Chapter XIX
When the next day Beecher reached his club he found all discussions centered upon John G. Slade and the astonishing and incomprehensible outcome of the conference at Gunther’s of which naturally only the usual misinformation was known. The morning papers had contained a reassuring statement, backed by powerful names, of the condition of the Associated Trust, with promises of support. Gunther had publicly announced that he would bring twenty millions of ready money to relieve the financial stringency and, if that were not sufficient, twenty millions more. When the man in the Street comprehended that the great fortunes of the country had authorized this step, the effect was instantaneous. The stock market opened with loss of two to three points and immediately recovered this decline and, for the first time during the week, registered distinct advances. The runs on the banks still continued, but the lines of depositors were apparently less. At eleven o’clock Rupert V. Steele visibly entered the offices of the Associated Trust and, advancing to the deserted window of the cashier, made the first deposit. In a minute it was publicly announced that five millions of dollars had just been deposited to the credit of the great Columbus National. Half of the waiting line, wavered, turned and went home.
“Well, Slade’s turned the trick,” said Gunther, joining his friend. “But how he managed to wriggle through is a mystery.”
“Haven’t seen the papers,” said Beecher. “What do they say about Emma Fornez?”
“Couldn’t be better. The third act bowled ’em over,” said Gunther, laughing. Beecher had told him of the diva’s prophecy. “By the way, Ted, my long shot may not prove such a wild one. Mapleson is a close friend of the Cheevers—rather attentive to the lady, who from all accounts is a rather frisky one. I telephoned McKenna about it and he seemed distinctly interested.”
“McKenna?” said Beecher, opening his eyes.
“Well, yes,” said Gunther, laughing; “but forget I told you. Besides, I have a feeling that things will open up now.”
“Is McKenna on the trail of any one?”
“Well, yes,” said Gunther slowly; “and I don’t think it’ll be long now before we hear of him. How about lunch?”
At this moment a boy arrived with summons for Beecher to the telephone. He did not recognize the voice immediately.
“You don’t know who it is?” said a woman.
He thought he recognized the tones of Miss Rivers, whom he had shamefully neglected in the excitement of the last days; but, warily, he did not commit himself.
“You’re disguising your voice,” he said cautiously.
“Not at all. You are not very flattering—but when one listens so much to the voice of Emma Fornez—”
“Miss Charters,” he said instantly.
“At last.”
He was suddenly troubled at the discovery, for he had sincerely persuaded himself that he did not intend to see her again.
“She is going to reproach me,” he thought uneasily, “for not returning to see her last night. The devil! Well, I shall tell her the truth—I didn’t like her companion.”
But instead of reproaches she said in very good humor:
“Look out, I can be very jealous. What are you doing tonight?”
“I am dining out,” he said, fibbing promptly, determined to remain firm.
“Oh—I’m sorry,” she said, with a quick dropping of her tone. “I wanted you to take me to a dress rehearsal that will be very amusing.”
“I’m sorry too.”
“What are you doing this afternoon, around tea time?”
“I have an engagement,” he said truthfully.
“With Emma Fornez?”
“Yes.”
“I am not very lucky, am I?” she said.
The wounded tone in her voice made him feel a bit ashamed. He saw that she would not ask him again and relented a little.
“Will you be in at four? I can drop in for a little chat then,” he said, amazed at his own yielding even as he spoke the words.
“Come then. I want very much to see you,” she answered but without lightness.
“Now I’m in it again!” he said ruefully as he left the telephone. “What the deuce made me say I’d go. Just because I didn’t want to hurt her—O Lord! Steady, old boy, steady!”
Outside the booth he found Gunther, an afternoon’s paper in his hand, scanning it with excitement on every feature.
“I say, Ted, here’s news indeed,” he cried. “What do you think of that?”
He pointed to the headline on the front page where the engagement of John G. Slade to Mrs. Rita Kildair was announced in large type. The two young men looked at each other in profound astonishment.
“By Jove!” said Beecher, suddenly enlightened. “That’s what was at the bottom last night! Now I understand.” In a moment he comprehended the full measure of the agony of uncertainty she must have suffered at his side in the returning automobile. “So that was her game after all!”
“Now things’ll begin to move,” said Gunther eagerly. “If she really knows who’s the thief, as McKenna believes, the ring ought to be returned in forty-eight hours.”
“Why?”
“Because now that she is publicly engaged to Slade, any one who has been trading on the knowledge of how she got the ring won’t have a shred to blackmail her with. You see it now becomes the engagement ring that Slade gave her and she can move openly; and from what I’ve seen of her, she’ll lose no time. Ted, I’ll prophesy in forty-eight hours we’ll hear something about that ring.”
“I believe you’re right,” said Beecher as they went into luncheon; and, thinking of the curious conjunction of Mrs. Kildair’s and Miss Charters’ prophecy as to the return of the ring, he said to himself unwillingly: “If the ring is returned, does that mean that Mrs. Bloodgood took it?”
A little after four he went to pay his call on Miss Charters and as he had become accustomed to her perplexing change of moods, he wondered in what temper she would receive him. She was in a Russian blouse of gray corduroy relieved by a broad lace collar and fitted loosely to her straight, lithe body by a belt at the waist, an effect of girlish simplicity, very yielding and artless.
She did not wait for him in the sitting-room but came out into the hall, taking his hat and stick herself and leading the way. Once in the cosy sitting-room she stopped, turning to face him and suddenly taking his hands in hers.
