Part 21

"Nothing was found. Majendie, profiting either by the first period of darkness, or the second, had thrown it away. I found it in the waste-basket a little later. It was a time-table and his very action made my guess a certainty."

"But the thief?"

"When the turn of Garraboy arrived," said Mrs. Kildair, "he left, as all did, without returning to the studio. I was watching him particularly. Five minutes after he left, he returned. He had taken Mr. Beecher's coat by mistake."

An exclamation of annoyance escaped McKenna. He sprang up angrily.

"Mrs. Kildair," he said, not attempting to restrain his annoyance, "that is the one thing Mr. Beecher neglected to tell me--see how we are handicapped--"

"I'm not blaming you, McKenna," said Mrs. Kildair with a smile. "On the contrary, you discovered entirely too much."

"It was cleverly worked out," said McKenna grimly, "and no risk. He had his wits about him. Sounding another ring on the table to limit the search to the studio was quick thinking. Planting it in Beecher's coat was better. Even if he were caught with it on, he could pretend amazement, a natural mistake. And if not, it was a clean getaway," he added ruefully. "All the same, I wish I'd known that detail."

"For the rest you were right. Mapleson loaned me the money. He is an old acquaintance, and I have once or twice," she said carelessly, "rendered him important services. He did telephone me ten minutes before you came. I staked everything I had in the market. I doubled my losses. Is there any other point?"

"Your having the detectives stay was, of course, a blind?"

"Of course. I called Miss Charters and Garraboy on purpose. To this day I wonder who he thinks got the ring from him."

"He suspects," said McKenna.

"Probably," she said carelessly. Then she turned on him. "Now, McKenna, answer me a question."

"Which one?"

"It's a thing I want to know," she said, with a sudden shade of dread creeping over her face. "It is one of those fatalities in life that are so terrible. Majendie killed himself because he thought the detectives on his track had a warrant for his arrest. Weren't they, in fact, your men, simply placed there to record his movements for Slade?"

"Mrs. Slade," said McKenna, not noticing the slip, "you have just given me a profound confidence. Would you trust in my power to keep it, if, supposing I knew anything, I should tell you? Ask your husband himself and tell me yourself. I am curious also."

Mrs. Kildair, who saw in the politic evasion a feminine answer, nodded and drew back with a shudder.

At this moment Kiki entering announced that Mr. Beecher was below.

"Tell him the truth," said McKenna quickly. "That is, three quarters of the truth. Leave it to me."

When Beecher entered, expectation and long-restrained curiosity on his face, McKenna, with a look of crestfallen defeat which completely deceived him, said immediately:

"Mr. Beecher, have you that envelope I gave you?"

"Am I to open it?" said Beecher eagerly, bringing it out.

"On the contrary," said McKenna, taking it quickly. He took it and could not resist examining the edges to see if it had been tampered with. "This is one of my failures, Mr. Beecher," he said, tearing it into small pieces. "I've got too much vanity to let you see what an ass I've been."

"What does this mean?" said Beecher, standing open-mouthed.

"It means, Teddy," said Mrs. Kildair severely, "that it is entirely your fault."

"My fault!"

"Yes, your fault. You neglected to tell Mr. McKenna the one thing that was important."

"What thing--what do you mean?"

"That Mr. Garraboy went off with your coat by mistake."

"Yes, Mr. Beecher," said McKenna, shaking his head, "by not telling me that one detail, you've made a fool out of me."

"Then, Garraboy took it!" said Beecher, his face lighting up with a smile of triumph.

"Garraboy took it, planted it in your pocket and then faked the ring at the table. The ring was returned through a woman who guessed it and had it restored. Her name is a secret, but you are at liberty to guess."

"Miss Lille," said Beecher to himself. This denouement, which coincided so closely with his own divination, completely convinced him.

"If you've no further use for me," said McKenna, with the same hang-dog look, "I'll be going. Another time I hope to serve you better."

"Thank you," said Mrs. Kildair, who contrived to add to the words a little smile, comprehensible only to the detective.

"Permit me to give you my profound congratulations," said McKenna, taking her hand with a bow that made Beecher open his eyes in wonder. "I wish you every success."

