Part 20

McKenna was not without that penetrating imagination that has in it the quality of vision, the power to invoke the figures of the past and to follow an idea into the recesses of the future. All that he had learned and all that he had tentatively surmised of the mysterious purposes of Rita Kildair, returned to him with renewed vividness as he entered the elevator saying briefly to a question:

"I'm expected."

In his long and profound pursuit of human lawlessness, the detective had formed a crude philosophy, built on the perception of the inequalities of justice. The beginning of all crime, if he could thus have phrased it to himself, was failure. For each man that he had sent to jail for embezzlement, in the capacious corridor of his memory he knew another who ethically was the greater rogue, and, as he had said to Beecher, each day he met one such, looked into his eyes, shook his hands and took his orders. For each woman upon whom public scorn had set the brand of adventuress, he knew another woman who stood enthroned by that same society. Confusedly in his mind he had shaped a crude analysis of life. For him only two classes existed, the strong and the weak. The strong was that brutal race which could not be held down by the restraints of society, who must rise, acquire power, dominate, obeying the natural instinct within them; the weak those who aided them in their upward progress, who served them when they had arrived, and who committed crimes in their names. It was not a moral view of life so much as it was a perception of the persisting law of all animal nature.

The engagement to Slade, following so dramatically his triumphant rise from threatened disaster, had made him realize that whatever methods she had dared to employ, Mrs. Kildair was one of those whom society would never scorn for her failure. Intrigued as he was over the details of the theft of the ring, what absorbed him most was the woman. And determined at all hazards to force the defenses of her reserve, he rang the bell.

Mrs. Kildair was at the piano, the riotous movements of an Hungarian Czardas filling the apartment. She broke off suddenly, rising as McKenna entered the studio. The mood of whirling ecstasy, suddenly cut off, was still in her flushed cheeks and excited eyes, as she glided rapidly toward him.

She was in evening gown, of some flame-colored, filmy material, with sudden trembling flashes of gold bewildering to the eye, provoking to the imagination. The bodice, extreme in its daring, was not one of those stiff cuirasses, in which women encase themselves; rather the effect was of a billowy scarf that had caught and wrapped itself languidly about her. The low throat, the graceful arms, the brilliant row of pointed teeth over the full under lip, all had an extraordinary quality of vibrant, awake, impatient vitality.

In seeing her thus, McKenna comprehended at once that she had prepared herself for Slade; but so daring was the effect of the seduction which she had barbarically planned to tantalize the financier, that McKenna himself felt the effect with a little nervous, conscious dropping of his eyes. The movement did not escape her, and not disdaining the tribute she smiled to herself a quick, feline little smile.

"You, McKenna?" she said. "You are prompt."

"I came immediately."

"I was waiting for you."

They stood a few feet apart in the middle of the studio studying each other, as two fencers take their measure before joining their swords.

"You were at your office then?" she said the first.

"Yes, I came up in Mr. Beecher's car."

"Mr. Beecher was with you?"

"Yes."

"I sent him--"

"A letter, yes. He received it at my office."

"But why didn't he come up with you?"

"I asked him to give me half an hour here with you."

"That was better," she said firmly.

All the undisciplined impulses that had been stirring, gradually seemed to subside as she watched him, warily drawing about her an invisible defense.

"Here is the ring," she said suddenly, extending her arm with a gesture that was no longer languid and feminine, but forceful and controlled.

"I'd like to see it," he said.

She drew it from her finger and held it out to him. He laid it in his palm and studied it profoundly.

"What is it worth?" he asked.

"Over thirty thousand dollars."

"Ah," he said quickly. "Beecher told me you said fifteen thousand."

She looked at him from under her eyelids.

"I have just learned its value."

"Remarkable--a splendid stone. It has had quite a history," he said, handing it back to her and watching it return to her finger. "Let's hope it will stay there quietly for some time."

"You know its story?"

"From the beginning. It will interest you. I'll send it to you."

"Do."

