Читать книгу The Sixty-First Second - Owen Johnson - Страница 4

DEAR LADY,

Apologies for my rudeness. If you won't accept a gift, at least wear the ring for a week. I should like to know what effect it could have on your cold little soul. Oblige my curiosity. It's only a little reparation for the disappointment I gave you. J.G.S.

"Decidedly, he is cleverer than I thought," she said musingly. In the box was the great ruby ring. She took it up, examined it carefully, made a motion as though to replace it in the box, and then suddenly slipped it on her finger.

CHAPTER II

Mrs. Kildair knew pretty nearly every one in that indescribable society in New York which is drawn from all levels, without classification, and imposes but one condition for membership—to be amusing. Her home, in fact, supplied that need of all limited and contending superimposed sets, a central meeting-ground where one entered under the protection of a flag of truce and departed without obligation. She knew every one, and no one knew her. No one knew beyond the vaguest rumors her history or her resources. No one had ever met a Mr. Kildair. There was always about her a certain defensive reserve the moment the limit of acquaintanceship had been touched. Mrs. Enos Bloodgood, who saw her most and gave her the fullest confidence, knew no more than that she had arrived from Paris five years before, with letters of introduction from the best quarters. Her invitations were eagerly sought by leaders of fashionable society, prima donnas, artists, visiting European aristocrats, and men of the moment. Her dinners were spontaneous, and the discussions, though gay and usually daring, were invariably under the control of wit and good taste.

As soon as Slade's present had been received she passed into the dining-room to assure herself that everything was in readiness for the informal chafing-dish supper to which she had invited some of her most congenial friends, all of whom, as much as could be said of any one, were habitués of the studio. Then, entering her Louis Quinze bedroom, which exhaled a pleasant stirring atmosphere of perfume, she slipped off her filmy purple tea-gown and chose an evening robe of absolute black, of warm velvet, unrelieved by any color, but which gave to her shoulders and arms that softness and brilliancy which no color can impart.

Several times she halted, and, seating herself at her dressing-table, fell into a fascinated contemplation of the great ruby that trembled luminously on her finger like a bubble of scarlet blood. When, in the act of deftly ordering the masses of her dark ruddy hair, her white fingers lost themselves among the tresses, she stopped more than once, entranced at the brilliancy of the stone against the white flesh and the sudden depths of her hair.

She rose and began to move about the room; but her hand from time to time continued its coquetries above her forehead, as though the ring had suddenly added to her feminine treasury a new instinctive gesture.

At half-past seven, having finished dressing, she opened the doors which made a thoroughfare between the studio and the small dining-room, and passed into the larger room, where, at one end, Kiki had brought forth three Sheraton tables, joined them, and set them with crystal and silver.

"Put in order my bedroom," she said, with an approving nod, "and then you can go."

She moved about the studio, studying the arrangements of the furniture, seeing always from the tail of her eye the scarlet spot on her finger.

"I wonder what it's worth," she said softly. "Ten, fifteen thousand at the least." She held the ring from her, gazed at it dreamily. "I wonder what woman's eye has looked upon you, you wonderful gem," she whispered; and, as though transported with the vision of the past, she drew it slowly toward her and pressed her lips against it.

At this moment a buzz sounded from the hall, and she recovered herself hastily and, a little ashamed, said with a feeling of alarm as she went to the door:

"Slade is entirely too clever; I must send it back tomorrow morning."

Before she could reach the door it had opened, and there entered, with the informality of assured acquaintance, a young man of twenty-five or -six, smiling, boyish, delighted at having stolen a march on the other guests.

"You are early," said Mrs. Kildair, smiling with instinctive reflection of the roguish enjoyment that shone on his handsome, confident face.

"Heavens, haven't I been beating the pavements for fourteen minutes by the watch!" he said, laughing. "Regular kid trick." He took her hand, carrying it to his lips. "The way they do in France, you know."

"You're a nice boy, Teddy," she said, patting his hand. "Now, hang up your coat, and help me with the candles."

She watched him as he slipped his overcoat from the trim wide shoulders, revealing all at once the clean-cut, well-tailored figure, full of elasticity and youth. Teddy Beecher always gave her a sense of well-being and pleasant content, with his harum-scarum ways and inviting impudence. As he roused no intellectual resistance in her, she was all the more sensitive to the purely physical charm in him, which she appreciated as she might appreciate the finely strung body and well-modulated limbs of a Perseus by Benvenuto Cellini.

"Will I help you? Command me," he said, coming in eagerly. "Don't you know, there's a little silver collar about my neck, and the inscription is, 'This dog belongs to Rita Kildair.' Jove, Rita, but you're stunning tonight!"

He stood stock-still in frank amazement. He had known her but a short while, and yet he called her by her first name—a liberty seldom accorded; but the charm he unconsciously exerted over women, and which impatiently mystified other men, was in the very audacity of his enjoyment of life, which imparted to women the precious sense of their own youth.

"Really?" she said, raising her hand to her hair, that he might notice the glorious ruby.

"Look here—I've only got a miserable thirty thousand a year, but I've got a couple of uncles with liver trouble and a bum heart. Say the word—I'm yours."

While he said it with a mock-heroic air, there was in his eyes a flash of excited admiration that she understood and was well pleased with.

"Come, Teddy," she said, a little disappointed that he did not perceive the ring. "To work. Take this taper."

He took the wax, contriving to touch her fingers with feigned artlessness.

