Part 6

“You're the second unconventional visitor,” he said, “whom I've received this evening. The object of both your visits seems to be the same--to associate my name with that of a lady to whom I am comparatively a stranger. We may have conversed together a couple of dozen times; when we parted, I never expected to hear from her. Within the space of twenty-four hours a man who claims to be her husband comes to me accusing her of every infamy. No sooner has the door closed behind him than you enter, asserting that I am in love with her. You must pardon me if I begin to suspect a plot. For all I know, you may be my first visitor's accomplice, employing a more disarming method to get me to commit myself. You tell me you are Santa Gorlof's friend; you might equally well say you are her grandmother--you offer me no proof. If she's really in trouble, I'm sorry. But I fail to see any way in which I can serve her.”

“If there were no way, I should not have troubled you, especially at this late hour. As for her being in danger, she has always been in danger. She was born into the world like that. I am old--very old. I have no traces of it left, but I, too, was once beautiful.”

The trembling hands fumbled at the white linen kerchief, loosening the knot against her neck. “Ah, yes, I was beautiful. But I did not come to you to speak of that. My friend, you are good; I saw that the moment I entered. I said to myself, 'There is the man who could understand our Santa and make her honorable like himself.' The world has given her no chance--no, never. The husband who should have cared for her tossed her aside like an old shoe when, like all animals robbed of their young, she struck out in self-defense. I see you have heard that--how her child was murdered and she was sent into exile for taking justice into her own hands. Doubtless you have heard much else. She is a woman who would have done no harm to any one if she had been allowed to remain a mother. But because they scoffed at her motherhood, all her goodness has turned to wickedness. Using her body as a decoy, she has slain men of the race that persecuted her. Because she could not get her child back, she has become an outlaw, making society pay for her loneliness.”

She paused, watching her effect.

Hindwood had not removed his eyes from hers. His face was troubled. “I don't think you know what has been told me. The man who introduced himself to me as her husband said that she was a half-caste, a temple dancing-girl, who to revenge herself had poisoned white men's happiness and during the war had become an international spy, working against the Allies. He made the assertion that she was responsible for the vanishing of Prince Rogovich. If these things are so, how can I, a decent, self-respecting man--”

Bending forward, the old lady clutched his hand. “It was decent, self-respecting men who made her what she is to-day.”

He released his hand quietly. “You have not denied any of the accusations which are brought against her. And yet, remembering her face, I can not believe that she is bad. You want me to save her. If by that you mean that you want me to pledge myself not to give evidence against her, you may tell her from me that I have no evidence.”

“I don't mean that.”

“Then what?”

“I want you to declare to me that you love her. No, listen. There is still something in her that is pure. You have made her conscious of it. You can undo the wrong that has been done her and make her the woman she should be, if you choose.”

Hindwood rose from his seat and paced the room. Suddenly he halted and swung round. “How did you know that I desired her? Until you came, I scarcely realized it myself. Why should you have appointed yourself to tempt me--you, who are so old? Between sane people, what would be the use of my telling you that I loved her? Though I refused to believe any of the libels against her which even you seem to credit, there are two facts which it does not seem possible to escape: that she is married and that the police are on her track. I have been warned that when she traps men, she commences by appealing to their chivalry. That's what's happening now. Do you see where you place me? If she is falsely accused, I brand myself a coward by running away from her. If she is guilty, I endanger my good name by having any more to do with her. What I am waiting to hear you say is that this is a case of mistaken identity--that she is willing and able to prove it.”

“Will you help me out of my chair?”

When she was on her feet, she let go his arm and commenced to move across the room.

“Where are you going?”

“To give her your message.”

“I've told you nothing.”

“You've told me that you love her.”

She was on the point of leaving. With quiet decision he put his back against the door, preventing her from opening it.

“Madam,” he said, “old as you are, you owe me some consideration. Before you go, I at least have a right to ask your name.”

She smiled wistfully. The harshness in her face was replaced by a glow of tenderness. “Yes, you have the right. I am called 'the Little Grandmother.' I am a readjuster of destinies--the champion of the down-trodden. I fight for those for whom the world has ceased to care.”

“But what have you to do with Santa?”

“She has been oppressed.”

“And because she has been oppressed, you overlook any crimes she may have committed?”

“I am not God, that I should judge. If people's hearts are empty, I reckon them my children.”

“Let me ask you one more question. Did Santa tell you that she loved me?”

The old head shook sorrowfully. “To act nobly it is not necessary to be loved in return. Let me go. Do not try to follow me.”

Standing aside, he opened the door. “And we meet again?”

As she hobbled out, she glanced across her shoulder. In her gesture there was the ghostly grace of the proud coquette who was vanishing and forgotten. “Will you want to,” she whispered, “to-morrow?”

