CHAPTER XXII
"On Monday, the Twenty-ninth of May——"
A slow flush spread over the face of Kate Rutherford, mounting to her snow-white hair. Her eyes never left Peter's.
"On Monday, the twenty-ninth of May, from the Vanderbilt Hotel," she repeated, slowly. "Yes, I did call—I did call her apartment, one day, about that time. Well"—a slight pause—"well, what of it? What of it, Mr. Clancy?"
"Don't you know—why, you must know from yesterday's paper, Mrs. Rutherford, that it was on Sunday, the twenty-eighth, that Mary Blake disappeared."
"And you think"—she studied his face intently—"you think I may know where she's gone?"
"It would seem on the cards, perhaps."
"Well, I don't." She threw out her clenched hands and looked up at him. There was deep concern in her eyes. "I wish to God I did."
Was she acting? Peter thought. And if so, why? Aloud he said:
"How was it that you happened to call her on that particular day, Mrs. Rutherford? And why did you cut off so suddenly when——"
"It was you—it was you who answered the call!" she exclaimed, a little light breaking in upon her. "What have you to do with this affair, Mr. Clancy? Why should I answer your questions? I don't see——"
"You're a friend of Donald Morris's, an old and intimate friend," said Peter, gravely. "You must be affected, deeply affected, I should think, by the sight of his unhappiness."
"Yes," she said at once. "Yes—and I didn't know—I didn't realize completely until this morning. But," she broke off, and cast a keen glance at Peter, "forgive me, Mr. Clancy, but I don't see what concern it can be of yours. I know most of Donald's friends—and I never saw you before."
"Yet I think I can truly say that I am a friend to Donald Morris," said Peter with evident sincerity. "And, aside from that, Mrs. Rutherford, I'm a professional detective. I——"
"Clancy—Peter Clancy," she exclaimed, quickly. "I thought I'd heard that name! Why, you're the man Dick Schuyler told me about, several years ago."
Peter nodded. "Yes, Mrs. Rutherford, and it was Mr. Schuyler who recommended me to Donald Morris. They both trust me, I think I can safely say. Won't you trust me, too, Mrs. Rutherford?"
She looked at him for a long time in silence. Then she said:
"Yes, I think so.... I think, perhaps, I must.... It's a terrible responsibility I have upon me. I didn't realize how serious it was until to-day.... And now, I don't know.... I can't be sure what I ought to do. But let me see. Ask your questions, Mr. Clancy, and I'll see if I can answer them. What is it you want to know?"
"I've already asked one question that you haven't answered, Mrs. Rutherford," Peter said with a little smile. "Perhaps you don't realize that you haven't."
"No," she said, her straight black eyebrows drawn together in a thoughtful frown. "What was the question?"
"I asked you how you happened to call Miss Blake's apartment on the day after she disappeared?"
"Oh, yes. I remember, you did ask me that. Well," she spoke slowly, "it was because of a letter I'd just received from her. It had just come in, and I got it at the hotel desk when I turned in my key. I was so worried about it that I went immediately to a booth and called her up."
"Yes, but what was in the letter?" asked Peter, eagerly. "Did she say where she was going, or why?"
"That was what puzzled, worried me," said Mrs. Rutherford, frowning still more. "It was a—a sort of wild letter. I couldn't understand it. She said she was going away. That she might never come back.... It sounded desperate.... She thanked me for all I had been to her. Asked me to forgive her.... Not that I had anything to forgive. The whole thing was my fault, if there was a fault." She paused, and added, "And that was all, Mr. Clancy. There was nothing else in the letter. I give you my word, that was all."
Disappointment was written large on Peter's face.
Kate Rutherford went on: "I thought that possibly she might not have gone, so I called her apartment at once. I wanted to see her, to dissuade her, if possible. Her career ... it seemed a shame—a terrible waste. I couldn't understand why, when she had reached the height we all crave, she should——And then I found she wasn't there. That there were strangers in the apartment. I couldn't imagine why. I was frightened, and rang off. I knew it would be no use to go down there. She had said definitely, in her letter, that she was going away at once. It was only on a bare chance that I called up——"
"I—see," said Peter, slowly. He thought in silence for a moment. Then he dropped down upon the rock, bringing his face on a level with the clever, mobile face of old "Kate Rohan."
"You said, a few minutes ago—" he hesitated—"I think you admitted, Mrs. Rutherford, that you felt concerned for Donald Morris."
"Yes," she said, quickly. "I had no idea, until I read that article in the paper last night—and saw Donald this morning—I knew, of course, that he was interested in Mary Blake. He made no secret of it. But Don has had a great many women friends, and he had the artist's enthusiastic way of speaking of them—I didn't realize that this was really serious."
"But you do realize it now?"
"Yes," she replied, sadly. "Yes. I think there can be no doubt. The poor boy——"
"Mrs. Rutherford," Peter said, leaning forward and watching her face, "do you know of a reason why Donald Morris should not marry Miss Blake?"
There was a long silence. The majestic old lady leaned slightly forward, her tightly clasped hands resting on her ample knees. Her white head was bent, her eyes fixed on the ground. After what seemed to Peter a long time, she said:
"I—I think she would have—must have felt—that there was a reason."
"And do you feel that it was a reason, Mrs. Rutherford? A sufficient reason?"
