, did she? I thought her day off was Thursday."

"She asked for to-day—what _does_ it matter?" Mrs. Janney was irritated
by these irrelevancies and turned to the servants: "Now I’ve instructed
you and for your own sakes obey what I’ve said. Not a man or woman
leaves the house till after the police have made their search. That
applies to the garage men and the gardeners. Dixon, you can tell them—"
she stopped, the crunch of motor wheels on the gravel had caught her
ear. "There’s some one coming. I’m not at home, Dixon."

The servants huddled out to their own domain and Dixon, with a
resumption of his best hall-door manner, went to ward off the visitor.
But it was only Miss Maitland returning from town. She had several small
packages in her hands and looked pale and tired.

The news that greeted her—Mrs. Janney was her informant—left her as
blankly amazed as it had the others. She was shocked, asked questions,
could hardly believe it. Old Sam found the opportunity a good one to
study Suzanne, who appeared extremely interested in the Secretary’s
remarks. Once, when Miss Maitland spoke of keeping some of her books and
the house-money in the safe, he saw his stepdaughter’s eyelids flutter
and droop over the bird-bright fixity of her glance.

It was at this stage that Bébita ran into the hall and made a joyous
rush for her mother:

"Oh, Mummy, I’ve _waited_ and _waited_ for you,"—she flung herself
against Suzanne’s side in soft collision. "I’ve lost my torch and I’ve
asked everybody and nobody’s seen it. Do _you_ know where it is?"

Suzanne arched her eyebrows in playful surprise, then putting a finger
under the rounded chin, lifted her daughter’s face and kissed her,
softly, sweetly, tenderly.

"Darling, I’m so sorry, but I haven’t seen it anywhere. If you can’t
find it I’ll buy you another."




CHAPTER VI—POOR MR. JANNEY!


The peace and aristocratic calm of the Janney household was disrupted.
Into its dignified quietude burnt an irruption of alien activity and the
great white light of publicity. Kissam with his minions came that
evening and reporters followed like bloodhounds on the scent. Scenes
were enacted similar to those Mr. Janney had read in novels and
witnessed at the theater, but which, in his most fevered imaginings, he
had never thought could transpire in his own home. It was unreal, like a
nightmare, a phantasmagoria of interviews with terrified servants,
trampings up and down stairs, strange men all over the place, reporters
on the steps, the telephone bell and the front door bell ringing
ceaselessly. Everybody was in a state of tense excitement except Mr.
Janney whose condition was that of still, frozen misery. There were
moments when he was almost sorry he’d married again.

After introductory parleys with the heads of the house the searchlight
of inquiry was turned on the servants. Their movements on the fateful
night were subject of special attention. When Kissam elicited the fact
that they had not returned from the village till nearly midnight he fell
on it with ominous avidity. Dixon, however, had a satisfactory
explanation, which he offered with a martyred air of forbearance. Mr.
Price’s man, Willitts, had that morning come up from town to Cedar
Brook, the next station along the line. In the afternoon he had biked
over to see them and, hearing of their plan to visit the movies, had
arranged to meet them there. This he did, afterward taking them to the
Mermaid Ice Cream Parlors where he had treated them to supper. They had
left there about half past eleven, Willitts going back to Cedar Brook
and the rest of them walking home to Grasslands.

From the women left in the house little was to be gathered. This was
unfortunate as the natural supposition was that the burglary had been
committed during the hours when they were alone there. Both, feeling
ill, had retired early, Delia at about half-past eight, going
immediately to bed and quickly falling asleep. Hannah was later; about
nine, she thought. It was very quiet, not a sound, except that after she
got to her room she heard the dogs barking. They made a great row at
first, running down across the lawn, then they quieted, "easing off with
sort of whines and yaps, like it was somebody they knew." She had not
bothered to look out of the window because she thought it was one of the
work people from the neighborhood, making a short cut through the
grounds.

In the matter of the safe all was incomprehensible and mysterious. Five
people in the house knew the combination—Mr. and Mrs. Janney, Dixon and
Isaac and Miss Maitland. Mrs. Janney was as certain of the honesty of
her servants and her Secretary as she was of her own. She rather
resented the detectives’ close questioning of the latter. But Miss
Maitland showed no hesitation or annoyance, replying clearly and
promptly to everything they asked. She kept the house money and some of
her account books in the safe and on the second of the month—five days
before the robbery—had taken out such money as she had there to pay the
working people who did not receive checks. She managed the financial
side of the establishment, she explained, paying the wages and bills and
drawing the checks for Mrs. Janney’s signature.

Questioned about her movements that afternoon, her answers showed the
same intelligent frankness. She had spent the two hours after lunch
altering the dress she was to wear that evening. As it was very warm in
her room she had taken part of it to her study on the ground floor. When
she had finished her work—about four—she had gone for a walk returning
just before the storm. After that she had retired to her room and stayed
there until she came down to go to Mr. Ferguson’s dinner.

The safe and its surroundings were subjected to a minute inspection
which revealed nothing. Neither window had been tampered with, the locks
were intact, the sills unscratched, the floor showed no foot-mark. There
were no traces of finger prints either upon the door or the
metal-clamped boxes in which the jewel cases were kept. The mended chair
was just as Mrs. Janney remembered it, set between the safe and the
window, in the way of any one passing along the hall.

It was on Sunday afternoon—twenty-four hours after the discovery—that
Dick Ferguson appeared with one of his gardeners, who had a story to
tell. On Friday night the man had been to a card party in the garage of
a neighboring estate and had come home late "across lots." His final
short cut had been through Grasslands, where he had passed round by the
back of the house. He thought the time would be on toward one-thirty.
Skirting the kitchen wing he had seen a light in a ground floor window,
a window which he was able to indicate. He described the light as not
very strong and white, not yellow like a lamp or candle. As he looked at
it he noticed that it diminished in brightness as if it was withdrawn,
moved away down a hall or into a room. He could see no figure, simply
the lit oblong of the window, with the pattern of a lace curtain over
it, and anyway he hadn’t noticed much, supposing it to be one of the
servants coming home late like himself.

This settled the hour of the robbery. It had not been committed when the
place was almost deserted, but when all its occupants were housed and
sleeping. The window, pointed out by the man, was directly opposite the
safe door, the light as he described it could only have been made by an
electric lantern or torch, its gradual diminishment caused by its
removal into the recess of the safe.

If before this Mr. Janney’s mental state was painful, it now became
agonized. He was afraid to be with the detectives for fear of what he
would hear, and he was afraid to leave them alone, for fear of what he
might miss. When Mrs. Janney conferred with Kissam he sat by her side,
swallowing on a dry throat, and trying to control the inner trembling
that attacked him every time the man opened his lips. He gave way to
secret, futile cursings of the jewels, distracted prayers that they
never might be found. For if they were, the theft might be traced to its
author—and _then_ what? It would be the end of his wife, her proud head
would be lowered forever, her strong heart broken. Sleep entirely
forsook him and the people who came to call treated him with a soothing
gentleness as if they thought he was dying.

His misery reached a climax when something he remembered, and every one
else had forgotten, came to light. It was one day in the library when
Kissam asked Mrs. Janney if there had ever been any one else in the
house—a discharged employee or relation—who had known the combination.
Mrs. Janney said no and then recollected that Chapman Price did, he had
kept his tobacco in the safe as the damp spoiled it. Kissam showed no
interest—he knew Chapman Price was her son-in-law and was no longer an
inmate—and then suddenly asked what had been done with the written
combination.

At that question Mr. Janney felt like a shipwrecked mariner deprived of
the spar to which he has been clinging. He saw his wife’s face charged
with aroused interest—she’d forgotten it, it was in Mr. Janney’s desk,
had always been kept there. They went to the desk and found it under a
sheaf of papers in a drawer that was unlocked. Kissam looked at it, felt
and studied the papers, then put it back in a silence that made Mr.
Janney feel sick.

After that he was prepared for anything to happen, but nothing did. He
got some comfort from the papers, which assumed the robbery to have been
an "outside job"; no one in the house fitting the character of a
suspect. It was the work of experts, who had entered by the second
story, and were of that class of burglar known as "tumblers" Mr. Janney,
who had never heard of a "tumbler" save as a vessel from which to drink,
now learned that it was a crackman, who from a sensitive touch and long
training, could manipulate the locks and work out the combination. He
found himself thanking heaven that such men existed.

When a week passed and nothing of moment came to the surface, the Janney
jewel robbery slipped back to the inside page, and, save in the environs
of Berkeley, ceased to occupy the public mind. Mr. Janney could once
more walk in his own grounds without fear of reporters leaping on him
from the shrubberies or emerging from behind statues and garden benches.
His tense state relaxed, he began to breathe freely, and, in this
restoration to the normal, he was able to think of what he ought to do.
Somehow, some day, he would have to face Suzanne with his knowledge and
get the jewels back. It would be a day of fearful reckoning; it was so
appalling to contemplate that he shrank from it even in thought. He said
he wasn’t strong enough yet, would work up to it, get some more sleep
and his nerves in better shape. And she might—there was always the
hope—she might get frightened and return them herself.

So he rested in a sort of breathing spell between the first, grinding
agony and the formidably looming future. But it was not to last—events
were shaping to an end that he had never suspected and that came upon
him like a bolt from the blue.

It happened one afternoon eight days after the robbery. Mrs. Janney and
Suzanne had gone for a drive and he was alone in the library, listlessly
going over the morning papers. His zest in the news had left him—the
Chicago murder offered no interest, the stabbed policeman in desperate
case from blood poisoning, his assailant still at large, could not
conjure away his dark anxieties. With his glasses dangling from his
finger, his eyes on the green sweep of the lawn, he was roused by a
knock on the door. It was Dixon announcing Mr. Kissam, who had walked up
from the village and wanted to see him.

Kissam, with a brief phrase of greeting, closed the door and sat down.
Mr. Janney thought his manner, which was always hard and brusque, was
softened by a suggestion of confidence, something of intimacy as one who
speaks man to man. It made him nervous and his uneasiness was not
relieved in the least by the detective’s words.

"I’m glad to find you alone, Mr. Janney. I ’phoned up and heard from
Dixon that the ladies were out and that’s why I came. I want to consult
you before I say anything to Mrs. Janney."

"That’s quite right," said Mr. Janney, then added with a feeble attempt
at lightness, "Are you, as the children say, getting any warmer?"

"We’re very warm. In fact I think we’ve almost got there. But it’s
rather a ticklish situation."

Mr. Janney did not answer; he glanced at his shoes, then at the silver
on the desk. For the moment he was too perturbed to look at Kissam’s
shrewd, attentive face.

"It’s so out of the ordinary run," the man went on, "and _so much_ is
involved that I decided not to move without first telling you. The
family being so prominent—"

"The family!" Mr. Janney spoke before he thought, his limp hands
suddenly clenching on the arms of the chair.

The detective’s eyes steadied on the gripped fingers.

"What do you mean? Let me have it straight," said the old man huskily.

Kissam put his hand in his hip pocket and drew out an electric torch
which he put on the desk.

"This torch I myself found two days ago in a desk in Mrs. Price’s room.
It was pushed back in a drawer which was full of letters and papers. It
fits the description of the torch that was lost by Mrs. Price’s little
girl."

Mr. Janney’s head sunk forward on his breast, and Kissam knew now that
his suspicions were correct and that the old man had known all along. He
was sorry for him:

"Mrs. Price not being your daughter, Mr. Janney, I decided to come to
you. I suspected her after the second day and I’ll tell you why. I had a
private interview with that woman Elspeth, Mrs. Janney’s maid, and she
told me of a quarrel she had overheard between Mrs. Janney and her
daughter. The subject of the quarrel was money, Mrs. Price asking for a
large sum to meet certain debts and losses in the stock market which
Mrs. Janney refused to give her. That supplied the motive and gave me
the lead. The loss of the torch was also significant. The child was
confident—and children are very accurate—that she had left it on the
table in her nursery when she went to bed. The proximity of the two
rooms made the theft of the torch an easy matter. What puzzled me was
how Mrs. Price had gained access to the safe, but that was cleared up
when the written combination was found in your desk here; and finally I
ran across what I should call perfectly conclusive evidence in Mrs.
Price’s room. I don’t refer only to the torch, but to the fact that a
wrapper that was hanging in the back of one of the closets showed a
smudge of varnish on the skirt."

Mr. Janney leaned forward over his clasped hands, feeling wan and
shriveled.

"If your surmise is right," he said, "where has she put them?"

"If!" echoed the other. "I don’t see any if about it. You can’t suspect
either of the men servants—reliable people of established character—nor
Miss Maitland. A girl in her position—even if she happened to be
dishonest, which I don’t for a moment think she is—wouldn’t tackle a job
as big as that. Come, Mr. Janney, we don’t need to dodge around the
stump. As soon as I’d spoken I saw you thought Mrs. Price had done it."

The old man nodded and said sadly:

"I did."

"Would you mind telling me why you did?"

There was nothing for it but to tell, and he told, the detective
suppressing a grin of triumph. It cleared up everything, was as
conclusive as if they’d seen her commit the act.

"As for where she put them," he said, "she may have a hiding place in
the house that we haven’t discovered, or cached them outside. In matters
like this women sometimes show a remarkable cunning. I’ve looked up her
movements on the Saturday and it’s possible she hid them somewhere in
the woods. She left the house at twelve, carrying a silk work bag,
walked past Ferguson’s place and talked there with him in the garden for
about fifteen minutes, went on to the beach, sat there a while, and then
walked to the Fairfax house on the bluff, where she stayed to lunch,
coming back here about half-past four. She had ample opportunity during
that time and in the places she passed through to find a cache for
them."

Mr. Janney raised a gray, pitiful face:

"Mr. Kissam, if Mrs. Janney knew this it would kill her."

Kissam gave back an understanding look:

"That’s why I came to you."

"Then it must stop here—with me." The old man spoke with a sudden,
fierce vehemence. "It _can’t_ go further. The girl’s been a torment and
a trouble for years. I won’t let her end by breaking her mother’s heart,
bringing her gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. Good God, I’d rather
say I did it myself."

