CHAPTER XVII.

A CUP OF CHOCOLATE AT MAILLARD’S.

“It is Miss Hathaway!”

“Why, Mr. Ashley!”

“Then I am not quite forgotten,” smiles Jack, as he takes the little black-gloved hand.

“Forgotten? Ah, no, indeed. I was only startled to meet one familiar face amid this never-ending procession of strangers. But this, I presume, is your native heath, Mr. Ashley? How do you carry the memory of so many faces?” as Ashley bows for the dozenth time toward the stream of pedestrians.

“That is a part of our business, Miss Hathaway. A newspaper man acquires a passing acquaintance with all classes of society. But to drop shop talk, tell me of Raymond and of yourself. I feel quite an interest in the quaint old town. Here is Maillard’s close by. Suppose we drop in and have a cup of chocolate. Oh, it is quite the thing,” smiles Jack, as Miss Hathaway hesitates a moment. “Everybody goes to Maillard’s after a shopping tour.”

“Then, as we are in Rome, we must imitate the Romans,” she acquiesces. “For surely these bundles must be quite sufficient to convict me of having been shopping.”

When she is snugly ensconced in an alcove, with a steaming cup of the beverage so dear to the feminine heart before her, Jack studies her face across the tiny table.

More beautiful if that were possible, than ever, he decides, watching the shifting color in the rounded cheek; with more animation—yes, decidedly more animation; quite a different being from the doubly bereaved daughter of the dead cashier of nearly a year ago. But what is she doing in New York? thinks Jack, with a sudden twinge in the cardiac region that astonishes even himself. It cannot be that she has heard from Derrick Ames, and besides, her sister—What rot, he mentally concludes, as the subject of his thoughts suddenly looks up and catches his puzzled expression.

Miss Hathaway’s eyes twinkle. “Has it just occurred to you that you have left your pocketbook at home?” she asks. “Your expression was just such as the humorous artists attach to the subjects of such unfortunate contretemps.”

“Ah, but that seldom does happen in real life, Miss Hathaway. No; my sole earthly possessions are at this moment resting securely in the bottom of one small pocket. But what lucky chance brought you within range of my defective vision on Broadway this afternoon?”

“Oh, I have been a dweller in the metropolis since last Saturday. We, that is Mr. Felton and myself, are en route to Cuba.”

“To Cuba! Pardon me, but why to that war-racked isle? You see, I have just returned from interviewing a native of Cuba on the situation there, and his description hardly makes it out as a desirable watering-place just at present.”

Miss Hathaway laughs, a trifle nervously. “Perhaps it is rather an odd place to go this spring, and while I had a great desire to visit the country I really had no serious idea of gratifying the wish. But one evening while I was thinking of the matter, Mr. Felton suddenly asked me how I would like to go to Cuba. I said I would be delighted to go to escape the chill winds of March, and to my great surprise he suggested that we make preparations and start at once for New York. So here we are, and on Saturday we sail for tropic climes. But do you think there is any danger to Americans traveling in Cuba? I thought—I had read—that the disturbances were limited to some of the far inland districts and that there was no trouble in Havana and the larger cities.”

Ashley pulls his mustache thoughtfully. “No, I do not see how there can be possible danger for you,” he says at last. “Be sure, to avoid any possible annoyance, to get your passports before leaving New York. By Jove,” he murmurs under his breath, “if the Hemisphere should send a man to Cuba, and I that man—well, that wouldn’t be half-bad.”

“But why should Mr. Felton desire to go to Cuba?” Ashley asks. “I fancied all his interests were in Vermont.”

“He says that he has some property that requires his attention there, a sugar plantation, I fancy, or something of the sort. Anyway, he is quite anxious to go.”

A sugar plantation in Cuba! Jack draws a long breath and his active mind reverts to his interview with Don Manada. Felton-Alvarez of the captain-general’s staff, a young American planter! The son has evidently forsworn his country and by joining the Spanish army has become a Spanish citizen. Therefore he undoubtedly cannot be extradited. But the father?

“How long does Mr. Felton contemplate remaining in Cuba?” Ashley asks, carelessly.

“That will depend upon his inclinations and the condition of his business affairs.”

“That means indefinitely,” Jack thinks. “Cyrus Felton must not go to Cuba!” Then aloud: “Miss Hathaway, pardon me if I revive unpleasant memories, but the deep personal interest I took in the case must be my apology. Have you heard from your sister—since—since the tragedy?”

