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MISS MAITLAND
PRIVATE SECRETARY


BOOKS BY GERALDINE BONNER
Miss Maitland, Private Secretary
Treasure and Trouble There with
The Girl at Central
The Black Eagle Mystery
D. APPLETON & COMPANY
Publishers New York
214


- -^^-


Rising into the white wash of moonlight came Suzanne
[Page 45]
d


MISS MAITLAND
PRIVATE SECRETARY
BY
GERALDINE BONNER
Aurhon of “The EMugnant TRAIL,” “The girl arckx real."
"TREAsukk and Troublk rhERE witH," Erc.
illust-Arro Bºr
A. I. KELLER
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK LONDON

1919


APR 171920
&IBRARY
COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
COPYRIGHT 1918, 1919, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


*
.
CHAPTER
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
CONTENTS
THE PARTING of THE WAYs.
Miss MAITLAND GETs A LETTER
ANoTHER LETTER AND WHAT Followed IT
THE CIGAR BAND
Robbery IN HIGH PLACEs .
Poor MR. JANNEY! .
CoNCERNING DETECTIves
Molly's Story
Good HUNTING IN BERKELEY
Molly's Story
FERGUson's IDEA
THE MAN WHo WouldN'T TELL .
Molly's Story
A CHAPTER ABouT BAD TEMPERs .
WHAT HAPPENED on FRIDAY
Molly's Story .
Miss MAITLAND IN A NEw LIGHT .
THE House. IN GAYLE STREET .
Molly's Story
Molly's Story
SIGNED “CLANsMEN "
SUzANNE FINDs A FRIEND . .
rage
... 107
. 115
. 130
. 140
. 154
. 162
. 170
. 181
. 193
. 208
. 220
. 237
. 250
V


Contents
-
-
CHAPTER
XXIII.
XXIV.
XXV.
XXVI.
XXVII.
XXVIII.
XXIX.
XXX.
Molly's Story
CARDs on THE TABLE
Molly's STory
THE Counter Plot .
NIGHT on THE CREsson PIKE
THE MAN IN THE BoAT .
Miss MAITLAND ExPLAINs .
Molly's Story . .
PAGº
. 264
. 273
. 283
. 298
. 307
. 316
. 327
. 344


f
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
racing
page
Rising into the white wash of moonlight came Su-
zanne - - - - - - - Frontispiece
You’ve done one thing to me that you are going to re-
gret . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
His face was ludicrous in its enraged enmity . . . 202
Ferguson saw him in silhouette, a large, humped body
with bent head . . . . . . . . . . 313


– ！


MISS MAITLAND
PRIVATE SECRETARY
CHAPTER I
THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
HAPMAN PRICE was leaving Grasslands.
Events had been rapidly advancing to that
point for the last three months, slowly advanc-
ing 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 rea-
sons why Mrs. Chapman Price was going to separate
from her husband. º
His friends said it was her fault; Suzanne Price was
enough to drive any man away from her — selfish, ex-
acting, bad tempered, a spoiled child of wealth. Chap-
pie 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 spend-
thrift. Hadn’t the Janneys set him up in business over
I


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 to-
gether, kept them in a sort of hostile, embattled part-
nership 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 sepa-
rated, 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 her-
self on the sofa, and sniffed salts with her eyes shut.
Mr. and Mrs. Janney repaired to the wide shaded bal-
cony 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
2


The Parting of the Ways
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 flank-
ing 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 shrub-
beries 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 “per-
manent wave,” was artfully disposed to show the fine
:
3 -


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
shape of her head and conceal the necessary switch.
She was too naturally endowed with good taste to indi-
cate her wealth by vulgar display, and her hands
showed few rings; the modest brooch of amethysts fast-
ening 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 flan-
nels 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 Pitts-
burg 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 Grass-
lands.”
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.
4.


The Parting of the Ways
.
She had been foolishly indulged, her caprices and ex-
travagances were maddening, her manners on occasions
extremely bad. Mr. Janney, who had beautiful man-
ners 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 re-
sented 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 insubordi-
nation. 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 inter-
rupted by the appearance of Dixon, the butler, an-
nouncing 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
5


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
==-
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 sump-
tuous 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 Mait-
land, 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 Mait-
land 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 hos-
tility 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
6


The Parting of the Ways
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
7


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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.”
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 re-
quest 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.”
8


The Parting of the Ways
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 Wil-
litts’. 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 posses-
sion 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, Wil-
litts. I was mad straight through.”
It may have been a capacity to make such amends
that caused all servants to like Chapman Price. Wil-
9


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
litts, 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 show-
ing 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 ex-
pression 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 pas-
sage 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
anchanting and Chapman adored her.
“Where are you going, Popsy?” she cried and,
10


The Parting of the Ways
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 Wil-
litts 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 go-
ing 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 trium-
phantly to the nurse; “Popsy's going to send me one.”
Then turning back to her father, “Take me to the sta-
tion with you?”
Willitts and the chauffeur exchanged a glance. The
nurse made a quick forward movement, suddenly gen-
tly authoritative:
II


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
“No, no, darling. You can’t drive now. It’s time
to go in and take your 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 Chap-
man 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.
12


The Parting of the Ways
-
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 en-
grossed 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 back-
ground 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
46 3.
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
13


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 him. 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 mean-
ing:
“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:
14


The Parting of the Ways
“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 re-
sumed 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 Sta-
tion 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
15


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
found. He would keep his car — it would be neces-
sary 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 sepa-
ration 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 Wil-
litts 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.
16


CHAPTER II
MISS MAITLAND GETS A LETTER
T 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 Fergu-
son’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 con-
stant 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
17


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
the four giant oaks from which it took its name. The
Fergusons had kept the farm house, built after the Rev-
olution, 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 en-
dowments 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
18


Miss Maitland Gets a Letter
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, ir-
regular 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
19


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 pre-
paring 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
20


Miss Maitland Gets a Letter
-
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 vexa-
tions.
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 com-
mand the place in the woods where the path from Coun-
cil 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 ta-
pering 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 Mait-
land 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
21


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 some-
thing innate, something you were born with, something
that made you fitted for any sphere. Immovable, ap-
parently 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 morn-
ing 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
22


Miss Maitland Gets a Letter
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 ap-
pearance 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 Dela-
valles — 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.
- 23


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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. Jan-
ney exchanged a gratified glance; they were much at-
tached 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 mar-
riage 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
24


4 Miss Maitland Gets a Letter
and the waiting group roused into expectant anima-
tion. 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 move-
ment.
“Let me alone, Bébita,” she said sharply and, get-
ting up, thrust the child out of her way and went into
the house.
For a moment Bébita was astonished. Her mother,
25


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 grand-
mother:
“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
go glad it’s come,” and went back to her reading.
It was all disappointing, and Bébita, as a last re-
source, had to try Miss Maitland, who, if not a rela-
tion, 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
26


Miss Maitland Gets a Letter
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, re-
laxed. 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.
27


CHAPTER III
ANOTHER LETTER AND WHAT FOLLOWED IT
UZANNE, her letter crumpled in her hand, had
gone directly to her own room. There she read
it for the second time, its baleful import sink-
ing deeper into her consciousness with every sentence.
It was in typewriting and bore the Berkeley postmark:
“DEAR MPs, 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 humil-
iated 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 sub-
ject of paragraphs — more or less scandalous — ap-
pearing in The Eavesdropper. The paper, a scurrilous
- 28


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 — un-
foreseen 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 tem-
per and put her foot down with a final stamp. Then
the winter had come, a feverish, crowded winter of end-
less 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
29


Another Letter and What Followed. It
a zestful orgy of renewed bridge and summer out-
fitting. But the stocks never came up, they remained
down, as far down as they could get, against the bot-
tom.
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 an-
nounced her intention of going out in the open car and
asked if any of the others wanted to come. All re-
fused: 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
30


Another Letter and What Followed. It
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 Pitts-
burg 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 mis-
tress 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 be-
yond, “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 feel-
ings or her own manners. She was so nervous that she
blundered into her subject without diplomatic prelimi-
naries, gaining no encouragement from her mother’s
31


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 in-
terview 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.”
32


Another Letter and What Followed. It
“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 sympa-
thetic, 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 “some-
thing 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
33


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 brighten-
ing 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 pas-
sage 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
34


Another Letter and What Followed It
darkling recesses. The electric light across the hall-
way did not penetrate to the side shelves and Mr. Jan-
ney 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, ostenta-
tiously 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 be-
35


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
coming, 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 queen-
ing 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 wait-
ing 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
36


Another Letter and What Followed. It
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 mo-
tionless; all the way home she said nothing.
37


CHAPTER IV
THE CIGAR, BAND
STHER 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 ab-
stracted, 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 re-
serve, 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.
38


The Cigar Band
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 P’”
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 Eng-
lish 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 serious-
ness that was almost solemn.
She laughed, the sound suggesting embarrassment,
and looked away from him her eyes on the ground.
39


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
Just in front of them the woodland roof showed a gap,
and through it the light fell across the path in a glit-
tering pool. As they advanced upon it she gave an
exclamation, stayed him with an outflung arm, and bent
to the moss at her feet: º
“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 won-
der you were fooled.”
“It was right there on the moss shining in the
moonlight. I thought I'd found something wonder-
ful.” 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 trespass-
ers.”
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
40


The Cigar Band
be at all bad. Look!” she slipped it on her finger and
held the hand out studying it critically. It was a beau-
tiful 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
41


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 Jan-
neys 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 mid-
night 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 stop-
ping 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
42


The Cigar Band
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 un-
expectedly 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 Sec-
retary with a line of guest chambers across the passage.
In a small room between his wife’s and his step-daugh-
ter’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
43


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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, thrum-
mings 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 con-
versational 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
44


The Cigar Band
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 beat-
ing high and hard.
Rising into the white wash of moonlight came Su-
zanne, moving with careful softness, her eyes sending
piercing glances up and down the hall. Her expres-
sion 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.
45


CHAPTER V
ROBEERY IN HIGH PLACES
HE 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 sev-
eral new features and he had no one to talk them over
with. Suzanne, who never came down to breakfast, ap-
peared at twelve and said she was going to the Fair-
fax'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 dis-
appeared. 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 morn-
46


Robbery in High Places
ing 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 an-
swer 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 pre-
vious day and the disturbed night, and sat down to wait.
Inside the house his wife was busy. Several impor-
tant 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
47


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
I
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 suéde
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 ejacu-
lated 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,
48


Robbery in High Places
old Sam, bewildered by this sudden catastrophe, emerg-
ing from the safe, as pale and shaken as if he was the
burglar.
“Last night, of course last night,” he murmured, try-
ing 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 dis-
tracted 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 exaspera-
tion. “I’d forgotten it. How maddening! You’ll
have to do it. Go in there to the 'phone”— she indi-
cated the telephone closet at the end of the hall. “Call
up the Kissam Agency — that’s the best. We had
49


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
-
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 serv-
ice. 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 investi-
gation. 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
50


Robbery in High Places
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 for-
gotten 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 man-
ners 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
51


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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. Detec-
tives 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.
52


Robbery in High Places
“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 in-
terested 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 eye-
lids flutter and droop over the bird-bright fixity of
her glance.
53


CHAPTER WI
POOR. M.R. Assex
HE 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. Every-
body 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 mar-
ried again.
After introductory parleys with the heads of the
house the searchlight of inquiry was turned on the
55


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
-
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 sup-
position 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
56


Poor Mr. Janney!
-
not bothered to look out of the window because she
thought it was one of the work people from the neigh-
borhood, 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 com-
bination — 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 rob-
bery — 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
57


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 dimin-
ished 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
58


Poor Mr. Janney!
of a lace curtain over it, and anyway he hadn’t no-
ticed much, supposing it to be one of the servants com-
ing 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 win-
dow, 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 pain-
ful, 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.
59


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
His misery reached a climax when something he re-
membered, 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 writ-
ten 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 en-
tered by the second story, and were of that class of
60 -


Poor Mr. Janney!
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 ex-
isted.
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 emerg-
ing 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 al-
ways 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 fu-
61 -


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
ture. 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 rob-
bery. 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 poison-
ing, 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 an-
nouncing 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 de-
tective’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
62


Poor Mr. Janney!
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 promi-
nent —”
“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 de-
scription 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
63


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
that the old man had known all along. He was sorry
for him: n
“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 in-
terview with that woman Elspeth, Mrs. Janney’s maid,
and she told me of a quarrel she had overheard be-
tween 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 per-
fectly 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.

64


Poor Mr. Janney!
“If your surmise is right,” he said, “where has she
put them?”
“If I ?” 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 hap-
pened 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 dis-
covered, 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
65 -


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 am-
ple 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 pro-
66


Poor Mr. Janney!
fessional pride was justified; he had made good to his
own satisfaction. And, as he had said, the case pre-
sented no startling novelty to his seasoned experience.
Many times he had helped distracted families to sup-
press 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, grad-
ually 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.
67


CHAPTER VII
CONCERNING DETECTIVES
ISSAM kept his word and the interest in the
Janney robbery began to languish. Detec-
tives 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 dis-
tress.
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 break-
fast 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
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Concerning Detectives
-
skin of a ham hanging in the cellar? Mrs. Janney was
not appeased, she scoffed at the ham, and said the de-
tectives 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. Jan-
ney’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 un-
locked 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 govern-
ess for Bébita.
Two days after her slip to Mr. Janney an opportu-
nity came for broaching the subject. They were at
lunch when Suzanne announced that she intended going
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 in-
sisted 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 per-
fectly competent to attend to the matter. Mrs. Jan-
ney 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 Pennsyl-
vania 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 pres-
sure on her ears. Since that alarming experience she
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Concerning Detectives
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 down-
town near Wall Street. She was at once conducted
into Mr. Whitney’s sanctum, for besides being an im-
portant 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 greet-
ings, 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
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
no more of that kind. She had to have a woman of
whose character they were assured, and sufficiently pre-
sentable to pass muster with the master and the serv-
ants. 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
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Concerning Detectives
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 Morgen-
thau 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 inspira-
tion. 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 separat-
ing she asked if there was a branch telephone on the
upper floor and, being told that there was in an alcove
73


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 differ-
ent.
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 cogita-
tion 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 de-
sire 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
74


Concerning Detectives
on a quest for some needed garment, so that her pres-
ence 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 mis-
shapen 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
75


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 reas-
surance. Also his manners were good, respectful, busi-
ness-like. 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 under-
stood between us that this—er— sending for you —
is entirely my affair. I want to employ you myself in-
depently 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
76


Concerning Detectives
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 imper-
ceptible 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
cheeks.
“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 dis-
graced 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.”
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
“Precisely. And I don’t want to say anything un-
til 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 Mait-
land.”
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
78


Concerning Detectives
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 combina-
tion 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.”
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
|
“Then she’s filled her position to Mrs. Janney’s sat-
isfaction?”
“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 man-
ner of life lately that could — er — have any connec-
tion 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 fol-
lowing 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
80


Concerning Detectives
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 ir-
ritation:
“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, how-
ever, 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:
81


Miss Maitland Private secretary
“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, Su-
zanne 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, ap-
proved 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.
82


CHAPTER VIII
MoILY's story
*WE been asked to tell the part of this story in
which I figure. I’ve done that kind of work be-
fore, 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 switch-
board 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.
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 lin-
ing. 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 garden-
ers and chauffeurs — in all there were twenty-one peo-
ple 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 Mait-
land the Secretary. Not that there was anything sus-
picious about her, but that she wasn’t as simple and
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Molly's Story
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 walk-
ing 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 thought-
ful 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 dur-
ing 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
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 neigh-
borhood 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, branch-
ing to the right, I found two smaller trails both lead-
ing to the same place — a pond, surrounded by trees,
and with a wharf, a rustic bench, and two bathing
86


Molly's Story
houses, where the trails ended. In my room that eve-
ning 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 under-
brush 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
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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-slip-
per?”
She hugged up against him, awful sweet and cun-
ning.
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Molly's Story
“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. Any-
way she said nothing more on that subject, but loosing
one hand, waved it at me;
“That’s my new governess, Miss Rogers. I’m study-
ing 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
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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,
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Molly's Story
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 be-
yond 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 some-
thing — 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
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 Mait-
land 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 ques-
tion 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 read-
ing. That day — about four — I’d seen her as I
passed the study window writing at her desk. I'd
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Molly's Story
gone on into the big central hall where I wasn’t sup-
posed to belong, but feeling safe with everybody scat-
tered, 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:
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
“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, be-
cause 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
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Molly's Story
the fellow that doesn’t. Watchful waiting — that's
out 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.
95


CHAPTER IX
º
GOOD HUNTING IN BERKELEY
WO 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 conven-
ience. It was an unassuming, gray-shingled building,
withdrawn behind a lilac hedge, and too near the sta-
tion to mar the smart and shining elegance of the main
street. In it dwelt the shop-keepers who plied a tem-
porary 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 per-
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Good Hunting in Berkeley
tained 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 Chap-
man’s side, said she wanted to get rid of him to marry
Ferguson. It was hoped that Ferguson — highly es-
teemed — wasn’t going to fall for it; but you couldn't
tell, the best men made mistakes. Gossips, who pro-
fessed an intimacy with the Grasslands kitchens, hinted
that Ferguson was “taken with ” the secretary. But
Berkeley, fattened by prosperity to a gross snobbish-
ness, 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, con-
cealed 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 in-
teresting 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.
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 ap-
peared. He waited round a bit and then Miss Mait-
land 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 bath-
ing.” 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 ar-
rested.
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 respect-
able — 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
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Good Hunting in Berkeley
denial were as genuine and emphatic as her mother's
had been and Mr. Larkin arrived at the same conclu-
sion 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 ap-
pointment 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 neigh-
bor. 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 gen-
eral 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 cot-
tages close to his own.
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 pass-
ing 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 curi-
ous, 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 re-
paired 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
I00


Good Hunting in Berkeley
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 rob-
bery.
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 be-
fore 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
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
-
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 coun-
try.”
Mr. Larkin, as a stranger to the parties, had no
I02


Good Hunting in Berkeley
need to display a corresponding warmth, merely re-
marking that Berkeley was convinced of their inno-
cence.
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 detec-
tive’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 run-
ning stream. The man had removed his pipe and held
I03


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 compe-
tent 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
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Good Hunting in Berkeley
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:
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
“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 con-
centration of doctors studying the anatomy of a pa-
tient. 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 door-
way 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.
106


CHAPTER X.
MoLLY's story
S soon as I had the notes of that 'phone mes-
sage down I wrote a report for the Whitney
office — just an outline — and posted it my-
self 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 con-
course of the Pennsylvania station I’d see O’Malley
(the Whitneys’ detective) and it would be my busi-
ness 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
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
other such lady-like 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 un-
less 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:
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Molly's Story
“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
sort. 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 fool-
ing 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 gaz-
ing 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:
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
“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
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Molly's Story
itself in small ways. And Molly’s got a fine, trained
ear.”
“Well, it caught no love there, Chief. The only per-
son 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’Mal-
ley.”
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
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 gentle-
man 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 — and 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. Whit-
ney.”
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’Mal-
ley entered, hot and red, his panama in his hand, and
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Molly's Story
-
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 thor-
oughfare 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 el-
bow, 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
II3


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
went in, took a soda, and asked the clerk about the
locality — said I was looking for lodgings in that sec-
tion. 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 ad-
dressed 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 ſndian. We don’t
want the family drawn in until we know something.”
II.4.