The last replies she had given were mechanical, her whole mind focused on him, alert for any sudden turn to her advantage, seeking to penetrate the tactics he would employ.

"You kept away--on purpose," she said abruptly.

"That's so."

"Why?"

"Well, call it a matter of vanity," he said.

"In what way?"

"You excited my curiosity--you were a little too clever in our last interview."

"So you kept on with your investigations?"

"Yes."

"Successful?" she said lightly.

"Very."

"Indeed? Do you know who took the ring?"

"The first time? No."

She stopped, looked at him intently, and said:

"The second time then?"

"Yes, I know who took it the second time."

"Who?"

"You."

She laughed without confusion and, turning from him, went toward the fireplace, resting one bare arm on the mantel, the red splash of the ruby showing like a flare of anger against her cheek. She looked back at McKenna, who had not moved, saying with an admonishing shake of her head:

"McKenna, you are guessing."

"It's a good guess."

"Let me hear your theory."

"It is not a theory today."

"Indeed?"

"Yesterday it was a guess; today, I know."

"How do you know?"

"Because today I saw Mapleson," he said, watching her.

"Yes? Mapleson, of Sontag & Company? I know him very well," she replied with still no expression but amusement. "What then?"

"The ring was pawned with him, a personal matter, the morning after the theft, for the sum of twenty-eight thousand dollars. It was redeemed today."

"By whom?"

"By you, naturally," said McKenna, yet despite his absolute conviction, her composure was such that he was almost shaken in his theory.

"Mapleson never told you that."

"No; he refused to answer. It lay in my mind between you and Mrs. Cheever. The fact that he would not answer, gave me my strongest clue."

"In what way?"

"If it had been Mrs. Cheever, he would not have concealed it, because it would have been a theft. But as it was you who came to him, he refused to divulge the name, because he knew that no crime had been committed and that we had either no right to be investigating, or were doing so to be blinded by you."

"McKenna, you are guessing," said Mrs. Kildair again. "You are supposing that only Mrs. Cheever and I are on such terms with him that we could make such a personal transaction. As a matter of fact, not only Mrs. Bloodgood, but her husband and Miss Lille could have done the same thing."

"True," said McKenna, but he added obstinately: "No, the only reason Mapleson withheld the name was because no crime had been committed."

"Before we go on," she said with the same mocking smile, "would you mind telling me how you worked out this theory? Sit down. I really am interested."

If McKenna had not in his possession one bit of information which he had withheld, he would have felt the nervousness of a possible and ridiculous failure. At it was, a doubt flashed across his mind; but he allowed her to see none of this hesitation.

"I'm perfectly willing to let you know how it came about," he said, sitting down and speaking frankly. "I'm not laying claim to anything startling. I'll admit now that as to the details of how it was done, and why it was done, I don't know. I can guess; but I don't know. But as to tracing the ring and working back from that--that's A.B.C." Then, with a flash of intuition, he said abruptly: "Of course, Mapleson has just 'phoned you."

"Well, go on," she said without reply, drawn back a little, listening intently.

"The first thing I did was to locate the ring," he began. "You yourself know how easy it is to follow a stone worth thirty thousand. You know that, because the moment you found out I was on the case, you knew I would learn that Slade gave it to you. That's why you had me come here--to block it."

"That's true."

"Now, for a while, I admit I was in the dark, following several clues, and I don't mind saying here that until your engagement I was not at all sure it wasn't Mr. Slade himself who had taken that way of recovering it."

"That's strange," she said, startled. "Yes, I can see that was possible, too."

"Now, what I was working on," said McKenna, "was the strongest motive--that whoever took it up, took it because he had to take it to raise money, to pay a debt or to gamble on the market. So I investigated two ways--first, the back histories and the present standing of every one at your party; second, in the great jewelry shops, to find out if the ring had been sold or pawned."

"Of course."