"_Au revoir_, McKenna," said Mrs. Kildair, still smiling.

"Good-night, McKenna," said Beecher in turn.

"Oh, you," said the detective, going off grumbling; "I have a bone to pick with you."

Beecher laughed guiltily when the door had closed.

"By Jove," he said, "McKenna certainly is in bad humor. I'm sorry. But he was off on a tangent, wasn't he?"

*CHAPTER XXVI*

"Just one thing I would like to know," said Beecher when Mrs. Kildair, following McKenna's lead, had left off with Garraboy's departure.

"What?" she said, noticing his sudden embarrassment.

He could not keep from his face a new consciousness, but he went on lamely:

"Why did Miss Charters come back?"

She laughed at what his manner revealed, and said:

"So that's it! I told you she came when I telephoned her."

"Yes, but why did you do that?"

"Because I noticed her agitation and the way she watched one person in particular."

"Mrs. Bloodgood?"

"Yes."

"What did she tell you?"

"She had seen Mrs. Bloodgood pick up the ring and try it on," said Mrs. Kildair. "The circumstances did seem suspicious, for Mrs. Bloodgood looked up in the mirror and saw her watching her. Miss Charters did not know whether she had returned it, I suppose. That was all. It did look bad--considering what happened afterward."

"That was it, then," said Beecher, satisfied. He raised his head and saw Mrs. Kildair's eyes on him intently.

"Well?" he said with an innocent expression.

"How far has it gone?" said Mrs. Kildair.

"What?"

"Are you in love with Miss Charters?"

"I wonder," he said evasively.

"Are you serious?" she asked quickly.

"And if I said yes--"

"You are thinking of marriage?"

"And if I were?"

"You'd be a big fool," she said decisively.

He raised his eyebrows, astonished and wounded.

"You say this--the day before your own?"

"Come here," she said, taking him by the wrist and leading him to the sofa. "Sit down there. Are you really seriously thinking of marriage?"

"Yes, I am."

She drew back in her chair, looking at him in doubt.

"Teddy," she said at last, "you are too worth while to be spoiled like that. You have been too loyal a friend for me not to keep you from this blunder."

"But, good heavens, am I not a responsible being?"

"Listen," she said, cutting him off. She glanced at the clock. "I haven't much time, so don't interrupt me. I am very fond of you and what I say is in kindness. Yes, I am going to marry, and yet I say to you that you should not. I understand what it means. I have nothing to learn. There are two kinds of marriages, Teddy. The marriage that ninety-nine persons out of a hundred make--the marriage that is a joining of forces to fight the battle of life--has a definite object. The wife is the helpmate. The serious thing is to live, to pay the bills and to save a little money. You have nothing to do with that kind of marriage. The other kind of marriage is the marriage our sort makes, most of the time--no responsibilities, no object, and no struggle. You take a wife to help you enjoy yourself, and your enjoyment depends on piling up new sensations--in never being bored. Happiness in such conditions is a miracle. As a matter of fact, it is not a marriage at all, it is simply a liaison."

"Even then?"

"Yes, certain liaisons have lasted and been happy," she admitted; "we know that, but only on the same terms that will make permanent happiness in such a marriage. You are not a worker--you are simply curious about life, and curiosity is not a thing that is satisfied by one experience. The marriage you would make now would simply be an experience in curiosity, with inevitable results. To have any chance of success, do you know what ought to be?"

"What?"

"There should be on each side an equal experience in curiosity. When you have known two hundred women, you will find that there is always one above the rest who is necessary to you. Miss Charters may be that one now, but without the experience I speak of, you will never recognize it until too late. Therefore," she said, standing up, "don't marry for ten years. Not with such eyes and such lips," she said, passing her hand over the flushed face of the young man. "I know what I'm speaking of. Life's a very big world when you're alone, and a very small patch when you're married. Wait. Think over what I've said, Teddy."

He did think over what she had told him as he walked out into the street.

"She sees very clearly," he said solemnly, "and there's a great deal in what she says--a great deal," he repeated firmly, and stopping at the first hotel he telephoned Nan Charters.

The next morning he received another note from her.