CHAPTER XI
FERGUson's IDEA
URING these days Dick Ferguson thought
a good deal and said very little. Like the
rest of his world he wondered over the un-
solved mystery of the Janney robbery, but his won-
derings 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 posi-
tion. Every one spoke very feelingly about it: — poor
girl, so uncomfortable for her, knowing the combina-
tion 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 tem-
per, until it lost its sunny evenness and he was some-
times 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-
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Ferguson's Idea
— 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
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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, advanc-
ing 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 —
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Ferguson's Idea
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 beau-
tifully 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 knit-
ting — 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!”
II9


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
She took up her work, and-answered with cool com-
posure:
“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 lean-
ing 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 hap-
pened.”
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 al-
most never see you.”
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 sur-
prised 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 to-
gether to control their trembling. He could see that,
for a moment, taken unawares, she did not trust her-
self to speak.
“Look here,” he said, low and urgent, “be frank
with me. I’ve seen for some time something was trou-
bling 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:
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Ferguson's Idea
- -
“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 betaraying
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
193


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 re-
buff had passed he pondered deeply. He was sure now
beyond the peradventure of a doubt that Esther Mait-
land 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 Mait-
land was present. She met him with the subdued quiet-
ness 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. Jan-
ney’s was by no means the least. His problem was
still unsolved, still menacing. Kissam's suggestion and
124


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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, lean-
ing 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. f
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 mo-
tioned 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 aban-
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
just the same. Mr. Kissam was very particular to
ask about it, but I told him I thought they was in-
tact, 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 mid-
night. 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
128 *


Ferguson's Idea
-
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.
129


CHAPTER XII
THE MAN who wouldN’T TELL
R. LARKIN had lingered on at Cedar Brook.
He said that he needed a holiday, the pros-
perity of the last year had worn him out,
also the bungalow sites were many and a decision diffi-
cult.
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 neigh-
borly 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 sub-
ject that Mr. Larkin introduced with delicate artful-
ness — 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 unsat-
isfied his inclination for Willitts’ society increased.
It was a few days after that first meeting that, stroll-
ing down Main Street toward Sommers' garage, the
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 gen-
erous 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 detec-
tive 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?”
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The Man Who Wouldn’t Tell
“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 un-
easiness 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
I33


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 sup-
ported 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 unconscious-
ness that surprised Mr. Larkin. Never before in his
134


The Man Who Wouldn’t Tell
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 per-
turbed. 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 ici-
ness and flooded it with a frank, almost ludicrous as-
tonishment.
“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 assem-
bling data. If O'Malley’s got to the point of finding a
suspect he's far ahead of me.”
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
, 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, ap-
peared 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 break-
ing 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.”
136


The Man Who Wouldn’t Tell
He rose and, going to the steps, sat down beside Wil-
litts, 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 — pro-
fessionally 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 res-
toration 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.”
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
“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 for-
bidding, 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
138


CHAPTER XIII
MoLLY's story
NE 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 be-
tween 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 con-
ning tower in the school room window and take observa-
tions. As I said before, it was a convenient place, just
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Molly's Story
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 ex-
pected 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 affec-
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
tions.” 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 meas-
ure; 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
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Molly's Story
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
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 ter-
ribly 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
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 Mait-
land 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.
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Molly's Story
You can walk with Miss Maitland some other day. I’m
afraid she’ll have to attend to my work this after-
noon.”
He got balky, lingered, looked at Miss Maitland, but
she turned sharply away and moved toward the bal-
cony. 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 disap-
peared behind the rose-covered trellis that hid the
courts. Then she let out a sound, a smothered ejacula-
tion 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
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 some-
thing 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
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Molly's Story
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 min-
utes 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 be-
tween 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
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 in-
formation 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 be-
yond a doubt Esther Maitland.
O'Malley was positive that the man honestly be-
lieved 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
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Molly's Story
been a gleam from the transom of Miss Brown's apart-
ment.
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 her-
self 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 be-
ing the case, I don’t think she’s the kind, guilty or in-
nocent, 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 prob-
ably angry at Mrs. Price's manner. It can be a deuced
disagreeable manner; I’ve seen it.”
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
--
“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 ham-
mered 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 scrap-
ping 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
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Molly's Story
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.”
153


CHAPTER XIV
A CHAPTER ABOUT BAD TEMPERS
HINGS 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 mis-
sive 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
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A Chapter About Bad Tempers
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 man-
ner 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, display-
ing 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 P. 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,
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 compan-
ion 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 be-
fore 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 sug-
gesting 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 accen-
tuated 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
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A Chapter About Bad Tempers
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 re-
linquish 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 Jan-
neys 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 affec-
tions, the welfare of his daughter before his own. It
brought him to a sullen consent, and Wilbur Whitney,
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
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 hos-
pitable 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 rob-
bery. She's lost faith in Kissam, who hasn’t done any-
thing 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?”
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A Chapter About Bad Tempers
“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 per-
fectly. 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?”
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
-
-
“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 now. It’s what I say
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A Chapter About Bad Tempers
against what you’ve been told to believe. I can prove
no alibi, for I was with no one, saw no one, started alone
and stayed alone. That’s all you’ll get out of me, and
you can take it or leave it as you d n please.”
He turned and walked toward the door, the elder
Whitney’s conciliatory phrases delivered to his back.
The door knob in his hand he wheeled round, the anger
he had been struggling to subdue fierce in his face:
“Don’t think for a moment you’ve fooled me. I was
ignorant when I came in here, but I'm on to the whole
dirty business now. I see through this pussy-footing
round the divorce. It’s the Janneys — the blow in the
back I might have known was coming. They’ve got
my child, set you on to wheedle her out of me. But
that wasn’t enough — they’re going to try and finish
the good work — put me out of business so there’s no
more trouble coming from me. Brand me as a thief
— that's their game, is it? Well — they’ve gone too
far. I’ve held my hand up to this but now I’ll let loose.
They’ll see! By God, they’ll see that I can hit back
blow for blow.”
161


CHAPTER XV
WHAT HAPPENED ON FRIDAY
HE Friday morning when Suzanne was to go to
town broke auspiciously bright and cloudless.
As Annie was not the proper person to take
Bébita to the oculist, and as Suzanne would be too busy
to go herself, Miss Maitland had been impressed into
the service. It had been decided two days earlier, and
though she had received some instructions at the time,
on the drive in, Mrs. Price went over her plans with a
meticulous thoroughness. They would go first to the
Fifth Avenue house, pick up there some clothes of
Bébita’s needing alteration, and then separate. Esther
would take a cab from the rank on the side street, and go
with Bébita to the oculist, to the dressmaker with the
clothes, and execute several minor commissions in shops
along the Avenue. Bébita begged for a box of caramels
from Justin’s, the French confectioner, a request which
was graciously acceded to by her mother, Miss Mait-
land jotting it down on her list. Mrs. Price would take
the motor and go about her own affairs, which would
occupy probably an hour. She would then return to
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What Happened on Friday
the house and wait for them — for she would have fin-
ished before they did — and afterward they would go
out to lunch somewhere. She said she thought it would
be fully an hour and a half before they got back and
Miss Maitland, eyeing the long list, said it might be
even longer.
Aggie McGee had the clothes tied up in a box and
Suzanne and Bébita stood on the steps waiting while
Miss Maitland went for the cab. The rank was just
round the corner and in a few minutes she came back
with a taxi running along the curb behind her.
“Quite a piece of luck to find one,” she said, as she
took the box. “They’re not always there in the dead
season.”
Bébita jumped in, settling herself with joyful pranc-
ings and waving a little white-gloved hand. Esther
followed, snapped the door shut, and they glided away.
Suzanne watched them go, then stepped into the big
motor and was swept off in the opposite direction.
She came back before the hour was up. She had
hurried as she wanted to have done with Larkin before
they returned. It would be extremely uncomfortable
if they found her in confab with the detective; it would
necessitate boring explanations and the inventing of
lies. -
She sat down in the reception room close to the win-
dow, pulled up the blind and waited. Drawn back from
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
the eyes of passers-by she could command the sidewalk
and the street for some distance and if, by any evil
chance, Larkin should be late, she could see him com-
ing and tell Aggie McGee to say she was not there.
Up to now Larkin had been punctual to the dot, but
on this, the one occasion when punctuality was vital,
he was not on time. Twelve passed, then the quarter,
and the sun-swept length of the great avenue gave up
no masculine figure that bore any resemblance to him.
She was growing nervous, wondering what she had bet-
ter do, when he hove in sight walking quickly toward
the house. A glance at her wrist watch told her it
was twenty minutes past twelve — Miss Maitland and
Bébita might not be back for another half hour yet.
She would chance it, for she was extremely anxious to
see him, and anyway, if they should come in before he
left, she could tell him to go into the drawing room and
slip out after they had gone. Relieved by the decision
she rose and was turning toward the mirror, when she
caught sight of a taxi scudding up the street with
Esther Maitland’s face in the window.
A word not generally used by ladies escaped Suzanne.
There was nothing for it but to send him away. She
ran into the hall and pressed the bell, listening in a
fever for Aggie McGee's step on the kitchen stairs.
Simultaneously with its first heavy thud came the peal
of the front door bell. Suzanne, who had noticed that
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What Happened on Friday
the taxi was moving fast and would make the steps
before Larkin, called down on Aggie McGee's ascending
head:
“That’s Miss Maitland. A gentleman I expected
is just behind her. I can’t see him now, I haven’t time.
Tell him I’ve been here and gone.”
She went back into the reception room and stood
listening. She heard the door opening, Esther’s step
in the hall; it was all right, the detective would get his
congé without being seen by any one but Aggie Mc-
Gee. She drew a breath of relief and turned smiling
to the girl in the doorway. Miss Maitland did not give
back the smile; she sent a searching look over the room
and said in a low, breathless voice as if she had been
running:
“Is Bébita here?”
There was a moment of silence. Through it the
heavy tread of Aggie McGee passing along the hall
sounded unnaturally loud. As it went clump, clump,
down the kitchen stairs Suzanne was aware of Miss
Maitland’s face, startlingly strange, ashen-colored. At
first it was all she took in.
“Bébita — here?” she stammered. “How could she
be? She’s with you.”
Miss Maitland made a step into the room, her hands
went up clenched to her chest, her voice came again
through the broken gasps of a runner: -
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
“No — she isn’t. I thought I'd find her with you —
I thought she’d come back. Oh, Mrs. Price —” she
stopped, her eyes, telling a message of disaster, fixed
on the other.
Suzanne's answer came from opened lips, dropped
apart in a sudden horror:
“What do you mean? Why should she be here?”
“Mrs. Price, something’s happened!”
Suzanne screamed out:
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know — but — but — I haven’t got her —
she’s gone. Mrs. Price —”
Suzanne screamed again, putting her hands against
the sides of her head, her face, between them, a livid
mask.
“Gone — gone where? Is she dead?”
The girl shook her head, swallowing on a throat
dried to a leathern stiffness:
“No — no — nothing like that. But — the taxi —
it went, disappeared while I was in Justin’s. I was in
there buying the candy and when I came out it was gone.
I looked everywhere; I couldn't believe it; I thought
she’d come back here — run away from me for a joke.”
Suzanne, holding the sides of her head, stared like
a mad woman, then gave a piercing cry, thin and high,
a wild, dolorous sound. Only the solidity of the house
prevented it from penetrating to the lower regions where
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What Happened on Friday
Aggie McGee and her aunt were comfortably lunching.
“Listen, Mrs. Price.” Esther took her hands and
drew them down. “The driver may have made a mis-
take, taken her somewhere else — he couldn’t —”
Suzanne shrieked in sudden frenzy:
“She’s been stolen — my baby’s been stolen!”
For a second they looked at one another, each pallid
face confessing its conviction of the grisly thought.
Esther tried to speak, the sentences dropping discon-
nected:
“If it’s that then — then — it’s some one who knows
you’re rich — some one — they’ll want money. They’ll
give her up for money — Oh, Mrs. Price, I looked —
I hunted —”
Suzanne's voice came in a suddenly strangled whisper:
“It’s you – It’s your fault! You've let them steal
my baby. You’ve done it! You’ll be put in jail.”
With the words issuing from her mouth she staggered
and crumpled into a limpness of fiberless flesh and trail-
ing garments. Esther put an arm about her and drew
her to the sofa. Here she collapsed amid the cushions,
her eyes open, moans coming from her shaking lips.
Esther knelt beside her:
“Mrs. Price, it’s horrible, but try to keep up, don’t
break down this way. No one would dare to do any-
thing to her. If she’s been stolen it’s to the interest
of the person who did it to keep her safe. We’ll find
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
her in a day or two. Your mother, her position, her
power — she’ll do something, she’ll get her back.”
Suzanne rolling her head on the cushion, groaned:
“Oh, my baby! Oh, Bébita!” Then burst into wild
tears and disjointed sentences. She was almost unin-
telligible, cries to heaven, wails for her child, accusa-
tions of the woman at her feet broke from her in a tor-
rent. Once she struck at the girl with a feeble fist.
There was no help to be got from her and Esther
rose. She spoke more to herself than the anguished
creature on the sofa:
“We can’t waste time this way. I’ll call up Grass-
lands and ask what to do.”
The telephone was in the hall and, as she waited for
the connection, she could hear the sounds of the moth-
er’s misery beating on the house’s rich silence. Then
Dixon's voice brought her faculties into quick order.
She wanted to speak to Mrs. Janney herself, at once,
it was important. There followed what seemed an
endless wait, and then Mrs. Janney. When she had
mastered it, her voice came, sharp and incisive:
“Hold the wire, I have to speak to Mr. Janney.”
Another wait, through which, faint as the shadows of
sound, Esther could hear the tiny echo of voices, then
the jar of an approaching step and a man answered:
“Hello, Miss Maitland, this is Ferguson. I’ve or-
ders from Mrs. Janney — Go straight down to the
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What Happened on Friday
Whitney office, tell them what's happened and put the
thing in their hands. Say nothing to anybody else.
Mr. and Mrs. Janney are starting to go in. They’ll
be in town as quickly as they can get there and will
meet you at the office. Got that straight? All right.
Good-by.”
She cogitated a moment, then called up the Whit-
ney office getting George. She gave him a brief out-
line of what had occurred and told him she would be
there with Mrs. Price within a half hour.
Back in the reception room she tried to arouse
Suzanne, but the distracted woman did not seem to have
sense left to take in anything. At the sound of Esther's
voice her sobs and wails rose hysterical, and the girl,
finding it impossible to make her understand, set about
preparing her for the drive. Any word of hers ap-
peared to make Suzanne's state worse, so silently, as
if she were dressing a manikin, she pinned the hat to the
disordered blonde hair, draped a motor veil over it,
composed the rumpled skirts, gathered up her purse
and gloves, and finally, an arm crooked round one of
Suzanne's, got her out to the motor. -
On the long drive downtown almost nothing was
said. The roar of the surrounding traffic drowned the
sounds of weeping that now and then rose from the
veiled figure, which Esther held firm and upright by the
pressure of her shoulder.
169


CHAPTER XVI
MoLLY's STORY
HAT Friday — gee, shall I ever forget it!—
opening so quiet and natural and suddenly
bang, in the middle of it, the sort of thing you
read in the yellow press. -
It was a holiday for me and I was sitting in the upper
hall alcove making a blouse and handy to the exten-
sion 'phone. Now and then it would ring and I’d pull
it over with a weary sigh and hear a female voice full of
cultivation and airs ask if Mrs. Janney’d take a hand
at bridge, or a male one want to know what Mr. Jan-
ney thought about eighteen holes at golf.
It was on for one when it rang again and with a
smothered groan — for I was putting on the collar
—I jerked it over. Believe me, I forgot that blouse!
Stiff, like I was turned to stone, I sat there listening,
hearing them come, one after another, getting every
word of it. When they were through I got up, feeling
sort of gone in the middle, and lit out for the stairs.
I couldn’t have kept away — Bébita disappeared
“Kidnapped!” I said to myself as I ran along the
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Molly's Story
hall. “Kidnapped! that’s what it is — it’s only poor
children that get lost.” -
On the stairs I met Mrs. Janney coming up on the
run. It wasn’t the speed that made her breath short;
but she was on the job, the grand old Roman, with
her mouth as straight as the slit in a post box and
her face as hard as if it was cut out of granite.
“Go down there,” she said, giving a jerk of her
head toward the hall below. “Sit there and wait.
Something’s happened and you may be useful.”
I went on down and took a seat. Outside on the
balcony I could see Mr. Janney, wandering about with
a hunted look. From the telephone closet came Fergu-
son’s voice telling his chauffeur to bring his car to
Grasslands, now, this minute, and enough gasoline for
a long run. Then he came out, hooked an armful of
coats off the hall rack, and ran past me on to the
balcony. He gave the coats to Mr. Janney, who stood
holding them, looking after Ferguson wherever he went
and quavering questions at him. I don’t think Fergu-
son answered them, but he pulled one of the coats out
of the old man’s arms and put him into it, quick and
efficient. When the motor came up he tried to make
Mr. Janney get in, but he wouldn’t, standing there,
helpless and pitiful, and calling out for Mrs. Janney.
“I’m here, Sam,” came her voice from the stairs and
she scudded by where I was sitting, tying her motor
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
veil over her hat. She seemed to have forgotten me
and I followed her out on to the balcony, not knowing
what she wanted me to do. As I stood there Fergu-
son's big car came shooting up the drive.
She climbed quickly into her own motor, waiting at
the bottom of the steps, Mr. Janney scrambled in after
her and Ferguson threw a rug over them. They were
just starting when she looked up and saw me.
“Oh,” she cried, leaning across the old man, “we’ll
want you — you must come.”
Mr. Janney stared bewildered at her and said:
“Why — why should she come?”
“Keep quiet, Sam,” then over her shoulder to Fergu-
son as the car began to move, “Bring Mrs. Babbitts,
Dick. Take her with you.”
The car glided off, Mr. Janney’s voice floating back:
“But why, why — why do you want her?”
Ferguson’s motor swung round the oval and came
to a halt. The chauffeur jumped out, and, told he
wasn’t wanted, disappeared. The young man turned
to me, not a smile out of him now.
“Come on, get in,” he said and then giving a nod
at one of the coats lying over a chair, “and bring that
with you — it may blow up cold and it’s a long run.”
I did as I was told — there was something about him
that made you do what he said — and jumped in. He
came on my heels, snapped the door and we started.
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Molly's Story
Before we got to the gates he speeded the machine up
and in a few minutes we were close on the Janney
motor which was flying along the woody road at a pace
that would have strained the heart of a bicycle cop.
Their dust came over us in a cloud, and Mr. Ferguson
slowed down, and, his hand resting easy on the wheel,
said: -
“What does Mrs. Janney want you for?”
I’d hoped he hadn’t noticed that, but in case he had
I’d an answer ready.
“Maybe she thought I might have noticed if any one
was hanging round lately — hanging round to size up
the habits of the family and Bébita’s movements.”
“Oh,” he said, looking at me very pointed, “then
you know what’s happened to Bébita.”
I hadn’t any answer ready for that. I had to get
hold of something quick and as you will do when you’re
taken off your guard, I got hold of a lie:
“I met Mrs. Janney on the stairs and she told me.”
“That’s funny,” he says, sort of thoughtful. “Be-
fore she went she told both Mr. Janney and myself that
no one in the house must hear a word of it.”
I began to get red, and for a moment, stared at
my feet pressed side by side on the wood in front of me.
It didn’t make it any pleasanter to know that Ferguson
was looking at me, intent and narrow, out of the tail
of his eye.
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
“I guess she was so excited she forgot and just
blabbed it out.”
It was the best I could do, but it was poor stuff.
If you knew Mrs. Janney you'd see why.
“Um,” said Ferguson, and took a look ahead at
the cloud of dust that hid the other car. Then he
comes out with another:
“I wonder if that was the reason she called you
Mrs. Babbitts?”
I took a good breath from the bottom of my lungs
and said:
“I shouldn’t be surprised. Having your grand-
child lost is enough to mix up any woman.”
He didn’t answer and we ran on some way, out of
the woods on to a long straight stretch of road. The
motor in front was going at a tremendous clip, Mrs.
Janney’s veil lashing out like a wild hand beckoning
UlS OIl.
“Look here,” says Ferguson, soft and gentle right
into my ear, “what are you, anyway?”
“Me?” I bounced round and gave him a baby
stare. “I’m a governess. What do you think I am?”
“You may be a good governess but you're a poor
liar. I was in the telephone closet and heard what
Mrs. Janney said to you on the stairs. And I don’t
think you’re a governess at all — you’re a detective.”
I thought a minute but what was the use, he had me.
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Molly's Story
So I raised up my chin and met him, eye for eye:
“All right, I am. What of it?”
“Oh, lots of it. I’ve had my suspicions for some
time. You tapped that 'phone message from New
York? 22
“I did — it’s my job. I have to do it.”
“Don’t apologize — it wastes time and we haven’t
any to lose. Now just tell me Miss Rogers, or Mrs.
Babbitts, what have you found out about the robbery;
where were you getting to before this hideous mess to-
day?”
“Well, you’ve got your nerve with you!” I snorted.
“I have, right here handy. I’m a friend of the
Janneys, I’m a → he stopped. His nerve was handy
all right but he hadn’t enough to tell me it was be-
cause of Esther Maitland he was so keen.
“Go on,” I said sarcastic. “I’m interested to hear
what you are now you’ve found out what I am.”
“I’m almost a member of the household. I can help.
I want to help — and I want to know.”
“Maybe you do,” I said. “We often want things
in this world that we can’t get. Don't think you have
the monopoly of that complaint.”
The motor rose over the crest of a hill, flashed by a
farm and slid down an incline. Before us stretched a
white line of road, with the forward car racing along it
in a blur of dust.
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
“You mean you won’t tell me?”
“You got me.”
We suddenly began to slow up, the car swung off
sideways from the roadbed, ran toward the bushes on
the right, and came to a halt. Ferguson dropped
against the back of the seat, stretched his legs and
said:
“This is a nice shady place to stop in.”
“Stop!” I cried. “Forget it! What do you want
to stop for?” -
“I don’t — it’s you. I’m going to rest here quietly
while you tell me.”
“Young man,” I said, fixing him with a cold eye,
“this is no time to be funny.”
“I entirely agree with you. Therefore as we’re
of the same mind it behooves you to get busy and give
me the information I want.”
The coolness of him would have riled a hen. It did
me; I gave a stamp on the footboard and angrily
said:
“Start up this machine. I was ordered to go to
New York and I’ve got to get there.”
“You will as soon as you tell me. But I won’t move
until you do. We’ll stay here all day, all night if
necessary. There's just one thing certain: we'll stay
till I hear what I want to know.”
I was beaten and it made me mad straight through.
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Molly's Story
I was helpless too and that made me madder. If I’d
had the least notion of how you started the dinged ma-
chine I was angry enough to have tried to do it,
though it wouldn’t have been any use with Ferguson
there to frustrate me.
“You’re losing time,” said he. “There’ll be trouble
if you don’t show up.”
“Do you think it’s a high class thing,” I snapped
out, “to put a girl in a position like this?”
“Don’t you think you can trust me?” he answered
very quiet.
I looked at him, a long, slow survey, and as I did
it my anger simmered down. It’s part of my business
to read faces and what I saw in his made me say sort
of reluctant:
“Well, maybe I can.”
He leaned forward and put his hand on mine.
“Miss Rogers, if you’ll stand in with me, trust me
and let me help, you won’t make any mistake. For
I’ll stand in with you, not now, not just for this thing,
but for always. You’ve my word on it and I don’t
break my word.”
That ended it — not what he said but the look of
him while he said it. Almost without knowing it my
hand turned under his and they clasped. Solemn as a
pair of images we shook. Any one passing would have
thought we were crazy, backed into the brushwood, side
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
by side on the front seat, shaking hands as if we’d just
been introduced.
I told him the whole story and he never said a word.
When I came to Miss Maitland’s part in it, I couldn’t
but look at him. He drew his eyebrows down in a
frown and fiddled with his fingers on the wheel. Even
when I told him what they thought about her and
Chapman Price he didn’t made a sound, but he straight-
ened up, and drew a deep breath like he wanted more
air in his lungs. I got it some way then — I can’t
exactly say how — that he was a good deal more of a
person than I’d guessed – a lot more iron in his
make-up than I’d thought when I liked his laugh and
his boyish, jolly ways.
When I finished he said, easy and cool:
“Thank you — that gives me just what I wanted.
You won’t regret having told me. As for Whitney &
Whitney, they won’t say anything. They’re my law-
yers —known 'em all my life. I'll take care of that.”
He took hold of the wheel and the car backed out
into the road. -
“Can we ever catch them up?” I asked.
“I guess so — this car can make seventy-five miles
an hour. Are you game for a race?”
“I’m game for anything that'll land me where I
belong.”
“All right—hold on to your hat.”
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Molly's Story
I guess the Lord protects those who are bent on His
own business. Anyway I don’t know why else we weren’t
killed. We ate up that road like a dago eating
macaroni; it ran under the car like a white ribbon
fastened to a spindle somewhere behind us. The woods
were two green streaks on either side, and now and then
a chuck hole would send me bouncing, landing anywhere
— on the floor once.
“Hold on to something,” he shouted at me. “I
don’t want to lose you.”
And I shouted back:
“You couldn’t. I’m wished on to this motor till
death do us part or it lands me somewhere alive.”
Through the villages we had to slow up. Gliding
dignified along the tree-shaded streets put me into a
fever and I guess it wore on him for more than once I
heard him muttering to himself, and believe me, he
wasn’t saying his prayers. I glimpsed sideways at
him, and saw his tanned face, with the hair loose and
tousled by the wind, looking changed, hardened and
older, all the gay expression gone. The news he'd
forced out of me had hit him a body blow, struck him
in the heart. And I was sorry, awfully sorry. You
can hurt a mean person or a criminal and not care,
but it’s no lady's job to have to wound a decent man.
That's why I’d never make a good professional — the
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
people get as big as the case to me, and if you’re the
real thing it’s only the case that counts.
We were almost in Long Island City when we caught
up with the Janneys, Mrs. Janney’s veil still waving
like a hand beckoning us to hurry.
180