"I didn't believe it had been done openly--that would have been too risky--but through some channel like Mapleson. But I wasn't thinking of Mapleson then. I couldn't locate the ring. I found out that Bloodgood, Cheever, Mrs. Cheever, Miss Lille and Garraboy had all speculated heavily on the market next day. That didn't help much. Now I come to my interview with you."

Mrs. Kildair nodded and leaned forward slightly.

"That worried me. After that, I did one thing and thought another. Down at the bottom, there was something that kept me thinking about you, something that bothered me. That's where the guess-work comes in, but I don't know as I'd call it guess-work. It's an instinct you get when you come in contact with a person--it's put me on the right track many a time. I saw you didn't want anything done, but what fooled me was, I thought it was--" He hesitated, and then said boldly: "Mrs. Kildair, no use talking unless we say what we mean, is there?"

"Quite right, be professional," she said with a quick nod. "You thought I wished to conceal what my true relations were with Slade? That's it, isn't it?"

"Yes, that was it," he said slowly. "And being wrong myself, I figured out a possible motive. I was dead sure you knew who had taken the ring. Don't ask how--that's instinct--but I knew. So I figured out it was blackmail you were afraid of, and I began looking around for the lady or gentleman who would know that the ring had belonged to Slade. Do you see?"

"Yes, go on. It's very plausible."

"It looked like Garraboy, and it looked like the Cheevers at times," he said. "Then Mr. Beecher told me of seeing Mapleson in Mrs. Cheever's box at the opera, and that you said you knew him. That's what started me on Mapleson. Likewise, I began thinking more and more about that interview with you. Then came your engagement and I flung over all my theories, and got down to work. I began to look you up, and when I found out the situation from Mapleson, I made up my mind then and there, for one reason or another, you yourself took the ring the second time."

"Is that all?"

"No, this evening I got the last link I'd been waiting for."

"What's that?"

"Your account with your broker, and the record of sales," he said, bringing out a slip from his pocket.

"Do you get convictions on such evidence as this?" she said steadily.

"No," he said frankly; "but I get confessions."

"Why should I take my own ring?"

"The situation was unusual. You probably learned of Majendie's failure and you plunged on the short side."

"But why not do so openly?" she said calmly.

He hesitated.

"Do you really want me to answer that?" he said finally.

"We are not mincing words."

"You were not engaged to Mr. Slade at that moment," he began.

"How do you know?"

"I do know. The one thing in your interview with me I particularly remember was your anxiety that Mr. Slade should know nothing."

She remained thoughtful, bracing her fingers against each other, carefully considering what he had shown he knew.

"And your theory is that I took the ring the second time," she said, "when whoever first took it had thrown it on the table, that I called in detectives to make Slade believe it had been stolen, so that I could gamble in Wall Street without being suspected."

"Exactly," he said. "I have no means of knowing who took it first, but I would gamble my soul you took it the second time. For another reason: any one who took it knew he faced a search--that it was almost impossible to get it out of the room. The only person who could take it without being suspected was yourself."

"McKenna," she said at last, but without the amusement that had formerly been in her eyes, "you are still guessing."

He rose impatiently and went across the room, his hands behind his back.

"Then, Mrs. Kildair," he said, turning, "do you wish me to report what I have just told you to my client, Mr. Beecher--as a guess?"

She stood up at once, fully alert.

"Mrs. Kildair, I am not an enemy," he continued, with a sudden change of manner. "I may not know all--but I know too much. Now, I'll tell you right out why I want your confidence. You marry John G. Slade. Slade is going to be one of the biggest figures in the country; I know that. I've had his business; I want to keep it. It's going to be ten times what it was before. More, I want his backing. I want several big jobs other agencies have got--The Bankers' Association, for one. Now, from what I've seen of you, the force back of Slade will be Mrs. Slade. Tell me yourself what I already know and I know I've got you as a friend. Keep it from me, and I know you'll supplant me with your husband. There may come a time when I can serve you--you never can tell. It's worth trying. I repeat I know too much. The only way to guard against it is by full confidence."