II

Now that she was gone he realized that under the hypnotic influence of her presence he had revealed far more than he had intended. He should never have allowed her to escape him. He should have insisted on accompanying her. She had afforded him his only clue to Santa's whereabouts.

At all costs he must see Santa. His peace of mind depended on it. The thought of her would haunt him. He would never rest until he had arrived at the truth. Probably, until he had seen her, he would never be free from the mischief-making intrusions of anonymous intriguers. He dodged the theory of her guilt, preferring to persuade himself that a conspiracy was afoot, the object of which might be blackmail. More likely it was a clever move on the part of financial rivals to thwart his plans by discrediting him. If he could meet Santa, he would know for certain whether she was a decoy or a fellow-victim. Whatever his intellect might suspect, his heart resolutely acquitted her.

It was too late to overtake the Little Grandmother, but he was determined to do his best to trace her. In the passage he discovered a solitary individual collecting boots and shoes, which had been placed for cleaning outside the neighboring doors.

“An old lady left my room a few moments ago. She had short hair and a white handkerchief tied over her head. No doubt you saw her.”

The man rose from his stooping posture. “An old lady with short hair! You say she had a handkerchief tied over it? It doesn't sound like the Ritz. No, I did not see her.”

Of the man at the elevator he made the same inquiry, only to be informed that several old ladies had been carried up and down.

Descending to the foyer, he presented himself at the desk.

“Isn't it your rule to have all callers announced before they're shown in on your guests?”

“Most decidedly.”

“Then how did it happen that an old lady, a rather curious old lady, with short hair and a white handkerchief over her head like a shawl, was allowed to' find her way into my room?”

“If you'll give me the particulars, I'll have the staff on duty questioned.”

As he turned away, he threw back across his shoulder: “I shan't be going to bed yet. If you discover anything you might report it.”

Half an hour later he was summoned to the telephone. “About your visitor, sir; no one saw her.” Far into the early hours of the morning he sat cogitating. What steps ought he to take to protect himself? He could place his case in the hands of the police, but if he did, he might stir up a hornet's nest. Most certainly he would be compelled to postpone his business on the Continent and to prolong his stay in England. But more disastrous than personal inconvenience, in going to the police he might be the means of putting Santa's enemies on her track. They would expect him to make a clean breast of everything; he would find difficulty in inventing convincing motives to explain the shiftiness of his conduct since landing.

If he could speak to Santa, he would know how to act. If she were really implicated in the Rogovich affair, his best way of helping her would be to clear out of England. But if she could assure him of her innocence, he was prepared to stay and back her to the limit of his capacity. Across the jet-black sky the silver moon drifted like a water-lily--a parable of Santa, moving immaculately among rumors of darkest misdoings. Whatever she had done had not quenched her purity. If she had done the worst of which she was accused, her perverted mother-love still clothed her with the tatters of a tragic goodness.

He jerked himself irritably back to reality. How could a woman who had spread death with her beauty still retain her purity? He had been warned that she trapped men by appealing not to their baseness, but to their chivalry. What wild-eyed feat of chivalry was this that he was performing? It was best to dispense with casuistry. The accumulated slanders to which he had listened had spurred his curiosity. They had changed a modishly attractive woman into a romantic figure--a figure which, if it were not noble, at least possessed the virtue of lonely courage.

He would allow himself four days in England. If he had not heard from her by then, he would go about his business. Having to this extent set a limit to his difficulties, he took himself off to bed.

III

His first anxiety next morning was to scan the papers. He had all the London dailies brought to him and read them before he dressed. For the most part they told him nothing new, merely recording, with varying degrees of sensationalism, the indisputable fact that Prince Rogovich had vanished. One or two hinted at foul play. Several suggested accidental drowning. The bulk of them, and among these were the most reputable, presumed that the Prince had had private reasons for avoiding England and landing at a Continental port _incognito_. Santa Gorlof's name was not mentioned. He found nothing to confirm the warnings of last night or to alarm himself on her account.

It was later, while eating breakfast with the _Times_ propped up before him, that he came across an item which set him viewing what had happened from a new angle. He was skipping through a sketch of the Prince's career, when he stumbled on the following paragraph: “It will be remembered how last summer the Polish women's sense of injustice concentrated in a silent protest. For an entire week, day and night, never less than a thousand mothers, each carrying a dead child in her breast, camped about the Rogovich Palace in Warsaw.”