CHAPTER XVII
MISS MAITLAND IN A NEW LIGHT
T the entrance of the great building which
housed the Whitney office the two motors came
to a halt. Ferguson went in with the others
saying he would see if he could be of any use, and if he
was not wanted would return to the street level and
wait. In the elevator Mr. Janney, who had been in-
formed en route of Molly’s real status, eyed her
morosely, but when the car stopped forgot everything
but the urgencies of the moment, and crowded out,
tremulous and stumbling, on his wife’s heels.
They were met by Wilbur Whitney who in a large
efficient way, distributed them: — Ferguson was sent
back to the street to wait, Molly waved to a chair
in the hall, and the old people conducted up the passage
to his private office. In a room opening from it
Suzanne lay stretched on a sofa, restoratives and
stimulants at hand, and a girl stenographer to fan her.
She had revolted against the presence of Esther, who
had been removed from her sight and shut in the sanc-
tum of a junior partner. -
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
Mrs. Janney went in to see her and the old man fell
upon Whitney. It was Price's doing — they were cer-
tain of it, his wife had said so at once. He was bound
to get back at them some way, he’d said he would
— he'd left Grasslands swearing vengeance, and had
been only waiting his opportunity. The lawyer nodded
in understanding agreement and, Mrs. Janney return-
ing, they drew up to the table and conferred in low
voices.
What Whitney said confirmed the Janneys’ belief.
He told of his interview with Price; the man’s anger
and threats. Nevertheless he was of the opinion that
the plot to kidnap the child had not been undertaken
in sudden passion, but had probably been for some
time germinating in Chapman’s mind. The news of
Bébita’s loss, telephoned to the office by Miss Maitland,
while it had shocked, had not altogether surprised
him, though he had hardly thought the young man’s
desire to get square would have carried him to such
lengths. Immediately after Esther’s communication,
George had telephoned to Price’s office receiving the
answer that he was not there but could probably be
found at the Hartleys’ at Cedar Brook. From the
Hartleys they had learned that Mr. Price was in town,
and had sent word that morning he would not come out
this week-end.
There were other circumstances which the lawyer
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Miss Maitland in a New Light
said pointed to Price. These they could hear from
Mrs. Babbitts who had made some important discover-
ies. He rose to send for her, but Mrs. Janney stayed
him with a gesture — before they went into that she
would like to see Miss Maitland and hear from her
exactly what had occurred. Mr. Whitney, suavely
agreeable, sent a summons for Esther, then softly closed
the door into the room where Suzanne lay.
“Mrs. Price is very bitter against her,” he said in
explanation.
Mrs. Janney, too wrought up for polite hypocrisies,
said brusquely:
“Oh, that’s exactly like Suzanne. She has no bal-
ance at all. Of course we can’t blame Miss Maitland
— it’s not her fault.”
Mr. Whitney dropped back into his revolving desk
chair and swung it toward her with a lurch of his
body:
“She tells a very clear story — extremely clear.
I’ll let you get your own impression of it and then
we'll have a talk with Mrs. Babbitts and you can
see —”
A knock on the door interrupted him; in answer to
his “Come in,” Esther entered. She halted a moment
on the threshold, her eyes touching the faces of her
employers questioningly, as if she was not sure of her
reception. But Mrs. Janney’s quick, “Oh, Miss Mait-
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
land, I want to see you,” brought her across the sill.
Though she looked harassed and distressed, her man-
ner showed a restrained composure. She took a chair
facing them, meeting their glances with a steady direct-
ness. Mrs. Janney’s demand for information was
promptly answered; indeed her narrative was so devoid
of unnecessary detail, so confined to essentials, that it
suggested something gone over and put in readiness for
the telling. -
She had taken Bébita to the dressmaker and the
oculist, the child accompanying her into both places.
At the third stop, Justin’s, she had persuaded Bébita
to stay in the taxi. She had left it at the curb and
had not been more than ten minutes in the store. When
she came out it was gone. She had spent some time
looking for it, searched up and down the street, and,
though she was frightened, she could not believe any-
thing had happened. Her idea had been that Bébita,
tired of waiting or wanting to play a joke on her, had
prevailed on the driver to return to the Fifth Avenue
house. She had hailed a cab and gone back there and
it was not till she saw Mrs. Price that she realized
the real extent of the calamity. Mrs. Price had been
utterly overwhelmed, and, not knowing what else to
do, she had called up Grasslands for instructions.
Mr. Janney, who had been twisting and turning on
his chair, burst out with:
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
despond. It's not as bad as all that, and I’m pretty
confident we’ll have her back all right before very
long.”
Mr. Janney, with his face in his handkerchief, emitted
sounds that no one could understand. His wife silenced
him with a peremptory, “Be quiet, Sam,” and returned
to Miss Maitland:
“You say you dissuaded her from going into Jus-
tin's. Why did you do that?”
For the first time the girl lost her even poise. As
she answered her voice was unsteady: “We were so
pressed for time and I knew I could get through much
quicker without her. That’s why I did it — begged
her to stay in the taxi and she said she would,”— she
stopped, biting on her under lip, evidently unable to
go on.
There was a moment’s silence broken by Mrs. Jan-
ney’s voice low and grim:
“The man heard you and knew that was his chance.”
Miss Maitland, her eyes down, the bitten lip showing
red against its fellow, said huskily:
“You must blame me — you can’t help it — but I’d
rather have died than had such a thing happen.”
Mr. Janney began to give forth inarticulate sounds
again and his wife said with a sort of dreary resigna-
tion:
“Oh, I don’t blame you, Miss Maitland. Nobody
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Miss Maitland in a New Light
* --→
does. Mrs. Price is not responsible; she doesn’t know
what she’s saying.”
“Of course, of course,” came in Whitney's deep,
bland voice, “we all understand Mrs. Price's feelings
— quite natural under the circumstances. And Miss
Maitland’s too.” He rose and pressed a bell near the
door. “Now if you’ve heard all you want I’ll call in
George and we'll talk this over. And Miss Maitland,”
he turned to her, urbanely kind and courteous, “could
I trouble you to go back to Mr. Quincy’s office; just
for a little while? We won’t keep you waiting very
long this time.”
A very dapper young man had answered the sum-
mons and under his escort Esther withdrew. Whitney
went to a third door connecting with his son’s rooms,
opened it and said in a low voice:
“George, go and get Molly. We’re ready for her
now.”
Coming back, he stood for a moment by the desk, and
swept the faces of his clients with a meaning look:
“What you're going to hear from Mrs. Babbitts
will be something of a shock. She’s unearthed several
rather startling facts that in my opinion bear on this
present event and what led up to it. It’s a peculiar
situation and involves not only Price but Miss Mait-
land.”
Mrs. Janney stared:
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
“Miss Maitland and Chapman' What sort of a
situation?”
“At this stage I’ll simply say mysterious. But
I'm afraid, my dear friend, that your confidence in
the young woman has been misplaced. However, be-
fore I go any further I'll let you hear what Mrs. Bab-
bitts has to say and draw your own conclusions.”
What Mrs. Babbitts had to say came not as one
shock but as a series. Mrs. Janney could not at first
believe it; she had to be shown the notes of the tele-
phone message, and dropped them in her lap, staring
from her husband to Wilbur Whitney in aghast ques-
tion. Mr. Janney seemed stunned, shrunk in his
clothes like a turtle in its shell. It was not until the
lawyer, alluding to the loss of the jewels, mentioned
Miss Maitland's possible participation either as the
actual thief or as an accomplice, that he displayed a
suddenly vitalized interest. His body stretched for-
ward, and his neck craned up from its collar gave him
more than ever the appearance of a turtle reaching out
of its shell, his voice coming with a stammering urgency:
“But — but — no one can be sure. We mustn't be
too hasty. We can’t condemn the girl without suffi-
cient evidence. Some one else may have been there
and —”
Mrs. Janney shut him off with an exasperated impa-
tience:
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
“What are we to do with Miss Maitland? You
can’t arrest her.”
“Certainly not. She's a very important person and
we must have her under our eye. You must treat her
as if you entirely exonerated her from all blame —
maintain the attitude you took just now when talking
with her. If my immediate plan should fail our best
chance of getting Bébita without publicity and an ugly
scandal will be through her. She must have no hint
of what we think, must believe herself unsuspected, and
free to come and go as she pleases.”
“You mean she's to stay on with us?” Mr. Jan-
ney’s voice was high with indignant protest.
“Exactly — she remains the trusted employee with
whose painful position you sympathize. It won’t be
difficult, for you won’t see much of her. You’ll nat-
urally stay here in town till Bébita is found. What I
intend to do with her is to send her back to Grasslands
with a competent jailer —” he paused and pointed
where Molly sat, silent and almost forgotten.
For a moment the Janneys eyed her, questioning
and dubious, then Mrs. Janney voiced their mutual
thought:
“Is Mrs. Babbitts, alone, a sufficient guard?”
The lawyer smiled.
“Quite. Miss Maitland doesn’t want to run away.
She knows too much for that. No position could be
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down, Molly noticed that she fell into a staring ab-
straction, starting nervously as the iron gate swung
back at the ground floor.
Ferguson, waiting on the curb, saw them as they
emerged from the doorway. His eyes leaped at the
girl, and, as she crossed the sidewalk, were riveted on
her. Their expression was plain, yearning and pas-
sion no longer disguised. If she saw the look she gave
no sign, nodded to him, and, leaving Molly to explain,
climbed into the back seat and sunk in a corner.
Though the afternoon was hot she picked up the cloak
lying on the floor and drew it round her shoulders.
The drive home was very silent. Molly gave the
prescribed reasons for her presence and heard them
answered with the brief comments of inattention. She
also touched on the other matters and found her com-
panion so unresponsive that she desisted. It was evi-
dent that Esther Maitland wanted to be left to her
own thoughts. Huddled in the cloak, her eyes fixed
on the road in front, she sat as silent and enigmatic as
a sphinx.
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CHAPTER XVIII
THE HOUSE IN GAYLE STREET
HE Janney party left the office soon after
Molly and Esther. They had decided to stay
at the St. Boniface hotel where rooms had
already been engaged, and, with Suzanne swathed in
veils and clinging to her mother's arm, they were es-
corted to the elevator and cheered on their way by
the two Whitneys. When the car slid out of sight
the father and the son went back into the old man’s
Iroom. -
It was now late afternoon, the sun, sinking in a
fiery glow, glazed the waters of the bay, seen from these
high windows like a golden floor. The day, which had
opened fresh and cool, had grown unbearably hot;
even here, far above the street’s stifling level, the air
was breathless. The men, starting the electric fans,
sat down to talk things over and wait. For the ma-
chinery of “the move" spoken of by Wilbur Whitney
already had been set in motion.
Immediately after Esther's telephone message O'Mal-
ley had been called up and, with an assistant, dis-
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
patched to watch the Gayle Street house. As Whit-
ney had told his clients, the news of the child’s disap-
pearance had hardly surprised him. Chapman’s anger
and threats portended some violent action of reprisal,
and, even as the lawyer had questioned what form it
might take, came the answer. Chapman had stolen his
own child and had a hiding place prepared and waiting
for her reception. It was undoubtedly only a tem-
porary refuge, he would hardly keep her in such sordid
surroundings. The Whitneys saw it as a night's
bivouac before a longer flight. And that flight would
never take place; every exit was under surveillance,
there was no possibility of escape. The two men, smok-
ing tranquilly under the breath of the electric fans,
were quietly confident. They would bring Chapman’s
vengeance to an abrupt end and avert an ignominious
family scandal. Meantime they awaited O'Malley —
who was to return to the office for George — and as they
waited discussed the kidnapping, knowledge supple-
mented by deductions.
When Chapman had decided on it he had instructed
Esther, telling her to inform him when the opportunity
offered. This she could do by letter, or, if time pressed,
by telephone from a booth in the village. The trip
to New York had been planned several days in advance
and he had been advised of it, its details probably tele-
phoned in the day before. He — or some one in his
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The House in Gayle Street
pay — had driven the taxi. It had been stationed in
the rank near the house, where in the dead season there
were few vehicles and from whence the extra one needed
by Suzanne would naturally be taken. That Esther,
with a long list of commissions to execute, should leave
the child in the cab was an entirely natural proceeding.
Her explanation of her subsequent actions was also
disarmingly plausible, and the minutes thus expended
gave the time necessary for the driver to make his
get-away. Before she had acquainted Suzanne with
the news, the child was hidden in the room at 76 Gayle
Street.
Whether the room was taken for this purpose was a
question. If it was then the idea had been in Chapman’s
mind for weeks — it was the “coming back ’’ he had
hinted at when he left Grasslands. If, however, it had
been hired as a place of rendezvous with his confeder-
ate, it had assisted them in the carrying out of their
plot — might indeed have suggested it. For as a lair
in which to lie low it offered every advantage — se-
cluded, inconspicuous, the rest of the floor untenanted.
They could keep the child there without rousing a sus-
picion, for if Chapman was with her — and they took
for granted that he was — she would be contented and
make no outcry. She loved him and was happy in his
society.
“Poor devil!” growled the old man. “You can’t
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
help being sorry for him, even if he did do it to hit
back. It’s his child and he's fond of her.”
George gave a short laugh:
“I fancy it's more the hitting back than the fond-
ness. Chapman's not shown up lately in a very senti-
mental light. It wouldn’t surprise me if he'd ransom
in the back of his mind. But we’ll put an end to his
ambitions or parental longings or whatever's inspiring
him.” He looked at his watch, then rose. “It’s a
quarter past seven and O'Malley’s due at the half
hour. It’s understood we’re to bring the child here
first?” -
His father gave an assenting grunt and hitched his
chair into the current of air from the fan.
George turned on the lights, their tempered radiance
flooding the room, the windows starting out as black
squares sewn with stars.
“I don’t quite see what I’m going to say to him,”
he muttered, a sidelong eye on his father.
“Say nothing,” came the answer. “Bring the child
back here — that’s your job. Leave him to me. Mrs.
Janney and I’ll have it out with him when the time
comes.”
On the tick of half-past seven O'Malley appeared.
Trickles of perspiration ran down his red face, and
his collar was melted to a sodden band.
“Gee,” he panted as he ran a handkerchief round
196 *


The House in Gayle Street
his neck, “it’s like a Turkish bath down there in the
street.”
“Well,” said George, impatient of all but the main
issue, “is it all right?”
“Yep — I’ve left two men in charge — every exit’s
covered. And there’s only one they could use — no
way out back except over the fences and through other
houses.”
“He could hardly tackle that with a child.”
“He couldn’t tackle it alone and make it — not the
way I’ve got things fixed. And I’ve worked out our
line of action; Stebbins relieved me at half-past six
and I went and had a séance with the janitor. Said I
was coming round later with a man who was looking for
a room — the room I’d been inquiring about. That’ll
let us in quiet; right up to the top floor and no ques-
tions asked.”
“The only hitch possible can come from Chapman
— he may be ugly and show his teeth.”
The old man answered:
“I guess he’ll be tractable. If he’s inclined to argue
bring him along with you. It’s after eight. I don’t
want to sit here half the night. Get busy and go.”
O’Malley had a taxi waiting and they slid off up
the deserted regions of Broadway. After a few blocks
they swerved to the left, plunging into a congeries of
mean streets where a network of fire-escapes encaged
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
but they’d be quick and make no noise — just wanted
to see the rooms and get out.
In single file, the janitor leading, they mounted the
stairs. To the aristocratic senses of George the place
seemed abominable. The staircase, narrow and with-
out balustrade, ran up steeply between walls once
painted green, now blotched and smeared. At the end
of the first flight there was a small landing, a gas
bracket holding aloft a tiny point of flame. It was as
hot as an oven, the stifling atmosphere impregnated with
mingled odors of cooking, stale cigar smoke, and the
mustiness of close, unaired spaces.
On the second landing one of the doors was open, af-
fording a glimpse of a squalid interior, and a man in his
shirt sleeves bent over a table writing. He did not look
up as they creaked by. From somewhere near, muffled
by walls, came the thin, frail tinkling of guitar strings.
As they ascended the temperature grew higher, the air
held in the low attic story under the roof, baked to a
sweltering heat. The janitor muttered an excuse —
the top floor being vacant the windows were kept shut
— it would be cool enough when they were opened.
He had gained the last landing, which broadened into
a small square of hall cut by three doors. As he turned
to one on the left, O'Malley slipped by him and drew
away toward that on the right. There was a moment
of silence, broken by the clinking of the man’s keys.
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The House in Gayle Street
He had trouble in finding the right one and set his
lamp down on a chair, his head bent over the bunch.
George was aware of O'Malley’s figure casting a huge
wavering shadow up the wall, edging closer to the right
hand door.
The key was found and inserted in the lock and the
janitor entered the room, his lamp diffusing a yellow
aura in the midst of which he moved, a black, retreat-
ing shape. With his withdrawal the light in the hall,
furnished by a bead of gas, faded to a flickering ob-
scurity. O’Malley’s shadow disappeared, and George
could see him as a formless oblong, pressed against the
panel. There was a moment of intense stillness, the
guitar tinkling faint as if coming through illimitable
distances. The detective’s voice rose in a whisper,
vital and intimate, against the music's spectral thin-
IneSS : -
“Queer. There’s not a sound.”
His hand stole to the handle, clasped it, turned it.
Noiselessly the door opened upon darkness into which
he slipped equally noiseless.
That slow opening was so surprising, so dream-like
in its quality of the totally unexpected, that George
stood rooted. He stared at the square of the door,
waiting for voices, clamor, the anticipated in some form.
Then he saw the darkness pierced by the white ray of
an electric torch and heard a sound — a rumbled oath
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
from O’Malley. It brought him to the threshold. In
the middle of the room, his torch sending its shaft over
walls and floor, stood the detective alone, his face, the
light shining upward on the chin and the tip of his nose,
grotesque in its enraged dismay.
“Not here — d n them!” and his voice trailed
off into furious curses.
“Gone?” The surprise had made George forget-
ful.
“Gone—no!” The man almost shouted in his
anger. “How could they go? — Didn’t I say every
outlet was blocked. They ain’t been here. They
ain’t had her here. Get a match, light the gas — I got
to see the place anyway.” -
The torch’s ray had touched a gas fixture on the
wall and hung steady there. As the men fumbled for
matches, the janitor came clumping across the hall,
calling in querulous protest:
“Say — how’d you get in there? That ain’t the
place — it’s rented.”
He stopped in the doorway, scowling at them under
the glow of his upheld lamp. A match sputtered over
the gas and a flame burst up with a whistling rush. In
the combined illumination the room was revealed as
bleak and hideous, the walls with blistered paper peel-
ing off in shreds, the carpet worn in paths and patches,
an iron bed, a bureau, by the one window, a table.
202