"You are right. I will tell you," she said suddenly, and she added seriously, "I was prepared to tell you. But it is understood this remains our secret."

"My word."

"And that Mr. Beecher is not to have the slightest clue. Can you promise me that?"

"I have another story ready."

"Good. Then it is an alliance," she said, and she offered her hand abruptly, with a movement full of authority.

McKenna shook hands, surprised at the masculine directness of her grip, surprised too at the utter disappearance from her face and attitude of all the impulsive fire and fascination that had first struck him.

"You are right, and you are wrong," she said directly. "I took the ring, but in an entirely different way from what you believe. I did not take it at the table, as you think--do you know where I found it?"

"Where?"

"In the pocket of Mr. Beecher's overcoat."

*CHAPTER XXV*

McKenna was so startled at this announcement that the expression on his face brought a smile to the face of the woman.

"Let me begin at the beginning," she said.

While he seated himself, she continued moving about, her head down, her lip closed over her under lip, carefully considering the situation. She had no fear to give her confidence. She understood the man with whom she was dealing, the more so for his open avowal of his reasons for seeking her friendship. Also she was fully alive as to the strength of such an alliance. What she considered was how much she should reveal. To-morrow she would be Mrs. John G. Slade, at the goal of her ambitions, over what perilous paths only she herself knew. The knowledge of what she had won suffocated her, for the nature of dramatic and adventurous spirits is such that they must seek relief in confidence. More, they crave the admiration that only another can bring to complete their moments of self-intoxication. At this moment, when her role had been played, she craved applause. McKenna was not a friend--he was a machine, a rock that would give back an echo. Beside, what had he not divined?

"McKenna," she began quietly, though weighing her words, "to any one else I might tell my story differently. With you it is otherwise. You are no fool. I shall speak openly. On the night of my party I was virtually ruined."

"Ruined!" exclaimed McKenna, with an involuntary glance at the luxury which surrounded them.

"When I say ruined, I mean for me," she said, nodding. She became thoughtful, looking beyond him, seeing a distant self. "When I came here I had fifteen thousand a year. I was not satisfied. I wanted forty. I gambled. I have always gambled. I lost heavily. That night I had only five thousand a year left. That was ruin for me. I speculated on the tips of a man who deliberately and for a purpose misinformed me. Can you guess who that man was?"

"Slade," said McKenna instantly.

"Yes, Slade," she said. "It has been a desperate struggle between us. Tomorrow I shall become his wife. That is what I want more than I have ever wanted anything else. It is my right--you will see what I will do. Understand me, if Slade had failed I should not have married him, and yet I tell you frankly he is the only man I have known that appeals to me in every way. However," she added, with a little abrupt movement of her closed hand, "that's over. I have won."

"Did he know that you had lost?" asked McKenna slowly.

"No," she said with a smile, "he never knew. Not that he would not have made it up--in his way. It is a game he must have played many times." She went to a writing-desk and, unlocking a drawer, brought out a note. "When I told you he gave me this ring with an offer of marriage," she said, returning, "that was not true. He had no thought of marriage then--far from it. He offered me the ring and I refused it, knowing that he did so only to try my weakness. Also, he wanted to find out what I knew of Majendie and the Atlantic Trust. When he left he sent it back with this note. Read it."

McKenna took the sheet, smoothing out the wrinkles, and held it up.

DEAR LADY:

Apologies for my rudeness. If you won't accept a gift, at least wear the ring for a week. I should like to know what effect it could have on your cold little soul. Oblige my curiosity. It's only a little reparation for the disappointment I gave you.

J.G.S.

Mrs. Kildair took the note again and returning to the desk locked it in the drawer.

