Part 11

He told her first the bare details of the suicide as he knew them; and then, in response to her hurried questions, began to retell the afternoon. He spoke impulsively, almost as an echo of the drama he had witnessed. Occasionally she stopped him with a more detailed question. Moved out of his self-consciousness, he described, more eloquently than he knew, the conflict between the two women at Mrs. Kildair's, and the emotions which had suddenly brought him wide-eyed to the spectacle of the black, turbulent river of despair.

"I can't forget it--it haunts me now," he said, when he had ended with Mrs. Bloodgood's return into the home of her husband. "It makes me see something in life I didn't understand--that I am just beginning to see."

He looked at her. Her face was wet with tears. All at once, astonished, he recalled what he had told.

"What have I done?" he cried, aghast. "I had no right to repeat it. I didn't realize what I was saying!"

"Don't fear," she said, shuddering, and she extended her hands to the fire, as though the recital had frozen her body. "Poor woman--poor, lonely woman!"

He sat down near her, close to the fire, and, stretching out his hand, touched her arm.

"Listen, Nan," he said, so profoundly that she could not mistake the emotion. "It has made a great difference in me. It may be a mood--it may pass; but I hope it won't. It makes me dissatisfied. Look here--I don't want to go on as we have, thrusting and parrying. I don't want it to be just a game. The real feeling in me toward a woman is different--it's one of chivalry, I know. Let's drop all artifices. Let's be honest with each other--good friends, or something else, as it may come."

She considered the depths of the fire a moment, and turned, looking at him dreamily, feeling how much older she was in the knowledge of the doubts of the world than the young, impulsive nature that looked out at her from such honest eyes.

"Will you?" he asked, as she looked away again.

She shook her head, in doubt as to an answer; but the good in her stirred by the good in him expressed itself in the quick pressure of thanks which her hand conveyed to him.

"I am not the least in love," he said quickly. "What I say I say because--oh, I don't know! I'm dissatisfied with myself. This thing has gotten below my skin. Life's too rotten. I want you to believe in me--in my strength. You are sympathetic--_multa sympatica_. I don't know; I hate to think of your fighting alone such a rotten hard fight."

She nodded slowly, understanding perhaps better than he his thought, yet half won to his appeal already.

She took his hand in both of hers, pressing it in emphasis from time to time, not looking at him, staring at something that formed before her eyes.

"No one has ever spoken to me just like this," she said gently. "One thing I would never want to happen, Teddy--I would never want to hurt you! That is why I hesitate--why I am afraid. You are only a great big boy. You won't understand me. I am very selfish--very worldly."

"You are nothing of the sort," he said furiously, withdrawing his hand. "You may think so, but I know you better."

She turned, amused; but her smile left her as she looked into his eyes. To her surprise, a feeling of unease came to her; she felt a new longing--to be for a moment quite childlike and helpless.

"Don't blunder into anything, Teddy," she answered, shaking her head, herself a little disturbed. "With some men I would not care. With you--yes, it would make me feel like a criminal to hurt you."

He understood that she was warning him of the futility of expecting to find in her a woman. But if she had calculated, which she had not, on any move surer to arouse him, she could have found no better expedient. The impossibility implied, coupled with the impulsive generosity in her voice, made her a thousand times more desirable. He rose brusquely, and, standing with his back to the fire, looked down at the dramatic face, which the flames lighted with the flare of footlights.

"There are certain things that we must understand together," he said with authority, obeying the instinct which told him that to succeed he must take the upper hand.

Her eyebrows came together in a straight flight.

"I have not hesitated to trust in you--you must in me. Tell me. You have reason to suspect that Mrs. Bloodgood took the ring--at least, the first time?"

She shook her head, but without anger.

"Don't you understand," he said quickly, "that I must know why you acted as you did?"

Still her only answer was a deep-taken breath.

"I swear to you, if Mrs. Bloodgood did take it," he said, "I would not condemn her. On the contrary, I would pity her."

"Why should Mrs. Bloodgood, who has millions, do such a thing?" she said quietly.