His face was ludicrous in its enraged enmity


* *
º * 2°
* * ,
* -->


The House in Gayle Street
The janitor continuing his expostulations, O'Malley
turned on him and flashed his badge with a fierce:
“Shut up there. Keep still and get out. We’ve
got a right here and if you make any trouble you’ll
hear from us.”
The man shrank, scared.
“Police!” he faltered, then looking from one to the
other. “But what for? There’s no one here, there
ain’t ever been any one — it’s took but it’s been empty
ever since.”
O’Malley who had sent an exploring glance about
him, made a dive for a newspaper lying crumpled on
the floor by the bed. One look at it, and he was at the
man's side, shaking it in his face:
“What do you say to this? Yesterday's — how’d
it get here? Blew in through the window maybe.”
The janitor scanned the top of the page, then raised
his eyes to the watching faces. His fright had given
place to bewilderment and he began a stammering ex-
planation — if any one had been there he’d never
known it, never seen no one come in or go out, never
heard a sound from the inside.
“Did you see any one — any one that isn’t a regular
resident — come into the house yesterday or to-day?”
It was George’s question.
He didn’t know as he’d seen anybody — not to no-
tice. The tenants had friends, they was in and out
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
all day and part of the night. And anyway he wasn’t
around much after he'd swept the halls and taken down
the pails. Yesterday and to-day he guessed he'd
stayed in the basement most of the time. If anybody
had been in the room — and it looked like they had
— it was unbeknownst to him. The lady had the key;
she could have come in without him seeing; it wasn’t
his business to keep tab on the tenants. He showed
a tendency to diverge to the subject of his duties and
George cut him off with a greenback pushed into his
grimy claw and an order to keep their visit secret.
Meantime O’Malley had started on an examination
of the room. There was more than the paper to prove
the presence of a recent occupant. The bed showed
the imprint of a body; pillow and counterpane were
indented by the pressure of a recumbent form. On its
foot lay a book, an unworn copy, as if newly bought,
of “The Forest Lovers.” The table held an ink bottle,
the ink still moist round its uncorked mouth, some paper
and envelopes and a pen. There was a scattering of
pins on the bureau, two gilt hairpins and a black net
veil, crumpled into a bunch. Pushed back toward the
mirror was the cover of the soap dish containing ashes
and the butts of four cigarettes.
O'Malley studied the bureau closely, ran the light
of his torch back and forth across it, shook out the
veil, sniffed it, and put it and the two hairpins care-
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The House in Gayle Street
-
fully into his wallet. Then with the book and the
paper in his hand he straightened up, turned to George,
and said:
“That about cleans it up. There's nothing for it
now but to go back.”
The janitor, anxiously watchful, followed on their
heels as they went down the stairs. Their clattering
descent was followed by the strains of the guitar, thinly
debonair and mocking as if exulting over their discom-
fiture. In the street the same shape emerged from
the shadows and slouched toward them. A grunted
phrase from O’Malley sent it drifting away, spiritless
and without response, like a lonely ghost come in timid
expectation and repelled by a rebuff.
O’Malley dropped into a corner of the taxi and as
it glided off, said:
“That's the last of 76 Gayle Street as far as they’re
concerned.”
“Why do you say that?”
In the darkness the detective permitted himself a side-
long glance of scorn.
“You don’t leave the door unlocked in that sort of
place unless you’re done with it. They’ve got all they
wanted out of it and quit.”
“Abandoned it?”
“That’s right — made a neat, quiet getaway. They
didn’t say they were going, didn’t give up the key —
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
it was on the inside of the door. Just slid out and van-
ished.”
“Some one was there yesterday.”
“Um,” O’Malley’s voice showed a pondering con-
centration of thought. “Some one was lying on the
bed reading; waiting or passing time.”
“They couldn’t have been there to-day — before
your men were on the job?”
O’Malley drew himself to the edge of the seat, his
chest inflated with a sudden breath:
“Why couldn’t they? Why couldn’t that have been
the rendezvous? Why couldn’t she have lost the child
down here on Gayle Street instead of opposite Justin’s?
Price was there beforehand: up she comes, tips him off
that the taxi's in the street, sees him leave and goes
herself, across to Fifth Avenue where she picks up a
cab. It’s safer than the other way — no cops round,
janitor in the basement, if she’s seen nothing to be
remarked — a lady known to have a room on the top
floor.” He brought his fist down on his knee. “That’s
what they did and it explains what’s been puzzling
me.”
“What? »
“There was no dust on the top of the bureau; it had
been wiped off to-day. There was no dust on that
veil; it hadn’t been there since yesterday. A woman
fixed herself at that glass not so long ago. Price had
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The House in Gayle Street
a date with her to deliver the child and he was lying
on the bed reading while he waited. When he heard .
her he threw down the book, got the good word and
lit out. After he'd gone she took off her veil — what
for? To get her face up to show to Mrs. Price —
whiten it, make it look right for the news she was
bringing. When she left she was made up for the part
she was to play. And I take my hat off to her, for she
played it like a star.”
207


CHAPTER XIX
MoLLY's story
lands. We alighted as silent as we started, and
I was following Miss Maitland into the hall, Fer-
guson behind me, when she turned in the doorway and
spoke. She had orders that the servants must know
nothing; she was to tell them that the family would
I T was nearly seven when we got back to Grass-
stay in town for a few days, and for me to be careful
what I said before them. Then, before I could an-
swer, she glanced at Ferguson and said good-by, her
eyes just touching him for a moment and passing, cold
and weary, back to me. She'd wish me good-night, she
was going to her room and not coming down again
— no, thanks, she’d take no dinner, she was very tired.
She didn’t need to say that. If I ever saw a per-
son dead beat and at the end of her string she was
it.
Ferguson stood looking after her. I think for the
moment he forgot me, or maybe he wasn’t conscious of
what his face showed. Some way or other I didn’t like
to look at him; it was as if I was spying on something
208


Molly's Story
- - -
I had no right to see. So I turned away and dropped
into one of the balcony chairs, sunk down against the
back and feeling limp as a rag.
Presently came his step and he was in front of me,
his head bent down with the hair hanging loose on his
forehead, and his eyes like they were hooks that would
pull the words out of me:
“What happened up there at the Whitneys?”
“Mr. Ferguson,” I answered solemn, “I’ve told you
more than I ought already. Is it the right thing for
me to go on doing wrong?”
“Yes,” he says, sharp and decided, “it’s exactly
the right thing. Keep on doing it and we’ll get some-
where.”
I set my lips tight and looked past him at the lawn.
He waited a minute then said:
“I thought you agreed to trust me.”
“There’s a good deal more to it now than there was
then.”
“All the more reason for telling me. Of course I
can get all I want from Mrs. Janney or either of the
Whitneys; they don’t let ladylike scruples stand in
the way. But that means a trip to town and I’m not
ready to take it.”
It was surprising how that young man could make
you feel like a worm who had a conscience in place of
Common Sense,
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Molly's Story
“I’ll leave guessing to you — it’s your business, and
you appear to do it very well.”
“Say, drop me altogether. I’m only a paid servant.
But you'll have to admit that Mr. Whitney and his son
count pretty big in their line.”
“Very big, Miss Rogers. But they’ve made a mis-
take this time — or possibly been misled. The Jan-
neys have never been fair to Price. They’re prejudiced
and they’ve branded the prejudice on. He isn’t an
angel, neither is he a rascal. He didn’t take his child,
he never thought of it, he couldn’t do it.”
“Then who did? "
“That’s what I want to find out.”
“Jerusalem!” I said, sitting up, feeling like the
peaceful scene around me was suddenly dark and
strange. “You don’t think she’s really been kid-
naped?”
“I can’t think anything else.” He stopped in front
of me, looking at me hard and stern. “I’d like to find
another solution but I’m unable to.”
“But, gee-whizz!” I stared at him, all worried and
mixed. “You can’t get away from the facts. They’re
all there — there’s hardly a break.”
“I don’t admit that. This man and woman have got
characters and records that haven’t been considered
— but even if you had a hole-proof case against them
I wouldn’t believe it.”
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
“Oh, pshaw!” I said, simmering down, “you just
believe what you want to. I’ve seen people like that
before.”
“I daresay you have, I’m not a unique specimen in
the human family. But I’ll tell you what I am just
at this juncture — the only one among you that’s
right.” He drew back and gave a vengeful wag of his
head at me. “You’ve all gone off at half-cock — do-
ing your best to ruin a man who's harmless and a girl
who’s — who’s —” he stopped, and wheeled away from
me. “Tch — it makes me sick! Hate and anger and
jealousy — that’s what’s at the bottom of it. I can’t
talk about it any longer—it's too beastly. Good-
night!”
He turned on his heel, ran down the steps and over
the grass, clearing the terrace wall with a leap. I
looked after him, fading into the early night, disturbed
and with a sort of cold heaviness in my heart. He was
no fool — suppose what he thought was true? Suppose
that dear child whom I’d grown to love — but, rub-
bish! I wouldn’t think of it. It was easy to account
for the way he felt. Every little movement has a mean-
ing of its own — and the meaning in all his little move-
ments was love. He had it bad, poor chap, out on
him like the measles, and while you have to be gentle
with the sick you don’t pay much attention to what
they say.
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That was a dreary evening. There being no one
but me around they served my dinner in the dining
room, and it added to the strain. Some of the food
I didn’t know whether to eat with a fork or a spoon,
so I had to pass up a lot which was hard seeing I was
hungry. But when you’re born in an east side tene-
ment you feel touchy that way — I wasn’t going to be
criticized by two corn-fed menials. I’m glad I’m not
rich; it’s grand all right, but it isn’t comfortable.
The next day — Saturday — it rained and I sat
round in the hall and my room where I could hear the
'phone and keep an eye on Miss Maitland. All she did
was to go for a walk, and in the afternoon stay in her
study. We saw each other at meals, our conversation
specially edited for Dixon and Isaac,
Sunday was fine weather again and Ferguson came
round at twelve. Miss Maitland had gone for another
walk and he and I had the hall to ourselves. He’d been
in town the day before, seen George Whitney and told
him what he thought. When I asked how Mr. George
took it, he gave a sarcastic smile and said, “He listened
very politely but didn’t seem much impressed.” He
also told me they’d hoped to find the child Friday night
in the room at 76 Gayle Street and had been disap-
pointed.
“Of course she wasn’t there,” and he ended with “it
was only wasting valuable time, but there's a proverb

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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
about none being so blind as those who won’t see.”
After that he dropped the subject — I think he
wanted to get away from it — and pow-wowing together
we worked around to the robbery, which had been side-
tracked by the bigger matter. He said it had been in
his mind to tell me a curious circumstance that he'd
come on the night the jewels were taken and that he
thought might be helpful to me. It was about a cigar
band that Miss Maitland had found in the woods that
evening when he and she had walked home together.
Before he was half through I was listening attentive
as a cat at a mouse hole, for it was a queer story and
had possibilities. After I put some questions and
had it all clear, we mulled it over — the way I love to
do. -
“A man dropped it,” I said slowly, my thoughts
chasing ahead of my words, “who went through the
woods after the storm.” -
“Exactly — between eight-thirty and ten-thirty.
And do you grasp the fact that those were the hours
the house was vacated — the logical time to rob it?”
“Yes, I’ve thought of that often — wondered why
they waited.”
“And do you grasp another fact — that Hannah a
little before nine heard the dogs barking and then
quieting down as if they scented some one they knew?”
I nodded; that too I’d made a mental note of.
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Whitney values so highly and I’m beginning to see indi-
cations of, on that question.”
“What's the sense of wasting it? My mind's my
capital and I don’t draw on it unless there's a need.
You get rid of that light at one-thirty and I’ll expend
some of it.”
I laughed, but he didn’t, looking on the ground frown-
ing and thoughtful. Then a step on the balcony made
us both turn. It was Miss Maitland, back from her
walk, looking much better, a smile at the sight of him,
and a little color in her face. She joined us and,
Dixon announcing lunch, Ferguson invited himself to
stay. It was the first human meal I’d eaten since the
doors of the dining room had opened to me.
After lunch I left them on the balcony and went
upstairs to my room. I tried to read but the air, blow-
ing in warm and sweet and the scent of the garden
coming up, made the book seem dull, and I went to the
window and leaned out.
A while passed that way and then I saw Ferguson
going home, a long figure in white flannels striding
across the lawn to the wood path. Then out from the
kitchen come the servants, all togged up, six girls and
Isaac, and away they go on their bikes to the beach.
From what I’ve seen of the homes of the rich I’d rather
be in the kitchen than the parlor — the help have it
all over the quality for plain enjoyment. They went
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off bawling gayly, and presently Dixon appears, look-
ing like a parson on his day off, all brisk and cheerful.
Last of all comes Hannah, her hair as slick as a seal’s,
a dinky little hat set on top of it, and a parasol held
over it all. She waddled off, large and slow, in an-
other direction, toward the woods — for a cup of tea
and a neighborly gossip in Ferguson's kitchen, I guess.
How I wished I was along with them!
There I was left, lolling back and forth on the sill,
kicking with my toes on the floor, and wondering what
my poor, deserted boy was doing in town. Then sud-
den, piercing the stillness with a sort of tingling thrill,
comes the ring of the hall telephone.
I gave a soft jump, snatched up my pad and pencil,
and was at the table and had the receiver off before
she'd got to the closet downstairs. It was so quiet,
not a sound in the house, that I could hear every
catch in her breath and every tone in her voice. And
what I heard was worth listening to. A man spoke
first:
“Hello, who's this?”
“Esther Maitland. Is it — is it?”
“Yes — C. P. I’ve waited until now as I knew there
wouldn’t be anybody around. It’s all right.”
“Truly. You’re not saying it to keep me quiet?”
“Not a bit. There’s no need for any worry.
Everything's gone without a hitch.”
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
“And you think it’s safe — to — to — take the next
step?”
“Perfectly. We’re going to get her out of town on
Tuesday night.”
“Oh!” I could hear the relief in her voice. “You
don’t know what this means to me?”
He gave a little, dry laugh:
“Me too — I’ll admit it’s been something of a strain.
That’s all I wanted to say. Good-by.”
I scratched it on the pad, and tiptoed back to my
room, short of breath a bit myself. What would Fer-
guson say to this? I stood by the window, thinking
how to send it in, and things went right for out she
came from the balcony and walked across to a place
on the lawn where there were some chairs under a group
of maples. She sat down and began to read, and I stole
back to the hall and took a call for the Whitney house.
Being Sunday they might be out, but that went right
too, for I got the Chief himself. I told him and asked
for instructions and they came straight and quick:
“Bring her into town to-morrow morning. There’s
a train at nine-thirty you can take. Get a taxi at
the depot and come right up to the office. You’ll have
to tell her in what capacity you’re serving the family.
That’ll be easy — you were engaged for the robbery.
Don’t let her think you have any interest in the kidnap-
ing, and on no account let her guess we suspect her.
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Say you’ve had a message from me, that some new facts
have come in and I want to ask her a few questions —
see if the information tallies with what she saw. Keep
her quiet and calm. Got that straight? All right —
so long.”
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CHAPTER XX
MoILY's story
HE next morning, in the hall, right after break-
fast I told her what I had to tell — I mean who
I was. It gave her a start — held her listen-
ing with her eyes hard on mine — then when I ex-
plained it was for inside work on the robbery she eased
up, got cool and nodded her head at me, politely agree-
ing. She understood perfectly and would go wherever
she was wanted; she was glad to do anything that would
be of assistance; no one was more anxious than she to
help the family in their distress, and so forth and so
OIl. -
On the way in she was quiet, but I don’t think as
peaceful as she acted. She asked me some questions
about my work. I answered brisk and bright and she
said it must be a very interesting profession. I’ve seen
nervy people in my time but no woman that beat her
for cool sand, and the way I’m built I can’t help but
respect courage no matter what the person’s like who
has it. Before we reached town I was full of admira-
tion for that girl who, as far as I could judge, was a
crook from the ground up.
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When we reached the office I was called into an inner
room where the Chief and Mr. George were waiting. I
gave them my paper with the 'phone message on it, and
answered the few questions they had to ask. I learned
then that they'd got hold of more evidence against her.
O'Malley had snooped round the Gayle Street locality
and heard that on Friday morning about half-past
eleven a taxi, containing a child resembling Bébita, had
been seen opposite a book bindery on the corner of
the block. I didn’t hear any particulars but I saw
by the Chief's manner, quiet and sort of absorbed, and
by Mr. George, like a blue-ribbon pup straining at the
leash, that they had Esther Maitland dead to rights and
the end was in sight.
After that I was sent back into the hall where I’d
left her and told to bring her into the old man’s private
office. We went up the passage, a murmur of voices
growing louder as we advanced. She was ahead and,
as the door opened, she stopped for a moment on the
threshold, quick, like a horse that wants to shy. Over
her shoulder I could see in, and I don’t wonder she
pulled up — any one would. There, beside the Chief
and Mr. George, were the two old Janneys and Mrs.
Price, sitting stiff as statues, each of them with their
eyes on her, gimlet-sharp and gimlet-hard. They said
some sort of “How d'ye do * business and made bows
like Chinese mandarins, but their faces would have made
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a chorus girl get thoughtful. I guessed then they knew
about the tapped message and had come to see Miss
Maitland get the third degree. She scented the trouble
ahead too — I don’t see how she could have helped it;
there was thunder in the air. But she said good-
morning to them, cordial and easy, and walked over to
the chair Mr. George pushed forward for her.
Sitting there in the midst of them, she looked at the
Chief, politely inquiring, and I couldn’t help but think
she was a winner. Mrs. Price, all weazened up and
washed out, was like a cosmetic advertisement beside
her. She held herself very straight, her hands folded
together in her lap, her head up cool and proud. She
had on the white hat with the wreath of grapes and a
wash-silk dress of white with lilac stripes that set easy
over her fine shoulders, and, believe me, bad or good, she
was a thoroughbred.
The Chief, turning himself round toward her with
a hitch of his chair, began as bland and friendly as if
they’d just met at a tea-fest.
“We’re very sorry to bother you again, Miss Mait-
land. But certain facts have come up since you were
here that make it necessary for me to ask you a few
more questions.”
She just inclined her head a little and murmured:
“It’s no bother at all, Mr. Whitney. I’m only too
anxious to help in any way I can.”
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Honest-to-God I think the Chief got a jar; the
words came as smooth and as cool as cream just off
the ice. For a second he looked at his desk and moved
a paper knife very careful, as if it was precious and he
was afraid of breaking it.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Miss Maitland.
It’s not only what one would expect you to feel, but it
makes me sure that you will be willing to explain cer-
tain circumstances concerning yourself and your — er
— activities — that have — well — er — rather puzzled
us.”
It was my business to watch her and even if it hadn’t
been I couldn’t have helped doing it. I saw just two
things — the light strike white across the breast of her
blouse where a quick breath lifted it, and, for a second,
her hands close tight till the knuckles shone. Then
they relaxed and she said very softly:
“Certainly. I’ll explain anything.”
“Very good. I was sure you would.” He leaned
forward, one arm on the desk, his big shoulders hunched,
his eyes sharp on her but still very kind. “We have
discovered — of course you’ll understand that our de-
tectives have been busy in all directions — that nearly
a month ago you took a room at 76 Gayle Street. Now
that I should ask about this may seem an unwarranted
impertinence, but I would like to know just why you
took that room.”
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There was a slight pause. Mrs. Price, who was sit-
ting next to me, an empty chair in front of her, rustled
and in the moment of silence I could hear her breathing,
short and catchy, like it was coming hard. Miss Mait-
land, who, as the Chief had spoken, had dropped her
eyes to her hands, looked up at him:
“I have no objection to telling you. I took it for
a school friend of mine — Aggie Brown, a girl I hadn’t
seen for years. A month ago she wrote me from St.
Louis and told me she was coming to New York to
study art and asked me to engage a room for her.
She said she had very little money and it must be in-
expensive. I had heard of that place from other girls
— that it was respectable and cheap — so I engaged the
room. It so happens that my friend is not yet in
New York. She was delayed by illness in her family.”
I sent a look around and caught them like pictures
going quick in a movie — Mr. Janney glimpsing side-
ways, worried and frowning, at his wife, Mr. George, his
arm on the back of his chair, pulling at his little blonde
mustache and twisting his mouth around, and the Chief
pawing absent-minded after the paper knife. Miss
Maitland, with her chin up and her shoulders square,
had her eye on him, attentive and steady, like a soldier
waiting for orders.
Then out of the silence came Mrs. Janney’s voice,
rumbling like distant thunder:
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Molly's Story
“But you went to that room yourself?”
The Chief’s hand made a quick wave at her for
silence. Miss Maitland didn’t seem to notice it; she
turned to Mrs. Janney and answered:
“Yes, several times, Mrs. Janney. I’d had to pay
the rent in advance and I had a key, so when I was in
town and had time to spare I went there. It was quiet
and convenient — I used to write letters and read.”
“Would you mind telling me why Mr. Chapman Price
went there too?” -
It was the Chief's voice this time, quite low and
oh, so deep and mild. Miss Maitland’s attitude didn’t
change, but again her hands clasped and stayed clasped.
She gave a little, provocative smile, almost as if she
was trying to flirt with him, and said:
“You seem to know a great deal about me and my
affairs, Mr. Whitney.”
He returned the smile, good-humored, as if he liked
the way she’d come back at him.
“A little, Miss Maitland. You see we have had to,
unpleasant but still necessary — you have no objection
to answering?”
“Oh, not the least, only —” her glance swept over
the solemn faces of the others —“I’m afraid Mrs. Jan-
ney may not approve of what I’ve done. I met Mr.
Price there to tell him about Bébita; I was sorry for
him, for the position he was in. He was fond of her
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and he heard almost nothing about her. So I ar-
ranged to give him news of her, tell him how she was,
and little funny things she had said. It wasn’t the
right thing to do but I — I — pitied him so.”
A sound — I can’t call it anything but a grunt —
came from Mrs. Janney. Mr. George, still pulling at
his mustache, shifted uneasily in his chair. Beside me
I could hear that stifled breathing of Mrs. Price, and
her hand, all covered with rings, stole forward and
clasped like a bird’s claw on the chair in front. I
don’t think Miss Maitland noticed any of this. Her
eyes were on the Chief, fixed and sort of defiant. Her
face had lost its calm look; there were pink spots on
her cheek bones.
“A natural thing to do,” said the Chief mildly,
“ though hardly discreet considering the situation.
But we won’t argue about that — we'll pass on to the
business of the moment. Now you told us last time
you were here that you left the taxi in front of Jus-
tin's. Inquiries there of the doorman have elicited
the information that he remembers the cab and the
child, and says it was still there when you came out and
that you got into it and drove away.”
“How can the doorman at a place where hundreds
of carriages stop every day remember the people in
each one?” All the softness was gone out of her
voice and her face began to look different, as if it had
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Molly's Story
grown thinner. “It’s absurd—he couldn’t possibly
be sure of every woman and child who stopped there.
My word is against his, and it seems to me I’m much
more likely to know what I did than he is — especially
that day.”
“Certainly, certainly.” The Chief was all kindly
understanding. “Under the circumstances every event
of that morning should be impressed on your memory.
But another fact has come up that seems to us curious.
One of our detectives has heard from a clerk in a book
bindery at the corner near 76 Gayle Street, that on
Friday last, at about half-past eleven, he saw a taxi
standing at the curb there. He noticed a child in it
talking to the driver and his description of this child,
her appearance and clothes, is a very accurate descrip-
tion of Bébita.”
He looked at her over his glasses, with a sort of
ominous, waiting attention. I’d have wilted under it,
but she didn’t, only what had been a restrained quiet-
ness gave place to a sort of steely tension. You could
see that her body all over was as rigid as the hands
clenched together, the fingers knotted round each other.
It was will and a fighting spirit that kept her up. I
began to feel my own muscles drawing tight, wondering
if she’d get through and praying that she would — I
don’t know why.
“It’s quite possible that this man — this clerk —
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
may have seen such a taxi with such a child in it.
There must be a great many little girls in New York
whose description would fit Bébita. I dare say if your
detective had gone about the city he would have heard
of any number of cabs and children that would have
fitted just as well. I can’t imagine why you’re asking
me these questions or why you don’t seem to believe
what I say. But even if you don’t believe it, that
won’t prevent me from sticking to it.”
“A commendable spirit, Miss Maitland, when one is
sure of one’s facts,” said the Chief, and suddenly push-
ing back his chair he rose. “Now I’ve just one more
matter to call to your attention, a little memorandum
here, which, if you’ll be good enough to explain, we'll
end this rather trying interview.”
He went over to her, fumbling in his vest pocket,
and then drew out my folded paper and put it into her
hand: .
“It’s the record of a telephone message received by
you yesterday at Grasslands, and tapped by our de-
tective, Miss Rogers.”
He stepped back and stood leaning against the desk
watching her. We all did; there wasn’t an eye in that
room which wasn’t glued on that unfortunate girl as
she opened the paper and read the words.
It was a knock-out blow. I knew it would be — I
didn’t see how it couldn’t — and yet she’d put up such a
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Molly's Story
fight that some way or other I thought she’d pull out.
But that bowled her over like a nine pin.
She turned as white as the paper and her hands hold-
ing it shook so you could hear it rustle. Then she
looked up and her eyes were awful — hunted, desperate.
Yet she made a last frantic effort, with her face like a
death mask and all the breath so gone out of her she
had only a hoarse thread of voice:
“I — I — don’t know what this is — oh, yes, yes, I
mean I do. But it — it refers to something else —
it’s — it’s — that friend of mine — Aggie Brown from
St. Louis—she's come and Mr. Price—"
She couldn’t go on; her lips couldn’t get out any
words. You could see the brain behind them had had
such a shock it wouldn’t work. -
“Miss Maitland,” said the Chief, solemn as an execu-
tioner, “we’ve got you where you can’t keep this up.
There’s no use in these evasions and denials. Where is
Bébita P 2°
“I don’t know — I don’t know anything about her.
I swear to Heaven I don’t.” .
She raised her voice with the last words and looked
at them, round at those stony faces, wild like an animal
cornered.
“What’s the matter with you? Why do you think
I’d be a party to such a thing? Why don’t you be-
lieve me — why can’t you believe me? And you don’t
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
— not one of you. You think I’m guilty of this in-
famous thing. All right, think it. Do what you like
with me — arrest me, put me in jail, I don’t care.”
She put her hands over her face and collapsed down
in her chair, like a spring that had held her up had
broken. That breathing beside me had grown so loud
it sounded as if it came from some one running the
last lap of a race. Now it suddenly broke into a sound
— more like a growl than anything else — and Mrs.
Price got up, shuffling and shaking, her hands holding
on to the chair in front.
“She ought to be put in jail,” she gasped out.
“She’s bad right through — everything she’s said is a
lie. And she’s a thief too.”
There was a movement of consternation among them
all — getting up, pushing back chairs, several voices
speaking together:
“Keep quiet.”
“Mrs. Price, I beg of you —”
“Suzanne, sit down.”
But she went on, looking like a withered old witch,
with her bird-like hands clutched on the chair back:
“I won’t sit down, I won’t keep quiet. I’ve sat here
listening to all this and I’ve had enough. I’m crazy;
my baby’s gone; she’s taken it, she's taken every-
thing —” She turned to her mother. “She took your
jewels — I know it.”
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Molly's Story
Mr. Janney burst in like a bombshell. I never
thought he could break loose that way, with his voice
shrill and a shaking finger pointing into his step-
daughter's face.
“Stop this. I can’t stand for it — I know some-
thing about that — I saw —”
But she wouldn’t stop, no one could make her:
“I saw too, and I’m going to tell you. I don’t
care what you say, I don’t care what you think of me
— my heart's broken and I don't care for anything
but to have my baby back.” She addressed her mother
again. “I went to take your jewels that night. Yes,
I did; I went to steal them — not all of them — just
that long diamond chain you never wear. You know
why; you knew I hadn’t any money and that I had
to have it. I was going to sell it and put what I got
in stocks and if I was lucky buy it back so you’d never
know. It was I who took Bébita’s torch — that’s
why it was lost — and I went down to the safe. I’d
found the combination in a drawer in the library and
learnt it. And when I opened it everything was gone.
Some one had been there before me, the cases were all
together in their box but they were empty.” She
clawed at the embroidered purse hanging on her arm
and began to jerk at the cord, pulling it open. “But
I found something, something the thief had dropped,
lying on the floor just inside the door.” She drew out
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
a twist of tissue paper, and unrolling it held it toward
the Chief; “I found that.”
He took it, scrutinizing it, puzzled, through his
glasses. Every one of us except Miss Maitland, all
standing now, craned forward to see. It was a pointed
pink thing about as big as the end of my little finger.
The Chief touched it and said:
“It looks like a small rose.”
“Yes, a chiffon rosebud,” Mrs. Price cried, “and
she,” pointing to Miss Maitland, “wore a dress that
night trimmed with them.”
We all turned, as if we were a piece of mechanism
worked by the same spring, and stared at Miss Mait-
land. She sat in the chair, not moving, looking straight
before her, weary and indifferent. The Chief held out
toward her the piece of paper with the rose on the
middle of it.
“Have you a dress trimmed with these?”
She moved her eyes so they rested on the rose, ran
her tongue along her lips and said:
66 Yes.”
“Did you wear it on the night of the robbery?”
&g Yes.”
“Did you hear what Mrs. Price has just said?”
66 Yes.”
“What explanation do you make?”
“None — except that I don’t know how it got there.”
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Molly's Story
-
“You deny that you were there yourself that
night?”
“Yes — I was never near the safe that night; I
haven’t the slightest idea how the rose came to be in
it; I never took the jewels; I have had nothing to do
with Bébita’s disappearance; I haven’t done any of the
things you think I’ve done. But what’s the good of
my saying so — what’s the good of answering at all?”
She dropped her face into her hands, her elbows propped
on her knees. The attitude, the tone of her voice,
everything about her, suggested an “Oh-what’s-the-
use!” feeling. From behind her hands the words came
dull and listless. “Do anything you like with me;
it doesn’t make any difference. You think you’ve got
me cornered; that being the case, I’ll do whatever you
say.”
Mrs. Janney made a step toward her:
“Miss Maitland, I’ll agree to let the whole matter
drop — hush it up and let you go without a word — if
you’ll tell us where Bébita is.”
Without moving her hands the girl answered:
“I can’t tell, for I don’t know.”
Mrs. Price sank into her chair with a loud, sobbing
wail. Some one took her away — Mr. George, I think.
Then Mr. Janney had his say:
“If you’re doing this to protect Price —”
She cut him off with a laugh, at least it was meant
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to be a laugh, but it was a horrible, harsh sound. As
she gave it she lifted her head and cast a look at him,
bitter and defiant:
“Protect him! I’ve no more desire to protect Mr.
Price than I have to protect myself.”
The Chief's voice fell deep as the church bell at a
funeral:
“If you maintain this attitude, Miss Maitland,
there’s nothing for us to do but let the law take its
course. Theft and kidnaping! Those are pretty seri-
ous charges.”
She nodded:
“I suppose they are. Let the law do whatever it
wants; I'm certainly not standing in its way. But as
for bribing and frightening me into admitting what
isn't true, you can’t do it. All your money,” she
looked at Mrs. Janney and then at the Chief, “and
all your threats won’t influence me or make me change
one word of what I’ve said.”
No one spoke for a minute. She sat silent, her chin
on her hands, her eyes staring past them out of the
window. I had a feeling that in spite of the position
she was in and what they had on her, in a sort of way
she had them beaten. Their faces were glum and
baffled, even the Chief had an abstracted expression like
he was thinking what he ought to do with her. When
he spoke it was to the Janneys:
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Molly's Story 2.
“Since Miss Maitland persists in her present pose of
ignorance and denial, the best thing for us is to get to-
gether and decide on our course of action.” He
glanced across at me. “We’ll leave you here, Molly.
Stay till we come back.”
Away they went, a solemn procession, trailing across
the room. When the door into the main office opened
I could hear Mrs. Price crying, and I watched them,
catching Mrs. Janney’s words as she disappeared:
“Oh, Suzanne, my poor, poor, girl! Don’t give up —
don’t be discouraged — we'll find her!!”
It gripped me, made a sort of prickling come in my
nose and a twisty feeling in my under lip. I never
could have believed that stern old Roman could have
spoken so tender and loving to any one.
When I looked at Miss Maitland I forgot all about
suffering mothers. She’d sunk down in the chair, her
head resting against its back, her eyes closed. She was
as white as a corpse, and I wheeled about looking round
the room for some kind of first aid and muttering,
“Gee, she’s fainted!”
A whisper came out of her lips:
“Nothing — all right — in a minute.”
There was a bottle of distilled water in a corner
and I went to it, drew off a glass and brought it to
her. She couldn’t hold it and I took her round the
shoulders and pulled her up, saying out of the inner
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
depths of me, that's always mushy about anything hurt
and forlorn:
“You, poor soul, here take this. I’m sorry for you,
and I can’t help being sorry that I had to give you
away.”
I held the glass to her lips and she drank a little.
Then I let her fall back and stood watching her, and I
felt mean. She raised her eyes and sent a look into
mine that I’ll never forget — it made me feel meaner
than a yellow dog — for it was the look of a suffering
soul.
“Thanks,” was all she said.
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
She would go wherever they wanted, place herself under
the surveillance of the two women, and do whatever was
asked of her. She went off in a taxi with O'Malley, and
Molly was sent back to Grasslands. There was no need
of her services in town and it was probable that Chap-
man, believing his confederate to be there, would call
up the place.
The Janney party returned to the hotel, a silent,
gloomy trio. The old people were very gentle to
Suzanne. On the drive up, Mrs. Janney held her in the
hollow of her arm, pressed close, yearning over her in
her shame and sorrow and feebleness. To the strong
woman she was a child again, a soft, helpless thing.
The mother blamed herself for having been hard on
her. -
After lunch old Sam suggested a drive — the air
would do them good. They tried to persuade Suzanne
to come, but the young woman, prone on the sofa, a
salts bottle at hand, refused to stir. She wanted to be
quiet; she wanted to rest. So, knowing the uselessness
of argument, they kissed her and went. -
Alone, she lay on her back staring at the wall in
a trance-like concentration. Her expression did not
suggest the state of crushed shame under which her
parents thought she languished. In fact her past ac-
tions had no place in her mind; she had forgotten her
confession in the office. An idea, formidable and
238