"There’s no need for that. We can let it fizzle out, die down
gradually." He gave a slight, sardonic smile. "I’ve happened on this
sort of thing before, Mr. Janney. The rich have their skeletons in the
closet, and I’ve helped to keep ’em there, shut in tight."

"Then for heaven’s sake do it in this case—help me hide this skeleton.
Keep up the search for a while so that Mrs. Janney won’t suspect
anything; play your part. Mr. Kissam, if you’ll aid me in keeping this
dark there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to repay you."

Kissam disclaimed all desire for reward. His professional pride was
justified; he had made good to his own satisfaction. And, as he had
said, the case presented no startling novelty to his seasoned
experience. Many times he had helped distracted families to suppress
ugly revelations, presented an impregnable front to the press, and seen,
with a cynical amusement, columns shrink to paragraphs and the public’s
curiosity fade to the vanishing point. He promised he would aid in the
slow quenching of the Janney sensation, gradually let it flicker out,
keep his men on the job for a while longer for Mrs. Janney’s benefit,
and finally let the matter decline to the status of an "unsolved
mystery."

As to the restoration of the jewels he gave advice. Say nothing for a
time, sit quiet and give no sign. If she was as thoroughly scared as she
ought to be, she would probably return them—they would wake one fine
morning and find everything back in the safe. If, however, she tried to
realize on them it would be easy to trace them—he would be on the
watch—and then Mr. Janney could confront her with his knowledge and have
her under his thumb forever.

Mr. Janney was extremely grateful—not at the prospect of having Suzanne
under his thumb, that was too complete a reversal of positions to be
comfortable—but at the detective’s kindly comprehension and aid. With
tears in his eyes he wrung Kissam’s hand and honored him by a personal
escort to the front door.




CHAPTER VII—CONCERNING DETECTIVES


Kissam kept his word and the interest in the Janney robbery began to
languish. Detectives still came and went, morning trains still disgorged
reporters, but it was not as it had been. The first, fine careless
rapture of the chase was over; nothing new was discovered, nothing old
developed. The house settled back to its methodical régime, the faces of
its inmates lost their looks of harassed distress.

Mr. Janney, though much pacified, was not yet restored to his normal
poise. His wife was now the object of his secret attention, for he knew
her to be a very sharp and observant person, and the fear that she might
"catch on" haunted him. It was therefore very upsetting when she
remarked one morning at breakfast that "those men didn’t seem to be
doing much. They were just where they had been ten days ago."

He tried to reassure her—it would be a long slow affair—didn’t she
remember the James case, where a year after the theft the jewels were
found under the skin of a ham hanging in the cellar? Mrs. Janney was not
appeased, she scoffed at the ham, and said the detectives were the
stupidest body of men in the country outside Congress. She was going to
offer a reward, ten thousand dollars—and then she muttered something
about "taking a hand herself." In answer to Mr. Janney’s alarmed
questions she quieted down, laughed, and said she didn’t mean anything.

She did, however, and had Mr. Janney known it wakeful nights would again
have been his portion. But she had no intention of telling him. She had
seen that he was worn out, a mere bundle of nerves, and what she
intended to do would be done without his knowledge or connivance. This
was to start a private inquiry of her own. The written combination,
loose in an unlocked drawer, had influenced her; it was possible some
one in the house had found it. She felt that she owed it to her
dependents and herself to make sure. And the best way to do this was to
have a detective on the spot—but a detective whose profession would be
unknown. Fortunately the plan was workable; there was a vacancy in the
household staff. For the past month she had been advocating the
engagement of a nursery governess for Bébita.

Two days after her slip to Mr. Janney an opportunity came for broaching
the subject. They were at lunch when Suzanne announced that she intended
going to town the next morning. It was about Bébita—the child’s eyes,
which had troubled her in the spring, were again inflamed and she had
complained of pain in them. Suzanne wanted to consult the oculist; she
hoped a prescription would be sufficient, but of course if he insisted
on seeing the child she would have to be taken in for an examination.

Mrs. Janney thought it the right thing to do and said she would
accompany her daughter. Suzanne, who was eating her lunch, paused with
suspended fork and sidelong eye;—why was that necessary, she was
perfectly competent to attend to the matter. Mrs. Janney agreed and said
she was going on another errand—to see about the nursery governess they
had spoken of so often. It was time something was done, Bébita was
running wild, forgetting all she had learned last winter. Mrs. Janney
had heard of several women who might answer and would spend the day
looking them up and interviewing them. Suzanne returned to her food.
"Oh, very well, it might be a good thing, only please get some one young
and cheerful who didn’t put on airs and want to be a member of the
family."

One of Suzanne’s fads was a fear of the Pennsylvania Tunnel. Whether it
was a pose or genuine she absolutely refused to go through it, declaring
that on her one trip she had nearly died of fright and the pressure on
her ears. Since that alarming experience she always went to the city
either by the old Long Island Ferry route, or by motor across the
Queensborough Bridge.

It being a fine morning they decided to drive in—about an hour’s run—and
at ten they started forth. They chatted amicably, for Suzanne, since the
robbery and the knowledge that her debts were paid, had been unusually
gay and good-humored. They separated at Altman’s, Mrs. Janney keeping
the motor, Suzanne taking a taxi. At four they would meet at a tea room
and drive home together.

Mrs. Janney’s first point of call was a strange place in which to look
for a nursery governess. It was the office of Whitney & Whitney, her
lawyers, far downtown near Wall Street. She was at once conducted into
Mr. Whitney’s sanctum, for besides being an important client she was a
personal friend. He moved forward to meet her—a large, slightly stooped,
heavily built man with a shock of thick gray hair, and eyes, singularly
clear and piercing, overshadowed by bushy brows. His son, George, was
sent for, and after greetings, jolly and intimate, they settled down to
talk over Mrs. Janney’s business.

She told them the situation and her needs—could _they_ find the sort of
person she wanted. She knew they employed detectives of all sorts and
Kissam’s men had been so lacking in energy and so stupid that she wanted
no more of that kind. She had to have a woman of whose character they
were assured, and sufficiently presentable to pass muster with the
master and the servants. Mr. Whitney gave a look at his son and they
exchanged a smile.

"Go and see if you can get her on the wire, George," he said, "and if
she’s willing tell her to come down right now." Then as the young man
left the room he turned to Mrs. Janney. "I know the very person, the
best in New York, if she’ll undertake it."

"Some one who’s thoroughly reliable and can fit into the place?"

"My dear friend, she’s as reliable as you are and that’s saying a good
deal. As to fitting in, leave that to her. In her natural state there
are still some rough edges, but when she’s playing a part they don’t
show. She’s smart enough to hide them."

"Who is she—a detective?"

"Not a real one, not a professional. She was a telephone girl and then
she made a good marriage—fellow named Babbitts, star reporter on the
_Despatch_. She’s in love and happy and prosperous, but now and again
she’ll do work for us. It’s partly for old sakes’ sake and partly
because she has the passion of the artist—can’t resist if the call comes
to her. She came to our notice during the Hesketh case—did some of the
cleverest work I ever saw and got Reddy out of prison. The Reddys are
among her best friends—can’t do too much for her."

Mrs. Janney, who knew the beautiful Mrs. Reddy, was impressed.

"Do you think she’ll come?" she asked anxiously.

He gave her a meaning look and nodded;

"Yes. It’s an unusually interesting case."

Half an hour later Mrs. Janney met Molly Morgenthau Babbitts and laid
the situation before her. She found the much-vaunted young woman, a
pretty, slender girl, with crisply curly black hair, honest brown eyes,
and a pleasantly simple manner. Mrs. Janney liked what she said and
liked her. There was no doubt about her intelligence and as to rousing
any suspicions in the household—she would have deceived Mr. Janney—she
even would have deceived Dixon. As the case was outlined she could not
hide her kindling interest and, when she agreed to undertake the work,
Mrs. Janney felt that the nursery governess idea had been an
inspiration. The interview ended with practical details: Mrs. Babbitts
would make her reports to the Whitneys, who would figure as her
employers and would hand on her findings to Mrs. Janney. She would
arrive by the twelve-thirty train on the following day and be known at
Grasslands as Miss Rodgers. As they were separating she asked if there
was a branch telephone on the upper floor and, being told that there was
in an alcove off the main hall, requested that her room might be near it
as the telephone played an important part in her work.

Suzanne’s course had a curious resemblance to her mother’s, though her
plan of procedure was different.

From the day after the robbery she had developed an interest in the
telephone "Red Book." She had taken it to her room and turning to the
D’s studied the list of detective agencies. After much comparison and
cogitation she had copied down the name of one Horace Larkin, who
appeared to be in business by himself and whose office was in a central
and accessible part of the city.

After she had parted from her mother she went to a department store,
shut herself in a telephone booth, and called up Mr. Larkin. A masculine
voice, that of Larkin himself, had answered, and explaining her desire
to see him on important business, he had made an appointment to meet her
that afternoon at the Janney house on Fifth Avenue.

This was an excellent place for Suzanne’s purpose, closed for the
summer, its porch boarded up, its blue-blinded windows proclaiming its
desertion. An ancient caretaker occupied the basement with her niece,
Aggie McGee, to help and be company. Mrs. Janney never went there, but
now and then Suzanne did, generally on a quest for some needed garment,
so that her presence in the house was in no way remarkable.

The appointment was for two and, after telling Aggie McGee that a
gentleman would call and to show him into the reception room, she
retired to the long Louis Quinze salon and threw herself on a sofa. She
was a little scared at what she had planned but she did not let her
uneasiness interfere with her intention, for, her mind once set on a
goal, she was as determined as her mother. Stretched comfortably on the
sofa, her glance traveling over the covered walls, the chandelier, a
misshapen bulging whiteness below the frescoed ceiling, she carefully
thought out what she would say to Mr. Larkin.

A ring of the bell brought her to a sitting position, her hands pushing
in loosened hairpins. She waited listening, heard the opening and
closing of doors and then Aggie McGee’s head appeared between the
shrouded portières and announced, "The gentleman to see you, ma’am."

Her first impression of him was as a tall, broad-shouldered shape,
detailless against the light of the window. Then, as she sunk into a
chair, motioning him to one opposite, a nearer view showed him as a
fine-looking man, on to forty, with a fresh-colored, rounded face, its
expression smilingly good-humored. After the unkempt and slouchy
detectives she had seen at Grasslands his appearance, natty, smart,
almost that of a man of fashion, surprised and pleased her. She had an
instinctive distaste for all ungroomed and ill-dressed people and seeing
him so like the members of her own world, she felt a rising confidence
and reassurance. Also his manners were good, respectful, businesslike.
The one thing about him that suggested the wily sleuth were his eyes,
very light colored in his ruddy face, small, shrewd and piercing.

He came to the matter of the moment without any preamble. Yes, he knew
of the robbery and knew who she was; he supposed she had called him up
to consult him about the case.

"Of course, Mr. Larkin," she said, "that’s what I wanted. But before I
say anything it must be understood between us that this—er—sending for
you—is entirely my affair. I want to employ you myself independently of
the others."

He nodded, showing no surprise;

"You want to put your own detective on the case."

"Exactly. You’re to be employed by me but no one must know you are or
know what you’re doing."

He smothered a smile and said:

"I see."

"I don’t think the men that are working over it now are very clever or
interested. They just poke about and ask the same questions over and
over. The way they’re going I should say we’d never get anything back.
So I decided I’d start an inquiry of my own and in a direction no one
else had thought of."

Mr. Larkin gave a slight movement an almost imperceptible straightening
up of his body:

"Do you mean that you suspect some one?"

Suzanne looked at the arm of her chair and then smoothed its linen cover
with delicate finger tips. A very slight color deepened the artificial
rose of her cheek.

"I’m afraid I do," she murmured.

"Afraid?"

She nodded, closing her eyes with the movement. She had the appearance
of a person distressed but resolute.

"I can’t help suspecting some one that I don’t like to suspect. And
that’s why I want your assistance."

"I don’t quite understand, Mrs. Price."

"_This_ is the explanation. If it were known that this person was guilty
it would ruin and destroy them. My idea is to be sure that they did
it—have evidence—and then tell my mother. We could keep quiet about it,
get the jewels back and not have the thief disgraced and sent to jail."

"Oh, I see. You want to face the party with a knowledge of their guilt,
have them restore the jewels, and let the matter drop."

"Precisely. And I don’t want to say anything until I’m sure, can come
out with everything all clear and proved. That’s _where_ I expect you to
help, put things together, find out, work up the case."

"Who is the person?"

Her color burned to a deep flush; she leaned toward him, urgent, almost
pleading:

"Mr. Larkin, I hardly like to say it even to you, but I must. It’s my
mother’s secretary, Miss Maitland."

He looked stolidly unmoved:

"She lives in the house?"

"Yes, for over a year now. My mother thinks everything of her, wouldn’t
believe it unless it was proved past a doubt."

"What are your reasons for suspecting her?"

Suzanne was silent for a moment moving her glance from him to the
window. Mr. Larkin had a good chance to look at her and took it. He
noticed the feverish color, the line between the brows, the tightened
muscles under the thin cheeks. He made a mental note of the fact that
she was agitated.

"Well that night, the night of July the seventh," she said in a low
voice, "I was wakeful. I often am, I’ve always been a nervous, restless
sort of person. About half past one I thought I heard a noise—some one
on the stairs—and I got up and looked out of my door. I can see the head
of the stairs from there, and as it was very bright moonlight any one
coming up would be perfectly plain—I couldn’t make a mistake—what I saw
was Miss Maitland. She was going very carefully, tiptoeing along as if
she was trying to make no noise. At the top she turned and went down the
passage to her own room which is just beyond my mother’s."

She paused and shot a tentative look at him. He met it, teetered his
head in quiet comprehension and murmured:

"She didn’t see you?"

"Oh no, she was not looking that way. And I didn’t say anything or think
anything then—thought she’d gone downstairs for something she’d
forgotten. The next day it had passed out of my mind; it wasn’t until I
heard that the jewels were gone that it came back and then I was too
shocked to say a word. It all came upon me in a minute—I remembered how
I’d seen her and remembered that she knew the combination of the safe."

