"You oughtn't to look too fine for a secretary," she reflected to herself in the glass, and her self in the glass reflected back rebelliously as if to say, "Oh, oughtn't I? Well, just to show you, I'll put on my frosted rose satin with the silver fringe." And she did.
Bob had less difficulty than he expected in withholding from his mother, as he had promised, the unusual state of affairs at Ipping House. Beyond a few perfunctory inquiries as to the welfare of the relatives, Eleanor asked no embarrassing questions. The mere mention of anything associated with her nocturnal adventure was distressing to her, and she felt grateful to her son for not pursuing the subject. There were plenty of other things to talk about; then, too, there was dinner to be ordered. Hitherto the meals had been sent up and the selection of dishes had been left to Betty, but this evening they were dining to music in the palmy splendor of the public dining room and the choice of a menu was reserved for the superior masculine intelligence of Robert Baxter.
Meanwhile in her own room in another part of the hotel Betty was standing with her back to the mirror. Something had happened. A coolness had sprung up between Elizabeth Thompson and her reflection; they were no longer on speaking terms. At the very last minute Betty, with sudden determination, had taken off the Parisian masterpiece which now hung across a chair, a toy Niagara of shimmering rose and silver spray, while the bewildered chambermaid hurriedly hooked her into the plainest gown she possessed, a simple black chiffon dinner frock.
"Quite good enough for a secretary," Betty remarked, as she turned her back on the mirror. There was no mistake about it, Miss Thompson and her reflection were not on speaking terms.
"I wonder what's keeping Betty," said Mrs. Baxter to her son, as they waited for the lift in the crimson carpeted hall.
She was conscious of her slip the moment she had spoken. Bob was watching the slow-moving machinery of the lift. A moment before he had quoted a remark of his father's about English elevators.
"It looks to me like you fellers use molasses instead of water to work your darned elevators," Hiram had said, and the Britisher's patronizing, "Oh, I say, that would be too expensive," had made Eleanor laugh.
Now at the mention of Betty's name Bob turned sharply.
"Betty?" he echoed. "You don't mean to say Betty's here! When did she come? Why didn't you tell me before?" He looked at his mother in amazement. "Why, what's the matter, Mother?"
Eleanor was trying desperately to cover her confusion.
"Did I say Betty? How funny! I mean Miss Thompson—Mr. Baxter's secretary—she's dressing for dinner. I wonder why she doesn't come," Eleanor coughed nervously.
Bob continued to watch her, his surprise gradually giving place to a strange suspicion. It was as if a mental picture puzzle were fitting itself together in his brain. Only one piece was lacking to make it complete.
"What is Miss Thompson's Christian name, Mother?" he asked very quietly.
"Miss Thompson's first name?—her Christian name?—let me see—why, it's—it's——" Eleanor tried heroically to fib, but it was no use. Do what she would there was only one name in the whole world she could think of. She fluttered like a caught bird, then gave it up. "It's Betty, Bob."
In a flash Bob's puzzle picture was complete. "Betty Thompson! Well, I have been a fool!"
His words, addressed to the ceiling, were received with a solemn plaster imitation of Olympian indifference.
Not so Eleanor. "There! I've broken my promise!" she cried excitedly. "I knew I would!"
At the same instant she became aware that Betty was hurrying along the passage toward them. She lowered her voice and spoke rapidly, "You mustn't tell her you know it! Betty would never forgive me. Promise me you won't tell—promise, Bob!"
Bob promised with his eyes—it was too late to speak.
Never had Miss Elizabeth Thompson looked less like the ugly duckling of her freckled childhood. The renunciation of her Paris finery was more than compensated for by the sparkle of her eyes and the flush of self-victory in her cheeks. At the last minute, partly as a concession to her vanquished self, partly as a precaution against draughts, she had thrown round her shoulders a web of transparent net, sparkling with embroidered flowers, effecting in her plain black frock a transformation that would have done credit to Cinderella's fairy godmother herself.
Breathless and apologetic Betty joined the others just as the elevator doors opened and Bob's dignified greeting and his mother's make-believe chidings were quickly submerged in the mysterious hush that descends upon even the most loquacious people on entering an elevator.
A table had been reserved not too near the orchestra, and its highly decorated appearance, due to an over-liberal interpretation on the manager's part, of Bob's order for a centerpiece of roses and two bunches of gardenias, had created a speculative interest in the little party in advance of its arrival. In the language of the theater, it had "prepared an entrance."
As the three took their places (amid critical feminine and enthusiastic masculine stares at Betty, and critical masculine and enthusiastic feminine stares at Bob), Mrs. Baxter, who had, perhaps, the least to do with the attention they attracted, was the only one of the three who really enjoyed it. Betty felt a flush of annoyance, not so much at the attention itself—Paris had accustomed her to being stared at—but it was one thing to attract attention and quite another to bid for it, and that monstrous floral centerpiece, those unnecessarily large corsage bouquets, fairly clamored for notice. Her quick ear caught the words "Awful Americans"—"Nouveau Riche," in a high pitched feminine hiss close behind her, and at another table a monocled lout in faultless evening dress was saying in a bulky whisper, "Musical comedy, I fancy." Betty would like to have asked him to which branch of the peerage he referred, the Gaiety or the Alhambra. Anyway, she was thankful she had saved herself from the pink and silver Niagara.
As for Robert Baxter, concentrate as he would on the amiable duties of host, he could not forget his hurt—perhaps only a scratch to his vanity, perhaps something deeper. Whenever during that uncomfortable dinner he looked at the lovely girl sitting opposite and thought of the trick she had played him, he felt the hurt afresh. He recalled the first and only long talk he had had with "the secretary" at Ipping House. What fun she must have had with him!—and that letter—that fatuous letter! His face burned as he thought of it. But now the tables were turned. He had found out her secret and she did not know he knew. Now was his chance to pay her back. Bob smiled in spite of himself. It was so like one of their childhood fights, when Betty had a tremendous secret she wouldn't tell Bob, and Bob invented a more tremendous secret he wouldn't tell Betty. For a whole afternoon, perhaps, they would not be on speaking terms. Then there would come a crisis, followed by an explosion, and they would say terribly personal things to each other. Then all at once Betty's eyes would fill with tears and Bob would be seized with a strange sensation, as if he had suddenly become an entirely different boy and that other boy would put his arms around little Betty, and then, and then—yes, they would kiss and make friends.
Robert Baxter looked across the table. Betty looked up at the same instant, and for the fraction of a second their eyes became entangled, and for just that wonderful fraction of a second Robert Baxter felt the strange sensation of being the other boy. Only for an instant.
"No," he said to himself. "She's made a fool of me and she's got to be sorry for it. Now I have her just where she had me, and I'll make her sorry—very, very sorry."
