Chapter X: Part 10

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?"

"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.

"The Atlantic Trust is stronger than ever. Of course, technically, Majendie did things he had no right to do, but do you know, every investment he made has turned out enormously profitable! Queer how one man drops out and another pops up."

"I wonder how much of it was business, and how much was..." Beecher broke off and a second time gestured in the direction of the box.

"Who knows?" said Gunther, with a shrug of his shoulders.

Beecher glanced down the corridor to assure himself there was yet time, and opened the door.

In the front row of the box Mrs. Bloodgood was laughing gaily with three or four young men who were bending flatteringly over her. In the back Bloodgood was seated, dozing in a corner. Beecher hardly recognized him. Of the once rugged physique nothing remained but a senile fluttering. Some mysterious disease had struck him down and marked his hours. At this moment Mrs. Bloodgood, aware of a shadow in the doorway, turned and met the profound and memory-troubled gaze of the young man. She recognized him and in the same moment divined his thoughts. By a movement which she could not control, she brought her fan, which had been extended in a tantalizing gesture under the eyes of one of her satellites, into a protective barrier, as though to shield herself from the too frank melancholy of this disturbing gaze. Their eyes met. Beecher inclined his head. It was at the same time a salutation and an adieu.

He found Gunther outside their box.

"The old fellow's in a pretty bad way," said his friend, noticing his disturbed look.

"It wasn't that!..."

"Yes,--she's taking her revenge!" said Gunther with a laugh.

To shake off this impression Beecher touched his friend on the arm, and forcing a smile, said, with a nod towards the box where Miss Fanning was waiting:

"So it's serious, Bruce?"

"But not for publication..." said Gunther with a nod.

Beecher would have liked to put a further question, one which had presented itself already at the thought of Louise Fontaine; but he refrained, for he was aware in his friend of a certain new grimness and implacability of purpose which, as in his father, had the effect of withdrawing him from the ordinary club familiarity.

After the second act he went behind the scenes to greet Emma Fornez, who had just received an ovation.

The diva, with the same cry of delight in which she recognized him, asked him what he thought of her success.

"You have reached the top.... Every new _Carmen_ must now be advertised as greater than Emma Fornez!" he answered with a bow.

"Ah, you have learned how to make compliments! ... Bravo!" she exclaimed. She advanced her head, pointing to a little spot under her jeweled ear. "There! ... your recompense! ... You look as big a boy as ever! ... Tell me everything--all at once! ... Victorine, close the door. I see no one--_tu m'entends_? ... I am too red tonight, _hein_?"

"Not from the boxes!"

"_Si, si_! ... I must be more pale ... Sit down, sit down!" She enveloped her shoulders in a shawl, and studied her face in the flashing mirror, pulling her make-up box towards her. "You have come back ... for good, Teddy?"

"Yes!"

"You are always married?"

"Yes!"

"That's a pity--_enfin_! ... Happy?"

"Very!"

"Too bad! ... And you have come _pour tirer la langue a Emma Fornez_ ... who tried to frighten you!"

"Exactly!" said Beecher, laughing.

"Oh, you needn't be so conceited about it! If you are still living together--it is because ..." she stopped a moment to correct the beady fringe of the eyes, "because your wife is a very, very clever woman!"

"What?"

"Oh, just that! ... and because she finds she can lead you around conveniently by the nose ... just so!" She leaned over and illustrated her meaning with a little tweak before he could defend himself.

"I see, you are quite furious that we are not divorced!"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"How many months is it?..."

"Three years ... Three and a half!"

"Bah! there is still hope!"

To tease her for this, he drew back, grinning with elation.

"Oh, you are having a beautiful time of it!" she said, watching him in the mirror. "It amuses you very much! ... But just you wait!" She raised her hand, counting the fingers. "Three, four, five--five years! That is the worst bridge of all! ... Even my old Jacquot--poor soul--stood me for five years! ... Just wait!" Then, struck by a sudden reflection, she proceeded to revenge herself. "If you are happy, I was right, after all! You remember ... first time I saw Charters ... I said 'it is not an actress, it is a woman!' ..." She emphasized the point with a satisfied shrug. "I was right, and there you are!"