For a moment Miss Hathaway is silent, her face clouding with the sad thoughts of that last fateful Memorial Day. “Mr. Ashley,” she says at last, looking him full in the face, “I have received two letters from my sister Helen. She is well, and I trust happy. She was married in this city the day after they—she—left Raymond.”

“To Derrick Ames?”

Louise nods.

“Are they now residing in the city?”

“No; they are not now in this country—I should say this part of the country,” she adds, hastily.

For a moment a silence falls and both absently sip their chocolate, busy with their thoughts. Then Ashley remarks, smilingly:

“Apropos of nothing, Miss Hathaway, did you ever hear of the great French ball, the annual terpsichorean revel of Gotham?”

“Certainly, I have read about it. I gather that it is not always strictly—well, not exactly in the same category with the patriarchs’ ball.”

“No—not precisely,” admits Ashley. “What I was leading up to is this: I suppose I shall be assigned to do the ball for the Hemisphere to-morrow evening—I have done it for the last two years—and a friend of mine kindly presented to me a pocketful of tickets. Now, I know you would enjoy looking in on the brilliant scene for an hour or two in the early part of the evening.”

“Why, Mr. Ashley, I really do not see how we could. It would hardly be proper.”

“Not perhaps to mingle with the rush, but as a casual looker-on in Verona the propriety could scarcely be questioned. A mask, a box where you could sit and listen to the really good music and watch the glitter and gayety, I believe you would recall the hour whiled away as one of thorough enjoyment. Besides—and here is the selfish part of my proposition—it would render the affair less of an old story to me. You must really say ‘yes,’” persists Ashley, as Miss Hathaway hesitates, with the inevitable result.

“Well, if Mr. Felton is willing to pose as a ‘chaperon’ for a brief space, perhaps I may consent to assist the Hemisphere.”

“I assure you that that appreciative journal will be deeply grateful. Where shall I call for your ultimatum?”

“We are stopping at the St. James. And now I must hurry home to examine my purchases. Thank you so much for your kindness, Mr. Ashley. I am so glad to have met you again. Good-by.”

“Au revoir—until the morrow,” Jack responds, as Miss Hathaway’s elegant figure threads its way through the throng. “I wonder what the straight-laced Vermont maiden would say if she could look into the wine-room of the garden about an hour before the French ball makes its last kick. But she won’t, though. The first hour or two of the function is as decorous as an afternoon tea on Fifth Avenue—rather more so, I fancy. And now to the office to fire the Cuban heart with Don Manada’s screed.”

But seated at his desk at the Hemisphere office, Ashley’s thoughts persist in straying away from the yellow sheets he is rapidly covering with the Manada interview.

The Raymond tragedy mingles with thoughts of Cuba. His previously conceived ideas are undergoing a decided metamorphosis. The knowledge that the elder Felton is going to Cuba, where his son, according to the description of Manada, is apparently settled, and for a long period, if not forever, suggests to the newspaper man the conclusion that Mr. Felton must have been aware of his son’s movements since the sudden departure from Raymond; may even have counseled that flight. Nay, more, that father and son are jointly implicated in the death of Cashier Hathaway. The theory just evolved grows stronger the more Jack considers the circumstances. On Cyrus Felton, then, depends the unraveling of the mystery. And he left Raymond suddenly, according to Miss Hathaway’s admission. Barker, judging from his message on the finding of the revolver, must have been in Raymond before or during the departure of Cyrus Felton. Is it not possible, then, that the ex-bank president became possessed of the knowledge that Barker is again actively at work on the case; that he further became aware that Barker had, or was likely to get, some important clew, such as the discovery of the revolver, for instance; that he considered discretion the better part of valor and determined to flee the country and join his son in Cuba?

Ashley’s busy pen ceases to skim over the paper for a moment, as he rears this dazzling edifice.

“I believe I have struck the bull’s-eye,” he reflects. “If only Barker has a little more evidence to back up the finding of the revolver, Miss Hathaway may not take that trip to Cuba after all—at least, not with her present amiable traveling companion.”

A few moments later the big batch of copy, the result of Ashley’s visit to Don Manada, is tossed upon the desk of the city editor. Then, still preoccupied and unusually untalkative for jovial Jack Ashley, the interviewer has again drawn on overcoat and gloves and is leaving the entrance to the Hemisphere office when a hand is dropped on his shoulder, as Detective Barker earnestly greets him:

“You’re just the man I want to see. Where can we indulge in a quiet talk for half an hour?”

“Come right up to the cable editor’s room. He won’t be in for an hour or two.”