CHAPTER XXII.

A FAIRY TALE THAT CAME TRUE.

Toward 10 o’clock Louise Hathaway decides that she has witnessed enough of the brilliant panorama to warrant her in returning to the hotel, and as Cyrus Felton is plainly bored by a scene not attuned to his temperament, Ashley hunts up their wraps, hails a carriage and they are driven to the St. James.

“You will make a night of it, I suppose,” Miss Hathaway remarks, as Ashley prepares to say good-night.

“No; I shall remain only long enough to finish my story for the paper. I wrote the introduction this afternoon. One year’s ball is much the same as another’s. Have you any plans for the morrow?”

“None, except mild sight-seeing. Will you not lunch with us?”

“I shall be delighted,” murmurs Ashley. To be near Miss Hathaway is pleasure unalloyed; incidentally he desires an opportunity to quietly study Cyrus Felton. “At 1 o’clock, say?” he asks.

“At 1 o’clock. We must thank you again, Mr. Ashley, for your escort this evening.”

“Don’t mention it—again,” smiles Ashley. “I am sorry I cannot ask you to assist in my work to-morrow. It would be fully as interesting and more to your taste, likely, than the French ball.”

“Then it cannot be a political meeting.”

“Hardly. It is the trial trip of the new United States cruiser America, probably the fastest vessel of any size afloat in the world to-day.”

“That will be delightful. You must tell me all about it when you return. Your description will be much more interesting, I am sure, than the newspaper accounts.”

“Fully as interesting as the Hemisphere’s story, perhaps. Good-night, Miss Hathaway. Oh, by the way, Mr. Felton,” as Louise trips upstairs, “did you know that Roger Hathaway’s revolver has been found?”

Ashley asks the question in the most casual of tones, but his keen eyes are riveted on the elder man’s face. The result is not wholly what the questioner expected. Mr. Felton simply stares at Ashley and repeats: “Hathaway’s revolver found? Where? When?”

“It was fished out of Wild River about opposite the cemetery a day or two ago. But perhaps it was after you had started for New York. Odd, is it not, that the weapon with which the crime was perhaps committed should be brought to light within a stone’s throw of the grave of the murdered man? But pardon me. Perhaps, I have awakened painful reflections; so I will say no more. Good-night.”

Cyrus Felton stands like a stone upon the threshold to the reading-room for fully a minute after Ashley has left the hotel. Then he turns and goes slowly upstairs to his room.

When Ashley reaches the Garden he hunts up Barker and rescues that amiable gentleman from the importunities of a brace of masks who are gayly informing him that they are “just beginning to like him.” Ashley drags him away and asks: “Have you located the gentry for whom you were looking to-night?”

“No, but I have chanced upon one or two choice incidents in society life which the chief may find useful some day.”

“Good. Let me in early when they materialize. Now, old chap, if you will kill time here for half an hour or so, until I finish my story, I’ll join you.”

Ashley hunts up an out-of-the-way corner and the work is soon finished and dispatched by a district messenger boy. Then the newspaper man returns to the wine-room, but Barker has strayed.

While Jack is lounging about the edges of the ball-room, his cheek is brushed by a Jack rose tossed from a near-by box. He looks around and sees leaning over the box rail a woman attired in the costume of a lady of the Russian court. The eyes behind the mask twinkle invitingly, and as she is alone Ashley fastens the rose in his coat, tosses a kiss to the donor and proceeds to look for the door leading to that particular box.

“May I enter, lady fair?” he asks, as he stands upon the threshold.

“On one condition,” the lady in black informs him.

“Name it,” he smiles.

“That you do not ask me to drink a bottle of wine with you; that you talk of something interesting; and that you do not make love to me.”

“And you call that one condition? But I accept,” says Ashley, closing the door behind him. The next instant he suppresses an exclamation and a tendency toward mild protestation. For in closing the door he has caught one finger on a nail which some careless carpenter omitted to drive home, and the digit gets a painful tear.

The lady in black extends sympathy and lends her own dainty lace handkerchief to bind up his wound. As he bends to tie the knot with his teeth the perfume on the lace almost startles him.

“Your first condition, madam, was easily accepted,” he smiles, as he throws himself into a chair and toys with the handkerchief about his finger. “The second is more difficult to live up to, and the third is cruel.” He is carelessly unwrapping the handkerchief as though to rebind it, and is looking for some initial.

“Oh, tell me a story—something I haven’t heard,” yawns the lady in black. “At the first sign of stupidity I shall send you away.”

“A story?” drawls Ashley. Ah, he has found what he sought. In one corner of the handkerchief is the letter “I,” curiously embroidered in silk.

“Very well,” he says, in rare good humor, “I promise you a story that, while it may not be entirely new to you, will hold your interest to the end. But first, madam, I must beg of you to lay aside your domino, that I may know whether my tale is interesting you or I am courting the unhappy fate which you threatened should be meted out to stupidity.”