Just to repeat, Teddy dear, that I think too much of you to hold you to what happened yesterday. We must both think _seriously--very seriously_.

NAN.

"That's right: we must think seriously," he repeated solemnly, and reached for the papers, after eying the telephone for a long time.

Gunther called up later in the morning to give him an astonishing bit of news--Garraboy had sailed for Europe at nine that morning, and on the same ship had gone Mrs. Cheever. But this news did not excite him in the least. He spent the morning very heavily, keeping to his promise not to telephone with great difficulty. He did not go to his club for luncheon, but took his meal alone at a chance restaurant.

Then he went to call on Emma Fornez.

"Aha, you have called to talk to me about your little Charters," said the prima donna at once.

"How do you know?" he said bluntly.

"It's very simple; when a man's in love he never talks it over with a man--no, he always goes to another woman."

"Well, would you be surprised if I married Miss Charters?" he said, glad to have arrived at the only topic which interested him.

"If you what!" exclaimed Mme. Fornez, catapulting from the sofa.

"If I marry," he repeated firmly.

"Marry? Oh, no, no, no!" she cried, with her hands on her hips and bobbing her head to each negation. "Amuse yourself--love--flirt--break her heart or break yours--_est-ce que je sais_--but marry? What! You are mad!"

"I mean it."

"No, impossible! Marry one of us--an actress--you--a nice boy? _Allons donc_. You ought to be shut up. Marry Charters. You might just as well marry Emma Fornez, and when I say that--oh, la, la! My poor boy, I pity you!"

"But you all marry."

"True. But what difference does it make to us?" she threw out her chin, the gesture of the peasant. "You are serious?"

"Very."

"Let me talk to you. I have only a minute. My masseuse is coming and in America one doesn't receive with a masseuse--_enfin_. Listen to me well. You want to marry seriously--for good, then? Children and all the rest? Well, my boy, you might just as well marry Emma Fornez and expect her to spend her days over a ragout as to marry Charters. Will she give up her career?"

"We haven't thought of that."

"It makes no difference. On the stage, off the stage, it's the same thing. She won't change. Do you want to play the part of a valet, a little dancing dog, _hein_? For that's just what you'll be; and one of twenty. For she's used to crowds of men. She won't change. Love, my dear boy, is madness, hallucination, you are drunk; but everything returns as it was before--believe me. If I were a man I'd never fall in love with a woman until I married her--it's easy enough then. You would know what you're getting!"

The masseuse came in, sliding on tiptoe from one door to another.

"Victorine--_ma masseuse_! In a minute, in a minute, Madame Tenier. I'll be with you in a minute. Where was I? Teddy, you do not know us professional women--we are wrestlers, we are always struggling with you men--I warn you. No two ways. She will never be happy, my dear boy--because she never is happy. We are never happy, or we would not be what we are. And what of moods, day in and day out. _Tiens_--I'll tell you what you'll be--another Victorine. Victorine, _ou diable es-tu_? No, no, Teddy; don't be a big fool; don't be an idiot. You are so nice. You can amuse yourself so well. Don't put your head in a noose. If she loves you now, she won't to-morrow; she can't help it. Then where'll you be--in the soup, _hein_. And she? No, no, believe me, Teddy, never marry, in the first place, and then never marry one of us."

"There's something in what she says," thought Beecher, as he moodily descended in the elevator. "She knows her own kind better than I do."

He looked undecidedly at the clock and went to pay a dinner call on Mrs. Craig Fontaine. In ten minutes they were on the same subject.

"I am terribly upset," said the young widow. "I don't want any trouble to come to you, and I can't help thinking that what you are considering is a very risky step. In the first place, Teddy, you are too young."

He made a movement of impatience at this repetition, which had begun to offend his sense of dignity.

"You don't know what is ahead," she said warmly. "You do not realize that points of view change. What you seek now, romance, adventure, is not what you'll seek at thirty-five, and life is mostly after thirty-five, Ted. Today you are willing to sacrifice every friend in the world for one love; tomorrow you will realize that friends are our life, their ways, their companionship, their interests. Today you hold yourself very cheaply; tomorrow you will wake up, look round you, see what other women have brought to their husbands, and you will say, 'What am I worth?'"