"Well, Emma, don't let's fight," he said, hugely amused. "I'm glad to see you again!"

"I, too," she said, tapping his arm, and turning her darkened face towards him for better inspection. "Better so, _hein_? ... So you are rich now, Teddy ... An uncle was good enough to die?"

"Two!..."

"Ah! ... what a pity! ... And now you are spoiled!" She began to soften the shadows of the eyes. "Tell me one thing..."

"Yes?..."

"You ... you did not tell her--the wife--about our little conspiracy?--the night of the cowboy party, _hein_?..." As he hesitated she caught the accusatory look in his eyes, and she wheeled about. "_Comment_! ... You were so stupid! ... _Dieu! que les hommes sont sots_!"

"Nonsense! ... she laughed over it!" he said, recovering himself. "Besides, she had guessed it already!"

"My dear Teddy," she said, in very bad humor, "I take back all I said ... You were born a husband--typical! ideal!--You would be content with any one! ... with Victorine, even!"

She flung the rabbit's foot furiously among the pigments.

"_Allons_, we might just as well say adieu!"

"Why?"

"She does not know you have come?"

"No, but..."

"Well, well ... don't be fool enough to tell her! ... Go right back now. Make a call in some box where she can see you, and escape a good..." She stopped, shaking her hand in the direction of his ear.

"You are mistaken!" he began, flushing. "You don't know her..."

"Mistaken ... tra-la-la! ... and I know her! ... All I have to do is to see you, my poor Teddy, to understand ... absolutely ... in every little detail ... the woman who makes you so ... So--adieu!"

"It is not as tragic as all that," he said, laughing, but giving his hand.

"Adieu! ... adieu!"

"I may come back ... when I am divorced?"

"That will never happen!" she persisted, vindictively. "She has tamed you ... you are a domestic animal ... a house pet ... like the cat and the poodle dog!"

"_Au revoir_, Emma," he said, refusing to be irritated.

"Not good-by!" She took up a thread, broke it with a vicious jerk, and let the ends float away. "Victorine, _depeche-toi donc_!"

Beecher, who had started with the intention of extracting a legitimate revenge, had received little satisfaction from his two interviews. Nevertheless, he was not so naive as to reject Emma Fornez's advice. He went directly to Mrs. Craig Fontaine's box. Louise, as though she had waited impatiently his coming, started at once from her chair, meeting him in the privacy of the antechamber. He was struck at once by the constrained tensity of her glance.

"You are in the Gunthers' box," she said, directly the first greetings were over. "Where is Bruce? Why didn't he come with you?"

"We separated. I went behind to see Madame Fornez..." he said lamely.

She was not deceived by his answer, made a rapid calculation and said abruptly:

"Teddy, tell me the truth. Don't refuse me! ... You may be doing me a favor ... the greatest! ... Is Bruce engaged? That little girl in the box?"

Between them there had been the fullest loyalty, and a confidence since school days. He was not ignorant, therefore, of her infatuation for his friend, though what dramatic turn it might have taken in the years of his absence, he could only speculate.

"Yes, it is true," he said. "It is not to be known ... With you, Louise, it is different: you ought to know!"

She sat down, and he was frightened by the swift, ashen pallor that rushed into her face. Alarmed, he made a movement towards her.

"Wait!" she said, faintly. "There are two questions I must ask ... Did he, Bruce, send you to tell me this?"

"No...." He hesitated, surprised at the question, adding: "That is, I think not...."

"Is it to be public--immediately?"

"No, not at once ... I am sure of that!"

She nodded her head with a little relief, and, incapable of speech, raised her hand weakly as though to excuse herself, then laid it over her heart. He rose, turning his back, steadying himself. At the end of a long moment she touched him on the shoulder.

"I will come ... tomorrow ... and call on your wife," she said, quietly. "Give her my very best wishes, will you? ... And ... thank you! ... You have done me a great service!..."

When he reached his box Bruce was waiting for him.

"You saw Louise?" he said directly.