The lady in black laughs musically and, partially drawing the box draperies, she tosses off her mask, and, to Ashley’s intense amaze, reveals the face of the handsome woman whom he remembers to have seen with Phillip Van Zandt the preceding night at the Damrosch concert.

But Jack Ashley is not a young man who permits his face or voice to betray his emotions. So he knots the lace once more about his injured digit, settles himself comfortably in his chair and begins:

“Once upon a time—”

“Is this a fairy tale?” interrupts his handsome auditor.

“A fairy tale? Perhaps. But a fairy tale that came true. Once upon a time there lived in a small New England community a youth to whom the simple amusements and rustic pleasures of his native town became as tedious as a twice-told tale. As his father was engaged in a business whose interests extended over the country, the youth was given a roving commission, and soon after he was tasting the sweets of an existence in the great city. Metropolitan life suited him to a T. His only regret was that his means were not sufficient to keep pace with his luxurious tastes.

“In the course of time he met and loved a very pretty girl. She had hair of midnight, eyes like black diamonds, a superb figure and a thousand charms. Whether her heart was as true as her face was fair, I know not. The torrent which bore these two hearts was more or less turbulent. In the trouble which came between them I am charitable enough to believe that the man was to blame. The youth found that living beyond his means has an inevitable and unpleasant result, and it was not long ere his father, after palliating innumerable offenses, summoned him home. He was given a position in a bank in the town which he still despised, and he soon forgot his city love, being assisted in this forgetfulness by a passion which he had conceived for the beautiful daughter of the cashier of the bank in which he was employed.

“The neglected one wrote many letters, but could obtain no satisfaction of her faithless swain. Finally she decided to visit him in his New England home; so on a memorable afternoon she arrived in his town, went to a hotel and sent word to the youth that she desired to see him at once.”

“Well?” demands the lady in black, as Ashley pauses. The flash in her eyes and the nervous fingers tell him that, while his story may not be enjoyed, it is being listened to with intense interest.

“The youth obeyed the summons,” he resumes, “and there was a scene. Money was demanded, and money he had none. But perhaps it was to be had somewhere. That night a murder was committed in the town. It was an extremely mysterious affair, and the excitement which it caused was intensified a day or two later, when the young man of our story suddenly disappeared and was never after heard from. The detective employed on the case assumed that if he could find the mysterious woman who registered at the hotel the day of the tragedy some light might be thrown upon the affair and the whereabouts of the absent young man ascertained.”

“Have you any object in telling me this story?” asks the lady in black, in a voice which she strives to render calm and unconcerned.

“Only your entertainment.”

“Then you have not succeeded.”

“I have succeeded in one thing,” returns Ashley, in quiet triumph. “I have found the woman.”

“Indeed? That is more interesting. But perhaps you are mistaken.”

“Impossible. The beautiful unknown left in the hotel room a lace handkerchief scented with a most peculiar perfume.” Ashley is slowly unwrapping the lace creation about his finger, and he sniffs it as he speaks. “A perfume which the finder of the handkerchief had never known before,” he goes on, as he spreads the lace upon his knee. “Besides the perfume, which distinguished this from thousands of other handkerchiefs, there was in one corner the letter ‘I,’ curiously embroidered in silk.”

As if he were alone and talking to himself, Ashley takes from a wallet in his pocket the handkerchief which for months he had carefully treasured, and spreading it upon his knee compares it with the one which lately wrapped his finger. They are identical. Then he looks up and catches the half-scornful, half-startled gaze of the lady in black.

“Is that all?” she inquires.

“No. But I expect you to furnish the last chapter.”

The lady in black again adjusts her mask. “Not to-night,” she says. “Come to my hotel to-morrow and I will endeavor to gratify your curiosity.”

“Whom shall I inquire for?”

“I believe you have my name.”

“Ah, yes. And the hotel, madam?”

“The Kensington.”

“And the hour?”

“Ten in the morning.”

“Thank you. I will be prompt.”

Ashley leaves the box humming a lively air and proceeds to look up his friend Barker.

“Busy, old man?” he asks, when he has finally located the detective.

“Not especially? Why?”

“Do you see that woman in black in yonder box, talking with a swarthy-looking gentleman?”

“I do.”

“That is ‘Isabel Winthrop.’”

“The devil!”

“No; but perhaps one of his satanic highness’ amiable representatives. I have an interview arranged with her for to-morrow at 10; place the Kensington. I want you to follow her when she leaves the Garden and keep an eye on her until 10 o’clock to-morrow morning. If I do not hear from you before that hour I shall consider that she has made the engagement in good faith. I have a big day’s work to-morrow, and I believe I will go home and turn in.”

“All right, Jack, my boy. I will keep her ladyship in view if she leads me to China. So long.”