Signed “Clansmen’
obsessing, had taken possession of her, settled on her
like a shadow. It was possible that their conclusions
were wrong.
She had had it from the start, off and on, coming
at her in rushes of disintegrating doubt. She had said
nothing about it, had tried to force it down, and, talk-
ing to them, had been reassured by their unquestioning
certainty. Now the scene in the office had strength-
ened it — something about Esther Maitland, she didn't
know what. She had assured herself then — she tried
to do it now — that there could be no mistake, they
had proofs, the girl hadn’t been able to explain any-
thing. But she could not argue it away; it persisted,
stronger than thought, power or will, unescapable like
the horror of a dream.
It came from an instinct that kept whispering deep
down in the recesses of her being, “Chapman couldn't
have done it.” She knew him better than the others
did, the vagaries of his ugly temper, the lines his weak-
nesses ran upon. She knew him through and through,
to what lengths anger might urge him, what he could
do when aroused and what he never could do. And
trying to convince herself of his guilt, marshaling the
facts against him, going over them point by point, she
couldn’t make herself believe that he had stolen Bébita.
And if he hadn’t, then where was she?
This was the hideous thought, pressing in upon her
239


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
recognition, intrusive as Banquo's ghost and as terrible.
She writhed under its torment, twisting and turning un-
til her clothes were wound about her in a tangled coil,
moaning as her imagination touched at and recoiled
from grisly possibilities.
She was lying thus when the door-bell rang. Glad
of any interruption she sat up, and, swinging her feet
to the floor, called out a sharp “Come in.” A bell-boy
entered with a letter which he presented with the in-
formation that Mr. Janney had ordered all mail to be
brought immediately to the rooms. The letter was
for her, addressed in typewriting, and as the boy with-
drew she rose, heavy-eyed and heavy-headed, and tore
open the envelope. The first line brought a thin,
choked cry out of her, and then she stood motionless,
her glance devouring the words. Dated the day be-
fore, typewritten on a single sheet of commercial paper,
it ran as follows:
“Mrs. Suzanne Price,
DEAR MADAM:
We have your little girl. She is safe with us and will con-
tinue to be if you act in good faith and accede to our de-
mands. We frankly state that our object in taking her was
ransom and we are now ready to enter upon negotiations with
you. This, however, only upon certain conditions. All trans-
actions between us must be conducted with absolute secrecy. If
any member of your family is told, if the police are notified, be
assured that we will know it, and that it will react upon your
child. Let it be clearly understood—if you inform against us,
if you make an attempt to trap or apprehend us, she will pay the
240 -


Signed “Clansmen’
price. We hold her as a hostage; her fate is in your hands. If,
however, you know of a person in no wise involved or connected
with you or your family, having no personal interest in the matter,
and of whose discretion and reliability you are convinced, we are
willing to deal through them. Copy the form below, fill in blank
spaces with name and address and insert in Daily Record per-
sonals.
(Name). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(Address). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
CLANs.MEN.”
Suzanne's hand holding the paper dropped to her
side and she looked about the room with eyes vacant
and unseeing. All her outward forces were shocked into
temporary suspension; for a moment she had no real-
ization of where or who she was. The letter was the
only fact she recognized and sentences from it chased
through her consciousness: “We hold her as a
hostage, her fate is in your hands. She is safe with us
if you accede to our demands.” She saw them written
on the walls, they boomed in her ears like notes of
doom. It was confirmation of that instinct she had
tried to smother; like the wand of a baleful genii it
had transformed her nightmare fancies into sinister
reality. -
She felt a shriek rising to her lips and pressed her
hand against them. Secrecy, silence, her stunned brain
had grasped that and directed her restraining hand.
Then the one deep feeling of her shallow nature called
241


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
her shattered faculties into order. Love lent her
power, steadied her, gave her the will to act.
She sat down on the sofa and read the letter again,
slowly, getting its full significance. For the first time
in her life responsibility was cast upon her; she could
throw the burden on no one else. By her own efforts,
by her own courage and initiative, she must get Bébita
back. She whispered it over, “I must do it. I must
do it myself,” then fell silent, her face stony in its ten-
sion of thought. Suddenly its rigidity broke; in an
illuminating flash she saw the first step clear, and
rising ran to the telephone. The person she called up
was Larkin. He answered himself and she told him
she wanted to see him on a matter of great importance
and would come at once to his office.
Fifteen minutes later, her face hidden by a chiffon
veil, her rumpled smartness covered with a silk motor
coat, she was knocking at his door.
Mr. Larkin’s office was cool and shady, the blinds half
lowered to keep out the glare of the afternoon sun. In
the midst of its airy neatness, surrounded by an im-
posing array of desks, card cabinets, typewriters and
files, Mr. Larkin was waiting alone for his important
client.
She dropped into the chair he set for her, and, push-
ing up her veil, revealed a countenance so bereft of the
petulant prettiness he knew, that he started and stood
242


Signed “Clansmen º'
gazing in open concern. The sight of his astonishment
caused the tears to well into Suzanne's eyes, drowned
and sunken by past floods, and her story to break
without prelude from her lips.
Larkin’s surprise at her appearance gave place to
a tight-gripped interest when he grasped the main
fact of her narrative. He let her run through it with-
out interruption nodding now and then, a frowning
sidelong glance on her face.
When she had finished he drew a deep breath and
said:
“The moment I saw you, I knew something was
wrong. But this —” he raised his hands and let them
drop on the desk —“Good Lord! I hadn’t an idea it
was anything so serious.”
But she hadn’t finished — the worst, the thing that
had brought her — she had yet to tell. And she be-
gan about the letter received an hour ago. At that
Larkin forgot his sympathies, was the detective again,
hardly concealing his impatience as he watched her
fumbling at the cords of her purse. Finally extracted
and given to him he read it, once and then again, Su-
zanne eyeing him like a hungry dog.
“Last evening,” he muttered after a scrutiny of the
postmark, “Grand Central Station.” Then he rose,
went to the window and, jerking up the blind, held the
paper against the light, sniffed at it, and felt its texture
243


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
between his thumb and finger. Suzanne saw him shake
his head, her avid glance following him as he came
back to the desk and studied the sheet through a mag-
nifying glass.
“Nothing to be got that way,” he said. “Type-
paper — impossible to trace. No amateur business
about this.”
Suzanne's voice was husky:
“Do you mean it’s professional people — a gang?”
“I can’t say exactly. But from what you tell me
— the way it was accomplished, the plan of action —
I should be inclined to think it was the work of more
than one person — possibly a group — who had ability
and experience.”
Suzanne, clutching at the corner of the desk with a
trembling hand, cried in her misery:
“Oh, Mr. Larkin, you don’t think they’ll hurt her.
They wouldn’t dare to hurt her?”
The detective’s glance was kindly but grave:
“Mrs. Price, I’ll speak frankly. I think your child
is in the hands of a pretty desperate person or persons.
But I have no apprehension that they’ll do her any
harm. They don’t want to do that — it’s too danger-
ous. What they might do if their plans fail is a thing
we’ll not consider — it’ll only weaken your nerve. And
that’s what you’ve got to keep hold of. You'll get her
back all right, but you must be cool and brave.”
244


Signed “Clansmen’”
“I’ll be anything; I’ll be like another person. I’ll
do anything. No one need be afraid I’ll be weak or
silly now.”
“Good — that’s the way to talk. Now let me know
a little about the way the situation stands. It’s odd
I’ve seen nothing about this in the papers — heard
nothing. Your family must be active in some direc-
tion. What are they doing?”
A sudden color burnt in her wasted cheeks.
“They suspect my husband. They think he did it
— to — to — get square. We’d quarreled — sepa-
rated — and he'd made threats.”
“Ah, yes, yes, I see — kidnaped his own child, and
they’re keeping it quiet. I understand perfectly. But
gyou didn’t believe this?”
She shook her head and bit on her underlip to con-
trol its trembling.
“No — I couldn’t, though I tried to. I knew he
wouldn’t have done it — it’s not — it’s not — like him.
And then while I was thinking the letter came, and I
knew, no matter what they thought, no matter what
the facts were, that that was true.”
“Um,” Larkin, his mouth compressed, nodded in
understanding. “You would know better than any
one else. In these matters instinct is one of the most
important factors.” He was silent for a moment, then
looked at her, a glance of piercing question. “Do I
245


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
understand that you are willing to enter into these
negotiations?”
“Willing!” she cried. “Why should I be here if
I wasn’t willing?”
“Yes, yes, exactly, but let us understand one an-
other. What I mean is are you willing — realizing
what they are — to deal with them on their own terms?
In short, pay them what they ask and let them
go?”
“Of course.” She almost cried it out in her effort
to make him comprehend her position. “That’s what
I want to do; that’s why I haven’t told any of my own
people and won’t. I’d have gone straight to my mother
with this but I knew she wouldn’t agree to it, she'd
get the police, want to fight them and bring them to
justice.”
“Could you be relied on to maintain the secrecy
necessary?”
“I can be relied on for anything. Oh, Mr. Larkin,
if you knew what I feel you wouldn’t waste time ask-
ing these questions.”
He answered very gently:
“Mrs. Price, I appreciate your feelings to the full,
but this is a hazardous undertaking. You don’t want
to rush into it without realizing what it means. There
is the question of money for example — the ransom.
Your family is known for its wealth. You can be
246