"Oh," said Mr. Larkin, "she knew that, did she?"

"Yes, she keeps her account books and money in there, things she uses in
her work. You see she’s been thoroughly trusted—never looked upon as
anything but perfectly honest and reliable."

"Then she’s filled her position to Mrs. Janney’s satisfaction?"

"Entirely. Of course we really don’t know very much about her. She was
highly recommended when she came, but people in her position if they do
their work well—one doesn’t bother much about them."

"Have you noticed anything in her conduct or manner of life lately that
could—er—have any connection with or throw any light on such an action?"

Suzanne pondered for a moment then said:

"No—she’s always been about the same. She’s gone into the city more this
summer than she did last year, on her holidays, I mean. And—oh yes, this
may be important—that night, when we came home from dinner, she asked my
mother if she could have the following day—Saturday—in town. Mrs. Janney
said she might and she went in before any of the family were up."

"Um," murmured Mr. Larkin and then fell into a silence in which he
appeared to be digesting this last item. When he spoke again it was to
propound a question that ruffled Suzanne’s composure and caused her blue
eyes to give out a sudden spark:

"Do you happen to know if she has any admirer—lover or fiancé or
anything of that sort?"

"I know nothing whatever about it, but I should say _not_. Certainly I
never heard of such a person. I never saw any man in the least attracted
by her and I should imagine she was a girl who had no charm for the
other sex."

Mr. Larkin stirred in a slow, large way and said:

"Such a robbery is a pretty big thing for a girl like that to attempt.
She must know—any one would—that jewels like Mrs. Janney’s are hard to
dispose of without detection."

Suzanne shrugged, her tone showing an edge of irritation:

"That may be the case, I suppose it is. But couldn’t she have been
employed by some one—aren’t there gangs who put people on the spot to
rob for them?"

"Certainly there are. And that would be the most plausible explanation.
Not necessarily a gang, however, an individual might be behind her. At
this stage, knowing what I do, that would be my idea. But, of course, I
can say nothing until I’m better informed. What I’ll do now will be to
look up her record and then I think I’ll take a run down to Berkeley and
see if I can pick up anything there."

Suzanne looked uneasy:

"But you’ll be careful, and not let any one guess what you’re doing or
that you have any business with me?"

He smiled openly at that:

"Mrs. Price, you can trust me. This is not my first case."

After that there was talk of financial arrangements and future plans.
Mr. Larkin thought he would come out to Berkeley in a day or two and
take a lodging in the village. When he had anything of moment to impart
he would drop a note to Mrs. Price and she could designate a rendezvous.
They parted amicably, Suzanne feeling that she had found the right man
and Mr. Larkin secretly elated, for this was the first case of real
magnitude that had come his way.

At the appointed time Suzanne met Mrs. Janney at the tea room and on the
way home they exchanged their news. The nursery governess had been
found, approved and engaged, and the oculist had said to go on with the
lotion and if Bébita’s eyes did not improve to bring her in to see him.
Both ladies agreed that their labors had exhausted them, but each looked
unusually vivacious and mettlesome.




CHAPTER VIII—MOLLY’S STORY


I’ve been asked to tell the part of this story in which I figure. I’ve
done that kind of work before, so I’m not as shy as I was that first
time, and since then I’ve studied some, and come up against fine people,
and I’m older—twenty-seven on my last birthday. But as I said then, so
I’ll say now—don’t expect any stylish writing from me. At the
switchboard there’s still ginger in me, but with the pen I’m one of the
"also rans."

Fortunately for me, I was always a good one to throw a bluff and, having
made a few excursions into the halls of the rich and great, I felt I
could be safely featured as a nursery governess. She belongs in the
layer between the top and bottom and doesn’t mix with either. I wouldn’t
have to play down to the kitchen standards or up to the parlor ones,
just move along, sort of lonesome, in the neutral ground between. As for
teaching the child, I knew I could do that as well as the girls who are
marking time until they marry, or the decayed ladies who employ their
declining years and intellects that way.

It didn’t seem to me hard to size up the family. Mrs. Janney was the
head of it, the middle and both ends—a real queen who didn’t need a
crown or a throne to make people bow the knee. Mr. Janney was a good,
kind old gentleman who was too law-abiding to get rich any way but the
way he did. Mrs. Price wasn’t up to their measure—an only child, born
with a silver lining. She was one of those slimpsy, thin women that a
man would be afraid to hug for fear she’d crack in his arms or snap in
the middle. She was very cordial and pleasant to me and I will say she
was fond of her little girl.

When I came to the servants I couldn’t see but what every one of them
registered honesty. If it had been printed on their foreheads with a
rubber stamp it couldn’t have been plainer. There were only two new ones
in the outfit—girls, one of them my chambermaid—and no one, not even a
sleuth desperate for glory, could have considered them. Outside there
were gardeners and chauffeurs—in all there were twenty-one people
employed—but it was the same with them. They were a decent, well-paid
lot, the garage men and head gardener living on the place, the laborers
lodged in the village.

The one person my eye lingered on was Miss Maitland the Secretary. Not
that there was anything suspicious about her, but that she wasn’t as
simple and easy to see into as the others. She was a handsome girl, tall
and well made, sticking close to her job and not having much to do with
any one. Her study was just under the day nursery where we had lessons
and had its own door on to the piazza. When she wasn’t at work, she’d
either sit there reading or go off walking by herself and there was
something solitary and serious about her that interested me. The nursery
window was a good look-out, commanding the lawns and garden and with the
tennis court to one side. After lessons I’d let the blinds down and coil
up there on a cushion, and I saw her several times coming in and going
out, always alone, and always looking thoughtful and depressed.

To get any information about her I had to be very careful for Mrs.
Janney thought the world of her, but I managed to worm out some facts,
though nothing of any importance. She had come to Mrs. Janney from a
friend who had had her as secretary for two years. She was entirely
dependent on her work for her living, was an orphan, and had no
followers. The only thing the least degree out of line was that several
times during the spring and the early summer she had asked for more days
and afternoons off than formerly. Mrs. Janney didn’t seem to think
anything of this and I didn’t either. The girl—settled down in her place
and knowing it secure—was slackening up on her first speed.

There were a lot of people coming and going in the house—oftenest, Mr.
Richard Ferguson. I’d heard of him—everybody has—millions, unmarried,
and so forth and so on. I hadn’t been there thirty-six hours before I
saw that Mrs. Price had an eye for him. That’s putting it in a
considerate, refined way. If I was the cat some women are, I’d say she
was camped on his trail, with her lassoo ready in her hand. Of course
she’d work it the way ladies do, very genteel, pretend to be lazy if he
wanted to play tennis and when he was off for a swim wonder if she had
the energy to walk to the beach. But she always got there; every time,
rain or shine, she’d be awake at the switch. I didn’t know whether he
responded—you couldn’t tell. He was the kind who was jolly and affable
to everybody; even if he was a plutocrat you had to like him.

I had a good deal of time to myself—lessons only lasted two hours—and I
roamed round the neighborhood studying it. The second afternoon I went
into the woods, where there’s a short-cut that goes past Council Oaks to
the beach. Off the path, branching to the right, I found two smaller
trails both leading to the same place—a pond, surrounded by trees, and
with a wharf, a rustic bench, and two bathing houses, where the trails
ended. In my room that evening I asked Ellen, my chambermaid, about the
pond and she told me it was called Little Fresh and that the bathing
houses and wharf had been built by the former owner of Grasslands. But
the first year of Mrs. Janney’s occupation a boy from the village had
been drowned there, since when Mrs. Janney had forbidden any one to go
near or bathe in Little Fresh. She had put up trespassing signs and
locked the bath houses, and no one ever went there now, because, anyway
if you didn’t go in and get drowned, folks said you might catch malaria.

A few days after that Bébita asked me to go into the woods with her and
look for lady-slippers; the kitchen maid had found two and Bébita had to
see if there weren’t any left for her. Everybody said it was too late
for them, but that didn’t faze Bébita who had the kitchen maid’s word
for it and was set upon going.

The woods were lovely, all green and shimmery with sunlight. We took the
trail I’ve spoken of, I strolling along the path, and Bébita hunting
about in the underbrush for the flowers. I was some little distance
ahead of her when I saw a figure moving behind the screen of trees
toward the right. I could only catch it in broken bits through the
leaves, hear the footsteps soft on the moss, and I didn’t know whether
it was a man or a woman. Then it came into view, out of the trail that
led to Little Fresh Pond, and I saw it was a man, who stopped short at
the sight of me.

He was good-looking, the dark kind, naturally brown, and sunburned on
top of it until he was as swarthy as an Indian, the little mustache on
his upper lip as black as if it was painted on with ink. Now I’m not one
that thinks men ought to be stunned by my beauty, but also I don’t
expect to be stared at as if the sight of me was an unpleasant shock.
And that’s the way that piratical guy acted, standing rooted, glaring
angry from under his eyebrows.

I was going to pass on haughty, when Bébita’s voice came from behind in
a joyful cry of "Popsy." She rushed by me, her arms spread out, and
fairly jumped at him. The ugly look went from his face as if you’d wiped
it off with a sponge, and the one that took its place made him another
man. He caught her up and held her against him, and she locked her feet
behind his waist and her hands behind his neck swinging off from him and
laughing out:

"Oh, Popsy, I was looking for lady-slippers and I found _you_."

"Well," he said, gazing at her like he couldn’t look enough, "would you
rather have found a lady-slipper?"

She hugged up against him, awful sweet and cunning.

"Oh, Popsy, that’s a joke. I like you better than all the lady-slippers
in the world. Where have you been?"

"Over on the bluff, calling on some people. I’m taking a short cut
through the woods."

"Where are you going now?"

"To Cedar Brook. My car’s out there on the road at the end of the path."

I knew Bébita had been told not to speak of her father. I’d heard it
from Annie and Mrs. Janney had cautioned me, if she asked any questions,
to say that he had gone away and was not coming back. Children are
queer, take in more than you think, and I believe the little thing felt
something of the tragedy of it. Anyway she said nothing more on that
subject, but loosing one hand, waved it at me.

"That’s my new governess, Miss Rogers. I’m studying lessons with her."

He looked at me, and having no free hand, just nodded. Though his
expression wasn’t as unfriendly as it had been, it didn’t suggest any
desire to know me better. He turned back to Bébita.

"Dearie, you’ll have to let go for I must jog along. I’ve a date to play
tennis at Cedar Brook and I’m late now."

He kissed her and she loosened her hold sliding through his arms to the
ground. Then with a few last words of good-by he swung off down the
path. Bébita looked after him till the trees hid him, gave a sigh, and
without a word pushed her little hand into mine and walked along beside
me. She seemed sobered for a while, then picked up heart, began to look
about her, and was soon back at her hunt for the flowers.

I was nearing the second path to Little Fresh, when again I saw a figure
coming behind the trees. This time it showed in a moving pattern of
lilac and the sight made me brisk up for I’d seen Miss Maitland that
morning in a lilac linen dress. I quickened my step until I came to a
turning from which I could look up the branch trail, and sure enough,
there she was, walking very lightly and spying out ahead. At the sight
of me she too stopped and looked annoyed. But women are a good deal
quicker than men—in a minute the look was gone and she was all smiles of
welcome.

"Oh, Miss Rogers, and Bébita too! How nice to meet you. Are you going to
the beach?"

Bébita explained our quest and said she was going to give it up—there
wasn’t a single lady-slipper left.

Miss Maitland’s smile was kind and consoling:

"I could have told you that. They’re gone for this year."

"Have _you_ been looking for them?" Bébita asked.

No, Miss Maitland had been to the beach for a bath, and as the closed
season for lady-slippers had begun, we turned back, Bébita and the
Secretary in front, I meekly following. In answer to the child’s
questions Miss Maitland said she had taken a long swim, out beyond the
raft.

Suddenly Bébita popped out with:

"Did you see my Daddy?"

There was a slight pause before she answered; when she did her voice was
full of surprise:

"Mr. Price! Was he on the beach?"

"No, in the woods. We met him. He was taking a short cut."

Miss Maitland said she hadn’t seen him, that he must have been some
distance in front of her, and changed the subject.

While they were talking I was thinking and absently looking at her back.
They’d both come out of the branch trails that led to Little Fresh; they
had taken different paths and not come at the same time; they had each
got a jar when they saw me. As I thought, my eyes went wandering over
her back and finally stopped at the nape of her neck. The hair was drawn
up from it and hidden under her hat. I could see the roots and the
little curly locks that drooped down against the white skin. And
suddenly I noticed something—they were perfectly dry, not a damp spot,
not a wet hair. The best bathing cap in the world couldn’t keep the
water out like that. She had not been bathing at all, she had been with
Chapman Price at Little Fresh Pond. And they wanted no one to know; were
sufficiently anxious to lie about it.

The next day in a conference with Mrs. Janney, I asked her if Mr. Price
had ever shown any interest in Miss Maitland. She was amazed, as shocked
as if I’d asked if Mr. Janney had ever been in love with the cook.
Chapman Price had taken no more notice of Miss Maitland than common
politeness demanded, in fact, she thought that of late he had rather
shunned her. She was curious to know why I asked such a question, and
when I said I had to ask any and every sort of question or she’d be
paying a detective’s salary to a nursery governess, she saw the sense of
it and quieted down.

That was more than I did. The way things were opening up, I was getting
that small, inner thrill, that feeling like your nerves are tingling
that comes to me when the darkness begins to break. I didn’t see much,
just the first, faint glimmer, but it was the right kind.

Two days later a thing happened that changed the glimmer to a wide
bright ray. It was this way:

In the afternoon the family, unless they had a party of their own, were
always out. The only person who stayed around was Miss Maitland,
sometimes working over her books, sometimes sitting about sewing or
reading. That day—about four—I’d seen her as I passed the study window
writing at her desk. I’d gone on into the big central hall where I
wasn’t supposed to belong, but feeling safe with everybody scattered, I
thought I’d make myself comfortable and take a look at the morning
papers. I’d just cuddled down in the corner of the sofa with my favorite
daily when I heard the telephone ring.

