Lord John in New York

by C. N. Williamson and A. M. Williamson

  EPISODE VI

  THE CLUE IN THE AIR

  If I had been fighting my own battle, not Maida's, against DoctorRameses, I might have sometimes admired his cleverness. There seemedto be no way of catching him.

  The police theory was that some person, not Rameses, took advantage ofthe "philanthropist's" conspicuous appearance to commit crimes in adisguise resembling his peculiarities. This, they thought, might bedone not only as a means of escaping detection, but with the object ofblackmail. My theory was different. I believed that Rameses had aconfederate enough like him in looks to deceive an audience assembledfor one of his lectures, or patients undergoing his treatment.

  I did not hesitate to assert this opinion, hoping to provoke the man toopen attack.

  After the affair of the opium den, he lay low. Nothing happened inwhich, by any stretching of probabilities, he could have had a hand.Perhaps, thought I, he had learned that I was a hard nut to crack!Two-thirds of the time for which Maida had promised herself to the GreySisterhood passed. Her doubts of me had been swept away, and I hopedto find at the end of the year that I hadn't waited in vain. Now andthen I saw, or believed that I saw, light on the mystery of Maida'santecedents. Altogether I was happier than I had been and I wasserving my country's interests while I served my own.

  I had been ordered to buy desirable new types of aeroplanes, andluckily got hold of some good ones. The "story" of my mission suddenlyappeared in the newspapers, and interest in my old exploits as a flyingman were revived embarrassingly. I was "paragraphed" for a few dayswhen war tidings happened to be dull; and to my surprise received aninvitation to demonstrate my "stunt" of looping a double loop at a newaviation park, opened on Long Island. The exhibition resulted inanother compliment. I was asked to instruct a class of young aviators,and was officially advised by the British Ambassador to accept. I didaccept: and was given a "plane" and a hangar of my own; but I kept onmy suite in the hotel near Sisterhood House, starting at an early hourmost mornings to motor to the aviation ground.

  After a few weeks of this, a big aviation meeting took place, and whenmy part in it was over I found myself holding quite a reception in myhangar. Friends and strangers had kind things to say: and while Iexplained new features of my 'plane to some pretty women, I saw aprettier woman gazing wistfully at me between hats.

  Her face was familiar. I remembered that tremulous, wistful smile ofeyes and lips, which (the thought flashed through my head) would befine stock-in-trade for an actress. Still, for the life of me, Icouldn't recall the girl's name or whether we had ever really met,until her chance came to dash into the breach made by disappearingplumes and feathers. She seized the opportunity with a promptness thatargued well for her bump of decision: but she was helped to success bythe tallest, thinnest, brightest-eyed young man I had ever seen.

  "You've forgotten me, Lord John!" the girl reproached me. "I'm HelenHartland. Does that name bring back anything?"

  "Of course!" I answered, remembering where and how I had met HelenHartland. She had made her debut on the stage several years ago in acurtain-raiser of mine, my first and last attempt at playwriting "on myown." Her part had been a small one, but she had played it well andlooked lovely in it. I had congratulated her. When the run ended, shehad asked for introductions to people I knew in the theatrical world,and I had given them. She had written me a few letters, telling ofengagements she had got (nothing good unfortunately) and wanting me tosee her act. I had never been able to do so; but I had sent herflowers once on a first night.

  Not trusting to my recollection, she reminded me of these things, andintroduced the tall, thin, bright-eyed young man.

  "You must have heard of Charlie Bridges, the California Birdman, aseverybody calls him!" she said. And then went on to explain, as if shedidn't want their relations misunderstood: "We met on the ship comingover, and Mr. Bridges was _so_ kind! Our steamer chairs were together,and he lent me a copy of _Sketch_ with a picture of him in it! Wasn'tit funny, there was a picture of _you_, too, and I mentioned knowingyou? Next, it came out that he was bringing a letter of introductionto you from a friend of yours at home. We landed only two days ago. Iwas so happy, for I've had hard luck for months, and I thought I wasfalling into a ripping engagement. But it was a fraud--the _queerest_fraud! I can't understand it a bit. I want to tell you all about itand get your advice. Mr. Bridges brought me to the meeting here. It_was_ nice of him. But now I've paid him back, haven't I, putting himin touch with you?"

  Charlie Bridges listened to the monologue with varying emotions, as Icould see in his face which was ingeniously expression-ful. Evidentlyhe had fallen in love with Helen Hartland, and was not pleased to standstill listening to protestations of gratitude for small past favoursfrom me. She realised his state of feeling as well as I did, perhapsbetter, being a woman: and what her motive in exciting him to jealousywas, I couldn't be sure. Maybe she wished to bring him to the point(though he looked eager to impale himself upon it!), maybe she simplydidn't care how he felt, and wanted him to understand this once forall: or possibly it amused her to play us off against each other.