Mrs. Baxter was pushing back her chair; she would have her coffee and her cigarette upstairs. Eleanor had never got used to the English lady's custom of smoking in public. If Bob would take her to the elevator he might return and have his cigar in comfort at the table. Perhaps Miss Thompson would show him the promenade.
Betty got up quickly.
"No, no, Miss Thompson, I sha'n't need you. I really sha'n't," Eleanor insisted. "I have my book, and I shall be asleep before I've read a page."
Her son accompanied her to the lift. At the door he kissed her. "This isn't good night, little mother," he said affectionately. "I shall be up in a few minutes."
He watched the slow-rising lift disappear past the top of the door and returned through the almost deserted dining-room to the table where Betty was waiting for him. She was pouring black coffee into two small Sevres cups from a miniature silver coffee urn.
Bob settled himself in his chair and lighted a cigar. The dinner had been a wretched failure, and he felt quite in the mood to give Miss Elizabeth Thompson her lesson.
"Two lumps, please," he said, as Betty prepared to hand him his cup.
The secretary smiled. "That's just what I gave you, Mr. Baxter."
"You have a telepathic mind, Miss Thompson."
Something in his tone caused her to look up quickly.
"Have I? How?"
"How else could you know that I took two lumps?"
"You seem to forget," she replied, "that I have enjoyed the privilege of observing some of your habits at Ipping House. Perhaps you don't remember," she added maliciously; "you were very much occupied."
"That's unkind, Miss Thompson," answered Bob. "I recall you quite distinctly. You wrote a letter for me in the morning after I met you."
"Do you mean the letter to the brunette you met on the boat?" said Betty quietly.
"Girl I met on the boat?" he frowned, as if consulting a mental passenger list. "Oh, no, it was to a girl I once saw off on a steamer—quite a little girl—that is to say, she was a little girl then. It was a long time ago. She must be—well, she must be getting along."
"An old maid?"
He pursed his lips and nodded.
"I thought you said she had a voice—was going to be a singer or something of that sort?"
"She thinks she has a voice," he corrected. "Perhaps she had one once. It's astonishing, though, how long a voice will last, Miss Thompson. They say Patti sang when she was over seventy."
Betty suddenly became intensely preoccupied in the business of refilling her cup. For a time she seemed to forget the young man's presence altogether.
"So you think," she said at length, having exhausted the possibilities of the coffee cup, "that having no voice, your friend is only wasting her time in—where did you say she was studying?"
"In Paris. I may be wrong, Miss Thompson," he continued, "but the probabilities are against her. In every branch of art there are at least a hundred who fail for one that succeeds."
"May I ask what you consider a test of success?" she queried, in spite of her desire to drop the discussion before Bob's disloyalty drove her to downright hatred of him.
"Why, public opinion, of course," he said shortly.
"Has your friend ever had an appearance?" She was beginning to hate him already.
"An appearance?"
"Has she ever sung in opera?" Betty kept control of her voice, and her tightly clasped hands were hidden in her lap.
He shook his head. "Oh, no, but I once read an announcement that she was to appear at the Theatre Parnasse. I forget what it was—quite a good role, I believe."
Betty picked up the neglected gardenias and pressed their cool petals against her hot cheek.
"Go on," she said.
Bob hesitated; he was beginning to wish he had never started on this tack. He had no idea Betty took her voice so seriously.
"Well, to tell the truth——" He pulled nervously at his cigar, and, discovering it to be out, knocked off the ash and relighted it with unusual care. He felt that this business of chastening Betty was a failure from every point of view. The desire to "get even" had completely gone from him; he would be glad now to surrender on any terms, but Betty's waiting eyes offered him no quarter.
"I didn't hear the particulars," he blundered on. "All I know is, it never came to anything."
"And you've no idea of the reason?" Her flushed face was hidden in the gardenias. Their sensitive petals felt what the man could not see.
Bob threw his cigar out of the window. He wished he could throw himself after it.
"Oh, well, every one can't sing in opera. Poor girl, I suppose her voice wasn't equal to it."
This was perhaps the most unfortunate speech Robert Baxter ever made. Had he known (and he never did know) the true story of that unfilled engagement, he would have died rather than say what he had just said to Betty. If, by some miracle, Robert Baxter, then in New York, had happened into Betty Thompson's little apartment on the Champs Élysêes that afternoon two years ago, when M. Peletier of the Theatre Parnasse called with the contract for Mlle. Elizabeth Thompson to sign, it might have proved the saddest, if not the last, day of M. Peletier's existence. The very recollection of that afternoon brought again to Betty's beautiful face the white-hot flame of anger that, like a sword of fire, drove the satyr-faced impresario screeching in the fear of death from her apartment, down the headlong stairway, across the crowded boulevard, and into the nearest café, where, over a nerve-fortifying petit verre, he wrote the brief note informing Mlle. Elizabeth Thompson, with regrets of the most profound, that he must cancel immediately the engagement of mademoiselle for the Theatre Parnasse, having, after mature deliberation, decided that the voice of mademoiselle, though of the most charming, was not equal to the demands of grand opera.
And now, when Betty pushed back her chair with such violence as to shake the glasses on the table, Bob wondered what was the matter. As she rose the yellowing gardenias dropped to the floor, and it was as if in that moment all their whiteness had gone into Betty's face.
He was on his feet in an instant. She looked as if she were going to faint. His eye went from table to table—except for a waiter or two drifting about at the far end of the great room they were quite alone.
"Betty!" he cried. "Are you ill? For God's sake, what's the matter?"
"'Betty!' he cried. 'Are you ill?'"
As he spoke her name the eyes rounded with amazement, then slowly narrowed to an expression that sent a chill through Bob's heart. It was no more like Betty, that look, than the voice that accompanied it.
"So you knew all the time who I was, and yet you spoke to me like that—pretending you didn't know."
Bob tried to speak, but she went on in a low, monotonous, terrible voice, only just raised above a whisper.
"You are a coward, and what you have been saying is a lie—a mean, contemptible, cowardly lie. Now I'm going. I sha'n't see you again."
Her lips were beginning to quiver. She could not trust herself to say another word.
Bob, utterly crushed, bewildered and silenced, walked beside her for appearance's sake to the door of the lift. Without a word, without a look, she stepped inside and the bronze door clanged between them.
Alone in the writing-room, Bob tore up sheet after sheet of the hotel paper in fevered attempts to compose a note to Betty. As he crumpled them up one after another, he stuffed them into his pocket, not stopping to tear them up. The moments were slipping by. At last in desperation, he wrote:
"Betty—For God's sake see me, if only for a moment before I go. My train leaves in half an hour. Bob."
He rang for a waiter and without stopping to reread it, slipped the note into an envelope, directed and sealed it up, and gave it to the man to take to Miss Thompson's room.
