CHAPTER XVIII
By the time Hayden had reached his own door his nerves were steadied andhis poise somewhat restored. He felt sore and bruised in spirit, however,and desired nothing so much as to sit by himself for a time and thinkout, if possible, some satisfactory arrangement of this tormentingmatter. But, as he threw open the door of his library with a sensation ofrelief at the prospect of a period of unbroken solitude, he stoppedshort, barely repressing the strong language which rose involuntarily tohis lips.
In spite of the fact that spring had at last made her coy and reluctantdebut, there had been a sharp change in the weather and winter again heldthe center of the stage. Regardful of this fact, Tatsu had built aroaring fire in the library to cheer Hayden's home-coming. The flamescrackled up the chimney and cast ruddy reflections on the furniture andwalls; last night's orchids seemed to lean from their vases toward thisdelightful and tropical warmth, and there, with a chair drawn up as nearthe hearth as comfort permitted, was Horace Penfield, long, lean,cold-blooded, enjoying the permeating glow and radiance.
He turned his head lazily when Hayden opened the door, and Robert in hisindignation felt a faint chill of apprehension as he met that glance.Penfield's eyes had lost their usual saurian impassiveness. They werealmost alive, with that expression of interest which only the lapses andmoral divagations of others could arouse in them.
"Hello!" he said, indifferent to the fact that Hayden still stoodfrowning in the doorway. "I've been waiting about half an hour for you."
"Anything especial?" asked Robert coldly, walking over and standing bythe mantelpiece, his moody gaze on the burning logs.
Penfield chuckled. "Oh, I don't know." There was an unconcealed triumphin his tones; but he had no intention of being hasty, he meant to extractthe last drop of epicurean pleasure that was possible in this situation.Penfield was not lacking in dramatic sense, and he had no intention oflosing any fine points in the narration of his news by careless andslovenly methods of relation.
"No," he continued, "nothing particular; but I've lately run across oneor two things which I fancied might be of interest to you. By the way,"with the effect of branching off with a side issue, "of course you knowthat Ames' engagement to the Mariposa is announced?"
"I know nothing of Ames' private affairs," returned Hayden shortly. "Howshould I?"
"You might have judged that from the way he behaved last night." Penfieldagain indulged in a series of unpleasant chuckles. "His mother! Lord!There'll be the deuce to pay there! Look at the way she's been behavingover his attentions to Marcia Oldham, and then just fancy how she'll takethis! She evidently gave that luncheon the other day to propitiateMarcia, and invited the Mariposa to show the world that Wilfred'sso-called infatuation was merely an amiable and tepid interest. Iwouldn't miss seeing the fun for a farm--no, not for all those lost minesof yours. I think that I shall drop in for a cup of tea with the old ladythis afternoon, and murmur a few condolences in her ear, and then watchher fly to bits." He rolled about in his chair in paroxysms of silentmirth. "But," sobering, "it's too bad to think of missing the interviewbetween the Mariposa and herself. I really do not know which one I wouldput my money on." He considered this a moment. "But that isn't the onlyinteresting thing I've gleaned in the day's work." He glanced keenly atRobert through his white lashes, and again the triumph vibrated in histhin voice. "Hayden, do you know I've discovered the owner of your lostmine?"
Robert sat silent a moment, motionless, apparently thinking; his face atleast betrayed nothing. "The owners," he corrected.
"No, I don't mean owners at all," returned Penfield coolly, "I mean justwhat I said--the owner. Ah," the most unctuous satisfaction in his voice,"for all your non-committal manner I don't believe you know as much as Ido."
"Perhaps that's true," said Hayden sharply. "Whom do you mean by theowner?"
"Why, the elderly gray-haired man with whom Marcia Oldham is seen more orless," affirmed Horace, self-gratulations in his tone. What if his fieldwas petty? He did not consider it so, and his feats were great.
Hayden dropped the hand with which he had been shielding his eyes andstared at the gossip on the other side of the hearth. "What on earth areyou talking about?" he demanded.
"I'm giving you facts, straight facts, dear boy," replied Horace, hispale eyes shining through his white lashes.
"But--but--"
"Oh, there's no 'but--but' about it." Horace was consummately assured."That man is the owner of your lost mine, so go ahead and dicker withhim. I know. You can take my word for it."
"Is this a fact, Penfield?" asked Robert gravely. Horace had at leastsucceeded in impressing him.
"True as I'm sitting here. There's absolutely no doubt about it. Yes,I've got down to the secret of that old lost and found mine of yours." Hechuckled at his wit. "But," his complacency increasing to the point ofexultation, "that isn't all I know, by any means. All winter long I'vebeen bothering my head about those butterflies the women are wearing, andnow, at last, I've got a line on them."