"I say, Rita, who's the mob here tonight? Do I know any one? I get the place next to you, of course?"

"Begin over there," she directed. "The Enos Bloodgoods are coming; you've met her here."

"I thought they were separated, or something."

"Not yet."

"By George, Rita, there's no one like you—serving us up a couple on the verge."

"That is not all—I like situations," she said, with her slow smile.

"I like Elise; but as for the old boy, he can slip on a banana peel and break his neck, for all I care.

"Then there's a broker, Garraboy, Elise's brother."

"Don't know him."

"Maud Lille, who's written clever books—a journalist."

"Don't know her—hate clever women."

"Nan Charters—"

"Who?" said Beecher, with upraised wick.

"Nan Charters, who played in 'Monsieur Beaucaire.'"

"Bully!"

She smiled at his impetuousness, and continued:

"Mr. Majendie and the Stanley Cheevers."

"Oh, I say—not those—"

"Well?" she said as he stopped.

"You know the gambling story," he said reluctantly.

"Club gossip."

"Of course," he said, correcting himself. "One of my friends was present. The Cheevers play a good game, a well-united game, and have an unusual system of makes. They are very successful—let it go at that. You don't mean to say that Majendie'll be here?"

"I expect him."

"He was a friend of the dad's—a corker, too. I don't know much about those things, but isn't he supposed to be up against it?"

Three knocks in close succession sounded on the outer door, and Garraboy entered with an air of familiarity that was displeasing to the younger man. The two saluted impertinently, with polite antagonism, detesting each other from the first look.

"Go on with the candles, Teddy," said Mrs. Kildair, signaling to the newcomer, a young man of forty who seemed to have been born bald, wrinkled, and heavy-eyed. The long, bald head on the thin, straight little body, and the elongated white collar, gave him somewhat the look of an interrogation-mark. He was heavily perfumed.

"What's the news of the market?" she asked.

"Another odd turn—went up a couple of points," he said, looking at her hand. Unlike Beecher, he had instantly noted the new acquisition with a malicious smile. His thumb gave a little jerk and he added softly: "Something new?"

"Yes. Why should the market go up?" she said, seeming to be intent only on the effect of the bracketed candles, that now licked the tapestried walls with their restless tongues.

"There's a general belief that a group of the big fellows will stand behind the trust companies in return for certain concessions. I say," he continued, watching the ruby ring, which instinctively she tried to conceal from him, "I hope Elise isn't going to make a fool of herself about Majendie."

"Teddy, Teddy, you've forgotten the two over the plaque!" she said aloud—and, a little lower: "She won't; don't fear."

"I know her better," he said, without, however, betraying the slightest brotherly agitation. "She is apt to do something crazy if anything went wrong with Majendie. Bloodgood's a hard-skinned old brute, but if there was anything public he'd cut up ugly."

"I hear he's in the market."

"Yes—on the short side, too—in deep."

"And you?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I thought we never told secrets, Mrs. Kildair. Who else is coming? Am I representing the element of respectability again tonight?"

"The what?" She looked at him steadily until he turned away nervously, with the unease of an animal. "Don't be an ass with me, my dear Garraboy."

"By George," he said irritably, "if this were Europe I'd wager you were in the Secret Service, Mrs. Kildair."

"Thank you," she said, smiling appreciatively, and returned toward young Beecher, who was waiting by the piano with ill-concealed resentment.

The Stanley Cheevers entered—a short, chubby man with a bleached, vacant face tufted with mustache and imperial, devoid of eyebrows, with watery eyes that moved slowly with the motion of his gourd-like head; Mrs. Cheever, voluble, nervous, over-dressed, young with the youth of a child and pretty with the prettiness of a doll.

Beecher, who knew them, bowed with a sense of curiosity to Mrs. Cheever, who held him a little with a certain trick she had of opening wide her dark, Oriental eyes; and dropped, with a sense of physical discomfort, the hand that Cheever flabbily pressed into his.

"Decidedly, I am going to have a grand little time by myself," he said moodily. "Where the deuce does Rita pick up this bunch?"

The Enos Bloodgoods were still agitated as they entered. His lips had not quite banished the scowl, nor her eyes the scorn.

"Permit me, my dear," he said, taking off her wrap, and the words struck those who heard them with a sudden chill.

He was of the unrelenting type that never loses its temper, but causes others to lose theirs, immovable in his opinions, with a prowling walk, a studied antagonism in his manner, while in his bulgy eyes was an impudent stare which fastened itself like a leech on the person addressed, to draw out his weakness.

Elise Bloodgood, who seemed tied to her husband by an invisible leash, had a hunted, resisting quality back of a certain desperate dash which she assumed, rather than felt, in her attitude toward society—just as she touched with red, cheeks that were meant to be simply the background of eyes that were extraordinary, with a lurking sense of tragedy.

"Rita, dear, I am almost frantic tonight," she said hastily, in one of those intimate moments of which women avail themselves in the midst of their enemies.

"The last rumors are good," said Mrs. Kildair, bending over her ostensibly to arrange her scarf.

"Who told you?"

"Your brother. Every one downtown believes the panic is stopped. The market has gone up. Gunther and Snelling are Bernard's personal friends."

"Friends?" she said bitterly. "Yes, that's just the trouble."

"Besides, he is coming tonight—you knew?"

"Yes, I knew," said Mrs. Bloodgood, with a glance at her husband, who, at the other side of the studio, seemed intent only on examining a reliquary in carved stone.

