CHAPTER VI.

THE PLOT OF A VILLAIN.

Adele Gray listened intently to the country girl’s story, but not so much as by an expression did she show that she sympathized. She was a woman of twenty-five and would have been exceedingly pretty only that her face was marred by lines of sorrow about her mouth and a coldness in her eyes that was very repelling.

Her gown was of rich materials, and she wore a few expensive jewels; further, every movement which she made was indicative of natural refinement.

The coldness of her manner was something which she had acquired—even to an inexperienced girl like Marion it bespoke a morbid condition.

“I have ordered some dinner for you,” she said, quietly, as Marion finished. “Here it is; you must be hungry after your tiresome journey.” She rose to meet the waiter, who was placing a loaded tray upon the table.

Marion ate her dinner in some perplexity, for every few moments Miss Gray excused herself, and pouring a glass of liquor from a decanter on the table, took it in to her host, who still remained in the parlor.

“Does he always drink like that?” Marion ventured to ask timidly; “for if he does, I am sorry for my poor aunt. She must be wretched indeed to have a drunken husband.”

A grim smile stole over the woman’s face.

“He is drinking a little more than usual to-night,” she said softly, “but don’t worry—it won’t hurt him, and you will be that much safer.”

“Why, what do you mean?” asked Marion in alarm.

Miss Gray laughed bitterly.

“Wait until he is dead drunk,” she said, “and perhaps I’ll tell you.”

Marion was almost too astonished to even think, but as yet not a suspicion of the truth had dawned upon her.

That the man in the parlor was her uncle she did not doubt for an instant, but she was filled with disgust at the possession of such a relative.

“Of course he is no blood relation,” she whispered to herself. “And he may not be a bad man when he is in his sober senses. What a pity it is that he should drink!” She drew a long sigh at the conclusion of her reverie.

“There!” said Miss Gray, coming in and depositing an empty glass on the table. “At last he is safe for the night, at least! Now, I am ready, Miss Marlowe, to hear the rest of your story!”

It was the first sign of genuine interest that she had shown, and Marion smiled at her gratefully before continuing.

Miss Gray watched her with the sharp glance of an eagle as she talked. There was an intensity in her gaze that puzzled Marion.

“And you have come to New York alone to search for your sister,” she said finally. “Without funds or friends you have entered upon this mission?”

“I have fifty dollars,” said Marion reluctantly, “and, oh, Miss Gray, do you not think uncle will help me? He must be rich to live in such luxury!”

Before she answered the question the woman rose and looked around, moving every drapery and curtain and looking behind it cautiously. At the last she tiptoed to the front room and listened a minute, when she returned she moved her chair as closely as possible to Marion’s.

“See here, girl, you look brave,” she said, very softly. “Can you face a serious matter without flinching, do you think? I have something to tell you, but you must promise to be perfectly calm when you hear it.”

As she spoke Marion noticed that her hands were trembling; she clinched them tightly, as though she resented this trace of weakness.

“I promise,” said Marion, staring wide-eyed at the woman. “I am not a child, Miss Gray—you must see that you can trust me.”

“I see that I can,” was the quiet answer, then the woman leaned forward and whispered rapidly:

“You have made a terrible mistake, my child, but you are not to blame. You are in the wrong place—your host is not your uncle!”

Marion caught her breath sharply but did not utter a sound.

“Who is he, then?” she said softly, clasping her hands tightly together.

The woman shrugged her shoulders and glanced quickly around the room.

“Never mind who he is,” she said, almost roughly. “He is not your uncle, and he is not married. Now tell me, who is your uncle, and how did you come here?”

Marion replied with eager promptness:

“My uncle is Frederic Stanton, and he lives at ‘The Norwood.’ I wrote him at that address and he answered my letter. He married my mother’s sister, and he is very rich, so rich that he has never recognized any of his wife’s relatives in the country. When Dollie was abducted my father disowned her and I was obliged to write to uncle, then I came to him,” she finished simply.

“There are a dozen apartment houses in the city by that name,” said the woman thoughtfully. “He probably lives at the biggest one, uptown on Fifth avenue.”

“I don’t know,” said Marion anxiously. “I only knew ‘The Norwood.’ You see I did not even think that there might be two of them.”

“Well, he should have thought and told you,” said the woman, “or the cabman should have as soon as you told him.”

Marion gave a quick exclamation, which was as quickly smothered. She had thought of something that might explain it.