Now the bell of the telephone is to me like the trumpet to the old war
horse. And hearing it that way, tingling in the quiet of the big,
deserted house, I got a flash that any one wanting to talk to Miss
Maitland and knowing the habits of the family would choose that hour.
There was a ’phone in the lower story—in a closet at the end of the
hall—and the extension one was upstairs in a sort of curtained recess
off the main corridor just outside my door. I rose off the sofa as if
lifted by a charge of dynamite and slid for the stairs. As I sprinted up
I heard the door of Miss Maitland’s study open.

The upper hall was deserted and I dashed noiseless into that alcove
place, one hand lifting off the receiver as soft as a feather, the other
pressed against my mouth to smother the sound of my breathing. On the
floor below Esther Maitland had just connected; I got her first
sentence, quiet and clear as if she was in the room with me:

"Yes. This is Grasslands."

A man’s voice answered:

"That you, Esther?"

I could tell she recognized it, for instantly hers changed, showed fear
and a sort of pleading:

"Oh, why do you call me up here? I told you not to."

"My dear girl, it’s all right—I know they’re all out at this hour."

"The servants—I’m afraid of them—and there’s a new nursery governess
come."

"I know. I met her in the woods that day. Did you?"

"Of course I did. How could I help it? I said I’d been bathing. We
mustn’t go there again—it’s much better to write."

The man gave a laugh that was good-humored and easy:

"Don’t take it so hard. There’s not the slightest need to be worried. I
called you up to say everything was O. K."

Her answer came with a deep, sighing breath:

"It may be now—but how can we tell? The first excitement’s dying down
but that doesn’t mean they’re not doing anything. Don’t think for a
moment, because it’s worked right so far, that we’re out of the woods."

"I’m wise to all that, I know them better than you do. And the fellow
that knows has got it all over the fellow that doesn’t. Watchful
waiting—that’s our motto."

"Very well, then _let_ it be watchful. And don’t call me up unless it’s
urgent. I can see you in town when I go in. I won’t talk any more.
Good-by."

I heard the stillness of a dead wire and then before I let myself think,
flew into my room, found a pad and pencil and wrote it down word for
word.




CHAPTER IX—GOOD HUNTING IN BERKELEY


Two days after his interview with Suzanne, Mr. Larkin came to Berkeley
and took a room at the Berkeley Arms. He registered as Henry Childs, and
described himself to the clerk as a plumber, who, having had a
prosperous year, was looking for a bit of land upon which to build a
bungalow.

Berkeley was much too exclusive to permit a hotel within its exclusive
limits and the Berkeley Arms was allowed to exist in a small, subdued
way as a convenience. It was an unassuming, gray-shingled building,
withdrawn behind a lilac hedge, and too near the station to mar the
smart and shining elegance of the main street. In it dwelt the
shop-keepers who plied a temporary summer trade in the village, and the
chauffeurs of the less wealthy cottagers. Here the detective heard much
talk of the Janney robbery, and, after he had extended his field of
observation to the post-office lobby and Bennett’s drug store, Berkeley
had no secrets from him.

The public mind was still occupied with all that pertained to
Grasslands. He heard of the separation of the Prices, the scene _he_ had
made on leaving, and that _she_ hadn’t treated him right. Berkeley was
on Chapman’s side, said she wanted to get rid of him to marry Ferguson.
It was hoped that Ferguson—highly esteemed—wasn’t going to fall for it;
but you couldn’t tell, the best men made mistakes. Gossips, who
professed an intimacy with the Grasslands kitchens, hinted that Ferguson
was "taken with" the secretary. But Berkeley, fattened by prosperity to
a gross snobbishness, rejected the idea as vulgar and unfitting.

All this had its value for Mr. Larkin, but it was by accident that he
acquired the most illuminating piece of intelligence. Late one afternoon
he wandered forth into a road that threaded the woods near Grasslands.
The day being warm, the way dusty, he seated himself on a rock to cool
off and ponder. While there, concealed by the surrounding trees, he had
seen two small boys padding toward him down the road, their heads
together in animated debate. Unaware of his presence their voices were
loud and his listening ear caught interesting matter. They had been in
the forbidden area of Grasslands, had gone to Little Fresh for a bathe,
and had almost been caught in the act by a lady and gentleman.

Mr. Larkin made his presence known, and a dime passed into each grubby
palm won their confidence.

They were on the wharf slipping off their clothes when they heard
footsteps and had only time to rush to cover in the underbrush when Mr.
Chapman Price appeared. He waited round a bit and then Miss Maitland
came and they sat on the bench and talked. The boys had not been able to
hear what they said, but that it was serious they gathered from Mr.
Price’s manner and the fact that Miss Maitland had cried for a spell.
Mr. Price went away first, and as he was going he said loud, standing in
the path, "Take the upper trail and if you meet anybody say you’ve been
at the beach bathing." Then he’d gone and Miss Maitland had waited a
while, and then she’d gone too, by the upper trail, the way he’d said.

Mr. Larkin had been very sympathetic and friendly, swore he’d keep his
mouth shut, and cautioned the boys to do the same, for he’d heard that
Mrs. Janney wouldn’t stand for any one bathing in Little Fresh and you
couldn’t tell but what she might have them arrested.

The next day he had a meeting with Suzanne in a summer-house on the
Setons’ grounds, the Setons being in California for the season. He gave
his report of Miss Maitland’s career—entirely worthy and respectable—and
then asked the question Molly had asked Mrs. Janney: had Mr. Price ever
exhibited any special interest in the secretary? Mrs. Price’s surprise
and denial were as genuine and emphatic as her mother’s had been and Mr.
Larkin arrived at the same conclusion as Molly—here started the path
that led to the heart of the maze.

He did not say this to Mrs. Price. What he did say was that he would
leave Berkeley shortly and when he had anything of importance to tell
make an appointment with her by letter. It was not necessary to inform
her that his next move would be to Cedar Brook where he had heard that
Chapman Price spent a good deal of his time.

Cedar Brook, six miles above Berkeley on the main line, had none of the
prestige of its aristocratic neighbor. It was in the process of
development, new houses rising round its outskirts, fields being turned
into lawns. Mr. Larkin took a room in a clapboarded cottage which stared
at other clapboarded cottages through the foliage of locust trees.
Announcing his intention of buying a piece of land, he was soon an
object of general attention and added to his store of knowledge. He
heard a good deal of Chapman Price, who was there off and on with the
Hartleys, and of his man Willitts. It was understood that Willitts was
staying with Price till he got a job, and, as the Hartley house was
small, lodged in the village; in fact, Mr. Larkin learned to his
satisfaction, was living in one of the clapboarded cottages close to his
own.

Professing a desire to study the environs of Cedar Brook he hired a
wheel, and the third afternoon of his stay peddled out into the country.
It was while passing the private hedge of a large estate, that he came
upon a young man engaged over a disabled bicycle.

The day was warm, the salt air of the Sound shut out by forest and hill,
the road bathed in a hot glow of sun. The man had taken off his coat,
and, as Mr. Larkin drew near, looked up displaying a smooth-shaven, rosy
face, beaded with perspiration.

Mr. Larkin, being by nature and profession curious, drew up and made
friendly inquiries. The man answered them, explained the nature of the
damage, his speech marked by the crisp, clipped enunciation of the
Briton. His costume—negligée shirt, knickerbockers and golf
stockings—did not suggest the country house guest, nor was his accent
quite that of the English gentleman. The detective, who had some
knowledge of these delicate distinctions, laid his bicycle against the
bank and proffered his assistance. Together they repaired the stranger’s
wheel, and, when it was done, rested from their labors in the shade of
the hedge, and engaged in conversation. This at first was of the war—the
young man explaining that he was English and had volunteered at once,
but been rejected on the ground of his eyes—very near-sighted, couldn’t
read the chart at all—touching with an indicating finger the glasses
that spanned his nose. After that he’d come to America; he could make
good money then and had people dependent on him. At this stage Mr.
Larkin asked his profession and learned that he was a valet, by name
James Willitts, just now looking for a place. He _had_ been in the
employ of Mr. Chapman Price and was still staying with him until he got
a new "situation." Mr. Larkin in return recited his little lay about the
plumbing business and the bungalow, and, the introductions accomplished,
they passed to more general topics and soon reached the Janney robbery.

It was a propitious meeting for the detective, for Willitts proved
himself a free and expansive talker. He launched forth into the subject
with an artless zest, not needing any prompting from his attentive
listener. Mr. Larkin was grateful for it all, but especially so for an
account of the movements of Mr. Price the day before the robbery. He had
sent his valet to Cedar Brook on the morning train, he to follow later
in the afternoon. Willitts, after the unpacking and settling was done,
had biked over to Grasslands to see "the help," and then made the
engagement to meet them that night at the movies. Of course he had to go
back, as part of his work was to lay out Mr. Price’s dinner clothes and
help him dress, and it was most unfortunate, because, when he went up to
Mr. Price’s room, Mr. Price said he wouldn’t change, would keep on the
clothes he had and go motoring.

"Motoring," observed Mr. Larkin, mildly interested, "did he motor in the
evening?"

"Not usually—but I don’t know if you remember that night. After a heavy
rain it cleared and the moon came out as bright as day."

Mr. Larkin didn’t remember himself but he had a vague recollection of
having read it in some of the papers.

"It was a wonderful night, and if it hadn’t been I’d never have kept my
date. For I got side-tracked—had to fetch the doctor for my landlady’s
little girl who was taken bad with the croup. And what with that and the
long distance I’d have given it up if it hadn’t been for the moon."

The detective did not find these details particularly pertinent, and
edged nearer to vital matters:

"Pretty unpleasant position for those two men, Dixon and Isaac. I was in
Berkeley before I came here and there was a lot of talk."

The valet looked at him with sharp surprise:

"But no suspicion rests on _them_, I’ll be bound. I lived in that house
since last October and I’ll swear that there’s not an honester pair in
the whole country."

Mr. Larkin, as a stranger to the parties, had no need to display a
corresponding warmth, merely remarking that Berkeley was convinced of
their innocence.

The young man appeased, felt in his coat for a pipe and drew a tobacco
pouch from his pocket. As he filled the bowl, his profile was presented
to the detective’s vigilant eye, which dwelt thoughtfully on the neat
outline, almost handsome except that the chin receded slightly. A good
looking fellow, Mr. Larkin thought, and smart—somehow as the
conversation had progressed he was beginning to think him smarter than
he had at the start.

"How about that Miss Maitland," he said, "the young lady secretary?"

Willitts had the pipe in his mouth and was pressing the tobacco down
with his thumb. He spoke through closed teeth:

"What about her?"

"Well, what sort is she? You needn’t tell me she’s good looking, for I
saw her once in the post office and she’s a peach."

The valet leaned forward and felt in his coat pocket for matches. The
movement presented his face in full to Mr. Larkin’s glance, and the
detective noticed that its bright alertness had diminished, that a
slight film of stolidity had formed over it like ice over a running
stream. The man had removed his pipe and held it in one hand while he
scrabbled round in his coat with the other.

"She’s a very fine young lady; nothing but good’s ever been said of her
in _my_ hearing. And very competent in her work—they say—and she would
be, or Mrs. Janney wouldn’t keep her."

He found the matches and, sitting upright, lit one and applied it to the
pipe bowl. The detective, with his eyes ready to swerve to the
landscape, hazarded a shot at the bull’s-eye.

"They were saying—or more hinting I guess you’d call it—that Mr. Price
was—er—getting to look her way too often."

Willitts was very still. The watching eyes noticed that the flame of the
match burned steady over the pipe bowl; for a moment the valet’s breath
was held. Then, without moving, his voice peculiarly quiet, he said:

"Now I’d like to know who told you _that_?"

The other gave a lazy laugh:

"Oh, I can’t tell—every kind of rumor was flying about. They were ready
to say anything."

"Yes, that’s it. Say anything to get listened to and not care whose
character they were taking away."

"Then there’s nothing in it?"

"Tommyrot!" he snorted out the word with intense irritation. "The silly
fools! Mr. Price is no more in love with her than I am. He’s not that
kind; he’s an honorable gentleman. And, believe me, the wrong’s not all
on his side. It’s not for me to tell tales of the family, but I will say
that there’s not many men could have put up with what he did."

His face was flushed, he was openly exasperated. Mr. Larkin remembered
what he had heard of the man’s affection for the master, and his
thoughts formed into an unspoken sentence, "He knows something and won’t
tell."

"Well, well," he said cheerfully, "when a big thing happens there’s
bound to be all sorts of scandal and surmise. People work off their
excitement that way; you can’t muzzle ’em—"

Willitts grunted a scornful assent and rose. It was time to go; Mr.
Price would be coming up from town that night and he would be on duty.
The detective, lifting his bicycle from the grass, casually inquired if
Mr. Price motored from the city.

"Oh, dear no. He keeps his car here in Sommers’ garage—he needs it,
taking people about to see the country. He made a tidy bit of money here
last week."

"Talking of money," said the other, "did you know that ten thousand
dollars’ reward has been offered for those jewels?"

Willitts, astride his wheel, stretched a feeling foot for the pedal:

"Yes, I saw it in the papers."

"Easy money for somebody."

"Yes, but _is_ there somebody beside the thief—or thieves—who knows?
_That’s_ the question."

They pedaled back side by side talking amicably, mutually pleased to
find they were neighbors. On the outskirts of the village they parted
with promises for a speedy reunion, Willitts to go to the Hartleys, and
Mr. Larkin to Sommers’ garage to ask the price of a flivver for an
excursion beyond the reach of his bicycle.

When he arrived at the garage a large touring car, packed full of veiled
females, was drawn up at the entrance. The driver, with Sommers and his
assistant beside him, had opened the hood and the three of them were
peering into the inner depths with the anxious concentration of doctors
studying the anatomy of a patient. Mr. Larkin walked by them and went
into the garage. He cast a rapid look about him, over the lined-up
motors in the back, and then through the doorway into the small office.
The place was empty. With a stealthy glance at the party round the
touring car, he strolled in to where the time card rack hung on the
wall. He ran his eye down the list of names until he came to "Price" and
drew out the card. The second entry was dated July seventh and showed
that that night Price had taken out his car at eight-thirty and not
returned it until five minutes to two.