"Then he will tell you himself," said Mrs. Kildair, rearranging a little ornament that made a splash of gold on the black hair of her companion. "Be careful—-don't talk too much now."

"What do I care?" she said rebelliously. "It has got to end sometime."

She passed her husband, her dark shoulder flinching unconsciously at his near presence, and gave her hand to Stanley Cheever and young Beecher, who, though utterly unconscious of the entanglements of the evening, was struck by the moody sadness in her eyes that so strangely contradicted the laugh that was on her lips. But as he was wondering, a little constrained, how best to open the conversation, the door opened once more and two women entered—Nan Charters, who arrived like a little white cloud, vibrantly alert and pleased at the stir her arrival occasioned, and Maud Lille, who appeared behind her as a shadow, very straight, very dark, Indian in her gliding movements, with masses of somber hair held in a little too loosely for neatness.

"Oh, dear, am I dreadfully late?" said Nan Charters, who swept into the studio the better to display her opera-cloak, a gorgeous combination of white and gold Japanese embroideries, which, mounting above her throat in conjunction with a scarf of mingling pinks, revealed only the tip of her vivacious nose and sparkling eyes.

"You are strangely early," said Mrs. Kildair, who presented Beecher with a gesture which at the same time directed him to attend to the wraps.

"Thank you," said Miss Charters, with a quick smile, and by an imperceptible motion she allowed the cloak to slip from her shoulders and glide into the waiting hands, revealing herself in a white satin shot with pigeon red, which caused the eyes of all the women present to focus suddenly. Garraboy, Cheever, and Bloodgood, who knew her, came up eagerly.

Teddy Beecher, his arms crowded with the elusive garment, which gave him almost the feeling of a human body, bore it to the hall and arranged it with care, pleasantly aware of the perfume it exhaled. He returned eagerly, conscious of the instantaneous impression her smile had made on him as she turned to thank him, a look that had challenged and aroused him. She was still chatting gaily, surrounded by the three men, and he was forced to occupy himself with Mrs. Bloodgood. His eyes, however, remained on the young girl, who was listening with unaffected pleasure to the compliments of her male audience. Something in the chivalry of the younger man revolted at the spectacle of the sophisticated Garraboy and the worldly appetites in the eyes of Cheever and Bloodgood. He felt almost an uneasy sense of her peril, which was in effect an instinctive emotion of jealousy, and, profiting by the moment in which Mrs. Bloodgood turned to Miss Lille, he slipped to Miss Charters' side and contrived to isolate her.

The studio was now filled with chatter. Mrs. Kildair passed from group to group, animating it with a word or two. With the exception of Teddy Beecher and Nan Charters, in the several groups there was but one question—the events of the day in the financial world and the probable outcome of the secret conference at Gunther's.

Every one watched the clock, awaiting the last arrival with an impatience that was too truly founded on the safety of their personal fortunes to be concealed.

"The conference ended at six-thirty," said Maud Lille to Bloodgood and Cheever; "Majendie left for his house immediately after. I had it from the city editor on the telephone."

"Was any statement given out?" said Cheever, who put one finger to his lip, as he did when a little nervous.

"None."

"If he goes under, it means the bottom out of the market," said Cheever, fixing his owlish stare on Bloodgood's smug face.

"Are you long?" asked Bloodgood, turning on him with curiosity.

"A thousand shares," answered Cheever, but in a tone that carried no conviction.

"He won't come," said Maud Lille obstinately.

"If he does," said Cheever slowly, "he's pulled through and the market ought to go up." And a second time his finger jerked up to his lips, with the gesture of the stutterer.

"He won't come," repeated Maud Lille.

Bloodgood gave her a short look, trying to fathom the reason of her belief, a question he did not care to put before Cheever.

At this moment Majendie appeared at the entrance of the studio. The conversation, which had been mounting in nervous staccatos, fell with the hollowness that one sometimes feels in the air before the first crash of a storm. By an uncontrollable impulse, each turned, eager to read in the first indication some clue to his personal fate.

The last arrival had opened the outer door unheard, and, profiting by the commotion, had removed his overcoat and hat in the anteroom.

When the rest of the party perceived him, Majendie was standing erect and smiling under the Turkish lamp that, hanging from the balcony, cast a mellow light on his genial, aristocratic forehead. In every detail, from the ruddy, delicately veined cheeks and white mustache to the slight, finely shaped figure at ease in the evening coat that fitted him as a woman's ball gown, he radiated the patrician, but the patrician of urbanity, tact, and generous impulses.

"My dear hostess," he said at once, bending over Mrs. Kildair's hand with a little extra formality, "a thousand excuses for keeping you and your guests waiting. But just at present there are quite a number of persons who seem to be determined to keep me from my engagements. Am I forgiven?"

"Yes," she answered, with a sudden feeling of admiration for the air of absolute good humor with which he pronounced these words, mystifying though they were to her sense of divination.

"I think I know every one," he said, glancing around without a trace of emotion at Bloodgood and Cheever, whose presence could not have failed to be distasteful. "You are very good to be so lenient, and I will accept whatever penance you impose. Are we going to have one of those delightful chafing-dish suppers that only you know how to provide?"

"What pride!" she murmured to herself, as he passed over to Miss Charters with a compliment that made her and Beecher break out laughing.