“There was a man watching me in the station while I was waiting,” she said slowly. “He heard uncle’s name and the address, I am sure, and afterward I saw him give the cabman some money and a scrap of paper. Do you suppose it is possible——”

Miss Gray interrupted her:

“Is that the piece of paper?” she asked, drawing a scrap from her pocket.

Marion took it and read these astonishing words:

“Dear Ted: Here’s a treasure, right fresh from the country. Name, Marion Marlowe, looking for her uncle, Frederic Stanton at ‘The Norwood.’ Married her mother’s sister, but she has never seen him. Expected him to meet her, but, luckily for you, he didn’t. I’ll be around to-night; meanwhile I wish you luck. Don’t ever say again that I’m not a judge of beauty.”

The note was not signed, and Marion looked at the woman inquiringly.

“That was written by the blackest villain in New York,” said Miss Gray, her voice vibrating strangely, “and it is not his first effort in that direction either.”

Marion rose from her chair and confronted the woman. She understood at last the full horror of her position.

“I am the victim of a plot,” she said at last. “Oh, my dear Miss Gray, how can I thank you for telling me?”

For once the woman smiled; her features had softened amazingly. Marion’s expressions of gratitude seemed thawing her coldness.

“But can I not protect myself against them?” asked Marion, after a minute. “Can’t I have them arrested by a policeman or something?”

Miss Gray smiled at the country girl’s ignorance of such matters.

“No use,” she said shortly. “What could you do? You haven’t an atom of proof that you did not come here freely.”

“But that bit of paper?” cried Marion, pointing to the note that Miss Gray was holding between her fingers.

In the coolest possible manner the woman tore it into atoms.

“Would mean nothing at all, I can assure you,” she said quickly; “for in the first place, I have destroyed it.”

She rose and tossed the fragments into the grate as she spoke. Marion stared at her helplessly; she was too bewildered to answer.

When Miss Gray came back her eyes were shining dangerously.

“They have gone a little too far in their dastardly deeds this time,” she said in a whisper. “But have I the courage to thwart their plottings?”

She began pacing the floor as she asked the question.

Marion watched her for a moment in sympathetic silence. The woman’s agony was so genuine that it could not be mistaken.

“Oh, I shall despise myself utterly if I do not save her!” she muttered, “for the others it did not matter, but this poor child is innocent!”

Marion sprang to her side as she comprehended her meaning.

“You surely do not mean that he would harm me!” she whispered sharply. “Never! Never! Miss Gray, the thing is outrageous! Come! Let us leave this place at once,” she urged. “Surely you can get a position elsewhere! You need not work for such a monster!”

The woman hesitated a moment and Marion doubled her entreaties.

“Come, Miss Gray, put your hat on and we will leave this place at once! We will go somewhere, anywhere, so that we escape from that creature!”

“If he finds me I am lost!” muttered the woman slowly, then she raised her head defiantly, as she added, “but I will risk it!”

“But surely he is not your jailer,” cried Marion in surprise.

“He is worse than that,” was the woman’s answer. “He has wrecked my life, and made me his tool, but it shall end to-night, yes, by your purity, I swear it!”

There was a sudden fierceness in her speech that startled Marion. She resembled nothing so much as a creature at bay, a poor, wounded creature who had turned upon her persecutors and was thirsting for vengeance.

A church clock struck ten as they left the building, the country girl, as innocent as an angel, and the woman who admitted that her life was clouded and blackened.

“Where shall we go?” asked Marion as they reached the curb. The lights of the big city were already bewildering her.

A cab rattled up to the entrance as she spoke and a man sprang out and started into the building.

Miss Gray caught Marion by the arm and pulled her into the shadow.

“That is Emile Vorse—your pseudo uncle’s boon companion,” she whispered savagely.

“It is the man who watched me at the depot,” answered Marion, as she gave him a sharp glance. “Oh, I never knew before that such creatures existed!”

“Come,” said her companion, as she hurried down the street. “I must get as far away as possible now that Emile has come. He will arouse his friend, and that means that my hours are numbered.”

“What injury could they do you?” whispered Marion as they hurried along.

“They could tell the truth about me and make me lose my soul!” was the woman’s strange answer. “One more goad from that villain and I shall commit murder!”

Marion shuddered violently, but there was nothing to be said. Her companion had hailed a cab and was helping her into it.