Signed “Clansmen. "
pretty certain that the parties you’re dealing with will
hold the child for a large sum.”
Suzanne clasped her hands on her breast and the
tears, brimming in her eyes, spilled over, falling in a
trickle down her cheeks.
“Oh, what's money!” she wailed. “I’d give all the
money I have, I’ve ever had, I ever thought of having,
to get my baby back.”
Larkin was moved. He looked away from that piti-
ful, quivering face and his voice showed a slight huski-
ness as he answered:
“Well, that’s all right, Mrs. Price — and don’t take
it so hard, don’t let your fears get the upper hand.
There’s no harm can come to her; it’s to their interest
to take care of her. If we do our part cleverly, follow
their instructions and keep our heads, you’ll have her
back in no time.” He stopped, arrested by a sudden
thought. “I say “we,” but maybe I’m presupposing too
much. Was it your intention to ask for my assist-
ance?” -
She dashed her tears away and leaned forward in
eager urgence:
“Of course — that’s why I came. And you will give
it — you will? The letter says it has to be some one
having no ties or interests with the family — some one
I could trust. I couldn’t think of any one at first, and
then when I remembered you it was like an inspiration.
247


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
Oh, you must do it — I’ll pay you anything if you
will.”
Larkin’s face satisfied her; she dropped back with a
moan of relief.
“I’ll undertake it willingly — not only to give you
any help I can, but because it will be a good thing for
me. Don’t be shocked at my plain speaking, but I
want to be frank and straight with you. I’m not
referring to pay — we can arrange about that later —
it’s work done for the Janney family, successful work.
And with your coöperation, Mrs. Price, this is going to
be successful. Now let’s get to business.” He picked
up the letter and glanced over it. “Headed “Clans-
men’ and signed “S. O. S.’ I’ll copy it, insert my name
and address, and have it in to-morrow’s Daily Record.
Then we’ll see what happens.”
He smiled at her, reassuring and kindly. There was
no response in her tragic face.
“It may be days before they answer,” she murmured.
But he was determined to uphold her fainting spirit.
“I think not. They want to end this thing as
quickly as they can — get their loot and go. You’ve
got to remember that their position is terribly danger-
ous and at the first sign from us they’ll get busy.”
She rose, took the letter and put it in her purse:
“I hope to Heaven you’re right. It’s so awful to
wait.”
248


Signed “Clansmen’
“I don’t think you’ll have to. They’ll see our an-
swer to-morrow morning and I’ll expect a move from
them by that evening or the next day. If they com-
municate with me, I’ll let you know at once, and if you
hear, do the same by me. It’s going to be all right.
Keep up your courage and remember — not a word
or a sign to any one.”
“Oh, I know,” she said, drawing down her veil with
limp hands, “you needn’t be afraid I’ll spoil it. You
thought me a fool, perhaps, when I first consulted
you, and I was, bothering about things that didn’t mat-
ter — jewels | There isn’t one of us that hasn’t for-
gotten all about them now. Good-by. No, don’t come
out with me. I have a taxi waiting.”
249


CHAPTER XXII
SUZANNE FINDS A FRIEND
N Monday evening Ferguson heard from Molly
of the scene in the Whitney office. He was
incredulous and enraged, refusing to accept
what she insisted were irrefutable proofs of Esther’s
guilt.
“What do I care about your 'phone messages and
your suppositions!” he had almost shouted at her.
“What do I care about what you think. You say she
didn’t answer the charges — she did, she denied them.
That’s enough for me.”
There was no use arguing with him, he was beyond
reason. She lapsed into silence, letting him rage on,
seething in his wrath at the Janneys, the Whitneys,
herself. When he tried to find out where Esther was,
she was obdurate — that she couldn’t tell him. All
the satisfaction he got was that Miss Maitland was
not under arrest, that she was “put away somewhere *
and had agreed to the arrangement. He left, too
angry for good-nights, with a last scattering of male-
250


Suzanne Finds a Friend
dictions, leaping down the steps and swinging off across
the garden.
The next morning he telephoned in to the St. Boniface
Hotel and heard that the Janney party were out. Then
he tried the Whitney office, got George on the wire,
and was told brusquely that Miss Maitland’s where-
abouts could not be divulged to any one. He spent
the rest of the day in a state of morose disquiet, deny-
ing himself to visitors, short and surly with his servants.
Willitts was solicitous, inquired after his health and
was told to go to the devil. In the kitchen quarters
they talked about his queer behavior; the butler was
afraid he’d had “a touch of sun.”
Wednesday wore through to the early afternoon and
his inaction became unendurable. He decided to go
into town, look up the Janneys and force them to tell
him where Esther was. He laid upon his spirit a cau-
tioning charge of self-control; he must keep his head
and his temper, use strategy before coercion. He had
no idea of what he intended doing when he did find her,
but the idea of getting to her, seeing her, championing
her, transformed his moody restlessness into a savage
energy. His servants flew before his commands; in
the garage the chauffeur muttered angrily as orders to
hurry were shouted at him from the drive.
Tuesday had been a day of strain for the Janneys.
According to the telephone message, that night Chap-
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
man was to move the child from the city. He had been
under a close surveillance for the two preceding days,
and every depot and ferry housed watching detectives.
Hope ran high until after midnight when reports and
'phone messages came dropping in upon the group con-
gregated in the library of the Whitney house. No
child resembling Bébita had left the city at any of the
guarded points. Chapman had been in his office all
day, had dined at a hotel and afterward had gone to
his rooms and remained there. The plan of moving
her had either been abandoned or had been intrusted
to unknown parties who had taken her by motor
through the city’s northern end.
On Wednesday morning a consultation had been held
at the Whitney office. This had been stormy, develop-
ing the first disagreements in what had been a unity of
opinion. Mr. Janney was for going to Chapman and
demanding the child and was seconded by the elder
Whitney. Mrs. Janney was in opposition. She had no
fear for Bébita’s welfare — Chapman could be trusted
to care for her — and maintained that a direct appeal
to him would be an admission of weakness and place
them at his mercy. In her opinion he would threaten
exposure — he was shameless — or make an offer of a
financial settlement. George agreed with her; from the
start he had thought Chapman was actuated less by a
desire for vengeance than a hope of gain. Mrs. Jan-
252


Suzanne Finds a Friend
ney, thus backed up, became adamant. She would have
no dealings with him, would run him to earth, and when
he was caught, crush and ruin him.
Suzanne had listened to it all very silent and taking
neither side. Her hunted air was set down to mental
strain and she was allowed to remain an unconsulted
spectator, treated by everybody with subdued gentle-
ness. Back in the hotel, Mrs. Janney had suggested a
doctor, but her querulous pleadings to be let alone had
conquered, and the old people had gone for their after-
noon drive, leaving her in the curtained quietness of the
sitting room.
The door was hardly shut on them when she drew out
of her belt a letter. She had found it in her room on
her return from the office and had read it there before
lunch. It was a prompter answer than she had dared
to hope for.
“Mrs. Suzanne Price,
DEAR MADAM:
In answer to your ad. we would say that we are willing to deal
through the agent you name. We take your word for it that he
is to be trusted, that both you and he understand any attempt
to betray us will be visited on your child.
Remember Charley Ross 1 -
The sum necessary for her release will be thirty thousand dol-
lars. On payment of this we will deliver her over at a time and
place to be specified later. If you agree to our terms insert fol-
lowing ad. in the Daily Record. “John—O. K. See you later.
Mary.’
(Signed) CLANs MEN.”
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
On the second perusal of this ominous document Su-
zanne felt the strangling rush of dread, the breathless
contraction of the heart, that had seized her when she
first read it. Horrors had piled on horrors — as she
had risen to each new step of her progress up this Via
Dolorosa, another more fearful and unsurmountable
had faced her. When she had spoken to Larkin of the
money she had never thought of it, how much it might
be, how she was to get it. Now, with a stunning im-
pact, she was brought against the appalling fact that
she had none of her own and did not dare ask her
mother for any.
There was no use in lies; she had lied too much and
too diversely to be believed. She would have to tell
what it was for, and she knew the mood in which her
mother would meet the demand. Money would be forth-
coming — any amount — but Mrs. Janney, with her
iron nerve and her implacable spirit, would never con-
sent to a tame submission. Suzanne knew that her
fortune and her energies would be spent in an effort to
apprehend the criminals, and Suzanne had not the
courage to take a chance. All she wanted was Bébita,
back in her arms again, the fiends who had taken her
could go free. -
She sat down, pushing the damp hair from her fore-
head and trying to think. One fact stood out in the
midst of her blind, confused suffering. She could not
254


Suzanne Finds a Friend
go to Larkin till she had the thirty thousand dollars.
Every moment she sat there was a moment lost, a mo-
ment added to Bébita’s term of imprisonment. She
stared about the room, the gleam of her shifting eyes,
the rise and fall of her breast, the only movements in
her stone-still figure.
Suddenly, piercing her tense preoccupation with a
buzzing note, came the sound of the telephone. It made
her jump, then mechanically, hardly conscious of her
action, she rose to answer it. A woman’s voice, lan-
guidly nasal, came along the wire:
“Mr. Richard Ferguson is calling.”
“Send him up,” she gasped and fumbled back the
receiver with a shaking hand. With the other she
steadied herself against the wall; the room had swung
for a moment, blurred before her vision. She closed
her eyes and breathed out her relief in a moaning exhala-
tion. It was like an answer to prayer, like the finger
of God.
Of course Dick was the person — Dick who could al-
ways be trusted, who could always understand. He
would give it and say nothing; she could make him.
He was not like the others — he would sympathize,
would agree with her, in trouble he was a rock to cling
to. A broken series of answers to unput questions
coursed through her head; she could go to Larkin now
— she needn’t tell him how she’d got it, he thought
255


Suzanne Finds a Friend
He read them slowly, word by word, then turned upon
her a face so charged and vitalized with a fierce in-
terest that, had she been able to see beyond the circle
of her own pain, she would have wondered. If he for-
got to ask for Esther’s hiding place it was because the
larger matter of her vindication had swept all else
from his mind. The proofs of her innocence were in
his hands; he did not for a moment doubt their genu-
ineness. It was what he had thought from the
first.
His manner changed from that of the sympathizing
friend to one of stern authority. He shot questions
at her, tabulating her answers, discarding cumbering
detail, seizing on the important fact and separating
it from the jumble of confused impressions and fancies
that she poured out. A few inquiries set Larkin's posi-
tion clear before him. The money he dismissed with a
curt sentence; of course he would give it, she wasn’t
to think of that any more.
“Thank heaven you decided on me,” he said. “I’ll
straighten this out for you and I’ll do it quick.”
She was ready to take fright at anything and his
eagerness scared her.
“But you’ll not do anything they don’t want?
You'll not tell the police or try to catch them?”
He had seen from the start that she was dominated
by terror, as the kidnapers had intended she should be:
257


Suzanne Finds a Friend
to follow my instructions, keep your nerve and have
a little patience.”
He smiled down at her as she sat, a huddled heap of
finery, on the edge of the sofa. She tried to return
the smile, a grimace of the lips that did not touch her
somber eyes. No man, least of all Dick Ferguson, could
have been angry with her.
“She was crazy,” he said to himself as he walked
down the hall. “They were all crazy and I guess they
had enough to make them so. I’ll get the child back,
and when I do, I’ll make them bite the dust before my
girl.”
Several people who knew him saw Dick Ferguson
driving his black car down Fifth Avenue late that
afternoon. He saw none of them, steering his way
through the traffic, his eyes fixed on the vista in front.
He stopped at Delmonico’s for an early dinner, telling
the waiter to bring him anything that was ready, then
sat with frowning brows staring at his plate. Here
again were people who knew him and wondered at his
gloomy abstraction — not a bit like Ferguson, must
have something on his mind.
Night was falling as he crossed the Queensborough
bridge, a smoldering glow along the west glazing the
surface of the river. When he left the straggling out-
skirts of Brooklyn and reached the open country the
dark had come, deep and velvety, a few bright star
259


Miss Maitland Private Secretary
points pricking through the cope of the sky. He low-
ered his speed, his glance roving ahead to the road and
its edging grasses, startlingly clear under the radiance
of his lamps.
Round him the country brooded in its rest, silence
lying on the pale surface of fields, on the black indis-
tinctness of trees. Here and there the lights of farms
shone, caught and lost through shielding boughs, and
the clustered sparklings of villages. The air was heavy
with scents, the breath of clover knee-high in the grass,
grain still giving off the warmth of the afternoon sun,
and the delicate sweetness of the wild grape draped
over the roadside trees. All this night loveliness in its
fragrant quietness, its rich and penetrating beauty,
reminded him of her. He looked up at the sky, and
its calm and steadfast splendor came to him with a new
meaning. She was related to it all, in tune with the
eternal harmonies, part of everything that was stain-
less and noble and pure. And he would show the world
that she was, clear her of every spot, place her where
she would be as far from suspicion, as serenely above
the meanness of her accusers, as the stars in the crystal
depths of the sky. -
When he reached Council Oaks he had a vision of
her, belonging there, a piece of its life. He saw a fu-
ture, when, coming back like this to its friendly doors,
she would be waiting on the balcony to greet him.
260


Suzanne Finds a Friend
There was no one there now; the house was still, its
lights shining across the pebbled drive. Obsessed by
his thoughts, he jumped out, and leaving the car at
the steps, entered. From the kitchen wing he could
hear the servants’ voices raised in cheerful clamor.
Crossing the hall, he had a glimpse through the din-
ing room door of the table, set and waiting for him,
two lamps flanking his place. He had no mind for
food and went upstairs, dreams still holding him. In
his room he switched on the lights and his vacant glance,
sweeping the bureau, brought up on the box with
the crystal lid.
In his mind the robbery had faded into a background
of inconsequential things. It had become a side issue,
a thread in the tangled skein he had pledged himself
to unravel. When Molly had told him of the evidence
against Esther his interest had centered on the charge
of kidnaping — the monstrous and unbelievable charge
of which she almost stood convicted. Even now, as he
looked at the box and remembered what he had hidden
there, it came to his memory not as another weapon
to be used in her defense, but as a souvenir of the mo-
ment when his present passion had flamed into life.
A picture rose of that night, the silver moon spatter-
ings, her hand, white in the white light, with the band
on its third finger. He opened the box to take it out
– it was not there.
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He had seen it a few days before, was certain he had,
shook up the contents, then overturned the box, strew-
ing the studs and pins on the bureau. But it was
fruitless — the band, crushed and flattened as he re-
membered it, was gone. He muttered an angry phrase,
its loss came as a jar on the exaltation of his mood.
Then a soft step on the staircase caught his ear, and
looking up he saw Willitts’ head rise into view. The
man came down the passage and spoke with his cus-
tomary quiet deference:
“I saw the car outside, sir, and knew you’d come
back. Would you like dinner — the cook says she can
have it ready in a minute?”
“No,” Ferguson’s voice was short, “I dined in town.
Look here, I’ve lost something—” he pointed to the
scattered jewelry —“I had a cigar band in that box
and it’s gone. Did you see it?”
Willitts looked at the box and shook his head:
“No, sir. A cigar band, a thing made of paper?”
There was the faintest suggestion of surprise in his
voice.
“Yes, you must have seen it. It was there a few
days ago, underneath all that truck — I saw it myself.”
The man again shook his head and, moving to the
bureau, began to shift the toilet articles and look among
them. -
“I’m afraid I didn’t see it, sir, or if I did I didn’t
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Suzanne Finds a Friend
notice. Maybe it's got strayed away somewhere.”
He continued his search, Ferguson watching him with
moody irritation:
“What the devil could have happened to it? I
put it in there myself, put it in that particular place for
safekeeping.”
Willitts, feeling about the bureau with careful fingers,
said:
“Was it of any value, sir?”
“Yes,” Ferguson having little hope of finding it
turned away and threw himself into a chair, “it was
of great value. I wouldn’t have lost it for anything.
It was evidence —” he stopped, growling a smothered
“Damn.” He had said enough; he didn’t want the
servants chattering.
“I’m very sorry, sir, but it doesn’t seem to be here.
Perhaps the chambermaid threw it away, thinking it
had got in the box my mistake.”
“I daresay — it sounds likely. I wish the people
in this house would let my room alone, control their
mad desire for neatness and leave things where I put
them. Have the car taken to the garage, I’m not
coming down again. If any one calls up I’m out.
Good-night.”
“Good-night, sir,” said Willitts, and softly with-
drew.
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CHAPTER XXIII
MoLLY's story
FTER that Monday night when he went off in
A a rage, Ferguson didn’t show up at Grass-
lands for several days and I had the place to
myself and all the time I wanted. Believe me, I wanted
a lot and made use of it. While the others were con-
centrating on the kidnaping — the big thing that had
absorbed all their interest — I went back to the job I
was engaged for, the robbery. And I went back with
a fresh eye, the old idea cleared out of my head by
Mrs. Price's confession.
She’d explained the light, the light by the safe at
one-thirty. With that out of the way, I could get busy
on the cigar band. I was just aching to do it, for, as
I’d told Ferguson, it was an A 1 starting point. Given
that, there's nothing more exciting in the world than
tracking up from it, following different leads, seeing
if they’ll dovetail, putting bits together like a picture
puzzle.
So I started in and for two days collected data,
ferreted into the movements of every person on the
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
notes and my fountain pen I went out on the side piazza
by Miss Maitland's study; there was a table there and
it was quiet and secluded. So I fixed everything con-
venient and set to work. Taking the cigar band as
the central point I built up from it something like this:
It had been dropped by a man — so few women smoke
cigars you could put that down as certain. It had
been dropped between half-past eight when the storm
stopped and half-past ten when Miss Maitland found
it. The man could not be Mr. Janney who had driven
both ways, nor Dixon or Isaac who had walked to the
village by the road and come back the same route. It
couldn’t have been Otto the chauffeur as he had stayed
at Ferguson’s garage visiting there with Ferguson’s
men. The head gardener had gone to the movies with
the other Grasslands servants, and the under gardeners
had been in their own homes in the village as I had
taken pains to find out. Therefore it was no man
living on the place at that time.
But that it was some one who was familiar with the
house and its interior workings was proved by two
facts: — that the dogs, heard to start barking, had
suddenly quieted down, and that a rose from Miss Mait-
land’s dress had been found inside the safe.
An expert burglar could have got round all the rest,
had a key to the front door, worked out the combina-
tion — the house was virtually empty for over two
266


Molly's Story
hours — it was known that the family and servants
were out. But the most expert burglar in the world
couldn’t have controlled those dogs — Mrs. Price’s Air-
dale was as savage to strangers as a wolf and had a
bark on it like a steam calliope.
The rose figured as a proof this way: It had been
put inside the safe to throw suspicion on Miss Maitland,
the thief was aware that she knew the combination.
This would argue that he was acquainted with the
habits of the household. All social secretaries are not
given the leeway Miss Maitland was; all social secre-
taries aren’t given the combination of a safe where two
hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewels are kept.
The man knew she had it, and tried to fix the guilt on
her. Where his plan slipped up was Mrs. Price com-
ing later, finding the rose, salting it down in a piece of
tissue paper, and, for some reason of her own, not say-
ing a word about it.
How did he get the rose? As far as I could see there
was just one way. Esther Maitland had spent part of
the afternoon of July the seventh altering her evening
dress. Ellen had pinned it up on her and she’d taken
the waist down to her study to sew on as her room was
too hot. When she’d gone upstairs again — it was
Ellen who gave me all this — she'd left part of the
trimming on the desk. The next morning the parlor
maid had given it to Ellen — all cut and picked apart,
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
He blew out a ring, watched it float away into the
darkness and said:
“So am I. But I’ve a small, single compartment
brain that can’t accommodate more than one idea at
a time. And it’s busy just now in another direction.
If you’ll put that forty horse-power one of yours on
this we ought to get round the whole way.” He glanced
sideways at me, his eyes full of meaning. “You’ll
find I can be a very grateful person.”
“Gratitude's a kind of pay I like.”
“Yes — it’s stimulating and it can take more than
one form.” He flung away the cigarette, leaned back
against the post and said: “The worst of it is that
our main exhibit, the cigar band, is gone. I looked
for it last night and found it was lost.”
“Lost!” I sat up quick. He’d told me where he
kept it and right off I thought it was funny. “Gone
out of that box you had it in?”
“Yes. I wanted to see it when I came in — I’d been
in town — and it wasn’t in the box.”
“Had it been there recently?”
“Um — I can’t tell just how recently — perhaps a
week ago.”
“Did you ask about it?”
“Yes, I asked Willitts. He said he hadn’t seen it.”
“Didn’t you tell me you kept studs and jewelry in
that box?”
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
“Some one who knew the family, some one who knew
it was out that night, some one who knew Miss Maitland
had the combination, some one who could have got a key
to the front door, some one the dogs were friendly
with ! ”
He was staring at me as if he was hypnotized – get-
ting a gleam of it but not the full light. I put my
hands on his shoulders and gave them a shake.
“You simp, wake up. It's Willitts!”
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
affair in their hands, then run up to the St. Boniface,
take a room, and have a look in at Suzanne.
He left the house at nine-thirty, telling the butler
he was called to the city on business, and might be gone
a day or two. At the Whitney office he was informed
that Mr. and Mrs. Janney were in consultation with
the heads of the firm, and, saying he would not disturb
them, waited in an outer room from whence he tele-
phoned to Suzanne, telling her he would be at the hotel
later. When the Janneys had gone he was ushered into
the old man’s office where he found the air still vibrat-
ing with the clash of battle. A combined attack had
been made on Mrs. Janney who, under its pressure and
the slow undermining of her confidence by a week of
failure, had given in and consented to a move on Price.
It had been planned for that afternoon, when he was
to be summoned to the office, charged with the kid-
naping and commanded to render up the child.
Whitney and his son listened to Ferguson's story of
the cigar band with unconcealed interest. George,
however, was skeptical — it was ingenious and plausible,
showed Molly’s fine Italian hand; but his mind had
accepted the theory of Esther’s participation and was
of the unelastic, unmalleable kind. His father was
obviously impressed by it, admitting that his original
conviction of the girl’s guilt had been shaken. To
George's indignant rehearsal of the evidence, he ac-
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Cards on the Table
- - -
corded a series of acquiescing nods, agreed that the
facts were against him and maintained his stand. He
would see Willitts as soon as possible and put him
through a grilling examination. O’Malley could be
sent to Council Oaks at once to bring him in, and his
business could be disposed of before they got round to
Price. As Ferguson rose to go George had the re-
ceiver of the desk telephone down and was giving low-
voiced instructions to O'Malley to report immediately
at the office.
It was nearly one when the young man found himself
on the street level. There was no use going to the
St. Boniface now as the family would be at lunch and
speech alone with Suzanne impossible. On the way
uptown he stopped at a restaurant, ordered food which
he hardly touched, filling out the time with cigarettes.
By half-past two he was on the move again, threading
a slow way through the traffic, his eye lingering on
the clock faces that loomed at intervals along the
Avenue. Suzanne had told him that the old people
always went for a drive after lunch and he scanned
the motors that passed him, hoping to see them. He
was in no mood for polite conversation — felt with the
passing of the hours an increasing tension, a gathering
of his forces for a leap and a struggle.
At the desk in the St. Boniface he heard that Mr.
and Mrs. Janney had just gone out, and waited while
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
Mrs. Price's room was called up. There was no re-
sponse; Mrs. Price must be out too. The information
made him uneasy; she had told him she went nowhere
except to Larkin's. More than ever anxious to see her,
he engaged a room and left the message that he would
be there and to be called up when she came in. The
door shut on him, his uneasiness increased; wondering
what had taken her out, wondering if she had done any-
thing foolish, cursing the fate that had placed so much
in her feeble hands, perturbed and restless as a lion in
a cage.
Suzanne had gone to Larkin’s, called there by a
telephone message. It had come almost on the heels
of her parents’ departure and was brief – a request
to come to him as soon as she could. She had scrambled
into her street clothes, and, shaking in every limb,
slipped out of the hotel’s side door and sped across
town in a taxi to hear how Bébita was to be found.
She was hardly inside the door, her veil lifted from a
face as pale as Caesar's ghost, when Larkin answered
her look of agonized question: -
“Yes, the letter’s come — what we expect, very clear
and explicit. It was sent to me this time — came on
the two o'clock delivery.”
He turned to the desk and took up a folded paper.
Before he could offer it to her, she had leaned forward
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Cards on the Table
and snatched it out of his hand. Instantly her eyes
were riveted on the lines:
“Mr. Horace Larkin,
DEAR SIR:
In answer to the ad. in the Daily Record, we are dealing
through you as the agent named by Mrs. Price. We do this
as we realize that a lady of Mrs. Price's type and experience
would be unable to handle alone so important a matter. Be-
fore we enter into details we must again repeat our warnings —
not only the return of the child but her life is dependent on the
actions of her mother and yourself. If you are wise to this and
follow our instructions Bébita will be restored to her family on
Saturday night.
The plan of procedure must be as follows: At eight-thirty a
roadster, containing only the driver and marked by a handker-
chief fastened to the windshield, must leave the village of North
Cresson by the Cresson turnpike, at a rate of speed not exceed-
ing fifteen miles an hour. It must proceed eastward along the
pike for a distance of ten miles. Somewhere during this run a
car will pass it and from its tonneau flash an electric lantern
twice. Follow this car. Make no attempt to hail or to overtake
it. It will turn from the main road and proceed for some dis-
tance. When it stops the driver of the roadster must alight, place
the money at a spot indicated, and submit, without parley, to
being bound and gagged. When this is done the child will be left
beside him. If agreed to insert following personal in The Daily
Record of Saturday morning: “James, meet you at the time
and place specified. Tom.”
(Signed) CLANsMEN.”
The letter fluttered to the desk and Suzanne sank
into a chair. Larkin looked at her; his glance showed
some anxiety but his voice was hearty and encouraging:
“Well, you agree, of course?”
27