Glancing back, he read more carefully the information which led up to the paragraph: “During the two years following the close of the war, Poland, together with most of Central Europe, has suffered intensely from famine. Children have contributed by far the largest proportion to the toll of death. For much of this, so far as Poland is concerned, Prince Rogovich has been held accountable. The national wealth which he has squandered on equipping armies might have been spent more profitably in purchasing foodstuffs. The trip to America, from which he was returning at the time of his mysterious disappearance, is said to have had as its object the floating of a loan which would enable his Generals to maintain their offensives for at least another twelve months. While the land-owning party in Poland, supported by French diplomacy, backed him up, his imperialistic policies were bitterly condemned by Polish mothers who had to watch their children perishing from starvation in order that frontiers might be extended. Already the death-rate was so high that it was impossible to supply sufficient coffins. At mid-day the main streets of Warsaw were jammed with funerals. Many of these funerals consisted of only two persons: a man and woman, themselves weak from want of nourishment, staggering under the puny load of a bundle wrapped in paper, containing the body of the latest son or daughter to die of hunger.” Then followed the brief description of how the thousand Polish mothers had camped for a week in protest about the Prince's palace.

Hindwood looked up from his paper, gazing across the flashing gulf of sunlight to where the azure sea of distant sky beat against the embattled strand of housetops. If Santa had pushed the Prince overboard, had that been her motive--that Polish children might no longer die of hunger? Perhaps always, if indeed she had killed men, her purpose had been to act as the scourge of the enemies of children. The memory of her own dead child had urged her. Mistakenly, but none the less valiantly, she had constituted herself the avenger of all mothers who had been despoiled by masculine callousness.

What round-about journeys he was willing to undertake if only he might excuse her! Even though he were compelled to admit her guilt, he was determined to adjudge her magnanimous. At any rate, she had not been apprehended.

With a lighter heart than he had experienced for some hours, he dismissed her from his thoughts and set out to fulfill his round of engagements.

It was three o'clock when he returned. Immediately, on entering his room he noticed that a sheet of writing-paper had been pinned conspicuously to the pillow of his bed. Its evident purpose was to attract his attention. On approaching it, he saw that the message which it contained was printed in large letters and unsigned. It read:

“_If you wish to see her, follow but do not speak to the widow._”

It didn't make sense. What widow? The “her” whom he could see by following the widow referred presumably to Santa. But who had pinned the sheet of paper to his pillow? How had this person gained access to his rooms? That morning, when he went out, he had locked his door and left his key at the hotel desk. He had in his possession confidential papers of almost state importance. If their secrets were shared, he might just as well pack up and return to America. His sense that he was the storm-center of a conspiracy strengthened.

Seizing his hat and gloves, he hurried down-stairs. He had just time to lodge a complaint with the management before keeping his next appointment.

He had alighted from the elevator and was about to cross the foyer, when a woman rose from a chair near by and passed immediately in front of him. He jerked himself up with a murmured apology; then noticed that she was gowned in the heaviest widow's mourning. A coincidence, he thought, and yet not so very extraordinary! He was proceeding on his journey, when his eyes chanced to follow her. She had halted uncertainly, as though she had forgotten something; by the poise of her head, he guessed that behind her veil she was gazing at him. More to satisfy his curiosity than as the preface to an adventure, he also halted. Somewhat ostentatiously he drew from his pocket the sheet of note-paper which he had found pinned to his pillow. Unfolding it, he reread its printed message:

“If you wish to see her, follow but do not speak to the widow.”

He looked up. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the veiled figure nodded. He made a step, as if to approach her. Instantly she turned and passed out.

Without further consideration, in his eagerness to see what she would do next, he followed.

IV

He had expected that outside the hotel, in the throng of anonymous traffic, she would wait for him. Without giving any further sign that she was aware of him, she moved quietly through the fashionable crowd of Piccadilly and turned into the sunlit leisure of St. James Street. The unconscious gaiety of her way of walking was strangely out of keeping with her garments of bereavement. Hindwood's curiosity was piqued. In a shamefaced way he was overwhelmingly interested. He felt himself capable of a great romance. For the moment he was almost grateful for the annoyances that had presented him with so thrilling an opportunity.

What was he meant to do? The message had forbidden him to accost her. He had been ordered merely to follow. How long and whither? At the Foreign Office a high official was waiting for him, expecting every minute to hear him announced. To wander through London after an unknown woman was the trick of a gallant or a moonstruck boy. He was neither. He was a man of discretion, who aimed at becoming the advisor of statesmen and yet his conduct was open to every misinterpretation. He began to feel himself a scoundrel. For a man whose emotions had always been shepherded, the sensation was exciting and not wholly unpleasant.

If he could only learn something about her! Crossing to the opposite pavement, he hurried his pace till he was abreast of her.