CHAPTER X—MOLLY’S STORY


As soon as I had the notes of that ’phone message down I wrote a report
for the Whitney office—just an outline—and posted it myself in the
village. The answer with instructions came the following evening. The
next time Miss Maitland went into town I was to come with her. In the
concourse of the Pennsylvania station I’d see O’Malley (the Whitneys’
detective) and it would be my business to point her out to him. He was
to follow her and I to come to the office and make my full report. Say
nothing of what I’d heard to Mrs. Janney.

That was Tuesday; Thursday was Miss Maitland’s holiday and right along
she’d been going into town. Wednesday afternoon I heard her say she’d go
in as usual on the eight forty-five, tipped off the office by ’phone,
and told Mrs. Janney I’d need that day to make a report to Mr. Whitney—a
business formality that had to be observed.

Miss Maitland and I went in together, looking very sociable on the
outside, and talking about the weather, the new style in skirts, how
flat Long Island was, and other such ladylike topics. Coming off the
train I stuck to her like a burr, was almost arm in arm going up the
stairs, and then in the concourse broke myself loose and faded away
toward the news stand. Right there, leaning against the magazine end,
I’d seen a large, fat, sloppy-looking man, with a tired panama hat back
from his forehead, and a masonic emblem on his watch chain.

O’Malley was a first class worker in his line, and his appearance was
worth rubies. He’d a small-town, corner-grocery look that would have
fooled any one unless they’d a scent for a sleuth like a dog for a bone.
As I edged up near him, reaching out for a magazine, he cast a cold,
disdainful glance at me like the rube that’s wise to the dangers of the
great city. I dragged a magazine out from behind his back and whispered,
"In the lavender dress and the white hat with the grapes round it." And
dreamy, as if his thoughts were back with mother on the farm, he heaved
himself up from the stand and took the trail.

The Chief—that’s my name for Mr. Whitney—and Mr. George were waiting for
me in the old man’s office. Gee, it was great to be there again, like
times in the past when we’d meet together and thrash out the last
findings. Of course the Chief had to have his joke, holding me by the
shoulders and cocking his head to one side as he looked into my face:

"My, my, Molly, but the country’s put a bloom on you! What a pity it is
you’re married or you might get one of those millionaires down there."

And I couldn’t help answering fresh—he just sort of dares you to it:

"I won’t say but what I might, Chief. But it’s poor sport. Seeing what
they’ve got to choose from it would be a shame to take the money."

Mr. George was impatient—he always gets bristly when things are
moving—and cut us off from our fooling when a sharp:

"Come on, Molly, sit down and let’s hear the whole of this."

So I took up the white man’s burden, told them all I’d seen and heard
and picked up, ending off with the full notes of the ’phone talk. Then I
laid the paper on the table and looked at them. The Chief was gazing
thoughtfully at the floor, and Mr. George’s face was puckered with a
frown like he’d eaten a persimmon.

"It’s the queerest thing I ever heard in my life," he said. "Chapman and
that girl! Why, it’s impossible. Are you sure the man on the ’phone
_was_ Chapman?"

"It must have been. He spoke of meeting me in the woods and Mr. Price is
the only man I ever met there."

The Chief looked up, glowering at me from under his big eyebrows:

"What’s your opinion of this Maitland woman?"

"Well, I don’t think there’s anything wrong about her—I mean I’d never
get that impression from her general make-up. But before I tapped that
message, I did get a hunch that she was sort of abstracted and shut away
in herself. She’d lonesome habits and she’d look downhearted when she
thought no one saw her. I’d size her up roughly as some one who wasn’t
easy in her mind."

"Have you ever heard anything of her having any sort of affair or
friendship with Price?"

"Not a hint of it. That’s what made me sit up and take notice. Under
everybody’s eye the way they were and yet not a soul suspecting
anything—you’re not as secret as that for nothing."

"While they were talking on the ’phone did you notice anything in their
voices—it certainly wasn’t in the words—that suggested tenderness or
love?"

"No, it was more as if they knew each other well. He sounded as if he
was trying to jolly her along, keep up her spirits; and she as if she
was scared, not at _him_ but at what he might do."

"They’d be careful," said Mr. George. "A man and a woman who were
involved in some dangerous scheme wouldn’t coo at each other over the
wire like two turtle doves."

"Love’s hard to hide," said the old man, "betrays itself in small ways.
And Molly’s got a fine, trained ear."

"Well, it caught no love there, Chief. The only person at Grasslands
who’s got that complaint is Mrs. Price. She’s in love with Mr.
Ferguson."

Mr. George was very much surprised.

"The deuce you say!—Old Dick fallen at last."

The Chief gave a sort of sarcastic grunt.

"Ferguson can take care of himself. He’s not as big a fool as he looks
or pretends to be. Now these extra holidays of Miss Maitland’s you’ve
spoken of—how long has that been going on?"

"Since April. Before that she never wanted time off and often spent her
Thursdays in the house. At Grasslands this summer she’s gone into town
every Thursday and three times asked for extra days. The last was July
the eighth, the day after the robbery."

"Umph!" muttered the old man. "I guess we’ll know something about that
when we hear from O’Malley."

Mr. George, slumped down in his chair, with his hands thrust in his
pockets, his chin pressed on his collar, said gloomily:

"I confess I’m dazed. It’s perfectly possible that Chapman, who didn’t
like his wife, should have fallen in love with the girl, it’s perfectly
natural that they should have kept it dark; but that he’s joined with
her in a plan to steal Mrs. Janney’s jewels!"—he shook his head staring
in front of him—"I can’t get the focus. Price wouldn’t qualify for a
Sunday school superintendent, but I can’t seem to see him as a gentleman
burglar."

"He was mad when he left," I said. "He made a sort of scene."

"What’s that?" growled the old man, looking up quick.

"He got angry and threatened them. I don’t know just in what way because
I’ve only caught it in bits and scraps. But Dixon heard him and told in
the village where I picked up an echo of it. He said they’d stolen his
child."

"Sounds like him—an ugly temper. Try and get exactly what he said if you
can."

We talked on a while, going back and forth over it like a lawn mower
over grass. Then a knock on the door stopped us; a boy put in his head
and announced:

"Mr. O’Malley’s outside and wants to see Mr. Whitney."

Mr. George and I squared round in our chairs with our eyes glued on the
doorway. The Chief, slouched down comfortable with his shirt-bosom
bulging, looked like a sleepy old bear, but from under the jut of his
eyebrows his glance shone as keen as a razor. O’Malley entered, hot and
red, his panama in his hand, and that air about him I’ve seen before—a
suppressed triumph gleaming out through the cracks.

"Well?" says Mr. George, curt and sharp.

O’Malley took a chair and mopped his forehead:

"There’s no mistake she’s got something up her sleeve. She took the
Seventh Avenue car and went downtown until she came to Jefferson Court
house, got out there, went a few blocks into the Greenwich Village
section and stopped at a house on a small sort of thoroughfare called
Gayle Street. I think she let herself in with a key, but I’m not sure.
The place is a shady-looking rookery, no porch or steps, door opening
right on the sidewalk, three windows to each floor, mansard roof. About
ten minutes after she went in, a man came down the street, walking
quick, hat low over his eyes—it was Mr. Chapman Price."

Mr. George stirred and gave a mutter. The old man, stretching his hand
to the cigar box at his elbow, took out a large fat cigar and said:

"Price, eh?—Go on."

"I thought the lady’d used a key, and I saw plain that he did. The door
opened and he went in. I crossed over and looked at the bells. There
were nine of them, all with names underneath except the top floor ones.
These, the last three of the line, had no names, showing the top floor
was vacant.

"There was a drug store right opposite and I went in, took a soda, and
asked the clerk about the locality—said I was looking for lodgings in
that section. I got him round to the house, where I heard I might get a
room cheap. He said maybe I could—being summer there’d be vacancies—that
the place was decent enough, but he’d heard pretty poor and mean. Just
as I got through talking to him and was leaving I saw the door across
the street open, and Mr. Price come out. He came quick, on the slant,
and was among the folks on the sidewalk before you could notice. It was
the way a man acts when he doesn’t want to be seen. He walked off toward
Seventh Avenue, his head down, keeping close to the houses. I didn’t
wait for Miss Maitland—thought I’d better come back here and report."

"Well!" said Mr. George. "I’m jiggered if I can make head or tail of
it."

The Chief took the cigar out of his mouth and addressed O’Malley:

"Find out Price’s movements on the night of July seventh, everything he
did, everywhere he went." He turned to me. "And you want to remember not
a hint of this gets to Mrs. Janney. She hates Price and when her blood’s
up she’s a red Indian. We don’t want the family drawn in until we know
something."




CHAPTER XI—FERGUSON’S IDEA


During these days Dick Ferguson thought a good deal and said very
little. Like the rest of his world he wondered over the unsolved mystery
of the Janney robbery, but his wonderings contained an element of
discomfort. He heard the subject discussed everywhere and often the name
of Esther Maitland came up in the discussions. Not that any one ever
suggested she might be involved;—it was more a sympathetic appreciation
of her position. Every one spoke very feelingly about it:—poor girl, so
uncomfortable for her, knowing the combination and all that sort of
thing—the Janneys had stood by her splendidly, but still it _was_
trying.

It tried _him_ a good deal, made inroads on his temper, until it lost
its sunny evenness and he was sometimes short and surly. The day after
Molly and Esther went to town he had been called to a conference in the
Fairfax house on the bluff. A gang of motor boat thieves had been
operating along the Sound, had already stolen two launches, and the
owners of water-front property had convened to decide on a course.
Ferguson, with a small fleet to his credit, had taken rather a high
hand, and shown an unwonted irritation at the indecision of his
associates. If they wanted their boats protected it was up to them to do
it, establish a shore police patrol financed by themselves. That was
what he intended to do and they could join with him or not as they
pleased. He left them, ruffled by his brusqueness and remarking grumpily
that "Ferguson was beginning to feel his money."

He went from the meeting to his own beach and on the way met Suzanne
returning with Bébita from the morning bath. They stopped for a chat in
the course of which Suzanne made a series of remarks not calculated to
soothe his perturbed spirit. They were apropos of Miss Maitland, who had
taken an early morning swim, all alone, refusing to wait and go in with
them. Suzanne said it was a pity Miss Maitland kept so much to
herself—the girl seemed depressed and out of spirits lately, didn’t he
think so? Quite different to what she had been earlier in the season,
seemed to be troubled about something. Too bad—every one liked her so
much, and people _did_ talk so. Then with an artless smile she went off
under her white parasol.

There was no smile on Ferguson’s face as he walked to his boat houses.
He told his men of the police patrol—to operate along the shore after
nightfall—gave a few gruff orders and disappeared into a bath house.
When he emerged, stripped for a swim, he stalked silently by them and
dove from the end of the wharf. They were surprised at his manner,
usually so genial, and wondered among themselves watching his head,
sleek as a wet seal’s, receding over the shining water.

The head was full of what Suzanne had said. Though he had offered no
agreement to her suggestions, he _had_ noticed the change in Esther. He
had noticed it soon after the robbery, in fact before that, for it had
dated from the evening when she dined at his house, the night the jewels
were taken. Disturbance grew in him as he thought:—if so shallow a
creature as Suzanne could see it, others could. And Suzanne had no
sense, no realization of the weight of words. She might go round
chattering like a fool and get the girl talked about. It would be the
decent thing to give Esther a hint, put her wise to the fact that she
ought to brighten up—not give any one a chance to say she was not as she
had been.

As his long, muscular body slid through the water he decided to go over
and have a talk with her. The decision cheered him, for to be with
Esther Maitland was the keenest pleasure he knew.

Suzanne had told him she and her mother would be out that afternoon, so
at three—the hour they were to leave—he set out for Grasslands by the
wood path. As he crossed the garden his questing glance met an
encouraging sight—Esther Maitland sitting under a group of maples at the
end of the terrace. She was alone, an empty chair beside her, her head
bowed over a book.

Her welcoming smile was very sweet; his eye noticed a faint color rise
in her cheeks as he came up. These signs were so agreeable that he would
like to have sat there, placidly enjoying her presence, but he was a
person who once possessed by an idea "had to get it out of his system."
This he proceeded to do, advancing on his subject with what he thought
was a crafty indirectness:

"You know, Miss Maitland, you’re not a credit to Long Island."

She raised her brows, deprecating, also amused:

"What have I done?"

"It’s what you haven’t done. We expect people to come here worn and
weary and then blossom like the rose. You’ve gone back on the
tradition."

She stretched a hand for a bundle of knitting—a soldier’s muffler—on the
table beside her:

"I don’t feel worn or weary and I’m sorry I look so."

"Oh, you always _look_ lovely," he hastily assured her. "I didn’t mean
that it wasn’t becoming. But—er—er—what I wanted to say was—er—why is
it?"

Miss Maitland began to knit, her face bent over the work, her dark head
backed by the green distances of the lawn. Ferguson thought she had the
most beautifully shaped head he had ever seen. He would like to have
leaned back in his chair studying its classic outline. But he was there
for a purpose and he held himself sternly to it, looking at her profile
and trying to forget that it was as fine as her head.

"I don’t know why it is," she answered, "but I do know that you’re not
very complimentary."

"If you give me a dare like that I’ll show you how complimentary I _can_
be. But I’ll put that off until later. What I think is that you’re
worrying—that the robbery has got on your nerves."

"Why should it get on my nerves?"

He was aware of her eyes—diverted from the knitting—looking curiously at
him:

"Why, it’s been so—so—unpleasant, all this fuss and publicity. It’s been
a shock."

Her hands with the knitting dropped into her lap. She was now staring
fixedly at him:

"Do you mean that I’m worrying because I think I may be suspected of
it?"