Up to the moment, the group had found not the slightest indication of the probable outcome of the afternoon's conference. If anything, there was in his carriage a quiet exhilaration. But the moment was approaching when he must come face to face with Mrs. Bloodgood, who, either in order to gain time for the self-control that seemed almost beyond her, or that she might draw him into more immediate converse, had withdrawn so as to be the last he should greet. Majendie perceived instantly the imprudence of the maneuver, and by a word addressed to Mrs. Kildair, who followed at his side, contrived to bring himself to the farther side of the group, of which little Mrs. Cheever and Garraboy were the other two.

"I make my excuses to the ladies first," he said, with a nod to Garraboy, whom he thus was enabled to pass. He offered his hand to Mrs. Bloodgood, saying: "Grant me absolution, and I promise to do everything I can to make you as gay as I feel now."

Elise Bloodgood took his hand, glancing into his face with a startled glance, and immediately withdrew, murmuring something inaudible.

Mrs. Kildair, who with everyone had been listening to his words for the double meaning that seemed to be conveyed, stepped in front of Mrs. Bloodgood to cover her too evident agitation.

"Elise," she said sharply, pressing her hand, "get hold of yourself. You must! Everything is all right. Didn't you understand him?"

"Ah, if he were going to die tomorrow he would never tell me," said Mrs. Bloodgood, pressing her handkerchief against her lips. "Nothing will ever break through his pride."

"But he told you in so many words," said Mrs. Kildair—who, however, didn't believe what she said.

"He told me nothing—nothing!"

"You must control yourself," said Mrs. Kildair, alarmed at her emotion.

"What do I care?"

"But you must! Listen. When I go into the dining-room don't follow me. I will contrive to take your husband with me. Profit by the chance. Besides, you are in no state to judge. Does Bernard look like a man who has just been told he is ruined? Come, a little courage."

She left her and, stepping into her bedroom, donned a Watteau-like cooking-apron, and, slipping her rings from her fingers, fixed the three on her pin-cushion with a hatpin. From the mirror in which she surveyed herself she could see the interior of the studio—Nan Charters' laughing face above the piano, where she was running off a succession of topical songs, surrounded by a chorus of men, while Beecher, at her side, solicitously turned the pages.

"Teddy seems quite taken," she thought. But the tensity of the drama drove from her all other considerations. Completely mystified by Majendie's manner, she was studying the moment when she could throw him together with Elise Bloodgood, convinced that from the woman she would learn what the man concealed.

"Your rings are beautiful, dear, beautiful," said the deep voice of Maud Lille, who, with Garraboy and Mrs. Cheever, was in the room.

"I never saw the ruby before," said Mrs. Cheever in a nervous voice. "My dear, you are the most mysterious woman in the world. Think of having a ring like that, and never wearing it!"

"It is a wonderful stone," said Mrs. Kildair, touching with her thin fingers the ring that lay uppermost.

"It is beautiful—very beautiful," said the journalist, her eyes fastened on it with an uncontrollable fascination.

Mrs. Cheever, her lips parted, her black eyes wide with eagerness, leaned over. She put out her fingers and let them rest caressingly on the ruby, withdrawing them as though the contact had burned them, while on either cheek little spots of red excitement showed.

"It must be very valuable," she said, her breath catching slightly.

Garraboy, moving forward, suddenly looked at the ring.

"Yes, it is valuable—very much so," said Mrs. Kildair, glancing down. Then she went to the door that led into the studio, and clapped her hands:

"Attention, everybody! Beecher and Garraboy are the chefs. Each one must choose his scullery-maid. Mr. Majendie is to make the punch. Everyone else is butler and waitress. Mrs. Cheever, did you ever peel onions?"

"Good heavens, no!" said Mrs. Cheever, delicately recoiling.

"Well, there are no onions to peel," said Mrs. Kildair, laughing. "All you have to do is to carry dishes or make the toast—on to the kitchen!"

"Miss Charters, you are engaged at any salary you may name," said Beecher, forestalling Garraboy, who was coming forward.

"But I shall drop every dish," said Nan Charters, rising from the piano. "I don't know anything about cooking."

"Splendid! Then you'll make no mistakes."

He installed her at one end of the table, and went off for the chafing-dish. When he returned, gingerly balancing it on a silver platter, Garraboy, profiting by his absence, was seated beside Nan Charters, speaking in a purposely low voice. She was listening, perfectly composed, looking straight before her with a tolerant, uninterested smile.

If women often can conceal their true natures from women, men seldom deceive one another. There was a fixity in Garraboy's glance which Beecher understood and hotly resented. But at the moment when, setting the tray on the table, he was meditating some ill-advised remark, Mrs. Cheever, passing by, said with ill-concealed impatience in her thin, hurried voice:

"Mr. Garraboy, I am sorry for you, but I have been assigned as your assistant, and I should like to know what I am to do."

Garraboy rose immediately, bowed with perfect suavity, and rejoined Mrs. Cheever, who said to him something that the others did not hear, but at which they saw him shrug his shoulders.

"Well, what are we going to make?" said Nan Charters, with the enjoyment that this exhibition of feminine jealousy had brought still in her eyes.

"I don't like Garraboy," said Beecher directly.

"Why not?" she said, smiling a little, and raising her eyebrows as though interrogating a child.

"Because I like you," he answered abruptly.

Accustomed to contend with men, she was surprised by the genuineness of his remark, which was inspired by a sentiment deeper than jealousy. She looked at him again with that sudden second estimate which is vital.

"He is not difficult to handle," she said carelessly, unaware of the touch of intimacy which her reply permitted.