Cards on the Table
down. “I don’t think you need worry about their get-
ting away. Now we must settle this up and then I'll
go out and have the ad inserted. We’ve got to hustle
— they’ve only given us a little over twenty-four
hours.”
She looked dazedly at him and murmured:
“What have we got to do?”
“Why —” he was very gentle as to a stupid and
bewildered child —“we have to arrange about this
car — our car, the one that gets the signal.”
“We can hire it, can’t we?”
“Well, we could hire the car, but the driver — we
can’t very well hire him. He must be some one upon
whom we can rely.”
She stared at him, her eyes dilating:
“Yes, yes, of course. I’d forgotten that.”
“Is there any one you can suggest — any one that
you know you could trust and who would be willing
to undertake it?”
“Yes,” the word came with a sudden decision. “I
know some one.” Larkin eyed her sharply. She looked
more alive than she had done since her entrance, seemed
to be vitalized into a roused, responsive intelligence.
“I know exactly the person.”
“Entirely trustworthy?”
“Absolutely. Mr. Ferguson–Dick Ferguson.”
“Oh, yes, Ferguson of Council Oaks.” He mused a
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Cards on the Table
She did not reply, her eyes shifting from his, her teeth
set tight on her quivering underlip. He waited a mo-
ment and then spoke with a new note, dominating, au-
thoritative, as one in command:
“My dear lady, you’ve got to get hold of yourself.
I can’t go on with this if you don’t trust me. We’re
launched on an enterprise by no means easy and if we
don’t pull together we’ll fail, that’s all.”
That steadied her. She dropped his hand and broke
into tremulous protestations:
“I do, I do, Mr. Larkin. It’s only that I’m so ter-
ribly afraid, so upset and desperate. Of course I trust
you. Would I be here, day after day, if I didn’t?”
He was mollified, dropped back with the crisp, alert
manner of the detective.
“All right, we’ll let it go at that. Now as to
Ferguson — you’ll have to get word to him at once.
Is he in the country?”
“No — he's here. I had a telephone from him this
morning to say he was in town and would be at the
hotel later in the day. He’s probably there now, wait-
ing for me.”
“Um!” Larkin considered for a moment. “That’s
lucky. There’s no time to waste. Get his consent
and then 'phone me here. Just a word. And you un-
derstand he’ll have to know the circumstances; he’ll
have to be wise to everything if he’s to play his part.”
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
was just stopping. I lit out for home; I’d got it all
now. He’d gone straight from the doctor’s to Grass-
lands, taken the jewels, and made a short cut back to
the main road through the woods to where he’d hidden
his wheel.
When you get this far on a case there comes over
you a sort of terror that you may slip up. You have
it all in your hand, your fingers are stretched to lay
hold on the criminal, and an awful fear takes possession
of you that right on the threshold of success you may
lose. The cup and the lip — that’s the idea.
This seized me on the ride back to Grasslands. Why
was the cigar band gone if he wasn’t wise to what it
meant? It was a powerful hot day, smothering on the
wood roads, but the way I made that machine shoot
you'd suppose it was a hard frost and I was peddling
to get up my circulation. He might be gone already,
taken fright and skipped! I had a vision of telling
the Chief and what he'd say, and the perspiration came
out on me like the beads on a mint julep glass. I’d
go to town right now — there was an express at eleven
— but before I left I’d call up Council Oaks and find
out if he was there.
As I ran up the piazza steps the hall clock chimed
out a single note, half-past ten — I had plenty of
time. I called to Dixon to order the motor — I was
going to town — whisked into the telephone closet, and
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Molly's Story
made the connection. The voice that answered lifted
me up out of the depths — for I guessed it was Willitts
by the dialect, English, with the “H”s " hanging on
sort of loose and wobbly. To make sure I asked, and
it answered, smooth as a summer sea – yes, I was talk-
ing to Mr. Ferguson’s valet, Willitts. Mr. Ferguson
was not at 'ome, ’ed gone to the city to be away a day
or two. Was there any message? There wasn’t —
you could bet on that — and I eased off in a high-class
society drawl.
With a deep breath I dropped back to normal,
smoothed my feathers, powdered my nose, and when the
motor came round looked like a shy little nursery gov-
erness, snitching a day off in town.
It was at the station that something happened which
ended my peaceful state and gave me an experience
I’ll remember as long as I live.
Just as I was stepping on the train I took a glance
back along the platform and there, close behind me,
dressed as neat as a tailor’s dummy, was Willitts with
a bag in his hand. He didn’t notice me, and if he
had he wouldn’t have known me, for I’d only passed him
once in the village and then he wasn’t looking my way.
I mounted up the steps and went into the car. From
the tail of my eye I saw him in the doorway and when
he’d taken the seat in front of me, I dropped against
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
the back of mine, saying to myself: “Hully Gee, he’s
going!” -
All the way into town, I sat with my eyes on his hat,
thinking what I’d better do. There was one thing
certain — that stood out like the writing on the wall
— I mustn't let him out of my sight. Where he went
I’d have to go, tight as a barnacle I’d have to stick to
that desperado. I tried to think how I could get a
message to the Whitneys’ office, but I didn’t see how I
was going to find the time or the opportunity. If the
worst came to the worst I could call a cop, but if I
knew anything of men like Willitts, he'd keep a watch
out like a warship for periscopes, for anything that
wore brass buttons and connected with the law.
The “Penn " station was as hot as a Turkish bath
and through it you can imagine me, trying to trip light
and airy, and keeping both eyes as tight as steel rivets
on that man’s back. I’ve never shadowed anybody —
it’s not been included in my college course — all I knew
was I mustn't lose him and I mustn't get him suspicious,
and if you’re making away with a fortune in a handbag,
suspicion ought to be your natural state. So I trailed
after him as far in the rear as I dared, sometimes, a
gang rushing for a train coming in between us, some-
times the space clear with him hurrying to the exit
and me sort of loitering and gawking up at the maps
on the ceiling.
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Molly's Story
When I got down on the pavement Willitts was walk-
ing along the cross street back toward Sixth Avenue.
Midway down the block, he stopped and disappeared
through a doorway. I was quite a piece behind him and
when I saw him fade out of sight I forgot everything
and ran. At the door I came up short, panting and
purple in the face — the place was a restaurant. It
had a large plate glass window with white letters on
it and a man making pancakes where he’d show plain-
est. Inside I could see Willitts seating himself at a
littered up table.
“Lunch!” I said to myself. “He’s going to eat,
the cool devil. Now’s my chance!”
Almost directly opposite was a drug store with tele-
phone booths close to the window. I could get a mes-
sage to the office, and if I caught the chief or Mr.
George, I could have a man up in twenty minutes. If
they weren’t there I’d try headquarters, but I was afraid
of that — they’d ask questions, waste time, want to
know who I was and what it was all about. If only
Willitts was hungry, if he’d only eat enough to last
till I got some one, if he'd only order pancakes. As I
waited for the connection I found myself sort of praying
“Pancakes — make him order pancakes. They’re
made in the window and they take quite a while. Please
make him eat pancakes!”
Right in the midst of my prayer came the voice of
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
“Why, hullo,” I said, going at him with my hand out,
“I couldn’t at first believe it — but it is you.”
He drew up quick, all on the alert, looking at me
with hard, ferret eyes.
“Who are you?” he said, fierce and forbidding.
“What do you want?”
I put my head sideways, and tried to take the curse
off the smile, changing it to a sort of trembly sweet-
neSS.
“Why, don't you know me? I can’t be changed
that bad. It’s Rosie.”
I didn’t know what his Christian name was and any-
way, if I had it wouldn’t have helped — a man like
Willitts changes his name as often as he does his ad-
dress. But I had to call him something, so when I saw
the anger rising in his eyes, I said, all broken and
tender like the deserted wife in the last act:
“Dearie, don’t pretend you don’t remember me —
it’s Rosie from the old country.”
He began to look savage, also alarmed:
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never
saw you before in my life.”
He made a movement to pass on, but I drew up close,
wiped off the smile, and put on the look of true love
that won’t let go.
“Oh, dearie, don’t say that. Haven’t I worn the
soles off my shoes hunting for you ever since, ever
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Molly's Story
-
since —” Gee, I didn’t know how to finish it, then it
came in a flash. I moaned out, “ever since we parted.”
“Look 'ere, young woman,” he said, low, with a
face on him like a meat ax, “this doesn’t go with me.
Now get out; get off or I’ll 'ave you run in.”
I knew he wouldn’t do that; he’d hand over the
jewels first. I raised up my voice in a wail and said:
“Oh, dearie, you’re faking; I won’t believe it. You
can’t have forgot — back in the old country, me and
you.”
A messenger boy, slouching by, heard me and drew
up, hopeful of some fun. Willitts saw him and began
to look like murder would be added to his other offenses.
I gave a glance up the street — still only drays and
wagons, not a taxi in sight. Fatima with Sister Anne
reporting from the tower, had nothing over me for
watchful waiting.
“It’s Rosie,” I whined, “it’s your own little Rosie.
If I don’t look the same it’s the suffering you’ve caused
me and Gawd knows it.”
I laid my hand on his arm. With a movement of
fury he shook it off and began to back away from me.
Another boy had come up against the messenger and
lodged there like a leaf in a stream, caught in an eddy.
I heard him say, “What's on?” and the other an-
swered:
“Don’t know but I guess it’s the movies.”
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=. Molly's Story
my teeth set, I just made a lunge at that crook and
clasped him like an octopus.
I didn’t know a man was so much stronger than a
woman. Willitts wasn’t much taller than I and he
was a thin little shrimp, but believe me, he was as tough
as leather and as slippery as an eel. I could see the
two boys, delighted, drinking it in, and a dray man
in a jumper, drop a crate and come up on the run,
bawling: “Say, you feller, let the lady alone,” The
boys chorused out: “Aw, keep out — it’s the movies!”
Willitts must have heard too, and I guess he saw his
chance, for he suddenly squirmed one arm loose, and
whang! came a blow on the side of my head. It might
have seemed part of the play but he did it too hard —
calculated wrong in his excitement. I let go, seeing
everything — the houses, the sky, the crowd that seemed
to start up out of the pavements — whirling round and
shot over with zigzags. There was a roaring noise
in my ears and all about, and I dropped over into some-
body’s arms, things getting swimmy and dark.
When I came out of it I was sitting on a packing box
with a man fanning me and O'Malley, red as a tomato
and Willitts the color of ashes in the middle of a mob.
There was a terrible hubbub, people jamming together,
the wagons stopped and the drivers yelling to know
what was up, heads out of every window, and then
two policemen, fighting their way through. I felt
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
queer, sickish, and as if the muscles of my face were
all slack so my mouth wouldn’t stay shut. But the
gentleman fanning me acted awful kind and a clerk
came out of a store with ice water and a wet handker-
chief that he patted soft on the side of my head.
I could see O’Malley and the policeman (they’d come
from headquarters I heard afterward) go off into a
vestibule with Willitts and the crowd that couldn’t
get a look-in came squeezing round me, heads peering
up over heads. They’d got the idea that Willitts was
my husband, seeming to think only a lawful spouse
would dare to hit a woman before witnesses in the
public street. The guys in the front were explaining
it to the guys in the back and calling Willitts names
I couldn’t put down in these refined pages.
It got me laughing, especially when an old Jew who
had been sizing me up like a piece of goods nodded
slow and solemn and said: “And she ain’d zo bad
lookin’ neither.” I burst right out at that and the
man with the fan waved his arms at them, shouting:
“Give way, there — back — back! She wants air
— she’s hysterical. She’s gone through more than she
can bear.”
Gee, how I laughed
Presently in the center of a surging mass we crowded
our way to the taxi, the policemen going in front and
hitting round light with their clubs., O'Malley with
296


CHAPTER XXVI
THE COUNTER PLOT
ERGUSON'S knock on Suzanne’s door was
F promptly answered by the lady herself, still
in her hat and wrap. She clutched at him as
she had done when he came to her in her dark hour,
drawing him into the room and gasping her news. He
was in no mood to follow her ramblings and, as soon
as she spoke of a letter, interrupted her with a brusque
demand for it. After he had mastered its contents he
told her to 'phone at once to Larkin that it was all
right, and while she delivered the message, stood by
studying the paper. When she turned back to him
he laid his hands on her shoulders and looked into her
eyes. The touch that once would have sent the blood
burning to her cheeks called up no responsive thrill now:
“This lets you out — it’s the end of your responsi-
bility. Your part now is to be quiet and wait. To-
morrow night you’ll have Bébita back. Just nail that
up in your mind and keep your eyes on it.”
“Back where? Will you bring her here?”
It was so like her — so indicative of a mental atti-
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
to the door. She was glad when they were gone and
she could be still, draw all her energies inward in the
fight for endurance and courage.
His coat off, the windows wide for such breaths of air
as floated across the heated roofs, Ferguson paced
back and forth with a long, even stride. His uncer-
tainty was ended, the tension relaxed; he stood face to
face with the event and measured it. -
His assurances to Suzanne that he would make no
attempt to apprehend the kidnapers had been sops
thrown to pacify her terror. He had no more inten-
tion of a supine acquiescence than Mrs. Janney would
have had. Beyond the clearing of Esther, stood out the
man's desire to bring to justice the perpetrators of a
foul and dastardly deed. Now, with their cards laid
on the table, it rose higher, burned into a steady, hot
blaze of rage and resolution.
But between his desire and its fulfilment stretched
a maze of difficulties. He saw at once what Larkin had
seen — that their plan was as nearly impregnable as
such a plan could be. Though he knew every mile of
the country they had selected, he knew that the chances
of waylaying or flanking them were ten to one against
him. Numerous roads, north and south, led from the
Cresson Pike, some to the shore drive along the Sound,
some inland crossing the various highways that threaded
the center of the Island. Any one of these might be
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The Counter Plot
child — and if they had finished and gone the rescuing
cars could fly in pursuit.
He was far from satisfied with it; it was very differ-
ent from the schemes he had had in his head before
he measured his resourcefulness against theirs. He
dropped into a chair, sunk in moody contemplation of
its deficiencies. The men he had to rely on were not the
right kind, loyal and willing enough, but without the
boldness and initiative necessary to such an enterprise.
He wanted a lieutenant, some one he could look to
for quick, independent action if the affair took an un-
expected turn. You couldn’t tell how it might develop,
and he, pledged to his ungrateful rôle, would be power-
less to meet new demands, might not know they had
arisen.
He was roused by a knock on the door. It surprised
him for his presence in the city was unknown except
to his own household and the Janney family. Then
he thought of Suzanne coming down to him to pour
out her fears, and his “Come in ’’ was harsh and un-
welcoming. In answer to it the door opened and
Chapman Price entered.
Ferguson rose, looking at his visitor, startled and
silent. His surprise was caused by the man’s appear-
ance, by a fierce disturbance in the handsome face, pale
under its swarthy tan, by the eyes, agate-black and
gleaming in a bovine glare. He had seen Chapman
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
angry but never just like this, and from a state, keyed
to anticipate any new shock from any direction, said:
“What's happened now?”
Price had closed the door and backing up, leaned
against it. His answer came, hoarse and broken:
“I’ve been to those hounds, the Whitneys.”
It illuminated the ignorance of his listener, who
was readjusting his mind for a reply when the other
burst into a storm of invective against the lawyers and
the Janneys. It broke like a released torrent, sen-
tences stumbling on one another, curses mingled with
wild accusations, its cause revealed in a final cry of:
“Stolen — my child — kidnaped — gone!”
Through Ferguson's head, full of weightier matters,
flashed a vision of Chapman raging at the Whitneys
and a wonder as to what effect his rage had had. Kick-
ing a chair forward he spoke with a dry quietness:
“That’s all right — you needn’t bother to go over
it. Pull yourself together and sit down.”
But he might as well have counseled self-control to
an angry lion. The man, still standing against the
door, jerked out:
“I can get nothing from any of them. They know
nothing. They’ve let all this time pass — following
me, suspecting me. I don’t know why I didn't kill
them | *
“Probably because you’ve sense enough left not to
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
side for the Sunday rest. They bore down on Ferguson
like a procession of fleeing monsters with round, goblin
eyes staring in affright. They came from behind,
swinging across his path in a blur of dust, laughter
and shrill cries rising from their crowded tonneaus.
Keeping to their narrow track between the borders of
the fields they were like a turbulent, flashing torrent,
dividing the darkness with a stream of streaked radi-
ance, cutting the silence with a current of continuous
sound.
Ferguson’s glance ranged ahead, dazzled by the glare
of advancing lamps that enlarged on his vision, grew
to a blinding haze and swept by. He could see little,
blackness and brightness alternating, the motors emerg-
ing as dim solidities, realized for a passing moment,
then gone. Once a small car, cutting across his bows
from a side road, made him slacken, but it slowed round
showing the gnarled face of a farmer with a fat woman
on the seat beside him and a bunch of children behind.
As he went on the press of vehicles thinned, the line
of the road showed bare for longer stretches. The
runabout overhauled him, kept by his side for a few
yards, then drew ahead, its red tail lantern receding with
an even, skimming smoothness; a spot, a spark, nothing.
He calculated he had covered nearly half the distance
when the black racer passed in a soft, purring rush, his
eye, through the yellow fog that preceded it, catching
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
long of its license tag. That caused his expectancy to
drop — the tag stood for respectability and honest
wayfaring, then, with a quickened leap of his heart, he
realized that its speed was slackening. It slowed down
to his own gait, and at the limit of his lamp's illumina-
tion, moved before him, a square bulk, its back cut by
a small window. He felt sure now, and with his hand
on the wheel took a look over his shoulder. In the dis-
tance, cresting a rise, he saw two golden dots, too far
for a speedy overtaking, and even if that were possible
he had no reason to suppose they belonged to any of
his followers. -
A belt of woods spread across the way and the road
entered it as if tunneling a vault. It wound, looped
and twisted, tree trunks and leafy hollows starting out
as the long bright tubes swept over them. As one of
these, slewing wide in a sharper turn, crossed the bank
of the forward car, Ferguson saw an arm extended and
from the hand a white spark flash twice. Almost im-
mediately the coupé turned to the left, and plunged into
a by-way, black as a pocket, the woods’ thick growth
crowding on its edges.
The roadbed was good and the leading car accelerated
its speed racing onward under the arching boughs.
Ferguson, close on its heels, knew that the sounds of
their going would be muffled by the enshrouding wood-
land, absorbed in its woven density. No chance either
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
He thought he detected a moment’s hesitation, then
the man stepped back to the car and called a gruff:
“All right — quick — look.”
He swung the coupé door open and from an electric
torch in his left hand sent a ray into the interior. The
white shaft pierced the murk like a pointing finger.
Its circular end, a spot of livid brightness, played on
Bébita curled on the floor asleep. Ferguson saw her
as if cut from an encompassing blackness, transparently
clear like a picture suspended in a void. Then the ray
was extinguished, and as he stood, blinking against the
obscurity, heard the man’s voice, “The money — on
the rock there,” and caught the gleam of the revolver
barrel level with his eyes.
He walked to the rock and laid the money, in an
envelope clasped with rubber bands, on its flat surface.
The whole thing seemed to him like a cheap melodrama
and he could have laughed as he righted himself and
saw the round, shining end of the revolver covering
him, and the silent figure behind it.
“Come on,” he said, “get to the rest. You tie me —
where?”
“The oak-behind you.”
It was a large-sized tree back from the edge of the
road, and he walked to it hearing the man trampling
the underbrush in his wake. He had a sense of a dream-
like quality in the whole fantastic performance, as if
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The Man in the Boat
- - - -
mer runnin’ along the shore for thieves — That they
caught a sight of one and went after him.”
Ferguson was silent for a moment then said:
“Is there any place round here where a boat could
be hidden, deep enough water for a launch?”
The man answered:
“Yes, right down the road a step there's a cove and
an old dock; used to belong to the folks that lived
on the bluff but the house burned down a while back
and ain’t been rebuilt and no one’s used the dock since.
A feller could hide a boat there fine; it’s all overgrown
so you can’t see it unless you know where it is.”
“I’d like to take a look at it,” said Ferguson.
“Come along with the lantern.”
The place was only a few yards from the mouth of
the wood road. Trees and shrubs sheltered it, con-
cealing with their rank growth a small wharf, rotted
and sagging to the water line. The lantern rays re-
vealed a recent presence, scattered leaves and twigs on
the wooden planking, the long marshy grasses showing
a track from the road to the wharf's edge.
“Yes, sir,”
said the native, much impressed; “some
one’s been here to-night and not s’long ago either.
You can see where the dew's been swep’ off the grasses
right to the water.”
Ferguson said nothing; he now saw the whole plan
of escape — the coupé left in the woods, a short run
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The Man in the Boat
I’m looking for the boat that fired on some one round
here about an hour ago.”
The voice replied, its tone changed to sudden con-
ciliation:
“Oh, Mr. Ferguson; couldn’t see who it was. We’re
what you’re looking for — the police patrol. We have
the launch here in tow.”
“Have you got the man?”
“Yes, sir. He didn’t answer our challenge and fired
on us. We chased and gave it back to him — a run-
ning fight. One of us got him — he's dead.”
“Go on to my wharf; I'll be there when you come.”
On his way along the shore road he met Price, paused
for a quick explanation, and the two cars ran at a
racing clip to Ferguson’s wharf. The men were stand-
ing on its end when the police boat glided into the
gush of light that fell from the high electric lamps at
either side of the ship. Behind it, lifted and dropped
by the languid wavelets, was a launch, a covered shape
lying on the floor.
The story of the police was quickly told. The night,
dark and windless, was the kind chosen by the water
thieves for their operations. The men had been on
the watch faring noiselessly with engine muffled and
hooded lamps. It was nearly the end of their run, a
length of shore with few estates, when they saw a boat
glide from a part of the beach peculiarly dark and
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
cal jubilation forgetful of her rouge and powder; a
worn little wraith of a woman whose journey to the
heart of life had stripped her of all coquetry and beauty.
They tried to dissuade her, but, as usual, she was in-
sistent; she wanted to see the men herself, she wanted
to hear everything. On this day of thanksgiving no
one had the will to thwart her, so they accepted with
the best grace they could and she walked through the
woods with them.
There was a group of men on the wharf, the local
police, the coroner, some of Ferguson's employees. The
body had been put in the boathouse, laid on a table un-
der a sheltering tarpaulin. Ferguson and Mr. Jan-
ney drew off to the end of the dock in low-toned con-
ference with the officials. They were relieved to see
that Suzanne had no mind to listen, but stayed by her-
self in the shade of the boathouse wall.
She leaned against it, looking out over the sparkling
reaches of the Sound. Her thoughts were of the dead
man, close behind her there, on the other side of the
wooden partition. She wondered with an awed amaze
at his wild act and its dark ending. She wondered
what manner of man he was, what he was like — a hu-
man creature, unknown to her, who could want only
to cause her such anguish.
She shot a glance over her shoulder and saw that
the door of the boathouse was half open – the coroner
324