After an interminable quarter of an hour the waiter returned. Bob gave him a shilling and snatched the envelope from the tray. He turned it over eagerly—it was his own note, unopened.
CHAPTER XXII
A PROBLEM IN VIRTUOUS STRATEGY
The curate walked back to Ipping House with a lighter heart than he had known for days. It was true he had not carried out his spectacular purpose of running down a criminal, nor had he proved himself a very wonderful detective; in fact, he was still in darkness touching the nature of Hester Storm's wrongdoing; but it had been his privilege to help this girl at a critical moment, and to turn her from evil ways to sincere repentance. As to any future problems or complications, Horatio had no fear, for he knew the good seed was growing in Hester's heart and, if the heart was right, everything else must be right. And he took great satisfaction in immediately destroying the incriminating letter, rending it into small pieces and scattering these toward the lake as he strode buoyantly along the shore path.
Meantime the girl herself, the object of Merle's loving solicitude, sat motionless on the broad, low bench between the friendly fir trees. Dazed, frightened, yet full of a strange joy, Hester was thinking of this extraordinary, this unbelievable thing that had happened. A meek little man, with amusing side whiskers, had spoken to her, had looked into her eyes and, suddenly, her whole life was changed, absolutely and irrevocably changed. She was not and never again would be the girl she had been. That was sure. The words she had spoken with bended head were graven on her memory. She had given her promise to God and to Rosalie, and nothing in the world could make her break it, still——
She gazed out over the lake where the swans were drifting idly, and a smile, half plaintive, half mischievous, formed about her warm, red lips, as she reflected that here was Hester Storm, known on Manhattan Island as a cold-blooded proposition, little Hester, who had gone up against hard games in various cities and gotten away with them—not so bad, her bluffing Grimes with the haughty stare in Charing Cross station—here she was with a big bunch of money right in her hands, you might say, and letting it go, letting the whole thing go and starting all over again because—because she wanted to.
Now her thoughts went back to the minister's program: To be honest, to be kind, to make amends, if she could, for any wrong act—there it was. Well, as to making amends, she would give back the purse. She had stolen it, and she would give it back. That was easy!
No! Not so easy as it seemed, for the purse was in Betty Thompson's golf bag, which was in one of the lockers at the country club, where Mrs. Baxter had left it. And this locker was secured by a key kept in Mrs. Baxter's bureau drawer—also locked. There were infinite complications here. Suppose she were found picking one of these locks?
The penitent laughed ruefully as she reflected that it was just as difficult and dangerous to get the purse now for a good purpose (to return it to the bishop) as it was before to get it for a wicked purpose. Yet the purse must be returned; it must be returned immediately, for any day or hour might bring the discovery of that ill-guarded money, through the blundering luck of some caddy boy or club cleaner or hanger-on about the locker room. And such a discovery would inevitably provoke a new investigation, and that must not be. Hester was sorry for her wrongdoing, but she had no wish to go to jail.
Here, then, was a delicate problem: to steal virtuously a purse already stolen, and give it back to the owner so that he would have no idea (Scotland Yard ditto) whence it came or where it had been or who had turned the trick. Hester pondered this for a long time with the old, keen look in her half-shut eyes.
"It can't be done," she finally decided. "I'd just get in deeper and deeper, and—the first thing I knew I'd be——"
Then, like an inspiration, the solution came. It was perfectly simple, perfectly safe, the bishop should have his property within twenty-four hours, and nobody would be the wiser.
"Sure!" the girl reflected. "That does it. I'll tell her, I'll tell her the whole thing. She'll be sorry to know I'm that kind, but she'll be glad I'm on the level now, and—she'll keep my secret and—she can give back the purse."
With a sigh of relief Hester rose from the bench, and, drawing her cloak about her, started down the path. The thing was settled and there was no reason for delay. On the contrary, the sooner she found Miss Thompson and told her the truth the sooner this trouble would be ended, and she would be free to go away. A train to London, a call at the steamship agency—why, she might be on the ocean in two or three days, hurrying back to Rosalie! Not with a fortune, to be sure, but she knew that Rosalie would be happier to have her sister back and to hear the great news of her cutting out certain things, happier than if she brought ten fortunes—in the other way.
The girl stopped suddenly as she turned the point beyond the cove. There was the boat landing and the little footbridge leading to the summer house. And there, on a bench beyond the summer house, was Anton, the chauffeur, and she remembered, with a vague feeling of alarm, that he was waiting for her!
CHAPTER XXIII
A SCRAP OF PAPER
Since their strange meeting in Betty Thompson's chamber, the shock-headed chauffeur had made it plain to the pretty sewing-girl that he was deeply smitten with her charms. The fact that she had seen him in New York and remembered a gold tooth, also the injured ear of his friend with the blue handkerchief, amounted to nothing, for, after this single flash, her memory had failed her and, anyway, what if he had taken a glass of beer with Red Leary in a Forty-second street rathskeller!
The point was that Anton was now ardently and aggressively in love with Hester. Twice he had put his arm around her, once he had tried to kiss her, and daily he had urged her to meet him some evening at the garage for a joy ride. He had a sixty-horsepower car at his disposal during various odd hours and he saw no reason why pleasant reciprocity relations should not be established between himself and this alluring young woman.
"You're a peach, kid," he had whispered one afternoon in the conservatory; "you've got me going all kinds of ways with your eyes and your red lips and—say, come down to the garage after supper for a little whirl. Do you get me?"
Hester had laughed and shaken her head; then she had half consented to his teasing, knowing well she would not come.
The next day Anton brought her a splendid bunch of roses and continued his pleading. He was crazy about her; she had the dandiest shape and—he would treat her right if she'd only come down and—then he tried to kiss her.
There were two reasons why Hester had not altogether discouraged these advances: she could not deny herself the feminine satisfaction of exasperating an over-zealous suitor by making promises which she had no intention of keeping, and she did not wish to incur Anton's enmity. She distrusted this man partly through that vague memory in the rathskeller, partly on general principles. And after the second broken appointment she sent him a civil note pretexting a headache.
The next day he had begged her, almost with tears in his eyes, to meet him that afternoon at five o'clock in the summer house by the lake—for a few minutes. And she had promised faithfully to come. Anton felt sure she would really come this time, and in her honor had donned his best gray suit and a new straw hat with red and black band, which, with his light malacca cane, gave him quite a smart appearance.
"This is where I land her," he said to himself, as he strolled across the foot-bridge, sharp on the stroke of five.
But alas for the hopes of lovers! Half an hour passed, three-quarters of an hour and no Hester.
"She's thrown me down!" he muttered angrily and, leaving the summer house, he strode along the path, switching the ground savagely with his cane. There was no doubt about it, she was giving him the big laugh. Little devil! If he only had something on her so he could make her come!