"This, then, was my situation the night of the party. I had lost two thirds of what I had. I was absolutely resolved to play everything I possessed on one last gamble. I need not remind you of the financial situation at that time. I knew Majendie and I knew Slade. Furthermore, I knew Mrs. Bloodgood. The problem was this--if Majendie was to be supported and the Atlantic Trust to be upheld, there would probably be no panic. If Majendie failed, I knew there would be a tremendous break in stocks--a killing for those who knew what was coming. That night everything depended on my solving Majendie's fate. I did and I won. It was a guess, but a guess such as you understand. I have known too many men not to know how a true man acts under such circumstances. He came from the meeting that had condemned him, and the first moment he greeted Mrs. Bloodgood, I was sure that he was lost. Later, as he bowed ironically to something I had said, I saw in the gaping of his pocket something that gave me another clue--a slight thing, but which had a lot to do with what followed--just an edge of a green folder."

"A folder?" said McKenna, perplexed.

"Yes, a folder that I thought might be a railroad time-table," she said, nodding. "I knew, of course, of Mrs. Bloodgood's infatuation. I had her confidence. I knew that she had started to procure a divorce. I likewise knew how often she had begged Majendie to elope with her. Furthermore, almost every one there that night was watching Majendie for the same purpose--all who were speculating; Mr. and Mrs. Cheever, Bloodgood, Garraboy, Maud Lille, Slade--who came in late, quite unexpected--were there on the same errand."

"Yes, that I understood," said McKenna.

"Now, I come to the actual theft of the ring. The moment I found it had been taken, I realized all the difficulties of my position, how dangerous any inquiry would be to my reputation, which would necessarily establish the fact of its being a gift of Slade's. I resolved on desperate measures. That is why I came back, had the doors locked, extinguished the lights, and announced that I would call in detectives to have every one searched, unless the ring was restored during the period in the dark, while I counted one hundred."

"Did you suspect who had taken it?" asked McKenna.

"There were several I could suspect--that was the trouble," she said. "As you know, when I had counted sixty-one, there was a sound on the table. Every one exclaimed! The ring had been restored! When the lights were lit the table was bare. Evidently a second thief had taken what the first had restored. That's what I thought--every one thought. I was wrong. There were not two thieves, there was only one."

"The same person had put it down as a blind and taken it again," said McKenna slowly, as she waited for his comment.

"No," she replied, smiling. "It was all cleverly planned, and only an accident prevented its being successful. My ring was never on the table."

"The ring that was thrown down, then," said McKenna, suddenly enlightened, "was another ring--a blind--to cover what any one might have seen? I see!"

"And also to make it appear that the ring was in the studio."

"Yes, I understand it now," said McKenna, nodding, with a sudden snap of his fingers.

"I immediately went out, locking the door, and telephoned for my detectives. To this point this was my only thought. When I had done that, I began to think over what had happened. It seemed incredible to me that any one should have dared take such a risk--particularly as a search was inevitable. When I returned to the studio and awaited the arrival of my detectives, this was my only thought. I studied each and I became convinced that the ring would not be found on any one. If that were true, where was it? In the studio, hidden somewhere--but even there it would be sure to be found--so why should any one have even risked that?" She stopped a moment and then said quietly, with again that same far-seeing look beyond him: "McKenna, in my life I have seen many strange scenes. I have known of many more. One such came back to me and I guessed this much--that the real ring had not been heard. But that was all. When the detectives arrived, I went quietly into the hall, still trying to work it out. Quite by accident, I brushed against one of the coats that was hanging over the railing and knocked it down. Absolutely mechanically, without knowing why I did it, when I picked it up I ran my hands in the pockets. In the second was the ring."

"And the coat, you say, was Beecher's?" said McKenna, amazed.

"Wait. I replaced it hurriedly, noticing how similar it was to another that still lay on the rail. Then I opened the door and ushered the detectives into the dining-room. I had the ring, but I did not know the thief. Then all at once it came over me to what use I might put what had occurred. I had the ring which had been offered me, but which I could not accept openly. I could now use it to raise money for the speculation I had resolved upon, without Slade's knowing of the obligation. Second, I wanted to make sure that I had really seen a time-table in the pocket of Majendie. I gave my order to that effect to the detectives and started the search."

"Was it a time-table?"