"I don't like him," he said obstinately, "and I don't like his crowd—the crowd that is here to-night. They're like a pack of wolves. What the deuce does Rita see in them?"

"Mrs. Kildair has generally, I should say, a very good reason for whom she invites," she said carelessly.

"But these Cheevers—they're impossible. How the deuce do they live?"

"I thought Mr. Majendie very charming."

"Oh, Majendie—yes, I except him," he said enthusiastically. "He's a gentleman."

"That counts a good deal with you?" she said, with a touch of raillery.

"It does. I think a gentleman is almost the rarest thing you meet with today," he said, holding his ground, "a gentleman in the heart. I know only four or five."

"Yes, you are right," she said, changing her tone. She looked at him a third time, at the honest, boyish loyalty so plainly written on his face, and said: "You haven't gone out much here?"

"No; I'm just back from knocking around the world, hunting in Africa and all that sort of uselessness."

"Come and tell me about it sometime.

"May I?"

She laughed at his impetuousness, and pointed to the contents of the chafing-dish, which had been simmering neglected; but more than once during the operation her glance returned to the eager, earnest face.

Meanwhile, Garraboy, at the other end of the table, assisted by Mrs. Cheever and Maud Lille, was busy with a lobster à la Newburg. Mrs. Kildair, having finished in the kitchen, had entered the dining-room, where she established a sort of provisional serving-table. She called to her side Cheever and Bloodgood, and, under the pretext of arranging the dishes from the china-closet, kept them isolated. At this moment Elise Bloodgood approached Majendie, who, at the rear end of the studio, was occupied with the brewing of a punch. Natural as was the movement, it was instantly perceived by the four or five persons vitally interested. A moment afterward Mrs. Bloodgood passed into the bedroom; but there was in her carriage a triumph that she did not care to conceal.

"He's won out," thought Bloodgood.

"The shorts will be caught," thought Cheever. "The devil! I must cover."

"Has he lied to her?" said Mrs. Kildair to herself. "If everything is all right, why should he conceal it from any one?"

She went across the room, stopping at the punch-table.

"Have you everything you need?" she asked.

"Everything, thank you," Majendie answered gently; but there was in his voice a tired note, as if some effort had suddenly exhausted him.

"I understood what you meant," she said, looking at him not without a little pity—an emotion which was rare with her. "Let me congratulate you on the result of this afternoon."

"Thank you very much for your congratulations," he said quietly, taking her hand. "If you knew, you will understand why I was kept so late."

As he bowed, the front of his jacket opening a little, she saw or fancied she saw in the inner pocket a strip of green, slightly protruding. She left him, still unconvinced, and turned to the company.

"Everything ready, Teddy? All right. Every one sit down. Mrs. Cheever and Mrs. Bloodgood are appointed butlers—because real work will do them good. Sit down, sit down. I'll be back in a minute."

As she turned to her bedroom, there came a strong ring, twice repeated. She paused, astonished.

"Who can that be?" she thought, frowning, and directing her steps toward the antechamber. "No one is allowed to come up. It must be a telegram."

She opened the door, and Slade entered.

"I came right up," he said directly, "because I had no success on the telephone. You rather excited my curiosity this afternoon. Please invite me to your party."

The first moment of irritation was succeeded, on her part, by the feeling of elation. The impulse that had brought Slade so unexpectedly there was a feeling of jealousy, in which Beecher and Majendie were confusedly mixed.

"He wishes to watch me with his own eyes," she said triumphantly. "Very well; he shall be well punished."

Slade's arrival produced a moment of profound astonishment. Bloodgood and Maud Lille exchanged quick glances, believing the meeting between Majendie and Slade had been premeditated. Garraboy plucked Cheever nervously by the sleeve, while Majendie, as if realizing that he was dealing with an antagonist of a different caliber, rose with a little nervous inflation of the chest. Rapid as had been the interim in the antechamber, Mrs. Kildair had had time to say:

"Majendie is here. Do you know what happened this afternoon?"

"I do," said Slade, with malicious enjoyment, and he added: "Do you?"

"Yes," she replied, convinced, likewise, of the falsity of his statement. Then aloud she added: "Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Slade, an impromptu guest."

She passed with him about the table, introducing him where it was necessary. Slade and Majendie did not offer hands; each bowed with a quiet, measured politeness. On the contrary, when Beecher was reached, the older man grasped the hand of the younger, and held it a moment with a grip that, despite Beecher's own strength, made him wince.

"Teddy, be a good boy and place Mr. Slade somewhere," she said, resting her hand purposely on the young man's shoulder. "I'll take off my apron and be back immediately."

She stopped near Majendie, who had returned to the punch-table for an extra glass, and, seeing that her movements were followed by Slade, said:

"Bernard, believe me, I did not plan it. I had no idea he was coming."

"It makes not the slightest difference," he said instantly. "Mr. Slade and I have no quarrel. Please don't worry about me."

"You're an awfully good sort," she said abruptly.

"That is high praise from you," he said, with a little critical smile which showed he was not entirely the dupe of her maneuvers.

She went into her bedroom, and, divesting herself of her apron, hung it in the closet. Then, going to her dressing-table, she drew the hatpin from the pin-cushion and carelessly slipped the rings on her fingers. All at once she frowned and looked quickly at her hand. Only two rings were there. The third one—the ring with the ruby—was gone!

CHAPTER III

Her first emotion was of irritation.