She was young. Her figure was slight and upright. She was about the same build as Santa, but seemed taller. If she were indeed Santa, this impression of added height might be due to the somberness of her attire. She was so carefully veiled that even her hair was hidden; there was no feature by which he could identify her. He tried another experiment. Recrossing the street to a point some distance ahead, he loitered before a shop, making a self-conscious pretense of studying its wares. He heard the rustle of her crêpe as she drew near him. She went by him so closely that she almost touched him. He was conscious of the faint fragrance of her perfume. In the window he caught the dim reflection of her figure. At the moment that she was immediately behind him, she moved her head in a backward gesture, seeming to indicate that he should follow. When he turned to obey, she was drifting through the September sunshine, completely self-absorbed and unnoticing.

Traveling the yard of St. James Palace, she entered the Mall. There she hesitated, giving him time to catch up with her. A taxi was crawling by. She hailed it. Addressing the driver, but glancing directly at himself, she said in a sweet, distinct voice:

“Victoria Station. The Brighton platform.”

V

Was she Santa? The voice had sounded different, yet, had his life depended on it, he could not have decided. There was only one way of finding out--by joining her on the Brighton platform. This would mean missing his appointment at the Foreign Office. He was prepared to make the sacrifice, but he had no guarantee that the chase would end there. It was possible that she would still refuse to satisfy his curiosity and compel him to accompany her further. His rôle was that of the incautious fly. But who was the master-spinner of this web in which it was intended that he should become entangled? Was it the Little Grandmother? He had asked her whether they would meet again. In the light of present happenings, her answer took on a sinister meaning, “Will you want to to-morrow?”

As he stood there in the sunshine of the Mall, with the thud of fashionable equipages flashing by, a sullen conviction grew up within him that he was becoming afraid. An empty taxi hove in sight. He beckoned. Before it had halted, he was standing on the running-board.

“To Victoria Station. The Brighton platform.” The driver took his brevity for a sign that a train was to be caught by the narrowest of margins. He made such speed that they drew up against the curb just as the widow's vehicle was departing. She threw him a furtive glance from behind her veil, then turned and moved away as though he were the completest stranger. Imitating her discretion, he followed at a distance.

Halting before the ticket-office, she produced her purse. He edged nearer; it was necessary that he should learn her destination.

“A first-class single to Seafold,” he heard her say.

When his turn came, he repeated her words, adding: “How long before it starts?”

“Five minutes,” the clerk told him.

As he gathered up his change, he was surprised to observe how little was left out of his pound. He had supposed Seafold would prove to be a suburb. By the cost of his ticket he estimated that it must be a journey of at least sixty miles. Was it worth the taking? Could he return that same evening? He might get stranded. If that happened, he was unprepared to spend the night. These considerations were swept aside when he noticed that the widow had once more vanished.

Accosting a porter, “The Seafold platform?” he asked breathlessly.

“Same as the one for Brighton.”

“That tells me nothing. There's no luggage. Show me.”

Before he had passed the barrier, he was aware that the train was crowded. In third-class compartments passengers were standing. To discover any one under these circumstances would be a labor of patience. Carriage-doors were being banged and locked. Even at this final moment his habitual caution reasserted itself. What else but folly could result from an adventure so recklessly undertaken?

The porter caught him by the arm. “'Ere you are, mister. 'Op in. You're lucky.”

No sooner had he squeezed himself into the remaining seat than, with a groaning jerk, the train started.

VI

Lucky! The luckiest thing that could have happened to him would have been to be left behind. Here he was, following a woman whose face he had not seen, to a place which, up to a few moments ago, he had not known existed. Even to believe that he was following her required optimism; he had no proof that she was on the train. Probably it had been part of her strategy to send him scurrying on this fool's errand, in order that her accomplices might be undisturbed while they ransacked his rooms in his absence.

“I'll make an end of this nonsense,” he told himself, “by alighting at the next stopping-place.”

But where was the next stopping-place? He glanced along the double row of his fellow-passengers, barricaded behind their papers. He wanted to ask his question and watched for an opportunity. At last, losing patience, he nudged the man beside him.

“Excuse me, sir; I'm a stranger. I've made a mistake. My ticket's to Seafold, wherever that may be, and I--”

With his nose still glued to the page, the man muttered: “That's all right. You don't need to worry. It's where you're going.”

“But it isn't all right,” Hindwood contradicted with a shade of annoyance. “I don't want to go to Seafold; I want to return to London. What I'm trying to ask you is where can I get out?”

“Lewes, if you think it's worth while.”

“Why shouldn't I think it's worth while?”

The paper rustled testily and was raised a few inches higher. “Because Lewes is almost at Seafold. It's the junction where you change--the one and only stop between here and Brighton.”