He was shocked to angry repudiation.

"Good Lord, no! What a thing to say!"

She took up her work, and answered with cool composure:

"Nevertheless I _have_ wondered if anybody ever thought it. You see I’m
the only one in the house—the only one who knows the combination—who
_is_ a sort of stranger. Dixon and Isaac are like members of the
family."

"Don’t talk such rubbish," he protested, then leaning nearer, "Have you
had _that_ on your mind all this time? Is _that_ what’s made the
change?"

She looked up at him, startled:

"Change—what change?"

"Change in you. Yes," in answer to the disturbed inquiry of her glance,
"there is one. I’ve noticed it; other people have."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, you’re different, you’ve lost your good spirits. You’re not like
you were before this happened."

Her response came with something combative in its countering quickness:

"I’m busier than I used to be. Since the robbery I’ve taken over a good
deal of the housekeeping. Mrs. Janney has been much more upset than you
guess."

"And you’re so withdrawn, keep more to yourself. I used to find you
about when I came over; now I almost never see you."

The interview had taken on the character of a verbal duel, he thrusting,
she parrying, both earnest and insistent.

"I’ve just told you; I have more work, I’ve not the leisure I used to
have."

"So busy you have to shun people?"

"That’s absurd, you imagine it. I’ve never shunned any one and there’s
no reason why I should."

"I agree with you but let me ask one more question. You say your work is
harder and you _do_ look tired and worn out. Why don’t you take a decent
rest on your holidays? Last year you spent them here, out of doors,
loafing about. Now you go to town. I’ve been over twice on Thursdays and
when I ask for you, always hear you’re in the city. And you’ve been at
other times too—Mrs. Janney told me so. It’s the most fatiguing thing
you can do in this hot weather. Why do you go?"

He saw her color suddenly deepen. She had let the knitting drop to her
lap and now she took it up again and began to work, very fast, the
needles flashing in her white hands. She smiled as she answered:

"You seem to have kept rather a sharp look-out on me, Mr. Ferguson. Did
it never occur to you that a woman _might_ need clothes, or might want
to see a friend who happened to be staying in town for the summer?"

The young man had been admiring the white hands. As she spoke something
in their movements caught and held his eye—they were trembling. He was
so surprised that he made no answer, his glance riveted on them trying
to hold the needles steady to their task. Miss Maitland made an effort
to go on, then dropped the knitting in a bunch on her knees and clasped
the hands over it. Neither speaking, their eyes met. The expression of
hers, furtively apprehensive like a scared child’s pierced his heart and
he leaned toward her, his sunburned face full of concern:

"Miss Maitland, what’s wrong? Something is—tell me."

Without answering she shook her head, her lips tightly compressed. He
could see that she was shaken, that the clasped hands on her knee were
clenched together to control their trembling. He could see that, for a
moment, taken unawares, she did not trust herself to speak.

"Look here," he said, low and urgent, "be frank with me. I’ve seen for
some time something was troubling you—I told you so that night at my
place. Why not let me lend a hand? That’s what I want to do—that’s what
I’m _for_."

She had found her voice and it came with a high, light hardness, in
curious contrast to the feeling in his:

"You’re all wrong, Mr. Ferguson. You’re seeing what doesn’t exist." She
started to her feet, making a grab at her knitting as it slid toward the
ground. "Oh, my needle! I almost pulled it out. That _would_ have been a
calamity." She carefully pushed the stitches on to the needle as if her
whole interest lay in preserving the woven fabric. "There I’ve picked
them up, not lost one." Then she looked at them, smiling, her expression
showing a veiled defiance, "You ought to have been a novelist—your
imagination’s wasted. Here you are seeing me as a distressed damsel,
while I’m only a perfectly normal, perfectly common-place person.
Romantic fiction would have been your line."

She gave a laugh that brought the blood to the young man’s face, for its
musical ripple contained a note of derision:

"But for my sake please curb your fancy. Don’t suggest to my employers
that I’m weighted down by a secret sorrow. They mightn’t like a blighted
being for a secretary and I might lose my job, and then I really _would_
be worried."

He stood it unflinching, only the dark flush betraying his
mortification. He assured her of his reticence and ended by asking her
pardon. She granted it, even thanked him for his concern in her behalf
and with a smile that was still mocking, said she had notes to write,
gathered up her work, and bade him good-by.

Dick Ferguson walked back through the woods to Council Oaks. When the
first discomfort of the rebuff had passed he pondered deeply. He was
sure now beyond the peradventure of a doubt that Esther Maitland was in
trouble of some kind, and was ready to use all the weapons at her
command to keep him from finding it out.

Two nights after that he dined at Grasslands. It was just a family
party, and, being such, Miss Maitland was present. She met him with the
subdued quietness that he was beginning to recognize as her "social
secretary manner"—the manner of the lady employee, politely colorless
and self-effacing.

In the dining room, with its clustered lights along the walls, where
long windows framed the deep blue night, they looked a gay and goodly
party. To the unenlightened observer they might have stood for a typical
group of the care-free rich, waited on by obsequious menials, feeding
sumptuously in sumptuous surroundings. Yet each one of them was preyed
upon by secret anxieties.

When the ladies withdrew Mr. Janney and Ferguson sat on smoking and
sipping their coffee. If every member of the party had his hidden
distress, Mr. Janney’s was by no means the least. His problem was still
unsolved, still menacing. Kissam’s suggestion and his own fond hope,
that the jewels would be restored had not been realized, and he was
contemplating the day when he would have to face Suzanne with his
knowledge. Damocles beneath the suspended sword was not more
uncomfortable than he. Any allusion to the robbery made his heart sink,
and, as the allusions were frequent, conversation had become a thing
harkened to with held breath and sick anticipation.

Alone with Ferguson he was experiencing the usual qualms, but the young
man, instead of the customary questions, asked him his opinion of
Willitts, Chapman’s valet, whom he thought of engaging. Mr. Janney
brightened up, told Dixon to bring some of his own especial cigars, and
relapsed into tranquillity. He could recommend Willitts highly, smart,
capable and honest, but he thought he’d heard Dick say he couldn’t stand
a valet fussing about him. Dick had said it and was still of the same
mind, but most of his guests were men and he needed some one to look
after their clothes. They made a lot of bother, the servants had kicked,
and he’d thought of Willitts.

Mr. Janney could give no information as to Willitts’ whereabouts, but
Dixon, entering with the cigar box and lamp, could. Willitts was at
Cedar Brook where Mr. Price spent a good deal of time; he was still
disengaged and looking for a position, if Mr. Ferguson would like Dixon
would get word to him. Mr. Ferguson would like, and, the box presented
at his elbow, he took out a cigar and held its tip to the lamp. Mr.
Janney forgot Willitts and drew his guest’s attention to the cigar, a
special brand of rare excellence.

"We keep them in the safe," said the old man. "Only place that’s secure
against the damp. It was Chapman’s idea—the one thing in my acquaintance
with Chapman I’m grateful for."

It was an unfortunate remark, for Ferguson, leaning back in his chair
with the cigar between his lips, murmured dreamily:

"The safe—do you know I’ve been thinking over things lately. I can’t
understand one point. Why didn’t the thief take those jewels when the
house was virtually empty instead of waiting until it was full?"

Mr. Janney’s heart took a dizzying, downward dive. He had been looking
forward to his smoke, now all his zest departed, his old, veined hand
shaking as it felt in the box.

Ferguson went on:

"The fellow may have come in early and hidden himself—not got down to
business until every one was asleep."

Mr. Janney emitted an agreeing murmur and motioned Dixon to hold the
lamp nearer. As he bent toward it the young man was silent and Mr.
Janney began to hope that the obnoxious subject was abandoned. He sent a
side glance at his guest and the hope was strengthened. Ferguson had
taken his cigar from his lips and was looking at the paper band that
encircled it. He was looking at it so intently that Mr. Janney felt sure
his interest was diverted and sought to drive it into safer channels.

"Pretty fine cigar, eh?" he said. "This is the first of a new lot, just
come."

Ferguson drew the band off and laid it beside his plate:

"Excellent. That’s a good idea—keeping them in the safe. Do you always
do it?"

"Yes, it’s the only thing—much better than a humidor."

"I haven’t got a safe or I’d try it. Did you have any there the night of
the robbery?"

Mr. Janney felt that the gods had sought him out for a special vengeance
and murmured drearily:

"I believe so—a few. Dixon knows."

Dixon who was on his way to the door turned:

"Yes, sir, only one box, the last we had."

Ferguson laughed:

"If the thief had had time to try one he’d have taken the box along
too."

Dixon, who treated all allusions to the subject with a tragical
seriousness, said:

"I don’t think he touched them, sir. The box looked just the same. Mr.
Kissam was very particular to ask about it, but I told him I thought
they was intact, as you might say. Though if it was the loss of one or
two I couldn’t be certain."

Dixon left the room and Mr. Janney looked dismally at his plate, having
no spirit to fight against fate. Ferguson, with a glance at his
down-drooped face, picked up the band and slipped it in his pocket.

He did not stay long after dinner. As soon as his car came he left,
telling the chauffeur to hurry. At home he ran up the stairs to his
room, switched on the light over the bureau and opened the box with the
crystal lid. Under the studs and pins lay the band Esther had found the
night he walked with her through the woods. He compared it with the one
he took from his pocket and saw that they matched. The new one he threw
into the fireplace, but put the other back in the box—it was something
more than a souvenir. Then he sat down on the end of the sofa and
thought.

Mr. Janney could not have dropped it for he had driven both to and from
Council Oaks. Neither Dixon nor Isaac could have, for they had gone to
the village by the main road and come back the same way at midnight. He
had found it at half-past ten, untouched by the heavy shower, which had
lasted from about seven till half-past eight. Therefore, whoever had
thrown it there had passed that way between the time when the rain
stopped and the time when Esther had found it. It had been dropped
either by a man who had one of the cigars in his possession and had been
on the wood path between eight-thirty and ten-thirty, or by a man who
had taken a cigar from the safe between those hours.

Ferguson sat staring at the wall with his brows knit. If it had not been
for the light his own gardener had seen he would have felt that he had
struck the right road.




CHAPTER XII—THE MAN WHO WOULDN’T TELL


Mr. Larkin had lingered on at Cedar Brook. He said that he needed a
holiday, the prosperity of the last year had worn him out, also the
bungalow sites were many and a decision difficult.

He saw a good deal of Willitts; they had become very friendly, almost
chums. Their lodgings were but a few yards apart and of evenings they
smoked neighborly pipes on the porch steps, and of afternoons took walks
into the country. During these hours their talk ranged over many
subjects, the valet proving himself a brightly loquacious companion. But
upon a subject that Mr. Larkin introduced with delicate artfulness—Price
and Esther Maitland—he maintained the evasive reticence that had marked
him at their first meeting. For all the walks and talks Mr. Larkin
learned no more, and as his curiosity remained unsatisfied his
inclination for Willitts’ society increased.

It was a few days after that first meeting that, strolling down Main
Street toward Sommers’ garage, the detective stopped short, staring at
two figures emerging from the garage entrance. One was Sommers, the
other a fat, red-faced man with a sunburned Panama on the back of his
head. A glance at this man and Mr. Larkin turned on his heel and made
down a side lane at a swinging gait. Safe out of range behind a lilac
hedge, he slowed up, lifted his hat from a perspiring brow and swore to
himself, low and fiercely. He had recognized Gus O’Malley, private
detective of Whitney & Whitney, and he knew that Whitney & Whitney were
Mrs. Janney’s lawyers. Another investigation was on foot, evidently
following on the lines of his own.

After two days O’Malley left by the evening train and Mr. Larkin emerged
from a temporary retirement, and sought coolness and solitude on the
front porch. Here, when night had fallen, Willitts joined him taking a
seat on the top step.

The house behind them was empty of all other tenants, its open front
door letting a long gush of light down the steps and across the pebbled
path to the gate. It was a warm night, heavy and breathless, and Mr.
Larkin, in his shirt sleeves, lolled comfortably, his chair tilted back,
his feet on the railing. The place where he sat was shaded with vines,
and he was discernible as a long, out-stretched bulk, detailless in the
shadow.

Willitts had good news to impart; that afternoon he had been to Council
Oaks to see Mr. Ferguson who had engaged him as valet. It was an A1
place, the pay high, the duties light, Mr. Ferguson known to be generous
and easy tempered. Congratulations were in order from Mr. Larkin, and if
they lacked in warmth Willitts did not appear to notice it.

A pause fell, and his next remark caused the detective to deflect his
gaze from the darkling street to the head of the steps:

"Did you notice a chap about here yesterday—a fat, untidy looking man in
a Panama hat and a brown sack suit?"

Mr. Larkin had and wanted to know where Willitts had seen him.

"In Sommers’ garage. He was hiring a motor, wanted to see the
country—and Sommers telling him I knew it well, asked me to go with
him."

"Did you go?"

"I did; I had nothing else to do. We went a long way, through Berkeley
and beyond. He’s what you’d call here ’some talker’ and curious—I’d say
very curious if you asked me."

"Curious about what?"

"Everything in the neighborhood, but especially the robbery."

"Did he have any theories about it?"

"None that I hadn’t heard before."

The detective laughed:

"That accounts for the drive—hoped he’d get some racy gossip about the
family out of you."

"Maybe that _was_ his idea."

"Of course it was. I’ll bet he pumped you about Price."

"I don’t know that I’d call it pumping—he did ask some questions."

Willitts was sitting with his elbows on his knees, his hands supporting
his chin. The light from the open door behind him lay over his back,
gilded the top of his smooth head and slanted across his cheek. He was
not smoking and he was very still, facts noted by Mr. Larkin.

The detective stretched, yawned with a sleepy sound and said:

"So it’s still a subject of popular curiosity, is it?"

"Yes, _it_ is, but why should Mr. Price be?"

The valet’s voice was low and quiet, holding a quality hard to define;
the listener decided it was less uneasiness than resentment. After a
moment’s silence he spoke again, very softly, as if the words were
self-communings:

"I’d like to know who the feller is."