And now a singular thing happened, one of those odd coincidences that give to trifles the importance of great events. A gentle breeze was blowing down the lake and, borne by this, there came fluttering along what seemed to be a small white butterfly and it lighted directly in Anton's path. The chauffeur switched at it with his cane and missed it, switched at it again and missed it again. Then he saw that it was not a butterfly at all, but a small square of white paper no bigger than a postage stamp and he wondered how it was that this floating fragment had come to rest balanced exactly on its edge. It certainly was strange! What kept it poised there quivering on that moss bank? Why did it not fall over on one side or the other?
Anton stooped and picked up the piece of paper and, seeing some writing, he glanced at it carelessly. Good Lord! What was this! He stopped short and stared at the words, then, lifting his hat, he ran his fingers through his hair and for some minutes stood absorbed in thought.
"By the holy jumping Christopher Columbus!" he said slowly. "I believe I've got it." And sitting down on a bench he continued to study the paper. Presently he took out a gold cigarette case and a moment later he was blowing out toward the peaceful lake the fragrance of Turkish tobacco with little nods and chuckles of extreme satisfaction.
It was at this moment that Hester, hastening on her search for Betty Thompson, appeared at the turn of the path and found herself face to face with Anton.
"Ah! Little one!" he exclaimed, rising and going forward smilingly to meet her. "So you thought you'd show up after all!"
Hester made no effort to hide her annoyance.
"I didn't come here to see you. I had forgotten all about you," she said coldly.
"Don't say so," he sneered. "Pretty poor memory you've got, kid. Better take something for it."
She noticed a change in this man. Before this, with all his slangy, bantering ways, Anton had always been a suppliant for her favor, eager to please and ready to obey, but now she recognized in his tone a certain swaggering assurance, as if he felt himself master of the situation.
"He's trying to bluff me," she thought. Then aloud "You'll have to excuse me. I'm in a hurry," and she started on.
"Oh, I don't know," he laughed. "Perhaps you can give me a little time—say an hour or two."
She flashed a scornful look at him.
"If you wait until I spend an hour with you you'll wait a long time, Mr. Anton."
"Oh, no! Not so long, Miss—er—what did you say your name is?"
She faced him unflinchingly. "What do you mean by talking to me like this?" she demanded.
The chauffeur took a pull at his cigarette, then blew out the smoke slowly.
"I'll tell you, girl, what I mean," he answered, eyeing her keenly through half-shut lids. "I mean that from now on we quit fooling and you take orders from me. Understand?"
She tossed her head defiantly. "Oh, I guess not!"
"I guess yes and I'll begin right now. I want you to be at the garage to-morrow morning at ten o'clock."
"No."
"Yes. You'll be at the garage to-morrow morning at ten o'clock because I say so, Miss Jenny Regan—I beg your pardon, I should say Miss Hester Storm!"
CHAPTER XXIV
DELIVERING THE GOODS
In spite of her indignant protests and her contrary plans, Hester appeared at the garage the next morning shortly before ten. There seemed nothing else for her to do. Hour after hour through the night the troubled girl had sought for some different course and had found nothing. Somehow this chauffeur had discovered her other name, the name she had given to the police, Jenny Regan, and she could not make any move until she found out how much more he knew. She could not carry out her plan of restitution nor confide in Betty Thompson until she learned what was back of Anton's ugly, threatening attitude. He was not bluffing, she felt sure of that.
The chauffeur received her with a business-like nod. He was cleaning the big car.
"Hello, little one! I took the old man to the station this morning. I'll be through in a minute. Sit down." And she watched him give the last skillful touches to the shining machine.
"Now, then, just a second to wash these paws of mine. There! And another to light a cigarette. Have one?" He offered her the open case.
"Thanks, I don't smoke."
He shrugged his shoulders. "You don't have to be so careful. We're alone."
She tried to hide her uneasiness under a careless tone.
"You're rather fresh this morning, Mr. Anton."
He drew up a wooden chair and seated himself so close to her that their knees were almost touching.
"Now listen," he said, and his eyes were on her keenly. "We're going to talk straight. I'll tell you how we stand and—first I'll tell you this. I like you, girlie, but I'm onto you."
"Onto me?" she echoed.
"Don't give me the baby stare. I know you've got pretty eyes, but you're a crook, kiddo, with a record in New York City, and you stole that bishop's purse!"
"You don't say!" she laughed scornfully. "Anything else?"
"Yes. I want to be in on the game. I figure that something went wrong after you swiped the leather that day on the train—you slipped a cog somehow, and—you came up here. I don't know why you came, but—you're going to tell me."
"Indeed!" she mocked.
"You may not find it so funny in a minute."
There was something sinister in his tone that filled her with terror.
"You—you say you like me and—then you accuse me of frightful things," she faltered.
"Nothing frightful about it! You got away with five thousand pounds. Fine! I read about it in the newspapers. Here!" He drew a folded clipping from his pocket. "'One occupant of the carriage was Miss Jenny Regan, an American lady, who succeeded in convincing the police that she had nothing to do with the robbery.' Oh, no, nothing! Clever girl, Miss Jenny Regan, but now she'll have to show me."
The chauffeur laughed with cynical satisfaction, and his gold tooth gleamed. How Hester hated him!
"Then you think I am this American woman, Miss Jenny—what was her name?"
"Regan. Yes, I know you are."
"How do you know it?"
He searched in his breast pocket, then in his side pockets, and finally in his cigarette case.
"Ah! Here it is. I put it in the cigarette case to protect it." He produced a small square of white paper, and held it before her eyes with a smile of triumph. "Ever see this before, kiddo?"
Hester's face went white, and all the strength seemed to go out of her body as she read the postscript of her own letter to Rosalie, the fateful letter that she had torn in two and thrown into the fireplace. By some whim of fate the fluttering fragment that had sailed to Anton's feet, after the curate's well-meant scattering of the pieces, was a portion of this letter, and contained, in the girl's own handwriting, the most damaging words of the epistle: "Please remember not to address me as Jenny Regan, but as Hester Storm!"
"Rather jars you, don't it?" he said as he watched her. "I suppose you'll say it isn't your writing? Want me to compare it with the note you sent me?"
"It is my writing," she admitted, "it's from a letter I wrote to my sister, but that doesn't make me a thief."
"Ah, it's your writing! Then you go under two names?"
"I may have had a reason for—taking another name."
"I'll bet you had a reason! And you were in the railway carriage when this purse was stolen?"
"I—I didn't say so."
"Well, were you? I want to know."
She hesitated a moment, then flung him a look of defiance.
"Yes, I was. What of it? You read what the paper said. I had nothing to do with the robbery."