"I"—she raised her head, and threw out her hands in an expressive gesture—"I don't know. I don't know how I would have felt, Mr. Clancy. Knowing Donald as I do—no, I don't know how I would have felt," she repeated, disconsolately.
"Will you tell me the reason, Mrs. Rutherford?" said Peter, with deep seriousness in his tone. "I know a good deal. But I need to know more. I can't form a definite plan until I'm sure. I've made some guesses—just to-day and yesterday—that have sent me off on a new tack. If what I've suddenly come to believe turns out to be true, I think there's a chance, possibly a remote chance, of finding—of finding Miss Blake."
"You think—you think there is?" There was an eager light in the expressive old eyes.
"I think there may be," said Peter, evasively. "But I can do nothing without your help, Mrs. Rutherford. That's my trouble. I must know the whole story, as I am sure that you, and you only, can tell it. All I am certain of, at the present time, is that Rosamond and Anne Curwood (whom I first heard of as Mary and Anne Blake) were the twin daughters of a man called Winthrop Curwood, who lived somewhere up in the mountains, between here and Hobart Falls."
"Winthrop Curwood! You know, then, of Winthrop Curwood?" exclaimed Mrs. Rutherford, sitting up straight, and looking at Peter in surprise.
"I know that he was the father, and that he was blind," said Peter.
"Yes, blind," sighed Mrs. Rutherford. "Poor Win!"
"You knew him, then?" said Peter, quick to note the familiar use of the name.
"Oh, yes. I knew Win Curwood well. Very well, indeed," said Mrs. Rutherford, sadly. "You're too young to remember, but he was leading man at the Athenæum and I played opposite to him for two seasons."
"Ah, I—see," said Peter. "An actor. That explains—but go on, Mrs. Rutherford. Tell me about him. How he came to be here, in this out-of-the-way part of the country—who he was—everything. He was an Englishman, wasn't he?"
"Yes, and well known in England. Arthur Quinn saw him play in London and made him a big offer to come over here. He joined the company while it was still at its best, and he was a great addition. A wonderful actor, and handsome almost beyond belief. He was younger than I by a number of years but we soon became great friends. I was jealous of him, of course," with raised eyebrows and a whimsical smile, "but not so much as I might have been, perhaps. He was very generous and tactful, and after all, at that time, I didn't have much need to fear a rival in popularity." There was an expression in the great, dark eyes, half sad, half amused at the recollection.
"He was with us only two seasons," she continued. "I remember it was in the middle of the second winter that I began to notice that he wasn't quite himself. He hadn't quite the same certainty of movement, and once, during performance, when he stumbled against a low table and overturned it, I felt sure that he had been drinking. I said nothing at the time, but afterward I spoke to him—and he told me. He was going blind! Think of it, Mr. Clancy. Going blind, with no hope!... I don't think he confided in any one but me until the very end. He managed to get through the season—it would have left Arthur Quinn and the company in an awful hole if he hadn't, and with my help—I played up to him and helped him as well as I was able—he saw it through.... And then, simply disappeared. He did tell Arthur Quinn (the manager, you know) why he would not be able to play again.... And that was the last any of us ever saw, and the last for a great many years that I ever heard, of Winthrop Curwood."
The deep tones ceased, and Peter saw that there was a mist in the fine old eyes. After a moment he said, gently:
"And then, after many years, you met Anne Curwood."
She roused herself at that and looked at Peter.
"Yes," she said, slowly. "I don't know how you found that out—but it doesn't matter. Yes, I saw Anne Curwood, and curiously enough, too, it was at Helena Atterbury's house that I saw her first."
Peter started in surprise. "At Mrs. Atterbury's house!" he exclaimed. "Why, then, Morris must have seen her—must have seen Anne Blake!"
Mrs. Rutherford shook her head. "I don't know whether he ever saw her, or if he did, whether he noticed her or would have given her a thought if he had. She was doing menial work—Win Curwood's daughter: I can hardly bear to think of it.... And, too, she was painfully shy and self-conscious."
"On account of that birthmark," Peter interjected.
Mrs. Rutherford gave him a quick look, but went on at once, as if he had not spoken—"You see, she appeared to be only a servant, after all. She came in to do cleaning by the day. There was a great scarcity of help here that year and we all had to manage as well as we could. That was how I came to speak with her. I was telling Helena about a lot of trouble I was having with the servants, and she said she thought I might be able to get Anne Curwood for at least one day a week. At the moment I thought nothing of the name, but when I saw her and heard her speak—well, I became interested and engaged her at once for two days a week. After a time, when she became used to me and my ways, I asked her, point blank, about her father—and established, to my own satisfaction, that she was, really, the daughter of my old friend, Win Curwood."
"Did she tell you, at that time, about her sister, Rosamond?" asked Peter.
"No, it was later, much later, that I learned about the sister," she answered, quietly.
"You found her after you'd taken Anne to New York as your companion?"
Mrs. Rutherford slowly turned her head, and looked long into Peter's eyes. Then Peter did a curious thing. They were all alone, in the deep solitude of the leafy woods. There was no one, apparently, within miles of them, certainly no one within earshot, but Peter leaned forward, and with his keen eyes fixed on Kate Rutherford's face, he whispered, just above his breath, one sentence—only one—but the effect was electrical.
She started forward and grasped his arm with clutching fingers. Her face was white.
"How—how did you guess?" she asked, breathlessly.