Mr. Larkin’s feet came down from the rail striking the floor with a
thud. He sat up and looked at his friend:

"I can tell you. He’s a detective, Gus O’Malley, employed by Whitney &
Whitney."

Willitts’ hands dropped and he squared round:

"A detective! _That’s_ it, is it? _That_ accounts for the milk in the
cocoanut. I might have guessed it. And what’s he after me for?"

"You lived at Grasslands. Something might be dug out of you."

"But tell me, why should he be curious about Mr. Price?"

He had dropped one hand on the flooring and supported by it leaned
forward toward his companion. The boyish good humor had gone from his
face; it looked sharp-set and pugnacious.

The other shrugged:

"Ask _him_. All I can tell you is that Whitney & Whitney are Mrs.
Janney’s lawyers."

Willitts pondered, and while he pondered his eyes stared past the
shadowy shape that was Mr. Larkin into the vine-draped blackness of the
porch. Then he said:

"Mrs. Janney’s down on Mr. Price. She’s all for her daughter. I think
she ’ates ’im."

The two h’s dropped off with a simple unconsciousness that surprised Mr.
Larkin. Never before in his intercourse with Willitts had he heard the
letter so much as slighted. He made a mental note of it and said dryly:

"So I’ve heard."

The man again relapsed into thought, his glance riveted on the darkness,
his expression obviously perturbed. Suddenly he looked at the vague bulk
of Mr. Larkin and said sharply:

"’Ow do _you_ know so much about ’im?"

Mr. Larkin’s answer came out of the shadow with businesslike promptness:

"Because I’m a detective myself."

For a moment the valet’s face seemed to set, lose its flesh and blood
mobility and harden into something stony, its lines fixed, vitality
suspended,—a vacuous, staring mask. Then life came back to it, broke its
iciness, and flooded it with a frank, almost ludicrous astonishment.

"You—you!" he stammered out, "and me never so much as thinking it! Would
any one, I’m asking you? Would—" he stopped, his amazement gone, a
sudden belligerent fierceness taking its place, "And are you after Mr.
Price too?"

Mr. Larkin laughed:

"I’m after no one at this stage. I’m only assembling data. If O’Malley’s
got to the point of finding a suspect he’s far ahead of me."

Willitts’ excitement instantly subsided; his answer showed a hurried
urgence:

"No, no—he didn’t say anything one could take ’old of—only a few
questions. And it’s maybe all in my feelings. I couldn’t bear a person
to think evil of Mr. Price. It ’urts me; I’d be sensitive; I might see
it if it wasn’t there."

"If you got that impression I guess it _was_ there."

This remark, delivered with a sardonic dryness, appeared to rekindle
Willitts’ anger. It flared up like the leap of a flame:

"Then to ’ell with ’im. If they’re working up any dirty suspicions
against my gentleman they’ve come to the wrong man. I’ve got nothing to
say; there’s no information to be wormed out of _me_ for I ’ave none.
Umph—lies, trickery—that’s what _I_ call it!"

He dropped back into his former position, his angry breathings loud on
the silence, mutterings of rage breaking through them.

"Well," said Mr. Larkin, "now I’ve put you wise you can form your own
conclusion as to what’s in their minds."

"Is it in yours, too?"

The question came quick, shot out between the deep-drawn breaths. Mr.
Larkin was ready for it:

"I told you I hadn’t got as far as that; I’m just feeling my way. But
let me say something to you." He rose and, going to the steps, sat down
beside Willitts, dropping his voice to a confidential key. "I’ll be
frank with you—I’ll show you how I stand. I didn’t intend to tell you
what I was, but this fellow coming up here has forced my hand. He knows
me, he’ll be after you again, and you’d have found it out. Now, here’s
my position: I want to get this case; it’s my first big one and it’ll
make me every way—professionally and financially."

He looked at the man beside him who, gazing into the street, nodded
without speaking.

"There’s ten thousand dollars offered for the restoration of the jewels.
If I could get them I’d share that money with the person
who—who—er—helped."

Willitts repeated his silent nod.

"And even if I didn’t get them I’d pay and pay well for any information
that would be useful."

"I see," said the other, "’oever ’elps along in the good work gets ’is
reward."

Mr. Larkin did not like the words or the tone, but went on, his
confidential manner growing persuasive:

"I’m engaged on the side of law and order. All I’m trying to do is to
restore stolen property to its owner. Any one that helps me is only
doing his duty."

"A duty that gets its dues, as you might say."

"Exactly. The money made by such services is earned honestly and there’s
plenty of it to earn."

"Righto! When the Janneys want a thing they’ll open the purse wide and
generous."

"And here’s a point worth noticing: What I’m hired for is to get the
jewels, not the thief. The party behind me isn’t out for vengeance or
prosecution. If I could deliver the goods it would be all right and no
questions asked. But the Whitneys wouldn’t stop there—they’re
bloodhounds when it comes to the chase. If they got anything on Price
they’d come down on him good and hard and Mrs. Janney’d stand in with
them."

He was looking with anxious intentness at Willitts’ profile. As he
finished it turned slowly, until the face was offered in full to his
watchful scrutiny. It was forbidding, the eyes sweeping him with a cold
contempt:

"I can’t ’elp understanding you, Larkin, and I’m sorry to ’ear you got
your suspicions of my gentleman and of _me_. The first is too low to
take notice of; the second is as bad, but I’ll answer it to put us both
straight. I’m not the kind you take me for; I’m not to be bought. Even
if I did know anything that would be ’useful’ as you say, wild ’orses
wouldn’t drag it out of me. And no more will filthy lucre. Filthy—it’s
the right name for it, you couldn’t get a better." He rose, not so much
angry as hurt and haughty. "I can’t find it in me to sit ’ere any
longer. I could talk of insults, but I won’t. All I’ll say is that I’ve
'ad a bit too much, and not wanting to ’ear more I’ll bid you
good-night."

Before the detective could find words to answer he had gone down the
path and vanished in the darkness.




CHAPTER XIII—MOLLY’S STORY


One of the chief features of detective work is that you must be able to
change your mind. That may not sound hard—especially when the owner of
the mind happens to be a female—but believe me it’s some stunt. You get
pointed one way, and to have to shift and face round in another is candy
for a weather vane but bread for a sleuth.

Well, that’s what happened to me. In the week that followed my visit to
the Whitneys I had to start out fresh on a new line of thought. I’d left
the office pretty certain, as the others were, that the bond between
Esther Maitland and Chapman Price was love, and before those seven days
were gone I’d thrown that theory into the discard, rolled up my sleeves,
taken a cinch in my belt, and set forth to blaze a new trail.

I came round to it slow at first and I came round through Mr. Ferguson.
It was fine weather and when Bébita would go off with Annie, I’d curl up
in my conning tower in the school room window and take observations. As
I said before, it was a convenient place, just over Miss Maitland’s
study, deserted all afternoon, and with the Venetian blinds down against
the sun, I could sit comfortable on my cushion and spy out between the
slats.

The first thing that caught my attention was that Mr. Ferguson, who’d
come over pretty nearly every day, wouldn’t make straight for the front
piazza which was the natural way to get there. Instead he’d take a
slanting course across the garden, come up some steps to the terrace,
and then walk slow past the study door. Sometimes he’d see Miss Maitland
and stop for a chat, and sometimes she wouldn’t be there and he’d go by.
But each and every time, thinking no one was watching, he’d let a look
come on his face that’s common to the whole male sex when the one
particular star is expected above the horizon. I guess the cave man got
it when, club in hand, he was chasing the cave girl and Solomon with his
six hundred wives must have had it stamped on his features so it came to
be his habitual expression.

Though it was registered good and plain on Mr. Ferguson’s countenance, I
couldn’t at first believe it. It was too like a novel, too like
Cinderella and the Prince. Then, seeing it so frequent, I was convinced.
I’d say to myself "Why not—a girl’s a girl if she is a plutocrat’s
social secretary, and all men are free and equal when it comes to
disposing of their young affections." The romance of it got me, gripped
at my heart. I’d sit with my eye to the crack in the blinds staring down
at him as he’d send that look out for her—that wonderful look, that look
which gives you chills and fever, blind staggers and heart failure and
you’d rather have than a blank check drawn to your order and signed by
John Rockefeller. Oh, gee—I was a girl once myself—don’t I know! I’d
have been interested if it was just an ordinary love story, but it
wasn’t. It was a love story with a mystery for good measure; it was a
love story that had Mrs. Price thrown in to complicate the plot; it was
a love story that was all tangled up with other elements; and it was a
love story that I only could see one side of.

For I couldn’t get at her feelings at all. This was mostly because I
hardly ever saw her with him. If she did happen to be there when he
passed, she’d be either in her room or under the balcony roof and I
couldn’t see how she acted or hear what she said. Also she had such a
hold on herself, had such a calm, reserved way with her, that you’d have
to be a clairvoyant to get under her guard.

Any woman would have been thrilled but _me_, knowing what I did—can’t
you see my thoughts going round in wheels and whirligigs? If she
reciprocated—and there’s few that wouldn’t or I don’t know my own
sex—what was she doing with Price? Was she a siren playing the two of
them? Was she Mrs. Price’s secret rival with both men? Was she the kind
of vampire heroine they have in plays who can break up a burglar-proof
home with one hand tied behind her? You wouldn’t think it to look at
her—but the more I hit the high spots of society the more I feel you
can’t tell people by the ordinary trade-marks.

Then one afternoon toward the end of the week I saw a little scene right
under my window that lightened up the darkness. It gave me what I call
facts; what the Whitneys, anyway Mr. George—but that belongs farther on.

Mr. Ferguson came out of the wood path, across the garden and on his
usual beat, up the terrace steps. He had a spray of lemon verbena in his
hand and as he walked over the grass with his long, light stride, he
kept his eyes on the balcony keen and expectant, his face all eager and
serious. Suddenly it changed, brightened, softened, glowed like the
sunlight had fallen on it—you didn’t need to be a detective to know
she’d come out of the study.

This time she came down the steps and went toward him. They met under my
window and stood there, he facing me, brushing his lips with the spray
of lemon verbena and looking down at her, a lover if ever I saw one. He
asked her what she was doing that afternoon, and she said going for a
walk, and when he wanted to know where, she said through the woods to
the beach. "A solitary walk?" he asked and she said yes, her walks were
always solitary.

"By preference?"

She turned half away from him and I could see her profile. I’d hardly
have known it for Miss Maitland’s, soft, shy, the cheek pink. Her eyes
were on the toe of her shoe, white against the green grass, and with her
head drooping she was like a girl, bashful and blushing before her beau.

"It generally is by preference," she said.

"Would it exclude me," he asked, "if I tried to butt in?"

She didn’t answer for a moment, then said very low:

"Not if you really wanted to come—didn’t do it just to be kind to a
lonesome lady."

"Lonesome lady be hanged," he exclaimed as joyful as if she’d given him
a kiss, "it’s just the other way round—kindness to a lonesome gentleman.
I’m terribly lonesome this afternoon."

But he wasn’t going to be long—far from it. Round the corner of the
house, walking soft as a cat, came Mrs. Price. She made me think of a
cat every way, stepping so stealthy, her body so slim and lithe, a
small, secret smile on her face as if she’d come on two nice little
helpless mice. She was all in white, shining and spotless, a tennis
racket in one hand, a bunch of letters in the other. They didn’t see her
and she got quite close, then said, sweet and smooth as treacle:

"Good afternoon, Dick."

They weren’t doing anything but planning a walk, but they both started
like it had been a murder.

"Oh," says Mr. Ferguson, looking blankly disconcerted, "oh, Suzanne, I
didn’t see you. How do you do—good afternoon."

She came to a halt and stood softly swinging her racket, looking at him
with that mean, cold smile.

"I was in my room and saw you so I came down at once. It’s a splendid
afternoon for our game, not a breath of wind."

I saw, and she saw, and I guess any but a blind man could have seen,
he’d a date to play tennis with her and had forgotten it. Of course a
woman would have scrambled out, had _something_ to offer that made a
noise like an excuse; but that poor prune of a man—they’re all alike
when a quick lie’s needed—couldn’t think of a thing to say. He just
stood between them, looking haunted and stammering out such gems of
thought as, "Our game—of course our game—I hadn’t noticed it but there
_is_ no wind."

She had him; he couldn’t throw her down after he’d made the engagement,
and with her there he couldn’t say what he wanted to Esther Maitland.
And neither of them helped him; Mrs. Price listened to his flounderings
with the little smile, light and cool on her painted lips, and Miss
Maitland stood by, not a word out of her. I noticed that Mrs. Price
never looked at her, acted as if she wasn’t there, and presently
Ferguson, getting desperate, turns to her and says:

"How about taking our walk later—after Mrs. Price and I have finished
our game?"

The girl got red, burning; she started to answer, but Mrs. Price cut in,
for the first time addressing her:

"Oh, Miss Maitland, that reminds me—I want these letters answered, if
you’ll be so kind. Just follow the notes on the edges, and please do it
as soon as possible—they’re rather important. They must go out on the
evening mail."

She handed the letters to the girl and Esther Maitland took them with a
murmur. I know that kind of answer—it’s the agreeing response of the
wage-earner. It comes soft and polite—it has to—but like the pleasant
rippling of the ocean on the beach it’s not the only sound that element
can give forth.

Ferguson tried to say something; he was mad and mortified and everything
else he ought to have been, but she wouldn’t give him a chance.

"Come along, Dick," she says, bright and easy, "you’ve kept me waiting
which is very rude, but I’m in a good humor and I’ll forgive you.
There’s a racket at the court—we were playing there this morning. You
can walk with Miss Maitland some other day. I’m afraid she’ll have to
attend to _my_ work this afternoon."

He got balky, lingered, looked at Miss Maitland, but she turned sharply
away and moved toward the balcony. So there was nothing for him to do
but to go off with his captor. I couldn’t but look after them, both in
beautiful white clothes, both rich, both young, he so tall, she so slim,
for all the world like a picture of lovers on the cover of a magazine.
Then I switched back to Miss Maitland. She’s come to a halt, right below
the window, and, standing there like a graven image, was watching them.