“Let me look at you,” she said, drawing off and raising her eyes to his thoughtfully, while her lips twisted a little into a most serious sternness.
“Little imp!” he thought grimly, prepared against her wiles and yet a little startled at this figure of a young girl which so tantalizingly confronted him.
She saw at once, in the amused composure of his face, that she had been mistaken in ascribing his absence to the pique of jealousy. What she had on her lips she did not say, and suddenly alert at the realization that her presence no longer troubled him she drew him toward the fireplace, leading him to a great armchair.
“There,” she said, laughing, “you will see how we treat the prodigal son. Sit down.” She brought a cushion and insisted upon placing it behind his back. “Don’t get up. A scotch and soda? Sit still—I like to mix it.”
She went to a table and presently came back with the tumbler, offering it to him with a well simulated attitude of submission. When he took it, she dropped a curtsey and going to the library table, returned with a box of cigars and the matches. Continuing always the same game, determined to force a laugh, she lit the match, holding it to him between her rosy palms.
“Is your lordship satisfied?”
“I am.”
She lit a cigarette in turn and camping down on the bear rug, Eastern fashion, puffed a ring of smoke in the direction of the fire. For a moment neither spoke, she studying the embers, he enjoying this new side to her and awaiting the next development.
“I’m very unhappy,” she said at last, without looking at him.
“I’m sorry,” he answered sympathetically.
“I have had a great disappointment. I read that play of Hargrave’s again—there’s nothing to it.”
“You surprise me.”
The fact was that Brockway, Stigler’s stage director had torn it to pieces. She continued, repeating what Brockway had said:
“The trouble is, it’s not actable. It’s like all plays that read well—I should have known it. There’s no dramatic action. Then, it has one great fault—all young writers have it—you see, every scene should be a unit in itself, express one dramatic emotion, develop it, and increase it; and Hargrave puts three or four emotions in the same page—five or six,” she continued indignantly. “It’s all mixed up—topsy-turvy—no actress could make an effect.” (This had been its chief merit two days before.) “It’s very sad; I shall never find a play.”
“You were very enthusiastic a few days ago,” he said.
“Was I?” she said resentfully. “You see, the trouble is, in reading you imagine things that aren’t there.”
“So Hargrave isn’t a genius after all?” he asked.
“He is very conceited—insufferably so,” she said abruptly. “But you don’t understand—it’s the disappointment to me—I shall never find a play. Sometimes I feel like giving it all up. It’s terrible—breaking your heart day after day. Yes, sometimes I feel like never acting again.”
“You are in a blue mood,” he said cheerfully.
“Everything has gone wrong,” she said, pouting. “Even you have changed!”
She looked at him with a look of a tired child, longing to climb into his lap to be consoled.
“How so?” he said, opening his eyes.
“Teddy, have I offended you?” she asked gently, seeing that she could not unbend him by playing upon his sympathy.
“Not the least.”
She would have preferred any answer but this.
“Why wouldn’t you go with me tonight?” she said quickly.
“Because I have another engagement,” he said, instinctively glancing at the clock.
She saw the look, sprang up from the rug furiously, and leaping toward the mantelpiece seized the offending clock and flung it across the room in a tantrum.
“Go to your Emma Fornez!” she said, stamping her foot. “If you are going to sit here and measure the minutes, you can go!”
He rose, startled at the passion of jealousy he had aroused.
“I told you I had an engagement,” he began.
“Nonsense!” she burst out, still the prey of her anger. “You know very well you can keep her waiting half an hour if you wish, and you know very well that you can put off your engagement to-night—or is it with her, always with her?”
“I don’t care to discuss my engagements,” he said coldly, an emotion which he was far from feeling, for the sudden wild-eyed fury into which he had plunged her awoke in him something that thrilled him, as he had been thrilled the day he had returned Mrs. Bloodgood to her home, at the thought of what a consuming passion might be.
“Why do you tag around with her?” she continued heedlessly. “I should think you’d have more regard for your dignity—for what people think—Emma Fornez—ah!”
She stopped, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes and then, feeling he had perceived it, she exclaimed: “If I cry it’s because I am disappointed—disillusionized—angry!”
She turned her back and went quickly to the window where the little Dresden clock lay shattered in a corner. She picked it up and looked at it, swallowing her anger. Then, as he continued to keep the silence, she came back, without looking at him, placed the clock on the mantelpiece again and said coldly:
“Well, it is time for you to go—not to keep her waiting.”
“Good-afternoon,” he said with a bow, and left the apartment.
When he reached the street, he was overcome with surprise.
“By Jove!” he said, swinging joyfully along. “Is it possible after all that she does care about me? How her eyes blazed—the little fury. That at least wasn’t acting!”
And though he remained until late, amused at Emma Fornez, he felt the flame of the other presence about him, obtruding itself at every moment; and he who had seen the play of strong emotions in Mrs. Bloodgood and Mrs. Kildair, avidly began to feel what it would mean to be loved with such intensity.
Emma Fornez questioned him about Miss Charters but for the first time he resolutely concealed from her what had taken place.
That night on his return to his rooms, he found a short note from Bruce Gunther:
DEAR TED,
Be at McKenna’s offices to-morrow—ten sharp. Something doing.
B.
P.S. Keep this to yourself—savez?