  In any case, I put myself out to be pleasant to Bridges, who seemed anice fellow, and was, I knew, a smart aviator. He had been in Franceat the time of my accident, and had not returned to America since then.He had news from London and Paris to give me, and even if HelenHartland had not insisted, we should have struck up a friendship.

  I invited them to have food with me at the brand new Aviation ParkHotel (as it called itself), saying that we'd "feed" in the roof-gardenrestaurant, of which the proprietors were proud. Bridges hesitated,possibly disliking to accept hospitality from the hated rival: but asHelen said "yes," rather than leave her to my tender mercies, the poorchap followed suit.

  The hotel had been run up in next to no time, to catch aviation "fans,"and the roof-garden was a smart idea, as patrons could sit there eatingand drinking, and see the flying at the same time. It was small, butnicely arranged, partly glassed in, partly open, with a "lift" to rushdishes up from the kitchen (this was practically concealed withtrellis-work covered with creepers trying to grow in pots), and a lowwall or parapet with flowers planted in a shallow strip of earth. Theweather was fine, so we chose a table in the open, for our lateluncheon. My place--with Helen at my right, and Bridges opposite usboth--was close to the parapet, so close that I could peer over a rowof pink geraniums, to the newly-sodded lawn and gravelled paths below.As it happened I did peer while we waited for our oysters,sub-consciously attracted perhaps by the interest an elderly waiter wastaking in someone or somebody down there. I was just in time to see aface look up, not to me but to the waiter. Instantly the head ducked,presenting to my eyes only the top of a wide-brimmed soft hat of blackfelt--an old-fashioned hat.

  "By Jove!" I said to myself, and had to beg Helen's pardon for losing aremark of hers: for that quick, snap-shot glance had shown me featureslike those of the priceless Rameses.

  "Now, what can _he_ be doing here--if it is he?" I wondered. It wasabsurd to fancy that he might bribe a waiter to poison my food, and sorid himself of me once for all. No: poisoning--anyhow at secondhand--wasn't in Rameses' line. Besides, his waiter wasn't my waiter,which would complicate the plot for a neat murder. As the man walkedaway (I still watching) his back was not like that of Rameses, if I hadever seen the real Rameses. The police thought I had not. I thought Ihad: but the picture in my mind was of a person erect anddistinguished: this figure was slouching and common.

  I was not, however, to be caught napping. I called to the waiter whonow, instead of looking down to the lawn, was picking dead leaves offthe pink geraniums. "That was Doctor Rameses of New York, wasn't it?"I fired at him, staring into his anemic Austrian face. It did notchange, unless to drop such little expression as it had worn. Utterblankness must mean complete innocence or extreme subtlety. I couldhardly credit the fellow with the latter. "Doctor Ra--mps?" he echoed."Who--where, sir?"

  "Dow
n below: the man you were looking at," I explained, still fixinghim with a basilisk eye.

  He shook his head. "I wasn't lookin' at no man, sir," he protested."I was lookin' at nothin' at all."

  Meanwhile the slouch hat and slouching figure had disappeared into thecrowd which still ringed the aviation ground. I abandoned the inquest,and turned my attention to Helen and Bridges.

  As we lunched, I learned the history of Helen's trip to America, andthe "fraud" she had spoken of as "queer." It seemed that, a few daysafter the suburban theatre she was acting in had closed, she received along cable message from New York. A man signing himself "WilliamMorgan, Manager Excelsis Motion Picture Corporation" offered her the"lead" in a forthcoming production. He explained expensively that hehad seen her act and thought her ideal for the part. She was to havesix months' certain engagement with a salary of a hundred dollars aweek, and her dresses and travelling expenses were to be paid by themanagement. She was to reply by wire, and if she accepted, fivehundred dollars would be advanced to her by cable.

  The address given, "29, Vandusen Street, New York," did not sound"swell" to an English actress who vaguely thought of Broadway and FifthAvenue as being the only streets "over there." Still, the promise ofan advance gave an air of bona-fides, and Helen had answered "Yes.Start on receipt of money."