I never saw any one so still. You wouldn’t have known she was alive
except for her eyes which moved after them, moved and moved, until the
pair disappeared behind the rose-covered trellis that hid the courts.
Then she let out a sound, a smothered ejaculation that you couldn’t
spell with letters; but you didn’t need to, it said more than printed
pages. Rage was in it and pain and love. They were in her face, too,
stamped and cut into it. I wouldn’t have known it for hers, it was all
marred and tragic, a pitiful, dreadful face.

She looked blankly at the letters in her hand, at first as if she didn’t
know what they were, then crumpled them, threw them on the ground and
made a run for the balcony. She was almost there, I craning my neck to
keep her in sight, when she stopped, wheeled around, went back to the
scattered papers and picked them up. "Oh, bread and butter," I thought,
"bread and butter! Aren’t you cursing it now?" Bad as I believed her to
be I couldn’t but be sorry for her, for I’ve been in that position
myself. Take it from me, licking the hand that feeds you is a job that
comes hard to the worst of us.

She pressed out the letters, smoothed away the creases slow and careful
and came back to the balcony. Just before she disappeared under it she
stopped and lifted her face, the eyes closed, the teeth pressed on her
under lip. It quivered like a child’s on the brink of tears, but she
wasn’t crying—fighting, I’d say, against something deeper than tears. I
couldn’t bear to look at it and shut my own eyes; when I opened them she
was gone.

You didn’t need to tell me any more after that. She was in love with
Ferguson, not Price; she was in love and straining every nerve to hide
it; she was in love so she was jealous of Mrs. Price—and I’d bet a hat
she was the kind who could love fierce and hard.

I had to get this into the office and the next day asked for time off
from Mrs. Janney and went in. I found them different to what they had
been on my first visit, taking it serious like they were warming to it.
I’d hardly sat down before I heard the reason. O’Malley had been busy
and turned up enough evidence to make them sure that Chapman Price and
Miss Maitland were in deep in some sort of plot or conspiracy.

O’Malley’s investigation of Price’s movements on the night of July the
seventh had revealed these facts: Price had taken his car from Sommers’
garage at Cedar Brook at eight-thirty, not returning till five minutes
before two. To one of the garage men he had said that the night being so
fine he had gone for a long run over the island. No trace of his
whereabouts during these hours had been found until O’Malley dropped on
a policeman at the end of the Queensborough Bridge. This man said Price
had crossed over to the city between nine-thirty and ten. He was
positive of his identification, as early in June he had stopped the
young man for exceeding the speed limit on the bridge, taken his name
and address and had a heated altercation with him. From that time to his
return to Cedar Brook Price had dropped out of sight. He had not been in
the lodgings he kept in town or in any of the garages he patronized.
Whatever his business had been in the city he had had plenty of time to
return to Grasslands and participate in the theft of the jewels.

A continued watch of the house at 76 Gayle Street had shown that both
Miss Maitland and Price had been there on the Thursday previous and
Price on Sunday afternoon. Each had entered with noiseless haste and
each had used a latchkey. O’Malley in a search for a room had
interviewed the janitor, a grouchy old chap living in the basement; and
got a line on all the tenants, none of whom answered to the description
of Price or Miss Maitland. Of their visits to the house the man was
evidently ignorant, but he supplied some information which showed how
they could come and go without his cognizance.

On July the eighth a lady, giving no name, had taken the right hand
front room on the top floor for a friend, Miss Agnes Brown, an art
student coming from the west but not yet arrived in the city. The lady
paid a month’s rent in advance, took the key, and said when Miss Brown
arrived, the janitor would be informed, but that she might be delayed
through illness in her family. This lady, as described by the janitor,
was beyond a doubt Esther Maitland.

O’Malley was positive that the man honestly believed the room unused and
awaiting its occupant. He had seen no signs of habitation, heard no
sound from behind its closed door. Cooking was permitted in the house
and it was part of his business to sweep down the halls every morning
and empty the pails containing the food refuse which were placed outside
the doors. He had seen no pail, no milk bottles, and never at night,
when he went up to light the hall gas, had there been a gleam from the
transom of Miss Brown’s apartment.

The room had been engaged by Esther Maitland the day after the robbery,
had been secured for a tenant who had not materialized. She had taken
the key herself and had visited the place, as Chapman Price had done.
Both had made their exits and entrances so carefully that the janitor
had no idea any one had ever been inside the door since the day it was
rented.

After I’d heard all this I opened up with what I’d collected. The Chief
didn’t say much, which is his way when you come in with a new "twist,"
but Mr. George wouldn’t have it, got quite peevish and said my
imagination had run away with me.

"Do you think a girl in love with another man would have embroiled
herself with Price the way she has?" he snapped out.

"I don’t know, Mr. George. I’m not ready to say yet what she’s done or
hasn’t done. No one can deny that things are dead against her. All I’m
sure of now is that she is in love with Mr. Ferguson and, that being the
case, I don’t think she’s the kind, guilty or innocent, who’d take up
with another man."

"But you can’t base a conviction on a moment’s pantomime such as you
overlooked. The girl was probably angry at Mrs. Price’s manner. It can
be a deuced disagreeable manner; I’ve seen it."

"She didn’t act like that—it wasn’t only anger—it was all sorts of
feelings."

He couldn’t see it any way but his own and hammered at me.

"But the whole structure’s built on the assumption of an affair between
her and Price. Do you think she’d steal for him, lie for him, hire a
room to meet him in, unless she was so crazy about him she was clay in
his hands?"

"Mr. George," I said, dropping back in my chair sort of helpless but
still as obstinate as a government mule, "every word you say sounds like
sense and I’m not saying it isn’t. But while I’m not passing any
criticisms on you, in this kind of question, I’d back my own judgment
against any man’s that ever lived since Adam tried to throw the blame on
Eve."

The Chief laughed like he was amused at the scrapping of two kids.

"That’s right, Molly," he says, "don’t let him brow-beat you, stick to
your own opinion."

"Well, what do _you_ think?" Mr. George turned to him all red and
ruffled up. "Isn’t she building up theories on the flimsiest kind of
foundation?"

The Chief wouldn’t give him any satisfaction.

"I’ll take a leaf out of her book," he said, "not pass any criticisms.
And I think we’re going on too fast. I expect to have Chapman here
himself in a day or two and ask some questions about that long ride on
the night of July the seventh. After that we’ll be on a firmer
footing—or we ought to be. Meantime, Molly, you go back to Grasslands.
Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut and if anything turns up let me
know."




CHAPTER XIV—A CHAPTER ABOUT BAD TEMPERS


Things were not going Mr. Larkin’s way. What had begun with such bright
promise was declining to a twilight uncertainty. The morning after his
ignominious failure with Willitts he had a letter from Suzanne,
forwarded from his New York office, telling him that she would be in
town on the following Monday and would like to see him. The letter
disturbed him greatly. It was not alone that he had nothing to report;
it was that the tone of the missive was irritated and impatient. It was
the angrily imperious summons of a lady who is disappointed in her
hireling.

He packed up his things and left Cedar Brook—the collapse of his
endeavor there was complete—and at the hour appointed found Suzanne
waiting in the shaded reception room. Her words and manner showed him
how disagreeable a fine lady can be; they gave him a cold premonition
that his fat salary would end unless something distinct and definite was
soon forthcoming. In fact she hinted it; his assurances that interesting
developments were pending, that this sort of work was necessarily slow,
kindled no responsive enthusiasm in the crossly accusing eye she
fastened on him. His manner became almost pleading; he was on the edge
of discoveries, unquestionably he would have something to tell her by
the end of the week. At that she hung dubious, the angry eye less
disconcerting, and said she would be in town on Friday as she was going
to take her little girl to the oculist.

Mr. Larkin hailed the announcement with a sleuth-like eagerness, but, as
if anxious to quench any little flicker of his spirit, she added
blightingly that she didn’t think it would be possible to see him as the
child would be with her. He grappled with the difficulty, displaying
both patience and resourcefulness, for Mrs. Price, in a bad temper, had
a talent for creating obstacles.

Why, he suggested, couldn’t the little girl go to the oculist with her
nurse or companion and Mrs. Price be left, so to speak, free to roam?
Mrs. Price’s answer snapped with an angry click—that was of course what
she would do—she always did. _But_, Mr. Larkin did not suppose she took
the exhausting trip from Berkeley for nothing, did he? She had matters
to attend to herself, shops to go to, people to see; when they came into
town they were swamped, simply _swamped_, by what they had to do. She
depicted with a lively irritation their harried progress, the party
split into halves, one in a hired vehicle, one in the family motor,
passing through the marts of trade in a stampede of breathless shopping.
She rubbed it in, seemed to be intimating that he was attempting to
frustrate an overtaxed and weary woman in the accomplishment of gigantic
tasks.

Mr. Larkin met the difficulties and kept his patience. It took a good
deal to finally reach a settlement which was obvious from the start. The
child and her companion could go on their errands and Suzanne could go
on hers, but be back before them. He could meet her at the house at any
hour she named and would leave before the return of the other half of
the party. He forced her to an admission that the plan was feasible,
though she gave it grudgingly, her manner still suggesting that if he
had conducted himself as a detective worthy of his hire she would not
have been put to so much trouble. She arranged to be at the house at
twelve which she calculated might give her half an hour alone with him.
Should there be any change of plans she would let him know, and she
_hoped_, with an accentuated glance, he would have something
satisfactory to tell her.

His good temper unshaken, Mr. Larkin assured her he would and rose to
go. On the doorstep he mopped his forehead though the day was not warm,
also he swore softly as he descended the steps.

A day or two after this, Chapman Price went to the Whitney office. He
had received a communication from them asking for an interview, the
ostensible subject of debate being Suzanne’s divorce. The suit would be
conducted at Reno where Mrs. Price would go in the autumn, but the
Whitneys, as the Janney lawyers, wanted to talk the matter over with Mr.
Price for the arranging of various financial details.

These were quickly opened up for his attention by Wilbur Whitney, who,
with George, saw the young man in his private office. The ground of
divorce—non-support—was touched on with a tactful lightness. Mrs. Price
would of course ask for no alimony and so forth and so on. From that the
elder Whitney passed to the subject of the child; it was the desire of
its mother and grandparents that Chapman should relinquish all claim on
it. The young man listened, gloomy and scowling, now and then muttering
in angry repudiation. But the diplomatic arguments of the lawyer bore
down his opposition; he had to give in. The child ought to remain with
its mother, the natural guardian of its tender years; left entirely to
the Janneys it would be the eventual heiress of their great wealth, but
if Chapman antagonized them by a fight for its possession its prospects
might suffer. It was a persuasive appeal, made to Chapman’s parental
affections, the welfare of his daughter before his own. It brought him
to a sullen consent, and Wilbur Whitney, with a sound of approval,
pushed back his chair, elated as by a good work done.

Price rose, his face flushed and frowning. That he was resentful was
plain to be seen, but he had himself in hand, inquiring with a sardonic
politeness if that was all they wanted of him. The elder Whitney with a
hospitable gesture toward the empty chair, said no, there were some
questions he’d like to ask, nothing of any especial moment and on an
entirely different matter.

"Mrs. Janney," he explained, "has suggested that we make a separate,
private investigation of the robbery. She’s lost faith in Kissam, who
hasn’t done anything but draw his pay envelope and wants us to see what
we can do. So we’ve been clearing up a lot of dead wood, looking into
the movements of the people in the house and the neighborhood that
night."

Price, who had remained standing, turned his eyes on the speaker in a
gaze that had a quality of sudden fixed attention.

"Oh," he said, in a tone containing a note of hostile comprehension, "so
_you’re_ in it, are you?"

"Yes; we’re in it—only a little way so far. We’ve been rounding up every
one that has, or has had, any dealings with the family and we’ve taken
you in in the sweep."

"_Me?_" Price’s voice showed an intense surprise. "What have I got to do
with it?"

"Nothing, my dear boy, except that you _were_ a member of the household,
and as I said, we’re clearing up every one in sight. It’s only a
formality, a tagging and disposing of all unnecessary elements. You went
for a motor ride that night—a long ride. You wouldn’t mind telling us
where, would you? It’s just for the purpose of eliminating you along
with the rest of the dead wood."

The young man’s gaze dropped from Whitney’s face to his own hat lying on
the table. He looked at it with an absent stare.

"A motor ride?" he murmured.

"Yes, from eight-thirty till nearly two."

"Um," Price appeared to be considering. "Let me see—what was the date, I
don’t remember?"

George assisted his memory:

"July the seventh—a moonlight night."

"Ah," he had it now, nodding his head several times in restored
recollection. "Of course, I remember perfectly. There was a heavy rain
early in the evening and then a full moon." He turned to the elder man.
"I’m rather fond of ranging about at night, and couldn’t quite place
what especial ride you referred to. I took a long spin up the Island."

"Up?" said Whitney, "not being a Long Islander I don’t know your
directions. Would ’up’ mean toward the city?"

"No, the other way, out along the Sound roads and on toward Peconic."

"Kept to the country, eh? Too fine a night to waste in town."

Price’s face darkened. George watching him noticed a slight dilation of
his nostrils, a slight squaring of the line of his jaw. His answer came
in a tone hard and combative:

"Exactly. I get enough of town in the day. I rode, as I told you, out to
the east, a long way—I can’t give you the exact route if that’s what you
want." He suddenly leaned forward and snatched his hat from the table.
Holding it against his side he made an ironical bow to his questioner
said, "Does _that_ eliminate me as a suspect?"

Whitney laughed, a sound of lazy good humor rich with the tolerance of a
vast experience:

"My dear Chapman, why use such sensational terms? Suspect is a word we
haven’t reached yet. Take this as it’s meant—a form, merely a form."

"The form might have included a questioning of me before you took the
trouble to look up what I did. Evidently my word wasn’t thought
sufficient."

His glance, darkly threatening, moved from one man to the other. George
started to protest, but he cut in, his words directed at old Whitney:

"It’s all I have to offer you 

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/35504