Anton smiled. "Excuse me, girlie, the paper said you succeeded in convincing the police that you had nothing to do with it. Which isn't the same thing. Now don't get snappy." He patted her playfully on the knee.
The hot blood mounted to Hester's cheeks.
"Keep your hands off me," she warned him. "And, if you think yourself cleverer than the police you'd better offer them your services."
The words were hastily spoken and immediately regretted. If there was one thing in the world Hester wished to avoid it was any entanglement with Scotland Yard. The very name made her shiver.
"Not a bad idea!" reflected the chauffeur. "I may try it, if I can't fix up a deal with you." Here he lighted another cigarette. "But don't you worry, we'll make a deal all right."
"What kind of a deal?"
"I'll help you out of the tangle you're in and we'll whack up on the five thousand."
"You still think I took that purse?"
"Sure, you took it."
"If I had five thousand pounds would I be sewing in a place like this? Would I?"
He thought a moment, frowning. "I know, that's a good line of talk, but—I tell you there was a kink in the job, and—see here, what was it? What ever brought you to this Godforsaken place?"
"What ever brought you here?"
"I have to earn my living."
"Well, are you the only one?"
"Besides, I was working for Baxter; I came with him, but you dropped down out of nowhere—with a fake name."
"That name seems to worry you, Mr. Anton."
"Jenny Regan? Just a little. I happen to know who the lady is. One of the slickest thieves we've turned out. And she don't have to do sewing for a living, either. I guess not. Come, kiddo, do we make the deal?"
"No!" she answered fiercely.
"Little spitfire! I'll tame you yet."
"Try it," she said.
The chauffeur rose quietly and went to a shelf, where he took down a box of paper.
"Just to show you how easy it is," he continued, returning to the girl. "I take this sheet of paper—so, and this pencil—so, and I write to Scotland Yard that Jenny Regan, who was mixed up in the bishop's purse affair, is not an American lady, the way they thought, but an American pickpocket, well known at Police Headquarters in New York City."
"It's a lie!"
"You must be pretty well known for me to have heard of you. Then I tell 'em this dangerous crook is hiding in Ippingford under the name of Hester Storm. How about it? Think that will help your game any?"
"You—you wouldn't do that?" trembled the girl.
"I wouldn't?" He felt that her courage was breaking, and he pushed his advantage. "Let me tell you this, little one, that letter will be written and sent to-day if you don't come off your haughty perch. Now, then?"
She saw herself beaten; this man was relentless, he would stop at nothing, and—she must make the best terms she could.
"How do I know you'll—play fair?" she hesitated. "There's a reward offered for information about that purse and——"
"A reward of a hundred pounds! What's a hundred pounds with five thousand to divide? Do you take me for a fool?"
"No."
"Well?"
Hester was accustomed to quick decisions. She had learned in a hard school to judge men, and she knew this scoundrel was acting only in a spirit of greed. There was no danger of his betraying her.
"All right," she yielded in a low tone, "I—I'll come down."
"Good girl!"
"I took the purse from the bishop but his nobs squealed before I could make my getaway, and when the coppers came in I was very near caught with the goods, only——"
"Only what?"
"Only there was a lady in the carriage, a friend of the bishop's, and—she had a golf bag with her, and—say, boy, I worked a new stunt." Unconsciously Hester was dropping back into the Tenderloin vernacular.
Anton pulled excitedly at his short mustache, and his lips worked nervously.
"Say, kid, you don't mean——"
She nodded slowly. "It was all I could do. They searched me, and if I hadn't dropped the leather into that golf bag——"
He looked at her sharply.
"You're telling me you hid this purse in a golf bag that belonged to another party?"
"Sure I did. I'd have been pinched if I hadn't."
"Who was she—this lady?"
"Miss Thompson, Baxter's secretary."
"What?"
"That's right. That's why I'm here. Now you know the whole thing."
He stared at her in half suspicion.
"You young devil! Are you lying to me?" Then, suddenly, he remembered. "No, by Jimminy, you're not! You had her golf bag in your hands that day—by the looking-glass!"
Hester nodded. "In two more minutes I'd have had the purse out, if you'd left me alone."
"Then—then you saw the purse?" he questioned eagerly. "It's there—in the bag?"
Hester nodded again. "It was there."
"Five thousand pounds knocking around in a golf bag!" His small eyes burned with covetous fire. "And she knows nothing about it—this secretary?"
"Nothing."
Anton sat silent, running his fingers back through his hair over the white lock.
"I've got him worrying now," reflected the girl.
"And—where is the golf bag—now?" he asked.
"Mrs. Baxter borrowed it and left it at the club house."
"You found that out?"
"Yes."
"Where—in the club house?"
"In one of the lockers—Mrs. Baxter's locker."
"I see." He was silent again. "That was four days ago?"
"Yes."
"How many times has the bag been used?"
"How do I know?"
"Haven't you watched it? Haven't you tried to get it?"
"You make me tired! How could I watch it—or get it—out in the club house?"
The chauffeur looked at her pityingly.
"It's just as well you've got a man in this game, girlie. It won't take me long to get that bag out of the club house. See that clock?" He pointed to a timepiece ticking noisily on the wall. "It's half-past ten. Bet you twenty dollars against two smooth kisses that I have the bag here within an hour."
Hester laughed, half coquettishly. "I don't bet my kisses."
"No?" He leaned forward eagerly and caught one of her hands. "What do you do with them?"
"I—I keep them," she said with a teasing glance.
He held her hand a moment, her soft, warm hand, then pushed it from him roughly.
"We'll see about that later on. Now it's business. Come, kid!" He pointed to the car.
"You're not going to——?"
"We're going to the country club. Quick!"
"Suppose some one sees us?"
"There's nobody here that counts except Mr. Robert. We'll take a chance on him. If he says anything you tell him Mrs. Baxter left orders for you to bring back Miss Thompson's golf bag from the club. Get me?"
"Good work!" she nodded.
"Didn't think of that, did you, girlie?" He opened the polished door. "In you go—behind!"
Without further protest Hester seated herself on the comfortable leather cushions, and a moment later they were speeding down the drive.
"Oh! Stop at the lodge," she remembered. "I want to get my cloak."
Anton halted the car at the big gate and amused himself for a few moments making faces at An Petronia who was playing in the roadway. Then he asked her preposterous questions about her dollies. Could they swim? Did she let them go to moving picture shows? Were they allowed to smoke Turkish cigarettes? One of the chauffeur's favorite diversions was teasing An Petronia.
"Say, you took your time!" he remarked presently, when Hester reappeared arrayed in her familiar scarlet garment.
"Go on! I'll tell you why," she said in a low tone Then, when they were on the main road, "I thought I'd make sure there aren't any more letters lying around in my room that might make trouble."
He nodded his approval of this precaution. And now they were silent for two or three minutes, while the machine flew over a smooth mile leading to the country club.