"How stupid!" she said to herself, and, returning to her dressing-table, began to search among the silver and ivory boxes. All at once she stopped. She remembered with a vivid flash putting the pin through the three rings.

She made no further search, but remained without moving, her fingers slowly tapping the table, her head inclined, her lips drawn in a little between her teeth, watching in the glass the crowded table reflected from the outer studio.

In that gay party, one person was the thief—but which one? Each guest had had a dozen opportunities in the course of the time she had been in the kitchen.

"Too much prinking, pretty lady," called out Garraboy, who, from where he was seated, could see her.

"Not he," she said quickly. Then she reconsidered: "Why not? He's shifty—who knows? Let me think."

To gain time, she went slowly back to the kitchen, her head bowed, her thumb between her teeth.

"Who has taken it?"

She ran over the characters of her guests and their situations as she knew them. Strangely enough, with the exception of Beecher and Majendie, at each her mind stopped upon some reason that might explain a sudden temptation.

"And even Majendie—if he is bankrupt or running away," she thought. "No, I shall find out nothing this way. That is not the important thing just now. The important thing is to get the ring back. But how?"

All at once she realized the full disaster of the situation. Slade would never believe her; and yet, how was it possible to admit before others who had lent her the ring?

"What could I say to him?" she thought desperately. "No, no; I must have the ring back, whatever happens. I won't give him that hold. I must get it back—some way—somehow."

And mechanically, deliberately, she continued to pace back and forth, her clenched hand beating the deliberate, rhythmic measure of her journey.

In the studio, meanwhile, under the gay leadership of Majendie and Nan Charters, the spirits of the company began to rise. The rival chefs were surrounded by anxious admirers, who shouted laughing instructions or protested with mock agony against the shower of red pepper.

The ceremony had served to bring Beecher and Nan Charters on terms of sympathetic familiarity. The young actress had the secret of what is meant by that much abused word—charm. Her vivacious movements were all charming. The eagerness with which her eyes seized the excitement of the moment, the soft and yet animated tones of her voice, the most casual gesture she made, or the most evident reply, all seemed invested with a peculiar charm which was at the same time a delight in pleasure and a happiness in the consciousness of pleasing.

Beecher did not or could not conceal the empire she had so suddenly acquired over his imagination, while Nan Charters, quite aware of what was happening, laughingly provoked him further, a little excited beyond the emotions of an ordinary flirtation.

During the progress of this personal duel, which, however, every one perceived with different emotions, Slade, placed at the middle of the table, followed only the expressions of Bernard Majendie, his scrutiny at times becoming so insistently profound that the banker several times noticed it with a swift glance of annoyed interrogation, which, however, did not alter in the least the fixity of the other's gaze.

Meanwhile, two or three conversations, expressed in snatched phrases, took place between those whose interests in the stock market were put in jeopardy by the mystery as to Majendie's fate.

"There'll be a rush of the shorts to cover tomorrow, if this is true," said Cheever in a low whisper to his wife. "Pump Mrs. Bloodgood all you can."

"How quick do you suppose they'll give the news out?" said Bloodgood to Garraboy. "It means a buying movement as soon as they do."

"Any paper may have the news tomorrow," said the broker, and the glass that he took from the punch-table shook as he raised it.

"Do you think Slade knows?"

"I'm not sure—but I think he does," said Garraboy carefully. "Better meet me at the Waldorf at eleven. I'll get another line on it by then."

"Why the deuce should he pull through?" said Bloodgood, with a quick, dull fury.

Garraboy, with his malicious smile, perceiving that Bloodgood's hatred was purely financial, chuckled to himself, took a couple of glasses in rapid succession, and returned to the table under perfect control, not without a scowl at the other end of the table, where Nan Charters and young Beecher were laughingly disputing the possession of the pepper-shaker.

A moment later, as Mrs. Cheever was exclaiming at their hostess' prolonged delay to Garraboy, who was dipping into the lobster à la Newburg, which he was preparing to serve, Mrs. Kildair slipped into the room like a lengthening shadow. Her entrance had been made with scarcely a perceptible sound, and yet each guest was aware of it, at the same moment, with the same uncontrollable nervous start.

"Heavens, dear lady," exclaimed Garraboy, with a twitch of his arms. "You come in on us like a Greek tragedy. What is the surprise?"

As he spoke, Beecher, looking up, saw her turn suddenly on him, drawing her forehead together until the eyebrows ran in a straight line.

"I have something to say to you all," she said in a quiet, discordant voice, while her eyes ran restlessly through the company with a predatory sharpness.

There was no mistaking the gravity in her voice. Garraboy extinguished the oil-lamp, covering the chafing-dish clumsily with a disagreeable tinny sound; Mrs. Cheever and Mrs. Bloodgood swung about abruptly; Maud Lille rose a little from her seat; Nan Charters, dramatically sensitive, seized unconsciously the arm of young Beecher; while the men, with the exception of Slade, who still watched Majendie like a terrier, imitated their movements of expectancy with a clumsy shuffling of the feet.

"Mr. Bloodgood."

"Yes, Mrs. Kildair?"

"Kindly do as I ask."

"Certainly."

She had spoken his name with a peremptory positiveness that was almost an accusation. He rose, placing his napkin carefully at the side of his plate, raising his short eyebrows a little in surprise.

"Go to the vestibule," she continued, immediately shifting her glance from him to the others. "Are you there? Shut the sliding doors that lead into the studio. Lock them. Bring me the key."