"Because, from what I know, Mrs. Bloodgood, who has millions, as the wife of Enos Bloodgood, has not as much money in her pocket as you or I." He stopped. "She took it to have some means of escape, didn't she?"

"No, she did not take it," she answered, but in a tone that brought no conviction.

"You see, I know that you returned to Mrs. Kildair's that night," he said, irritated.

"How did you know?" she said quickly.

"Mrs. Kildair told me--no, that's not true; some one else did."

"Mrs. Kildair herself called me on the telephone and asked me to come," she said slowly.

"And questioned you?"

"Yes."

"As to what you had seen?" he said, with a great feeling of relief that should have warned him of his true interest.

"Yes."

"What did you answer?"

She rose and approached him, looking at him with only friendliness.

"If the ring is not restored in two weeks," she said, "then I will tell you what you wish to know."

"You think that, if Mrs. Bloodgood took it, she will now have no use for it," he persisted, seizing the idea.

"I know nothing at all," she answered, emphasizing the "know." "This promise must satisfy you. I only have a suspicion, and I don't want to do an injustice to another--remember that. I have never said it was Mrs. Bloodgood I suspected. Now I want to talk to you about my own affairs."

He was covered with contrition that he should have forgotten her difficulties.

"Good heavens!" he said hastily. "What have I been thinking of? Please don't think I don't care; I've been in such a whirl--"

She checked him with a gesture and a smile, motioning him to sit down again.

"Have you had any word?"

She shook her head.

"Of course, it's a terrible day on the Street," he hastened to reply. "Everything's up in the air--they're like a lot of lunatics. Garraboy hasn't had time to think. That oughtn't to alarm you."

"But I left word at his office for him to telephone me, and it is now," she said, glancing at the clock, "an hour and a half since the close."

"There are probably a hundred inquiries of the same sort awaiting him," he said to reassure her. "What are you afraid of?"

"I don't know--and yet I am a little anxious. Suppose he has used my stocks? Such things happen every day."

"The best thing is to find out at once how Garraboy stands--if he's been caught in the drop or not. Then we can take our measures."

"How'll you do that?"

"Call up Bruce Gunther and get him on the trail. May I telephone?"

"Do so."

"He's probably at the club now," he said, taking up the receiver and giving a number. "Yes, he's in. That's lucky. I'll get him in a moment." Then he added irritably: "How the deuce did you ever come to deal with Garraboy?"

"Why, I've known him ever since I came to New York. I wanted to invest some money--I didn't know any one else; and then, he was very--friendly; wanted to make some money for me. That's how it was."

"Hello," said Beecher. "Is that you, Bruce? It's I--Ted."

"Where the deuce have you been?" said the voice at the other end. "I've been trying to get you all over town."

"You have?"

"You bet I have; McKenna's turned up a real clue--wants to see you at once. Pick me up here at the club, will you?"

"All right. But say, Bruce, I want you to do something for me. Find out all you can about Garraboy--you know, the fellow we spoke about. Has he been on the wrong side of the market or not? Understand? It's important."

"I'll do it. Anything else?"

"Yes. A friend of mine has some stocks with him, about twenty thousand worth--you see the situation--and she's a little bit worried. Can't get any satisfaction."

"Wants 'em back?"

"Yes. What's the best way to do?"

"Um! Get a transfer to you and call for them tomorrow."

"Of course; see you later."

He put down the telephone and turned gaily to his companion, who was waiting with anxiety.

"That's all right. Bruce will get the information and I'll telephone you this evening. Now, the best way to operate is this." He took out his check-book and wrote a check for twenty thousand dollars to her name. "I'll buy those stocks. Here's my check; give me an acknowledgment for the shares, with an order on Garraboy to deliver."

She looked at him doubtfully, holding the check gingerly in her fingers.

"What's the matter?" he said. "If there's any little difference one way or the other, we can arrange that later."

"Supposing Garraboy has failed and sold my stocks?"

"He hasn't."

"But if he has?"

"That's my risk," he started to say, but checked himself. "Why, of course, then it's off. This is just to give me the power to get them away at once. A man can do what a woman can't."