"Do you know how you're going to work this boy?" she questioned anxiously, as they swung into the beautifully kept grounds of the Ippingford golf course.
"Sure! Mrs. Baxter has sent her maid, that's you, to get her golf bag. She wants the bag down at Brighton. And the bag's in Mrs. Baxter's locker."
"How about the key?"
"Mrs. Baxter has mislaid the key. The woman in charge of the locker room will open the locker for you. See?"
"I see," answered Hester, and as the car drew up under the white columned porch of the club house she hopped out nimbly. "I won't be a minute." Then she started eagerly for the door.
"Wait!" called Anton, with a flash of distrust. "Come back! I'll get the bag myself." And, passing her, he disappeared within the house just as a party of smartly dressed ladies came out and stood chatting and laughing on the broad piazza.
Hester climbed back into the auto and waited, biting her lips. And presently a hard-featured woman appeared, followed by the chauffeur carrying a golf bag. One glance showed the girl that it was the golf bag—there was no doubt about it.
"Are you Mrs. Baxter's maid?" demanded the woman in a shrill voice, while the ladies stared.
"Yes."
"Your chauffeur says Mrs. Baxter told him to get this golf bag?"
"That's right," smiled Hester pleasantly.
The locker woman still seemed dissatisfied. "It's queer," she grumbled. "Mrs. Baxter told me to be careful of this bag because she had borrowed it."
"Exactly," smiled Hester, "and now Mrs. Baxter wants to return it. In here, please. Thank you." She placed the bag on the seat beside her and handed the woman a two-shilling piece. Then to Anton with a grand air, "Home, please. Mrs. Baxter is waiting."
Anton touched his cap respectfully, but did not move.
"I'll have to ask you to sit on the front seat, miss; one of the back springs is broken. Let me take this for you." And he placed the golf bag close to the steering wheel. With a movement of annoyance Hester followed the bag and seated herself next to the driver. Thus, side by side and mutually distrustful, they shot out of the grounds with Betty Thompson's much-coveted golf bag between them.
"We've turned the trick—we've got the goods," Anton whispered exultingly. Then, slowing up the machine, he peered down among the golf clubs. "Can you see it, kid?"
"Lean the bag toward me. That's right." She pushed open the clubs and gave a cry of satisfaction. "Ah! There! Way down at the bottom! Don't you see?"
The chauffeur looked again, and this time made out distinctly the fat, brown wallet, clasped by its elastic band, that was still lying safe in its singular hiding-place.
"Holy spoons," he muttered. "We've got it! You see what a little nerve will do."
"Didn't I help you out with the cranky dame?"
"You sure did. You were great, girlie." He gripped the wheel tighter as they passed an automobile. "We'd better turn off through the woods. Too many people here—and—we've got to talk things over."
"Talk what over?" she asked innocently.
He looked at her and was silent, his eyes drinking in the loveliness of her face and figure.
"Say, you certainly are a little beauty! You've got the reddest lips and the sweetest shape!" He slipped his left arm around the girl's lithe waist and drew her toward him. They were running slowly along the woodland road, through a grove of trees.
Hester only resisted slightly, but there was a tremor of unhappiness in her voice as she said: "You must think a lot of me when you wouldn't even trust me to go into the club house for the golf bag."
"Ah! You noticed that," he smiled complacently.
"Did I?" She nestled closer. "And you wouldn't let me have the bag on the back seat."
"Would you have left me alone with it—on the back seat? I'll bet you wouldn't. You're the sweetest kid I ever saw, Jenny, and I'm going to love you to death—yes, I am, but—wait!" He brought the car to a standstill in a deeply shaded spot by the road-side. Then, without further preliminaries, he caught her in his arms and tried to kiss her, while she struggled against him, turning away her face.
"No, I won't," she panted. "If you don't trust me enough to——"
"Trust you? Why should I trust you? You're a crook! And you're sore on me. Don't you suppose I know it? Hold on! Keep those two little hands where I can see 'em."
She looked at him indignantly. "Do you think I'd be silly enough to—try any funny work—here?"
"Do I think so? Don't make me laugh. There's a fortune in that golf bag and—come now! Put those two hands outside your cloak, one on top of the other. That's right. Now leave 'em there. I'm not taking any chances with you."
"This is a fine way to win a girl," she protested, but as if frightened, she left her neatly gloved hands crossed obediently before her.
"Don't you worry about the winning part," he laughed.
She faced him angrily. "You'll never have a chance to——"
But he did not let her finish. Clasping her again in his arms, he held her, struggling desperately, and, as he saw an opening, pressed his lips to her flaming cheeks, to her white forehead, and, finally, as his strength conquered hers, to her unwilling red mouth.
"There! I told you I would," he triumphed. "A man don't have to trust a girl to kiss her. We'll watch each other, Jenny, when we're doing business, but, say, this is pleasure, and—once more—God, I like your lips!"
He held her, unresisting now, his mouth crushed down upon hers, and, even as he feasted on her sweetness, he was sufficiently master of himself to note that her two hands were still crossed before her on her cloak.
A moment later, the long, hoarse whistle of the new paper mill in Ippingford warned him that time was passing.
"What! Twelve o'clock!" He listened. "This won't do. We must get a move on. I'll just fish this out, and then we'll hustle back."
He started to reach down into the golf bag, but Hester stopped him.
"Wait!" she ordered. "You say we'll watch each other. You're dead right, we will. And I want to know who's going to keep that purse if you take it out of the bag?"
"Don't be a fool! We'll divide the money and you can keep the purse for a souvenir."
"When will we divide the money?"
"As soon as we get to the garage."
"Why not now?"
He shook his head impatiently. "Because I'm late. Didn't you hear that whistle? Do you want to get me in bad with Baxter?"
She hesitated, watching him keenly. "Don't try to get gay with me, boy, for I'll do you up, sure. You know I've got something on you now."
He turned with a movement of alarm. "What?"
"If there's any trouble and it comes to a show down," she answered in a cold, even tone, "just remember that you're in this thing as deep as I am. You told that locker woman that Mrs. Baxter sent you for the golf bag, all those ladies heard it, and they saw you take the bag!"
"That's all right," he answered carelessly. "There won't be any trouble, if you do what I say."
"Go ahead, take the purse, but, remember, boy, if you wait one minute at the garage before dividing that money," she leaned close to him, and her black eyes blazed so fiercely that he started in alarm, "if you wait one minute, or try any flimflam game on me, Mr. Anton, you'll be sorry for it. That's all."
At this moment, just as Anton was about to brave her objections and transfer the purse from the bag to his pocket, the course of events was changed by the appearance of a barefooted small boy, who emerged unexpectedly from the woods and stood staring at them with a sort of dull impudence.