His voice sounded curiously far away to Hayden and he did not at oncetake in the meaning of the words. His head was whirling. So, thatmiddle-aged, gray-haired man was really the owner of the mine, and it wasfor him that Marcia--No, he would not think of it. He would not letthose torturing doubts invade his mind. With every force of his nature hewould again resist them and bar them out.
"Yes," Penfield was gloating, "I'm on to the butterflies, at last."
"Why should you imagine that they have any special significance?"Hayden's voice sounded faint and dull in his ears.
"Because I have a nose for news, Hayden. I was born with it. I feel newsin the air. I scent it and I'm rarely mistaken. I said to myself lastNovember, those butterflies mean something, and I intend to get to thebottom of them. And where do you think they led me? Oh, you will beinterested in this, Hayden," smiling. "They led me right to the root ofMarcia Oldham's secret."
Hayden threw up his head, a flash of anger on his spiritless face. "Youcan't discuss Miss Oldham here, Penfield."
"Oh, easy now," returned Horace cynically. "It's nothing to herdiscredit, far from it. You remember the night you suggested that shemight live by the sale of her pictures, and I scoffed at you and saidthat all the pretty little pictures she could paint in a year wouldn'tkeep her in gowns? Well, you were nearer right than I for once."
A light came into Hayden's face. He opened his mouth as if about to speak.
"Now, just wait," Horace admonished him. "The reason your suggestionstruck me as ridiculous was this: One must have a reputation to make adecent living as an artist, and who ever heard of the Oldham pictures?Where were they on exhibition? Who bought them? Nothing in it, you see."He moved his hand with a gesture of finality. "But," impressively,"Marcia Oldham can paint just the same, and beautifully; but that is notall she can do. It appears that as a child she very early showed a markedartistic talent. Her mother always disliked it; though her fatherencouraged it in every way; but she developed a rather peculiar bent, andin the years that she spent abroad she devoted herself to the designingand making of jewelry and _objets d'art_. Her especial fad, you know,were those exquisite translucent enamels, just like her butterflies.
"Well, when her father died, and the crash came, Marcia, who was alreadyranked as a professional among people who knew about those things,decided to go into it as a business and support her mother and herself.
"But that is where the old lady comes in. Obstinate as a mule, weak aswater, with a lot of silly, old-fashioned pride, she absolutely balked,had hysterics, took to her bed, did all the possible and impossiblethings that women do under such circumstances, with the result thatMarcia was at her wit's end. Finally, the mother capitulated up to acertain point. Marcia might go ahead and pursue her avocation in peaceunder one condition, that it should be a dead secret, that not a whisperof it should reach the world.
"At first, Marcia rebelled at this decision; but one of her friends inher confidence, probably Kitty Hampton, wh
o has considerable executiveability, persuaded her that it held certain advantages. For instance, sheas a noticeable figure, not only on account of her beauty, but alsobecause of her style and her positive genius for dress. Now, Kittyheld--and as events have proved, correctly--that Marcia, by keeping thebusiness end of it dark, could, by appearing as a devotee of social life,advertise her wares as she could no other way, especially when aided andseconded by Mrs. Habersham and Mrs. Hampton.
"But neither of these two women is financially interested with her. Thatbeing the case, who backs the business? I am inclined to think"--Horacespoke thoughtfully and yet with sufficient assurance--"that that personis identical with the man who is the owner of the lost Mariposa. By theway, you did not ask his name. It is Carrothers."
"Carrothers! Carrothers! Why, that was Ydo's name. Ydo Carrothers."Hayden huddled down into his chair. He could not think. His brain, hisdazed and miserable brain had received too many impressions. They hadcrowded upon him and he could not take them in. Penfield was talking,talking straight ahead, but although Robert heard the words, theyconveyed no meaning to him. Then from the maze of them, Marcia's namestood out clearly. Horace was speaking of her again.
"Hayden, are you asleep? I've just asked you why Marcia Oldham was sosurreptitiously carrying off that package from the little table in thedrawing-room last night. She wrapped it up in her gauze scarf and carriedit off as stealthily as a conspirator in a melodrama."
Hayden threw off his lethargy with a supreme effort. "Did she?" in atired and rather indifferent voice. "I dare say she was afraid ofdisturbing the others. I asked her to take them home with her and lookthem over."
"Oh!" Penfield's voice was a little disappointed but not suspicious. Herose. There was no use in wasting any more time on a man who took news,real news, so indifferently as Hayden. He thought with a smile of variousdrawing-rooms where his bits of information would create a sensation.Then why should he who could take the stage as a man of the hour, themost eagerly listened-to person in town, longer deny himself thatpleasure?
"Good-by, Hayden," he said hastily, nor waited to hear if he wasanswered.
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