He executed the order without bungling, while the company, in growing amazement, fascinated, watched his squat figure returning with the key.

"You've locked it?" she said, making the question an excuse to bury her glance in his.

"As you wished me to."

"Thanks."

She took from him the key, and, shifting slightly, likewise locked the door into her bedroom through which she had come.

Then, transferring the keys to her left hand, seemingly unaware of Bloodgood, who still composedly awaited her further instructions, her eyes studied a moment the possibilities of the apartment and then returned to her guests.

"Mr. Cheever," she said abruptly.

"Yes, Mrs. Kildair."

"Put out all the candles except the candelabrum on the table."

"Put out the lights?" he said, rising, with his peculiar nervous movement of the fingers to the lips.

"At once."

Mr. Cheever, in rising, met the glance of his wife, and the look of questioning and wonder that passed did not escape the others.

"But, my dear Mrs. Kildair," cried Nan Charters, with a little nervous catch of her breath, "what is it? I'm getting terribly worked up."

"Miss Lille," said Mrs. Kildair's undeviating voice of command, while Beecher placed his hand firmly over his companion's, which had begun to open and shut in nervous tension.

The journalist, more composed than the rest, had watched the proceedings from that shadowy calm which had made her presence almost unnoticed. Now, as though forewarned by professional instinct that something sensational was hanging on the moment, she rose quietly with almost a stealthy motion.

"Put the candelabrum on this table—here," said Mrs. Kildair, after a long moment's confrontation. She indicated the large round table on which the punch-bowl was set. "No, wait. Mr. Bloodgood, first clear off the table, cover and all; I want nothing on it."

As Bloodgood started to remove the punch-bowl, Majendie rose quickly and took the heavy candelabrum from the hands of Maud Lille, saying:

"Permit me; that's rather heavy for you."

"But, Mrs. Kildair—" began Mrs. Cheever's voice, in shrill crescendo.

Mrs. Kildair, as though satisfied by her examination of the journalist, nodded to Majendie, and, perceiving the mahogany table clear, said without notice of Mrs. Cheever:

"Good! Now put the candelabrum down on it."

In a moment, as Cheever proceeded lumberingly on his errand, the brilliant cross-fire of lights dropped away in the studio, only a few smoldering wicks winking on the walls, while the high ceiling seemed to recede as it came under the sole dominion of the three candles bracketed in silver at the head of the bare mahogany table.

"Now listen!" said Mrs. Kildair, and her voice was cold and abrupt. "My ring has just been stolen!"

She said it suddenly, hurling the news at them, and waiting ferret-like for some indication in the chorus that broke out.

The hand that Beecher still grasped shot out from him as though it had been stung. For the first time, Slade, forgetting Majendie, wheeled brusquely and concentrated his glance on Mrs. Kildair, who listened unmoved to the storm of exclamations:

"Stolen!"

"Oh, my dear Mrs. Kildair, not that!"

"Stolen—by Jove!"

"Rita dear!"

"What! Stolen—here—tonight?"

"The ring has been taken in the last twenty minutes," continued Mrs. Kildair, in the same determined, chiseled accents. "I am not going to mince words. The ring has been taken, and one of you here is the thief. This is exactly the situation."

For a moment nothing was heard but an indescribable gasp, while each, turning by an uncontrollable impulse, searched the face of his neighbors. Suddenly Slade's deep bass broke out:

"Stolen, Mrs. Kildair?"

"Stolen," she replied quietly, meeting his inquisitorial glance.

"Have you searched very carefully?" said Majendie. "Mistakes are easily made. It may have slipped to the floor. Are you certain that it has been taken?"

"Exactly. There is not the slightest doubt," said Mrs. Kildair, conscious of the almost admiring suspicion in Slade's glance. "Three of you were in my bedroom when I took off my rings, placed a hatpin through them, and fastened them to the pin-cushion. Am I correct, Mr. Garraboy?" she added abruptly.

"Perfectly so," said the broker, staring ahead with a sudden consciousness of his dilemma. He added punctiliously; "I was there."

"With the exception of Mr. Slade, each of you has passed through my bedroom a dozen times. The ring is gone, and one of you has taken it."

Mrs. Cheever gave a little scream and reached heavily for a glass of water. Mrs. Bloodgood said something inarticulate, covering her heart with her hand in the muffled outburst of masculine exclamation:

"The devil you say!"

"Incredible!"

"I saw it."

"By Jove! A nasty mess."

Only Maud Lille's calm voice could be heard saying:

"Quite true. I was in the room when you took them off. The ruby was on top."

Mrs. Cheever sought to add her testimony, but was incapable of speech. In her agitation she spilled half of the glass of water as she put it down from her lips.

"Was the ring valuable?" said Slade carefully, with a quiet enjoyment.

Their eyes met a moment—a look incomprehensible to the others.

"It was worth over fifteen thousand dollars," Mrs. Kildair answered, in the buzz of astonishment.

"And what are you going to do about it?"

"I have not minced words," she said, turning her eyes to Maud Lille and back to Garraboy. "There is a thief, and that thief is here in this room. Now, I am not going to stand on ceremony. I am going to have that ring back in one way or another—now. Listen to me carefully. I intend to have that ring back, and, until I do, not a soul shall leave this room."

"A search?" said Slade quietly.