"You believe in mercenary marriages, then?" he said irritably.

"No, but I believe in staying in the same society in which you belong. I don't want to be cruel, but Miss Charters is of another world. I know there is nothing against her. She may be able to enter your world, and then again she may not want to--may prefer the freedom of her own, and you will follow her. Have you thought of that? Your friends must be your wife's friends, or you will give them up. Marriage, Teddy, which can be the most decisive act in a man's life, is the one he throws away the most lightly. I'm only afraid you may wake up to what you might have done, Teddy. You are young, eager, you are not yet bored. You may feel the desire to be something, to do something that counts in your life. I don't want you then to wake up and realize that another marriage might have given you the connections you wanted, the added opportunity. At this moment marriage appears to you the only thing that counts; you will realize some day that it is the least thing in it." She smiled, as he looked amazed, and added: "No amount of discussion can make you understand these things--they must be lived. But, Teddy, before you leap, ask yourself seriously what you are worth."

When he left Mrs. Fontaine's presence, he did so with lagging steps. The advice of these three women, so various and viewing life from such divergent points of view, profoundly impressed him. He tried to argue against what had been told him, and as this process irritated him beyond measure, he broke off, acknowledging their superior insight. But all at once he stopped short, enlightened by a sudden reflection.

"If what they say is true ... why did they all marry?"

This answer, which might seem no answer at all, appeared to the mind of the lover, which is to say to the mind seeking to be convinced, so complete and startling a refutation, that he swung on his heel, and went directly to offer himself to Miss Charters.

*EPILOGUE*

Three years after the close of these events there were gathered in a box of the Metropolitan Opera, Mr. and Mrs. Gunther, senior, the Teddy Beechers, Bruce Gunther and a Miss Clarice Fanning, of the Virginia Fannings, a young girl demure, direct, with already in the youthful instincts of her pose more than a suggestion of the dignity and elegance which would come to grace the woman. From time to time, by a little movement of her fan, she brought to her shoulder for a whispered comment Bruce Gunther, who, though he had seated himself behind Mrs. Beecher, was compensated by the advantage of thus exchanging glances. All these little messages, which the young girl flattered herself were so cleverly executed as to remain invisible, were seen by every one in the box with discreet enjoyment.

At the end of the act the two young men excused themselves and departed to make a round of visits.

"Nan's charming, Ted," said Gunther, who saw them both for the first time since their long stay in Europe. He added with the extra enthusiasm with which a man of the world conveys his surprise at an unexpected development: "By George! she has the manners of a duchess! The governor, crabby old critic, too, is quite won over by her."

"She has developed beautifully," said Beecher, with a certain proprietary responsibility which young husbands feel deeply. "She is a remarkable woman! ... remarkable!"

"Well, you fooled all the prophets," said Gunther in his blunt way.

"How so?"

"We gave you a year, at the most," said Gunther, who stopped short and looked at his friend as though to ask the explanation of such a miracle.

"My wife adores me," said Beecher, with a smile.

Gunther smiled to himself and thought that if the wife had developed as though by right into the sure and brilliant woman of the world, the husband at heart had retained the same boyish irreverence of the mysterious depths of life.

"You ought to get into something, Ted," he said abruptly. "You can't loaf in America! ... I'll give you an opening."

"That's why the Missus brought me back," said Beecher. "Look out, I may take up that offer!"

This reply, unconsciously delivered, gave Gunther the first glimpse of light into the perplexing success of his friend's marriage.

"Well, where's the first call?" he said, registering in his mind this last perception.

"I want to drop in on Mrs. Fontaine, Mrs. Slade," ... he considered a moment and added, "Mrs. Bloodgood, too, I am anxious to see..."

"Don't forget Emma Fornez ... you ought to go behind," said Gunther, for the opera was _Carmen_.

"Yes," said Beecher, with a little hesitation.

"Next act ... Let's drop in on Louise Fontaine, first..."

"There are reasons ... just at present..." said Gunther with a slight frown. "Anyhow, here's Slade's box--let's begin here."

Mrs. Slade at their entrance rose directly, and came to meet them in the antechamber.