"That settles it," muttered the exasperated chauffeur. "We'll wait till we get to the garage." Then, stepping out, he cranked up the machine, and in a moment they were off at top speed.
Five minutes later they were back at Ipping House, and, as they passed the lodge, An Petronia called out shrilly to Anton that Mr. Robert Baxter was looking for him.
"I told you," frowned the chauffeur.
"Don't worry, boy. Get busy," urged Hester, as they stopped at the garage.
Leaving the car, they quickly entered the low building and closed the door behind them. Anton carried the golf bag, and, without further parley, laid it down on a work bench, and, reaching in his arm, drew forth the purse.
"Now I just want to say one thing, girlie, before we divide this money."
"Wait!" she warned him, lifting a hand. There was a quick step outside, then a click of the lock, and Anton had barely time to thrust the purse into his coat pocket when the door opened and Robert Baxter entered.
"What's going on here? Where have you been with the car?" the young man asked in sharp displeasure.
"Mrs. Baxter told Hester to get this golf bag, sir," answered the chauffeur. "Mrs. Baxter borrowed it from Miss Thompson, and she left it at the country club."
"Oh!" He turned to Hester. "You'd better take the bag to Miss Thompson's room."
"Yes, sir."
Hester picked up the golf bag and moved slowly toward the door, her eyes sending desperate messages to Anton. To which, as she passed out, he answered with a reassuring nod.
"I've been wanting the car myself," said Robert.
"I'm sorry, sir. We were delayed by a loose bolt in the rear frame. I must put in a new one."
"How long will it take?"
"I'll have to take the frame apart, sir. I'm afraid it will take me an hour."
"Very well. Bring up the car in an hour."
Anton touched his cap as young Baxter strolled off, leaving the garage door open.
The chauffeur waited a minute or so, looked about him cautiously, and then went back into a small storeroom in the rear, where he was sure of being alone and unobserved. He closed the door of the storeroom, locked it, and, at last, with a thrill of excitement, drew the bishop's purse from his pocket. He held it a moment in delicious expectation, then stripped off the elastic band and looked inside.
"Damnation!" he cried, and his face, was black with rage.
Then, dashing the empty purse to the ground, he flung open the door and strode angrily across the lawn in pursuit of Hester.
CHAPTER XXV
THE LOCKED DOOR
Meantime Hester had crossed the lawn and entered the conservatory. She carried the golf bag by its supporting strap and walked quickly. She knew that the conservatory opened directly into the library where the Reverend Horatio Merle was reading the morning paper and her idea was to go straight to the curate and tell him the whole truth. In the absence of Miss Thompson this was the only thing to do. If Anton followed her, as might happen, Mr. Merle would be a protection, for, in his presence, the chauffeur would not dare make trouble. He would wait to get Hester alone, never suspecting that she would be capable, in her wildest dreams, of giving back this great sum of money. The girl paused to enjoy the warm fragrance of the lilies. It reminded her of something way back—something sad and strange. What was it? Oh, yes! Now she knew. It was the funeral of Billy Connor—"Diamond Billy," the confidence man, over in Brooklyn. She had gone with Maggie Connor and Rosalie. Poor old Billy. He drank himself to death after they shut down on horse-racing in New York State. How she cried when the organ played and they all knelt down! That was the only time she had ever been in a church or tried to pray.
"To be honest, to be kind.... To make amends for any wrong act. To ask God for strength against temptation."
Now, in her need, these words that the curate had taught her came back to her mind and comforted her. This had been a hard fight with Anton and she had won out. She had rescued the money and would give it back, as she had promised—that was something.
Hester smiled as she pictured Anton's face when he opened the purse. The nerve of the man to think he could get the best of her at a game like that, her own game! "Now put your two little hands outside your cloak and keep 'em there!" Silly Anton! Didn't he know that Hester Storm had worked that trick when she was a twelve-year-old kid sneaking leathers from shopping guys on Sixth avenue cars? Two little hands outside your cloak! Ha! Two little gloved hands—very innocent—and one of them a fake, joined onto a fake arm and the whole thing strapped from the shoulder! Then if the man gets gay and hugs you in the automobile, and pretty soon gets crazy and kisses you, while you wriggle and twist and keep him busy—and then get busy yourself with your real arm down in the golf bag—why, it was too easy! It was a wonder Anton didn't get wise when she stopped so long at the lodge. Those shoulder straps take time to fasten on.
With a thrill of professional pride and a sigh of half regret, Hester pressed her hand to the bosom of her dress, where the bundle of crisp banknotes crackled alluringly. Five thousand pounds! Twenty-five thousand dollars! And it must be given back! No fiddling around, either! It was not good for a girl like her to have twenty-five thousand dollars that belonged to somebody else in her clothes. Not good at all!
She walked straight to the wide double doors with their green portieres that separated the conservatory from the library, and, bracing herself for this ordeal with the Reverend Merle, she turned the knob.
"Rosalie will be glad," she thought, as she pressed against the door. To her surprise nothing moved or yielded, and the girl realized, with a sudden sinking of the heart, that the library door was locked.
Hester tapped lightly on the panel, then louder, but no one came. She listened, with her ear close to the door, but there was no sound from the adjoining room. Strange! Mr. Merle must have gone out. Ordinarily there would have been nothing alarming in this, but now to the agitated girl it assumed the proportions of a disaster. She had counted on giving this money immediately to the clergyman, but, with the clergyman absent——
Seized with alarm, Hester darted back to the door of the conservatory, the door, in the ground glass wall that led in from the lawn. She opened this door just a crack and looked out, then instantly closed it and turned the key. Not a hundred yards distant, Anton was hurrying toward this very spot.
In the presence of danger Hester's mind acted quickly. The essential thing now was to hide this money. But where? She looked wildly about her. In the center of the conservatory stood a small, low table covered with potted plants. There was a drawer in this table. Hester put down the golf bag and pulled the drawer open. Lengths of twine and wire, some gardener's tools and a lot of seed catalogues. She shook her head and pushed the drawer shut. Anton would look there at once. She must find, some simple place that he would not think of.
Perhaps she could bury the money in one of these big tubs that held the palm trees, but no, there wasn't time. It was maddening!
In this emergency the girl's eyes fell upon a small standard rose bush growing in a gilt basket. It was a plant that Lionel and the countess had purchased at the Progressive Mothers' bazaar. Hester bent down eagerly to see if there was a space between the basket and the flower pot and, in trying to move the latter, she caught the stem of the rose-bush, whereupon to her surprise the bush itself, with the earth about its roots, detached itself from the flower pot so that she was able to lift the plant and a cylinder of dry earth entirely out of the pot. Ah! This might do. And a moment later she had laid the banknotes in the bottom of the pot and replaced the cylinder of earth above them. To the casual glance there was not the slightest indication that the rose-bush had been tampered with.