"No," she said instantly, tapping on the table with her nervous knuckles. "I don't care to know the thief—all I want is the ring. And this is the way I am going to get it." She stopped for another quick, searching glance, and continued with cold control:

"I am going to make it possible for whoever took it to restore it to me without possibility of detection. The doors are locked and will stay locked. I am going to put out the lights, and I am going to count one hundred—slowly. You will be in absolute darkness; no one will know or see what is done, and I give my word that I will count the full hundred. There will be no surprise, no turning up of lights. But if, at the end of that time, the ring is not placed here on this table, I shall telephone for detectives and have every one in this room searched. Am I clear?"

The transfer of the candelabrum to the further table had left those of the diners who had remained by the dinner-table in half obscurity. Instantly there was a shifting and a dragging of chairs, a confused jumble of questions and explanations.

Nan Charters for the second time seized the arm of Teddy Beecher. She murmured something which he did not hear. He glanced at her face, and for a moment an incredible suspicion crossed his mind. But the next, as he glanced down the table at the totally unnerved attitude of Mrs. Cheever and Mrs. Bloodgood, he understood better the agitation of his companion.

"Do you suspect any one?" he whispered, by an impulse that seemed to spring into his mind.

The young actress turned to him with almost an expression of terror in her eyes, which at the same time implored him to be silent.

"She knows something," he thought, with a somber feeling. His own face was flushed. He felt that to all he must appear guilty. "Every one feels the same," he thought, looking again at his companion, who was gazing with almost frightened intensity straight ahead of her.

He followed her glance, and saw that the object of her gaze was none other than Mrs. Enos Bloodgood, who still held her hand pressed over her breast, her lips parted as though suffocating with emotion. But, before he had time even to consider the bearing of this discovery, Mrs. Kildair's voice, firm and unrelenting, cut short the confusion.

"Every one come to this table, please. Take your places here," she said, and to emphasize the command she rapped sharply for order.

In the bustle that took place, Beecher was separated from Miss Charters, and when he found himself at the table she was opposite him, her eyes on the table.

"Can you make a little room?" he heard Maud Lille's low voice say, and, drawing away from Cheever, who was on his right, he allowed the journalist to take her place beside him.

Majendie was on the left of Mrs. Kildair, Slade next to him, sweeping the table slowly with his direct, lowering glance, his lips slightly pursed. Bloodgood, his hands sunk in his pockets, stared bullishly ahead, while between Cheever and his wife there passed a covert, terrible glance of interrogation. Garraboy, with his hands locked over his chin, arms folded, looked straight ahead staring fixedly at his hostess.

Mrs. Kildair, having assured herself that all was arranged as she desired, blew out two of the three candles, which suddenly caused the eyes on the dim faces to stand out in startled relief.

"I shall count one hundred—no more, no less," she said quietly. "Either the ring is returned or every one in this room is to be searched. Remember."

She motioned to Slade, who, leaning over, blew out the remaining candle, while a little hysterical cry was heard from Mrs. Cheever.

The wick shone a moment with a hot, glowing spire, and then everything was black. Mrs. Kildair began to count.

"One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine—ten—"

She gave each number with the inexorable regularity of a clock's reiterated note.

"Eleven—twelve—thirteen—fourteen— fifteen—sixteen—seventeen—"

In the room every sound was distinct—the rustle of a shifting dress, the grinding of a shoe, the deep, slightly asthmatic breathing of a man.

"Twenty-one—twenty-two—twenty-three— twenty-four—twenty-five—twenty-six—"

The counting went on, without the slightest variation, with a methodic, rasping reiteration that began to produce almost an hypnotic effect on the imaginations held in suspense.

"Thirty—thirty-one—thirty-two—thirty-three—"

A slight rasping breath was heard, and then a man nervously clearing his throat.

"Thirty-nine—forty—forty-one—forty-two—"

Still nothing had happened. No other sound had broken in on the strained attention of every ear. Yet the voice that counted did not vary in the slightest measure; only the sound became less human, more metallic.

"Forty-seven—forty-eight—forty-nine— fifty—fifty-one—fifty-two—"

A woman had sighed—Mrs. Bloodgood next to him—the sigh of a woman yielding up consciousness to pain.

"Fifty-four—fifty-five—fifty-six—fifty-seven —fifty-eight—fifty-nine—sixty—sixty-one—"

All at once, clear, ringing, unmistakable, on the sounding plane of the table was heard a quick metallic note that echoed and reëchoed in the empty blackness.

"The ring!"

It was Maud Lille's deep voice that had cried out. Beecher suddenly against his shoulder felt the weight of Mrs. Bloodgood's swaying body. The voice that counted hesitated a moment, but only a moment.

"Sixty-two—sixty-three—"

Several voices began to protest:

"No, no!"

"Light the candles!"

"It's too much!"

"Don't go on!"

"Seventy-five—seventy-six—seventy-seven— seventy-eight—seventy-nine—"

The sound dominated the protest. Some one began to laugh, an hysterical, feverish laughter that chilled Beecher to the bones. He put out his hand and steadied the body of the woman next to him.

"Eighty-five—eighty-six—"

"Hurry, oh, hurry—please hurry!" cried the voice of Nan Charters, and some one else cried:

"Enough—this is terrible!"

"Ninety-five—ninety-six—ninety-seven— ninety-eight—ninety-nine, and one hundred."

At once a match sputtered in the hands of Slade. There was a cry from every one, and the table shivered with the weight of those who craned forward. Then a second cry of amazement and horror. The table was absolutely bare. The ring a second time had been taken.