"Yes!"

"You told her?"

"Yes, I told her."

"That was right!"

They hesitated a moment, one whether to question, the other whether to explain.

"I admire her as much as any woman," said Gunther, at last. "She made only one blunder ... At that, Fate was against her."

This answer, and the way it was delivered, was all that Beecher was permitted to understand of an episode which deserves a novel to itself. Nevertheless, he felt that there must have been something far out of the ordinary to have brought forth from Gunther this eulogy, which sounded at the moment like an epitaph.

When Beecher entered the lights were up on the act. During the time in which he had been absent, his wife, too, had been a prey to dramatic moods. The stage and the world had been before her eyes as the choices of her own life. She comprehended what Beecher did not, all the advantages of her first appearance in New York under the patronage of the Gunthers, that was in itself a social cachet. Mrs. Slade's flattering visit, as well as the accented cordiality of acquaintances who had bowed to her from their boxes, made her feel how easy would be her way in this world, so easy of access by one entrance and so hostile by a thousand others. She was satisfied. Her doubts, if she had yielded to them a moment, were gone. She had talked to Gunther of what she wanted for her husband, and made of him a friend, not insensible to the reason of the charm which she had exerted. But in the moment in which the social world presented itself to her as the endless stretching Pacific flashed upon the dazzled eyes of Balboa, she felt a sudden sense of loneliness and the need of support. She rested her hand on the strong-muscled arm of her husband, and designating with a smile the young girl who was so artlessly and artfully conveying her impatient delight at Bruce's return, she sent her husband one of those looks which only a perfectly happy woman has the power to retain ... that first fugitive, timid offering in the eyes of lovers.

The next day Mrs. Craig Fontaine's engagement was announced in all the papers. It was a romance of long standing ... the engagement now made public for the first time was supposed to have lasted several months, etc.

Mrs. Slade had more than fulfilled her promise towards McKenna. Through her active friendship not only had he secured the entire patronage of her husband, but had finally acquired the coveted field of the Bankers' Association of America. His agency had tripled in its ramifications and its power. This man, who perceived clearly all the relative, often confusing, shades of morality, was at the bottom an idealist. He undertook two great campaigns: one which resulted in the exposing of the mysterious suzerainty over corrupt politics of a group of outwardly respectable capitalists; and the other in the purification of a great labor union from a band of terrorists, who were betraying their ideals and selling their sympathies. He had still one ambition, which he had confided alone to Mrs. Slade, to whom he was able to render in this period two invaluable services--he wished one day to become Police Commissioner of New York City, and create, in that cemetery of reputations, a great police system that would vie with the systems of Paris and London.

Often Bruce Gunther would run into his office at the close of the afternoon. He appreciated the integrity of the detective, and he used him as he was learning to use many men ... as so many windows through which to look out on life. Gunther had not been entirely the dupe of Rita Kildair's explanation as to the theft of the ring. Above the mantelpiece in the inner office of McKenna, framed in simple passe-partout, hung the two clippings of the same date: one the bare statement of the bank's support of the Associated Trust, and underneath the engagement of Rita Kildair and John G. Slade.

These dramatically aligned scraps of information for the public, never ceased to intrigue him. Many a time he considered a direct question, but refrained from respect. One day, however, pushed to the verge by his curiosity, he said abruptly:

"McKenna, are you going to write your memoirs, some day?"

"Perhaps--some day!"

"You ought to--Publication fifty years from now."

"May be ... may be!"

"And that affair of the ring," said Gunther, pointing to the notices. "Will you tell the truth about that?"

"What! Write down my mistakes?"

"Was it a mistake?"

McKenna nodded, gazing at the mantelpiece meditatively, with an expression that was indecipherable.

"Bad mistake!"

"But I should say one of those failures that are sometimes rather fortunate?" persisted Gunther.

"Well, it's a good thing to know how to turn a failure to account. That's why a few of us get ahead," said McKenna in a matter-of-fact way, but for a moment Gunther seemed to perceive the faintest trace of a smile, lurking maliciously in the corners of his eyes.

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