  By return, the money came, and the girl took the first ship available,telegraphing again to Mr. Morgan. She expected him to meet her at thedocks, but he "never materialised," and "if it hadn't been for Mr.Bridges she didn't know what she would have done!" Bridges it was whotook her in a taxi to 29, Vandusen Street, which address proved to bethat of a tobacconist in a small way of business. There she was toldthat a man named William Morgan had paid for the privilege of receiving"mail," but only a couple of telegrams had come. He had called forthem, but had not been seen since. The proprietor of the shop vowedthat he knew nothing of Morgan. The man had walked in one day, boughta box of expensive cigars, and made the arrangement mentioned. Bridgesinquired "what he was like," but the tobacconist shook his head dully.Morgan looked like everybody else, neither old nor young, fair nordark, fat nor lean. If you met him once, you couldn't be sure youwould know him again.

  "I've three hundred and fifty dollars left," Helen said at last, "all Ihave in the world, for I was stoney-broke when the cable came. Ofcourse I can't live on that money long. But as I'm here, I shall stopand try to get something to do. I'm puzzled to death, though, why'Morgan'--whoever he is--picked _me_ out, or why it was worth his whileto send a hundred pounds and then never turn up at the ship."

  "It does seem odd," I agreed. "He may have been scared off frommeeting you--or arrested. However, you'd better be careful whatacquaintances you make."

  "I _want_ to be careful," the girl said. "But I _must_ find work. AndI can't do that without making some acquaintances, can I?--whetherthey're dangerous or not! Unless--oh, Lord John, if you could _only_put me in the way of an engagement, no matter how small. I've heardyour play was a great success. You must know a lot of managers overhere and--

  "I don't," I answered her. "My activities lately haven't been intheatres! I'm afraid----" I was going on, but stopped suddenly. Shehad said "an engagement no matter how small." I would take her at herword!

  "You've thought of something for me!" she exclaimed, while Bridgessulked because he numbered no theatrical potentates among his friends.

  "I'm almost ashamed to suggest it," I said, "but I could get you a'job' of a sort here. The proprietor of this hotel and his wife (goodcreatures and ambitious to cut a dash in the fashionable world) want apretty girl--a 'real actress'--to sing and recite in the roof-gardenthese fine summer evenings. I don't suppose you----"

  "Oh, yes I _would_! I'd love to be here. It would be _fun_!" Helenbroke in. "I adore flying; and I should see _you_ often--and Mr.Bridges too, perhaps. Anyhow, it would do to go on with till I gotsomething else, if they'd pay me a 'living wage.'"

  "I'll be your agent, sing your praises and screw up your price," Iimprudently volunteered. Imprudently, because having arranged mattersbetween the hotel people and Miss Hartland, I found her gratitudeoppressive. She said it was gratitude; yet she seemed to think that Ihad got her placed at the Aviation Park Hotel in order to enjoy hersociety. This was not the case. Helen Hartland was pretty, withcharming ways for those who liked them: but I was in the state of mindwhich sees superlative beauty and charm in one woman only. Because Iwas separated from Maida Odell by force of circumstances while sheremained with the Grey Sisterhood, it was irritating to see other girlsflitting about free to do as they pleased. It bored me when I had tolunch or dine at the hotel to find Helen always on hand with "somethingto tell," or my "advice to ask."

  Whether the girl had taken a fancy to me, or whether she was amusingherself by exciting Bridges' jealousy, I didn't know: I knew only thatI was bothered, and that Bridges was miserable.

  Helen lived in the hotel from the first, partly through kindness on thepart of her employers, partly perhaps because they thought her presencean attraction. They gave her a decent salary--more than she had everearned in the small parts she'd played at home: she dressed well, andmade a "hit" with her sweet soprano voice, her really gloriousyellow-brown hair, and that wistful smile of hers. Next door to thebest and biggest bedroom in the house was a small room which connectedwith the larger one, and could be used as a dressing-room. Nobody everengaged it for that purpose, however, and Mrs. Edson, the landlady,suggested that Miss Hartland should occupy the little room until it waswanted. The girl described it to me as delightful. There were doubledoors between it and the large room adjoining, so that one wasn'tdisturbed by voices on the other side. There was also a door openingclose to the service stairway which went up to the roof-garden. Thiswas convenient for Helen, before and after her songs and recitations.She bought little knick-knacks to make her quarters pretty and, with apatent folding-bed and a screen or two was able to ask her friends in,as if she were the proud possessor of a private sitting-room.

  I made excuses instead of calls; but one day I was lured in to seeCharlie Bridges (who by then had a hangar on the grounds) do hiswonderful "stunt," considered by the Edsons a fine advertisement fortheir hotel. It was not, however, for purposes of advertisement thatthe California Birdman performed the "stunt" in question, but ratherfor love of Helen Hartland. In the small, smart "one seater" which hewas using, he would dive from a height, swoop past Helen's open windowand throw in a bunch of roses. It was said that his aim was invariablytrue, a more difficult feat than might be supposed: anyhow the day thatI was there to witness the exhibition it was a brilliant success.Whether by accident or design the flowers hit me on the head, and ifCharlie were really jealous he accomplished a neat revenge.