She was grateful to him for his perception of delicacy.

"On that basis, yes," she said. Then she stopped and looked at him with a whimsical but favoring smile. "As it is, Teddy, what do you know of me to take even this chance?"

The opening was too direct. She saw it at once, and, to forestall his answer, said more lightly:

"It is a great service. Tell me what to write."

As she was drawing up the paper under his directions, a placid, emotionless woman of forty entered from the rear.

"That Mr. Hargrave is here, Nan dear," she said. "You gave him an appointment, you know."

"Mrs. Tilbury, my companion," said Miss Charters. "Very well; in a moment."

Mrs. Tilbury passed patiently out to deliver the message. Beecher was delighted with the correctness and cold respectability of such a chaperon.

"Mr. Hargrave is a young dramatist," said Miss Charters, finishing the document. "He's coming to read some masterpiece to me. He wrote a one-act piece three years ago that was very clever, and now, of course, I can't risk refusing to hear him--he might have a work of genius at last. This is my fourth trial." She put the paper from her impatiently. "I'm sorry."

He was displeased also at this sudden recall of the other life in her, the world of the theater, which crowded the walls with its signed photographs.

"I'll telephone as soon as I know," he said, dissembling his irritation.

She went to the door with him, annoyed also at the interruption.

"I'm coming tomorrow," he said, and he held out his hand with a little defiance.

She did not resent the assumption of right, still introspectively puzzled at the new moods into which she had fallen. And, still pensive, she said:

"Come."

Below, in the anteroom, he sent a look of antagonism and scorn at a young man, a little extravagantly dressed, who carried a portfolio under his arm with a sense, too, of irritation and pride.

*CHAPTER XIII*

When he had gone into the brisk air of the street, his mental vision returned with the crispness of the night. He was astonished at what he had said and done.

"But I am not in love--not in the least," he repeated. "Then what was it?"

He was quite perplexed at perceiving the astonishing difference her presence and her absence made in his attitude. He repeated to himself quite seriously with a little wonder that, if he were in danger of falling in love, he would be a prey to that disturbing emotion now, absent as well as present.

"I am perfectly calm," he said, flourishing his cane. "Not in the least excited. It's very queer."

All the same, he returned to the interview, and recalled the incidents without illusion. He comprehended now what he had not comprehended then, the full significance of his offer of friendship--in fact, that it was not an approach to friendship but to something very different, and the relations which had now been established between them were those of confidence and intimacy that lay on the borderline of great emotions.

"It's very odd," he said, "I wish to be honest and open with her, and yet I said what I don't feel--suggested what I have not the least thought of. I'll be hanged if I understand it, unless she has the power to make me believe in emotions that don't exist,--Emma Fornez was right, she is the type that provokes you. I must be very careful."

But one thing he did not perceive--that the city no longer oppressed him with its bleak struggle and serried poverty, that he swung lightly over the crisp pavements, breathing the alert and joyous air, that in him the joy of living awakened, as the myriad lights awoke the city of the night, the city rising from the fatigue of labor with its avid zest for pleasure and excitement.

"What is the clue McKenna's got hold of?" he thought eagerly, as the massive, cheery windows of the club came into view across the stirring, care-fleeing homeward rush of the Avenue.

The moment he entered the crowded anteroom, the tragic day returned with redoubled gloom. The death of Majendie oppressed every voice--nothing else was discussed. He found himself caught up in the crowd at the bar, listening with a strange sense of irony to those who touched in haphazard the event which he knew so profoundly. The wildest rumors were current. Majendie had shot himself after the discovery of an enormous shortage in the funds of the Atlantic Trust. The Atlantic Trust had been looted, the effect on Wall Street had been to confirm the wildest rumors, the market would plunge down to-morrow, the awful loss of the day would be surpassed; it was the panic of '93 over again. The inevitable mysterious informant in the crowd arrived with a new rumor: Majendie had tried to escape, had been prevented by detectives, who had been shadowing him for days, and had then gone in and shot himself just as the warrant for his arrest arrived. Another gave this version; Majendie had not shot himself, he had been murdered.