"How nice of you to come here first," she said with genuine pleasure, extending both her hands. "Mr. Gunther, go into the box ... I want a few minutes alone with Teddy!" She turned to Beecher, motioning him to a seat on the cushioned settee in the little pink and white room that was like a jewel box. "I saw you at once ... Your wife has made a sensation!"

"It is you, Rita, who are astonishing!" he said abruptly.

"How so?" she said, already comprehending the frank wonder in his eyes.

"You always did fascinate us, you know," he said, reclining a bit, the better to take in the elegant sinuosities of her pose. "But that was nothing to you now ... You are the opera itself!"

"Not quite yet," she said, with a confident little bob of the head. She added, "I am happy!"

In truth, just as men of conscious greatness who, in the period of their struggles, have a certain brusque and impatient unease, suddenly in the day of their success acquire a dignity and a radiating charm that astonishes, so in her a similar transformation had operated. The old feline restlessness, the swift and nervous changes from Slavic somnolence to sparkling energy, has been subdued in a clear serenity, and as she received the flattering tribute of the young man who had been associated with her period of uncertainty, there was in her smile a new graciousness that was not without its authority.

"You too are happy!--it shows!" she said after the moment which she allowed Beecher to study her.

"Very!"

"You have children?"

"Two." Then recalling with a little pardonable malice the intention of his visit, he said: "You were a bad prophet, Rita! ... You remember?"

"I do."

"Well?..."

"Well, I underestimated your intelligence, my dear Teddy," she said, with a fugitive smile. "You are settling in America?"

"Yes, the Missus has planned to make me a captain of finance," he said with a laugh. "However, I am ready for something active."

"Tell your wife," she said irrelevantly, "that I will come to see her after the next act. My husband returns tomorrow ... save the night after for us ... I want to be as good a friend to her as you have been to me! ... Give my message exactly!"

"I promise!"

All at once his eyes, which had been searching, rested on her left hand. On the fourth finger, guarded by the gold band of her marriage, was the ruby ring.

"It's the same, isn't it?" he asked.

"I always wear it," she said, raising it to her eyes. "It is a fetish."

"We ran across Garraboy a couple of times ... He married her, you know."

"She married him, you mean..."

"Yes, that would be more correct ... watches the beggar like a hound ... a pleasant life he has of it! ... By the way, did the story about the ring ever leak out?"

"Never!" She rose, as though feeling the end of the intermission. "Tell me one thing, Teddy...."

"A dozen!"

"Did you tell your wife I advised you not to marry?"

"Never!"

"Don't! ... There are things a woman doesn't forgive, and I want to be good friends!"

Beecher nodded.

Gunther came out, and she gave them her fingers, remaining tall and stately, her head inclined a little pensively, until they had left.

"Most remarkable woman here!" said Gunther briefly. "In a year or so more she'll be the undisputed leader."

"What about John G.?"

"The coming man. You know we're in close relations with him. The Governor has a great admiration for him, and you know it isn't often the Governor is taken that way!"

"What's he doing?"

"Railroad unification, territorial development ... only man in this country who can appreciate what the Canadian Pacific is doing!"

"I thought he was considered rather a freebooter?"

"So he was. Big men change when they get what they want. He had an interview with the old man, and laid his cards on the table. Governor said it was the frankest confidence he'd ever heard. When he went into the railroad field, it was at the mercy of a lot of clever little stock-jobbers, who were playing it like a game of roulette. Slade's driven 'em out, broken their backs, bankrupted them ... Oh! he strikes hard! ... Now there's a real railroad policy, with a national object."

"You seem quite enthusiastic over him yourself," said Beecher, glancing at the plates on the boxes.

"I am. He's a constructive ... that's what we want!"

"When did all this happen?"

"A couple of months after that affair of the Atlantic Trust."

Beecher stopped, and with a gesture showed his companion a plate on which was inscribed:

ENOS BLOODGOOD.

"I never can forget Majendie that night," he said, sobered by the recollection of the events in which he had been such an agitated spectator. "By Jove, he was true blue!"

"If he'd had the nerve to face the music he'd be a rich man to-day," said Gunther, meditatively.