The Man in the Boat
-
had been in and had neglected to close it. She looked
at the men at the end of the wharf; they stood in a little
cluster, backs toward her, heads together in animated
discussion. She moved from the wall, advanced on tip-
toe through the slant of shade, and slipped through the
open doorway.
sº ºvºi.
windows the golden gleam of the waves reflected in rip-
pling lights that chased across its peaked ceiling. She
stole to the table where the grim shape lay and lifted
the tarpaulin with a trembling hand. The other shot
suddenly to her mouth, strangling a scream, and she
dropped the heavy cloth as if it burned her. Both
hands went up over her face, flattened there until the
nails were empurpled, and she stood, bent as if cramped
with pain, for the moment all movement paralyzed.
Ferguson, informed of all he wanted to know, turned
from the others to join her. She was not where he had
left her, and moving down the wharf he looked about
and, seeing no sign of her, decided that she had gone
home. He was passing the boathouse doorway when
she came through it almost upon him.
“Good heavens!” he said angrily, “have you been
in there?” Then, seeing her face, he caught her arm
and held her. Would there ever be an end to her will-
fulness!
325


CHAPTER XXIX
MISS MAITLAND EXPLAINS
N Saturday afternoon several telephone mes-
sages were sent to Esther Maitland at
O’Malley's flat. They came from Ferguson,
from Grasslands, and the Whitney office. In the two
latter cases they were conciliatory and apologetic and
asked that Miss Maitland would see the senders and
explain the circumstances that had so strangely in-
volved her in the case.
To both her employers and the Whitneys Miss Mait-
land returned an evasive answer. She would be happy
to do as they asked, but would have to let a few more
days pass before she would be free to speak. Mean-
time she would remain with Mrs. O'Malley, who had
offered to keep her, and who had treated her with the
utmost kindness and consideration. One request she
made—this to the Whitneys — she would like Chap-
man Price to be advised of her whereabouts. It would
be necessary for her to communicate with him before
she would be able to explain her share in the mystery.
Ferguson’s message had been an importunate demand
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
to let him come to her. She refused, said she would
see no one until she was at liberty to clear herself,
which would not be for some days yet. Her voice
showed a tremulous urgency, a note of pleading, new to
his ears and infinitely sweet. But he could not break
down her resolution; she begged him to do as she asked,
not to seek her out, not to demand any explanations
until she was ready to give them. The one favor she
granted him was that when the time was up and she
could break her silence, he could come for her.
This did not happen until Wednesday. That morn-
ing she 'phoned to them all that she could now see them
and tell them what they wanted to hear. A meeting
was arranged at the Whitney office for three that after-
noon and Ferguson went to fetch her.
They met in Mrs. O'Malley's front parlor, consider-
ately vacated and with the folding doors closed against
intrusion. Without greeting Ferguson took her hands
and held them, looking down into her face. She was
beaming, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shy. She began
to say something about being at last able to vindicate
herself, but he cut her off:
“Before you go into that, I want to say something
to you.” -
“No, that’s not fair; I must speak first and you
must let me. It’s my privilege.”
“With the others maybe, but not with me. What I
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Miss Maitland Eaplains
have to say has to be said before I hear. Esther, do
you know what it is?”
She was silent, her head drooping, her hands growing
cold in his grasp. He went on, very quietly and simply:
“It’s that I ask you to be my wife. And I must ask
it before the clearing or vindicating or any rubbish
of that sort. I don’t know what you’ll say to it and I
don’t want any answer now. That’s at your own good
time and your own good pleasure. It’s just that I
wanted you to see how I stand and have stood since
that night when we walked through the woods together.
Come along now — it’s nearly three, and we mustn't
keep them waiting.”
It was a very different Esther who sat in Wilbur
Whitney’s private office, facing those who had once
been her accusers. She gave no evidence of rancor,
greeted them with a frank friendliness, smiled with a
radiance they set down to the rebound from long ten-
sion and strain. Suzanne, her jealous fires burned out,
could acknowledge now that she was handsome; Mr.
Janney wondered at her look of breeding. “A fine
girl,” old Whitney thought, as he studied her through
his glasses, “spirited and high-mettled as a racer.”
“It’s a long story,” she said, “and for you to under-
stand it I’ll have to go back to a time when none of
you had ever heard of me. And before I begin, I want
to say to Mrs. Janney,” she turned to the older woman
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Miss Maitland Earplains
-
education, and equip her for the task of earning her
living. She was quick and clever, but willful and hard
to control. I suppose it was because she had had no
home influences, no place that belonged to her. She had
to spend her vacations anywhere — sometimes at the
school, sometimes with classmates. It was a miserable
life for a child.
“She was always pretty — when she was little people
used to stop on the streets to look at her — and as she
grew older she grew prettier. She was charming, too,
there was something about her very willfulness that was
captivating. The combination worried me; if she had
had more balance, been more reasonable, it wouldn’t
have mattered. But she was the kind who is always full
of wild enthusiasms, going off at a tangent about this,
that and the other. Not a promising temperament for
a girl who has to support herself.
“A year ago I got her into a first class school near
Chicago — I had met the principal, who had been very
kind and taken her at a greatly reduced rate. It was
to be her last year; in June she would graduate and with
her education finished, I felt sure I could get her a
position in New York where I could help her and watch
over her. During the winter — last winter — her let-
ters made me uneasy. She was discontented, tired of
study, wanted to be out in the world doing something.
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Miss Maitland Eaplains
one of these, a fitter, at Camille's, that she had got
work. With her beauty it had been easy — she had
been employed as a model at Camille’s.”
“Camille's!” the word came on a startled note from
Suzanne. Esther turned to her:
“Yes, Mrs. Price, and you saw her there — you or-
dered a dress from a model that Florry wore.”
“The girl with the reddish hair — the tall girl?”
“Yes, that was Florry. She told me afterward how
she walked up and down in front of you.”
“But —” Suzanne's voice showed an incredulous
wonder, “she was beautiful; they were all talking about
her.”
“I said she was — I was not exaggerating. She was
satisfied with her work, liked it, I think she would have
liked anything that was novel and took her away from
the grind of study. I didn’t like it, but at least it
wasn’t the stage, and I set about trying to find some-
thing better. That was the situation till April and
then —” She paused, her eyes dropped to the floor.
The color suddenly rose in her face and raising them she
shot a look at Ferguson. He answered it with a slight,
almost imperceptible nod and smiled in open encourage-
ment. She took a deep breath and addressed Mrs.
Janney:
“What I have to tell now isn’t pleasant for me to
say or for you to hear, but I have to tell it for all the
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
subsequent events grew from it. Mr. Price had been
to Camille’s that first time with his wife.”
There was a slight stir in the listening company, a
sudden focusing of intent eyes on the girl, a waiting
expectancy in the grave faces. She saw it and an-
swered it:
“Yes, he saw Florry. He went again — Mrs. Price
was buying several dresses. After that second visit he
waited one night at the side door used for employees
and spoke to her. I can’t condone what she did, but I
can say in extenuation that she was very young, very
inexperienced, that she knew who Mr. Price was, and
that she had never in her life met a man of his attrac-
tions.
“She didn’t hide it from me, was frank and out-
spoken about the meeting and his subsequent attentions.
For he saw her often after that, took her for walks on
Sunday, sent her theater tickets and books. I was
filled with anxiety, besought of her to give it up, but
she wouldn’t, she couldn’t. Before I went to Grasslands
I realized a situation was developing that made me sick
with apprehension. She was in love, madly in love. I
couldn’t reason with her, I couldn’t make her listen to
me; she was blind and deaf to anything but him and
what he said.
“I went to Mr. Price and implored him to leave her
alone. I had to catch him as I could — in the halls, at
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Miss Maitland Eaplains
worried and anxious as I was. The situation between
them had cleared to a definite understanding — when
his wife had obtained her divorce he would go to France
and marry Florry there. *
“And now I come to the day of the kidnaping, that
dreadful, unforgettable day !
“The morning before — Thursday — I had seen her
and found her in a state of nervous indecision, weeping
and miserable. I knew I was to be in town with Mrs.
Price the next day and told her if I could get time I
would come to her. Mrs. Price had told me how we were
to divide the errands and I realized, if I could finish
mine earlier than she expected, I would have a chance of
seeing Florry. I had just been paid my salary and
that, with some money I had saved, I brought with me.
My intention was to give all this to Florry and implore
her to go with the hospital unit, which was scheduled to
leave Montreal early the following week.
“Things worked out as I had hoped. The commis-
sions took less time than Mrs. Price had calculated and
I found that I would be able to spend a few minutes
with Florry. In case Bébita should mention the excur-
sion downtown, I ordered the driver to drop me at a
bookbindery on the corner of Gale Street. I could
easily explain our stop there by saying that I had left
a book to be bound.
“When I reached the room I found her in a state of
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Miss Maitland Eaplains
keep one fact before my mind — to be quiet, to be cool,
not to do or say anything that might betray Florry.
If I'd known what you suspected, I couldn’t have done it.
But, of course, I hadn’t any idea then you thought I
was implicated.
“Florry had told me she would communicate with
Mr. Price and he would give me word of her. The tele-
phone message that Miss Rogers tapped was that word;
all I received. It relieved me immensely, I began to feel
the dreadful strain relaxing, I began to think we were
on the high road to safety. And then came that day
here in the office. Shall I ever forget it!”
She turned to Mrs. Janney:
“If I had had the least idea of what was going to be
done here, I would have tried to get to you and have
thrown myself on your mercy. But I was completely
unsuspecting and unprepared, and with Mr. Whitney
as the judge, representing the law, I did not dare to
tell the truth, I had to lie.
“As you saw, I lied as well as I could, puzzled at first,
not knowing what you were getting at, to what point it
was all leading. Then, when you caught me with the
tapped message, I saw — I guessed how circumstances
had woven a net about me. I realized there was nothing
to be done but let you believe it, let you do what you
wanted with me. You couldn’t make me speak, and if
I could stay silent till Florry was in Europe, hidden, lost
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Miss Maitland Eaplains
Price is free he is to go over and marry her. He intends
to sell his business out and offer his services to the
French government.”
There was a moment of silence, then Mrs. Janney
spoke, clearing her throat, her face flushed with feel-
ing: -
“As you’ve said, Miss Maitland, none of this would
have happened if you'd seen fit to come to me. But it’s
no use going over that now — we’ve all made mistakes
and we’re all sorry. What we — the Janneys — want
to do is to be fair, to be just, and now — if it is not too
late — to make amends. The only way you can show
your willingness to forget and forgive, is to come back
at once to Grasslands and take things up where you left
them.” - -
The girl for a moment did not answer, her face red-
dening with a sudden embarrassment. Mrs. Janney
saw the blush, read it as reluctance and exclaimed:
“Oh, Miss Maitland, don’t say you refuse. It’s as
if you wouldn’t take my hand held out in apology, in
friendship.”
“No, no "- Esther was obviously distressed —
“don’t think that, Mrs. Janney, it's not that. It’s that
I can’t — I’ve — I’ve made another engagement — I’m
going to marry Mr. Ferguson.”
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Molly's Story
in a few minutes and pick up Miss Maitland. Bébita
was crazy to go, and he started, giving her a box of
chocolates to eat on the way. Of course she never could
tell where he went but it could not have been a long
distance, or Larkin — we all were agreed that he drove
the cab — couldn’t have reached the Fifth Avenue house
as soon as he did. The place was evidently a flat over a
garage. He told her her father was waiting there, went
upstairs with her, and gave her in charge of a woman
called Marion who opened the door for them.
During the whole time she was gone she stayed here
with Marion, who every morning assured her her Daddy
would come that day. She said Marion was very good
to her, gave her toys and candies, cooked her meals and
played games with her. She cried often and was home-
sick, and Marion never scolded her but used to take her
in her arms and kiss her and tell her stories. She never
saw the man again until he came to take her away, but
sometimes the bell rang and Marion went out on the
stairs and talked to some one.
One evening Marion said she was going home; it would
be a long drive and she must be a good girl. Marion
dressed her and then gave her a glass of milk, and
kissed her a great many times and cried. Bébita cried
too, for she was sorry to leave Marion, but she wanted
to go home. After that the man came and took her
downstairs to the taxi and told her to be very quiet
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
and she’d soon be back at Grasslands. It was dark
and they went through the city and then she got very
sleepy and laid down on the seat.
No trace of Marion, Larkin’s confederate, could be
found, and in fact no especial effort was made to do so.
The man was dead, the woman, who had evidently
treated the child with affectionate care, had fled into the
darkness where she belonged. The family, even Mrs.
Janney, was contented to let things drop and make
an end.
When it came to Larkin we had to piece out a good
deal. We agreed that he had started in fair and hon-
est, had tried to make good and had failed. At just
what point he changed we couldn’t be sure, but Fergu-
son thought it was after Mrs. Price threatened to end
the investigation. Then he realized that his big chance
was slipping by, determined to get something out of it,
and hit on the kidnaping. It was easy to see how he
could worm all the data he wanted out of Mrs. Price.
From what she said he'd evidently pumped her at their
last meeting in town, finding out just what her plans
were, even to the fact that she intended taking the extra
cab from the rank round the corner. I thought that
one thing might have given him the whole idea.
When they stopped at the book bindery he heard Miss
Maitland tell Bébita she would be gone a few minutes
and knew that was his opportunity. He took the child
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to the place he had ready for her, made a quick change
— not more than the shedding of his coat, cap and
goggles — and ran his car into the garage below, which
of course he must have rented. Then he lit out for
the Fifth Avenue house, a bit late but ready to report
in case Miss Maitland didn’t show up before him. Miss
Maitland did — he must have seen her go in — but he
rang just the same, which showed what a cunning devil
he was.
He must have been surprised when he didn’t see any-
thing in the papers, but after he'd written the first
“Clansmen’’ letter to Mrs. Price she explained that
and it made it smoother sailing for him. Knowing her
as well as he did, he planned the letters to scare her
into silence, and saw before he was through he had her
exactly in the state he wanted. The one place where his
plot was weak was that an outsider had to drive the
rescue car. But he had to take a chance somewhere,
and this was the best place. He’d fixed it so neat that
even if the outsider had informed on him, he’d have been
wary, and, as Ferguson thought, not shown up at all.
He’d done it well; as well, we all agreed, as it could
be done. What had beaten him had been no man’s
cleverness, just something that neither he, nor you, nor
any of us could have foreseen. Ain't there a proverb
about the best laid plans of mice and men slipping up
when you least expect it? It was like the hand of some-
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Miss Maitland Private Secretary
One day, looking over Ferguson's things, he came
on the cigar band in the box on the bureau. It gave
him a jar, for he couldn’t see why it was put there.
He’d heard from the servants about Ferguson and
Miss Maitland walking home that night through the
woods and began to wonder if maybe they’d found the
band. The thought ruffled him up considerably, and
then he put it out of his mind, telling himself it was one
from a cigar Ferguson had brought from Grasslands
and smoked in his room. Nevertheless, to be on the
safe side, he threw it away, very much on the alert, as
you may guess.
It wasn’t a week later that he had the interview with
Ferguson about the band. Then he saw by the young
man's manner and words why the little crushed circle
of paper had a meaning of its own, and knew that the
time had come to vanish. He still felt safe enough
to do this without haste, not rousing any suspicion by
a too sudden departure. His opportunity came quickly
— on Friday morning he heard Ferguson tell the butler
that he was going to town and would be away for a day
or two; by the time he came back his valet would be far
afield.
Right after Ferguson's departure he put the jewels
in a bag, and, telling the butler the boss had given him
the day and night off, prepared to leave. He was
crossing the hall when the telephone rang — my mes-
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Molly's Story
sage — and being wary of danger, answered it. It was
only a lady asking for Mr. Ferguson, and, calm and
steady as his voice had made me, started out for
the station. Mice and men again! — I was the mouse
this time. Gracious, what a battered mouse I was
Well — that's all. The tangled threads are straight-
ened out and the word “End” goes at the bottom of
this page. I’m glad to write it, glad to be once again
where you can say what you think, and talk to people
like they were harmless human beings without any dark
secrets in their pasts or presents, and, Oh, Gee, how
glad I am to be home! Back in my own little hole,
back where there’s only one servant and she a coon, back
where I’m familiar with the food and know how to eat
it, and blessedest of all, back to my own true husband,
who thinks there’s no sun or moon or stars when I’m
out of the house. I’m going to get a new rug for the
parlor, a fur-trimmed winter suit, a standing lamp with
a Chinese shade, a pair of skates — oh, dear, I’m at the
bottom of the page and there’s no room for “End,”
but I must squeeze in that I got that reward — Mrs.
Janney said I’d earned every penny of it — and a wrist
watch with a circle of diamonds round it from Dick
Ferguson, and — oh, pshaw! if I keep on I’ll never stop,
so here goes, on a separate line
THE END (1)
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