Every one exclaimed at this.

"That's the story in the Associated Press offices," continued the informant obstinately. "A man whose whole fortune was locked up in the Atlantic--a small depositor--got into the house on some pretext, and shot him--crazy, of course. It's not been verified, but that's the story."

"Tell you what I heard," said another, in a low voice, to a group that eddied about him. "It's true he was shot, but he wasn't shot in his own home. He was shot last night in his box at the opera by a man who is as well known as old Fontaine. The old story, of course, trespassing in married quarters. The whole thing was kept dark--got him out of the box after the crowd went out, and took him home, where he died at midnight. Heard the names in the case, but pledged not to repeat them."

Each rumor received a momentary credence, in the excitement of the moment. Some one defending the personal friend, insisted on melancholia and despondency, citing the example of an uncle who had taken his life after the disgrace of his son. No one spoke the name of Mrs. Bloodgood, waiting the moment of confidences _a trois_. In the stupefaction of the moment, even the personal losses, which had been tremendous, were momentarily forgotten. Gradually inquiries began to be made as to the extent of the panic. Then at once a division was apparent. There was already the party of the shorts, eager and vociferous, staking their last chance of recouping on a still wider spread of the devastating drop, which they now as ardently desired as though a thousand homes would not suffer for every point acquired.

Beecher separated himself from these enthusiasts of failure, and passed into the front room, where he was signaled by Gunther, who was in one of the numerous small groups. He found a chair and joined the party, in which were Fontaine, Lynch, and Steve Plunkett. The conversation, which was controversial, continued without interruption.

"Don't be an ass, Ed," said Lynch, with irritation; "nothing can stop the market."

"The Atlantic Trust is as solvent as Gunther & Co.," insisted Fontaine, with a nervous, emphatic gesture. "Every depositor will be paid in full."

"It'll be in the hands of a receiver before the week's over--bet you five to three."

"Possibly; but then--"

"Moreover, what of the public? What's the public going to do when it hears Majendie's committed suicide? What'll it think? It'll think the whole blamed institution is rotten to the core--looted!"

"Sure," said Plunkett, and he added savagely, his glance lost in the distance: "Damn it, if I'd known the news an hour earlier, I could have made fifty thousand."

"Why, look at the situation," continued Bo Lynch, excited by his own images. "The Clearing-house closed against the Associated Trust and all its allies; runs on banks all over the country; Slade forced to the wall, out of it in a couple of days, perhaps--God knows, another suicide, maybe; two failures up into the hundreds of millions--everything in the country thrown on the market! Look at the sales to-day; they'll be doubled to-morrow. Nothing can hold out against it. The country'll go crazy! I tell you, '93 was nothing to it."

Gunther rose.

"What do you think, Bruce?" said Plunkett anxiously.

"Don't know a thing about it," said Gunther brusquely. "Neither does Eddie or Bo. If you want to gamble, gamble."

He nodded to Beecher, and they moved out together.

"Let's cut out of this den of lunatics," he said. "My machine's here; supposing we run down to McKenna's and get him off for a quiet chop. I've already telephoned."

"He's got some news?"

"Yes, but I don't know what it is. Jump in."

"What about Garraboy?"

"Rumor is, he's in heavy. McKenna's looking that up, too."

"I say, Bruce, what do you really think about the situation?" said Beecher, forced to contain his curiosity. "Are we going to the bow-wows?"

"If you ask what I _think_," said Gunther meditatively, "I think it's the devil to pay. Far as I can see, a lot depends on John G. Slade. There's no doubt there's a crowd after his scalp."

"Will they get it?"

"Looks so; but he's got nine lives, they say."

"Where the deuce are we going?" said Beecher, suddenly aware of the swift flight through the now deserted regions of the lower city.

"Down to McKenna's offices."

"As late as this?"

"Guess these days keep him pretty busy."

"Didn't he say anything about his clue?"

"Said he'd traced the history of the stone."