  "I could see you as plain as a pikestaff sitting there," he saidafterwards. "Oh, I don't mean the 'plain' or the 'pikestaff' in anasty way, Lord John. I only mean I recognised you as I flew by."

  "And Mrs. Edson too, who was with us, I suppose," I hurried to say: forI didn't wish the boy to think that he had anything to fear from me. Isaw from his manner, however, when we happened to meet, that he wasworried, and to give him the chance which I didn't want for myself, Ibegan to avoid Helen.

  This course wasn't easy to steer, I found, while duty kept me often atthe aviation grounds. She sent me notes. I had to answer them. Sheasked me to lend her books. I couldn't refuse. At last she wrote aletter, confessing that she had got into trouble about money. Hersalary "wasn't bad, considering"; but she hadn't understood Americanprices. She'd been stupid enough to run into debt. Would I, as hercountryman, help her out of just _one_ scrape, and she wouldn't getinto another? Of course, Mr. Bridges would be glad to do it, but shedidn't want to take a favour from him. I was "different."

  I sent her a hundred dollars, the sum she specified, but in writing herthanks, she "chaffed" me for not making out a cheque. "I believe youthink me capable of trying to get a hold on you," she wrote. Natur
allyI didn't bother to reply to that taunt, but kept out of Helen's waymore persistently than before, until one afternoon Mrs. Edsonbuttonholed me. I happened to have seen Helen on her way to New York,so I was venturing to lunch at the hotel.

  "I'm worried about Miss Hartland, Lord John," she began. "A sweetgirl, but I'm afraid she's being silly! Do you know what she goes toNew York for so often?"

  "I didn't know she did go often," I said.

  "Well, she does. She's taking lessons in hypnotism or something and Ibelieve she's paying a lot of money. A circular came to her about acourse of lectures, claiming that the _will_ could be strengthened, andany object in life accomplished. That caught poor Helen. She simplyate up the lectures, and became a pupil of the man who gave them.That's why her salary's gone as soon as she gets it--and sooner! Poorchild, I'm sorry. The thing she _ought_ to want, she won't take. Thething she does want she can't have, if she spends every cent trying togain 'hypnotic power.'"

  "What does she so violently want, if it's permitted to ask?" I inquired.

  Mrs. Edson looked at me in a queer, sidewise way. "You'd only be crossif I told you," she said. So instead of repeating the question, Iasked another. "Who is the professor of hypnotism who gives MissHartland lessons?"

  "I can't remember," the landlady replied. "I saw the circular, butthat was some time ago, and I've forgotten. Now, the child won't talkabout him."

  The thought of Rameses sprang into my mind. I recalled the mystery ofHelen's summons to America. Could it be possible that Doctor Rameseshad wanted a "cat's-paw" for some new chestnuts to be pulled out of thefire? What would Helen Hartland's poor little paw avail him for thatwork? I went on wondering. But the ways of the Egyptian were pastfinding out--or had been, up to date. It was within the bounds ofpossibility that thinking to compromise me, he had sought in England agirl--preferably an actress--whom I had known; within the same boundsthat he might have induced her to cross the sea, in the hope that, onceon this side, we might play his game. So far-fetched an idea wouldnever have come into my head, had not Mrs. Edson mentioned thecircular, and the professor of hypnotism. But once in, I couldn't getit out. I determined to take the next chance to catechise Helen.

  It arrived by accident, or I thought so, believing myself a free agent;instead of which I was a fly blundering into a spider's web.

  From Maida Odell and from the elderly waiter who had looked over theparapet at a man in a broad-brimmed hat, I have since obtained threadswhich show how the web was woven: but some disastrous days were to passfirst.

  During this time I heard nothing from Maida, but I had memories tocomfort me, and it was good to feel how few miles were between us.Strange that, few as they were, no telepathic thrill was able to warnme of what was happening behind the high garden walls of the SisterhoodHouse!

  Maida has told me since, how the Head Sister called her one day for atalk. "I want to make a little journey and try to do a little good,"the grey-veiled lady said in the deep voice which Maida had oncethought sweet as the tones of a 'cello. "I should like you to go withme, but--there is a reason why perhaps you would rather I took someoneelse. Still, I feel bound to give you the choice, as you are mydearly-loved and trusted friend through _everything_."