Now, in desperate haste, Hester flung off her scarlet cloak and, with a few deft movements, loosened the shoulder straps that held the false arm in place. Anton might search her and, if he found this—There! it was off! And none too soon, for at that very moment the loose-jointed figure of the chauffeur appeared, silhouetted in sinister black, against the ground glass wall of the conservatory. A moment later he was trying to open the door, clicking savagely at the lock.
Where could she hide the false arm? Anton would be here in a second. There was another door at the end of the conservatory where he could come in. She dared not lock this other door, for then he would know that she was guilty. But the false arm? High up along the wall, higher up than she could reach, ran a wide shelf ranged with tin cans and packages of seed and coils of rubber hose. It was the best she could do, and, with a quick movement, Hester flung the false member upward so that it touched the ceiling and then fell out of sight behind a rusty watering pot. As she did so she saw Anton's shadow nearing the other door. Well, she was ready for him. Wait! Her cloak! There!
And now, partly to hide her agitation, partly with a feminine idea of taking the aggressive in a bad cause, Hester stepped to a telephone fixed against the wall near the library door. What was the telephone number on that card she had picked up in the garage? Ah, yes! And in the very last second before the chauffeur entered she took up the receiver, placing her hand so that the little finger, unperceived, held down the hook and there was no communication.
Thus, when the chauffeur burst in, boiling with anger, Hester Storm, attired in her scarlet cloak and perfectly calm, was talking in a natural and business-like way to the unresponsive green-painted wall of the conservatory.
"Hello! Yes, Mr. Henderson," she was saying, apparently absorbed in her telephoning and quite unconscious that Anton was present. "I understand. I'll report to-morrow as usual. What? You don't want me to call up 724 Chelsea? Oh, I see."
As she pretended to listen, the girl held the transmitter so that she could watch her adversary's face in the nickel-plate surface. It was evident that his surprise and alarm were genuine.
"Very well, Mr. Henderson," she concluded. "I will telephone to the house. Good-by, sir." And, hanging up the receiver, she turned innocently toward Anton.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "When did you come?"
He strode toward her with an ugly look. "Who were you telephoning to?"
"No one in particular, a—a friend of mine," she answered with simulated embarrassment.
"A friend named Henderson?" he demanded.
She shook her head. "You've got your wires twisted. I don't know anyone by that name."
"You called up 724 Chelsea. I heard you."
"Well, what of it?"
"You said you were going to report there to-morrow? What do you mean by that?"
Hester looked him steadily in the eyes, then, going close to him, she spoke with a semblance of concentrated anger.
"If you think you can run me off on a side-track like this, little chauffeur boy, let me tell you you've got another guess coming. I want to know where is my part of that money?"
He swore violently. "You know —— —— well where it is."
"What?"
"You took the money, my share and yours."
"So that's your game! That's the kind of a cheap skate you are!" She seemed to tremble with rage. "Remember what I told you. You can't flimflam me. I—I won't stand for it."
Her bosom heaved, her nostrils dilated and her Spanish eyes burned on him so fiercely that the chauffeur hesitated. Was it possible she was on the level? Had someone else taken the money?
"There was nothing in that purse," he said sullenly.
"You mean there is nothing in it," she sneered. "I suppose you'll show it to me—empty? Ha!"
"It is empty and it was empty. You got away with the stuff and I know it."
"How did I get away with it? You wouldn't let me touch the bag or move my hands. I suppose I took it with my feet?"
Anton scowled and was silent. "I don't know how you got it, but——"
Suddenly he caught her arm and drew her sharply to him.
"Leave me alone," she struggled.
He held her in his powerful grip and, with business-like thoroughness, proceeded to press his hands over her garments until he had satisfied himself that the banknotes were not concealed about her person.
"Little devil! You've hidden it somewhere," and he pushed her from him savagely, glaring at her.
"You—you——" she tried to brave him again, but her words failed her. He had hurt her and shamed her with his rough handling, and, frightened now, she sheltered herself in a woman's last defense, she burst into tears. Whereupon, Anton, man-like, began to weaken. After all, he did not know that she had taken the money from the purse. He had followed her quickly and found her telephoning—telephoning to Henderson. That was another queer thing, but, anyway, it always took him three or four minutes to get Henderson, so she wouldn't have had time to hide the money. Besides, how did she get it? He had watched her like a hawk, even while he was kissing her. And it was true the golf bag had been four days at the club house. Many things may happen to a golf bag in four days.
"Say, kid, don't cry," he relented. "I'm sore about the money, but—maybe you didn't take it."
Hester wept on inconsolable.
"Maybe somebody got away with it at the club house," he continued.
"You—you don't believe anything I say," she sobbed.
"Well, you don't believe anything I say, do you? You think I took the stuff myself, don't you?" he retorted.
This seemed to Hester the moment for a more conciliatory attitude and she agreed, still sniffing and dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief, that it was barely possible someone at the club had stolen the money.
"But there's one thing I want to know, girlie, and I want it straight," the chauffeur insisted. "How did you happen to be telephoning Henderson just now?"
Hester dried her tears and smiled faintly. Now she was the victim of her own mystification. What plausible reason could she invent for telephoning to a man about whom she knew absolutely nothing?
"What do you care about Henderson?" she laughed.
"I care a good deal. Come, now!" It was plain that Anton took this telephone incident very seriously.
"Henderson is a—a party I'm working for," she ventured.
"Then you do know someone by that name? You just said you didn't."
She looked at him reproachfully. "I don't have to know him personally to work for him, do I?"
"What kind of work do you do?"
She hesitated, biting her lips, first the lower, then the full upper one, until they were red like cherries, and all the time trying to imagine what kind of work it could be that she was doing for Henderson. If she only had some faint idea who Henderson was! What a fool she had been to get herself into this tangle!
"You know what the work is, boy, or you can come pretty near to guessing," she answered, with a wise dropping of the eyelids.
"You're making reports to Henderson? Is that it? Don't lie. I heard you on the phone."
Hester clutched at this guiding straw. "Well, what of it? When I came to Ippingford I—I didn't know you and—it was a—a chance to pick up some easy money." She was feeling her way, wondering where this glib improvisation would lead her.
"You didn't know me?" he scowled. "What's that got to do with it?"
She leaned forward and patted his hand playfully. "Now don't you be cross, Anton. You know the little fat man with the brown derby hat?"
"No."
"Yes, you do. The one who does business for Henderson, the one who stutters."
"Never saw him."
"You didn't? Well, I saw him. The day after I came here he got hold of me at the lodge and—we had a walk and—he said there was a party named Henderson who wanted to get a line on Baxter's chauffeur—that's you—and—the end of it was I agreed to telephone 724 Chelsea every day."