They soon came to a stop in one of the blocks on Broadway within a stone's throw of old Trinity, and, descending, entered a dingy four-story building pinched in among the skyscrapers. At the second flight of worm-eaten stairs, Gunther pushed open a smoky glass door and entered a short antechamber inclosed in sanded glass with sliding pigeon-holes for observation. Their arrival being expected, they were immediately shown down a contracted hallway studded with doors, to an open room, comfortably furnished, with a fire burning in the grate.

"Join you in a moment, gentlemen," said McKenna, nodding around the door of the adjoining room.

Gunther unceremoniously helped himself at the open box of cigars.

"Ted," he said enthusiastically, "why the deuce do the novelists concoct their absurdly stalking detectives, who deduce everything at a glance, with their impossible logical processes? Don't they see the real thing is so much bigger? It's not the fake individual mind that's wonderful; it's the system--this system. A great agency like this is simply an expression of society itself--organized order against unorganized disorder. It's an unending struggle, and the odds are all on one side. By George, what impresses me is the completeness with which society has organized itself--made use of all inventions, telephone, telegraph, the photograph, the press, everything turned on the criminal to run him down. For a hundred detectives employed here, there are a thousand allies, in every trade, in every depot, in every port, along every line of travel. When you think of the agencies that McKenna can stir up by a word, then you begin to realize the significance of the detective in the structure of society."

McKenna, who had heard the last words, entered, vitally alert and physically excited by the joy of unusual labor.

"Now I'm with you," he said, appropriating an easy-chair. "Let's see where we'll begin. Oh, Mr. Beecher, you wanted certain information about that broker Garraboy, didn't you?"

"What have you found out?" said Beecher, with a conscious eagerness that struck both hearers.

"It just so happened I had a line on your man from another direction," said McKenna. "Well, he's hit the market right. What would have happened if this panic hadn't come just right, is another question--a rather interesting question. However, Garraboy's known to have been heavy on the short side, and, from all reports, stands to make a killing."

"Then Miss Charters' stocks are all right?"

"They're all right--yes--now," said McKenna carefully; "but my advice is to get hold of them--P.D.Q. Mr. Garraboy is somewhat of a gambler. Now, here's a bit of history about a certain ruby that will interest you," he continued, drawing out a memorandum. In his manner was a little amused self-satisfaction, as one who relished the mystification of the outsiders. "In the first place, your ruby ring is not worth fifteen thousand."

"No?" said Beecher in amazement.

"It's worth considerably more," said the detective, with a grin. "Its last sale was at the price of thirty-two thousand dollars."

"What!" said both young men in chorus.

"Just that."

"But then, why should Mrs. Kildair value it at fifteen?" exclaimed Beecher.

"That's rather an interesting point," said McKenna, "and we'll touch on that later. The stone is as well known in the trade as John L. Sullivan to you and me. It was first sold in New Amsterdam in the year 1852 to a firm of Parisian jewelers. From them it was bought for a well-known, rather frisky lady called La Panthere by a Count d'Ussac, who ruined himself. La Panthere was killed later by a South American lover and her effects sold at auction. The ruby was bought by the firm of Gaspard Freres, and set in a necklace which was sold to the Princess de Grandliev. At the fall of the Second Empire, the necklace was broken up and this particular stone went over to England, where it was set in a ring and sold to a young dandy, the Earl of Westmorley, who was killed steeplechasing. A woman named Clara Hauk, an adventuress, had the ring in her possession, and successfully defeated the efforts of the family to regain it. She got into bad water in the '80's and sold it to a South African, who carried it off to the Transvaal with him. It reappeared in the offices of Gaspard Freres in 1891 on the finger of a young Austrian woman who sold it for twenty-two thousand dollars and disappeared without giving her name. An Italian, the Marchese di Rubino, bought it for a wedding present to his daughter, who kept it until 1900, when she pledged it to pay the gambling debts of her husband. It was then brought to this country by the wife of a Western rancher, who sold it five years later to Sontag & Co. The last sale known was just two months ago."

"Two months?" said Beecher, craning forward.

"The price, as I said, was thirty-two thousand, and the purchaser was a certain gentleman very much before the public now--John G. Slade."