  "Why should I want you to take someone else, Sister?" Maida asked.

  "Because--a man who would steal you away from us if he could, is oftenat the place where we must go. He visits the young English girl I amasked to help; and I fear that his interest in her is not for her good.Now, dear child, don't be angry with me for saying this! I don't askyou to believe. I tell you only what I hear from my philanthropicfriend in New York who enables us to do some of our best work. I wishhe would let his name be mentioned, but even his right hand is neverallowed to know what the left hand doeth! In any case the girl is indifficulties, as this doer of noble works hears from one of hisassistants. She is an actress who sings in a gay, rowdy sort of hotelfrequented by sportsmen and their friends. I am requested to offer hera home here, if she chooses to come, and eventually to send her back toEngland at the expense of the Sisterhood funds. Now you see why Ispoke. You shall go or stay, as you wish."

  Once Maida had thought all the Head Sister's precepts and acts beyondcriticism. But things had passed in Sisterhood House which hadslightly--almost imperceptibly--broken the crystal surface of perfecttrust. She found herself wondering: "Why does Sister advise me not tothink of Lord John? Why does she hint horrid things of him, yet takeme where we may meet?"

  There was no answer to this question in Maida's mind, but she said thatshe would go with the Head Sister on the "mission": and in her heartshe hoped that we might meet. She had been tried and tested before,and again she was loyal in thought.

  The conversation between those two at Sisterhood House took place theday after my talk with Mrs. Edson. And while Maida and the Head Sisterdiscussed the short journey they planned to make, I was probablydashing off a hasty letter to Helen Hartland. "I want to see you," Iwrote, "about something rather important. Please send a line inanswer, and tell me at what time I may call to-morrow afternoon."

  In answer to this, Helen replied that she would see me at five o'clock."I'm very unhappy," she added. "I know you want me to go back toEngland, and I believe you're _afraid_ of me. I think you are cruel,but I'm thankful you're coming to see me of your own free will."

  I should have been dumbfounded at this morbid nonsense, if the thoughtof Rameses hadn't been haunting my mind. If he were the power behindthe throne in this business, he might have stuffed the girl with falseideas about me, or else actually have hypnotised her to write in thisunbalanced fashion.

  I had been in my hangar, or flying, most of the day, and came to thehotel half an hour before the appointment, to make myself tidy for acall. Looking out from the window I saw a grey automobile flash by andslow down as if to stop at the door. Whether it did stop or no, Icouldn't be sure, as I could not see so far; nor should I have beeninterested had the thought not flashed through my head that it lookedlike the car which belonged to Sisterhood House.

  Nothing seemed less likely than that it should come to the AviationPark Hotel: and there were many autos of that make and colour on LongIsland. I thought no more about it, little dreaming of the surpriseDoctor Rameses' genius had prepared for Maida and for me. Now I askmyself where was my prophetic soul wandering at that moment? Perhapsit was searching for Maida: but it would only have to look close athand to see her walking in to the hotel in the adorably becomingcostume of the Grey Sisterhood. The inevitable Head Sister was withher, of course: but not in command, according to custom. Even beforestarting, she had complained of a headache, and Maida had suggestedputting off the expedition: but the sufferer refused suchself-indulgence. During the drive to the hotel, she was speechlesswith pain, and Maida, who had never seen the strong, vital directressin such a condition, was anxious. "I'm afraid we must take a room inthe hotel for a while, where I may lie down until I'm able to see MissHartland," the Head Sister said as the grey car drew up at the door.Maida was thankful for this concession, but surprised that she shouldbe told, in a faint voice, to engage the best room in the house. TheHead Sister was usually spartan in her ways, setting an example ofself-sacrifice to all those under her care.

  Maida obeyed without comment, however, and the big room adjoining HelenHartland's, with the double doors between, was given to the two ladiesof the Grey Sisterhood.

  These happenings--and certain developments which followed quickly--Ilearned long afterwards from Maida's own lips, when we were putting"two and two together." From the elderly Austrian who acted as awaiter in the roof-garden I forced another part of the same story,hearing from him that he had been one of Rameses' many servants. ThisI succeeded in doing too late to pull myself out of the pit which waswaiting (at this very moment) for me to tumble into it. Neverthelessthere was satisfaction later in knowing that my researches had neverstrayed from the right track.

  It had been raining tha
t day, I remember--an unlucky thing for theaviation "fans," come from far and near to see a new way of looping theloop demonstrated by two American pupils of mine, and myself: a luckything for the most daring experiment ever attempted by Doctor Rameses.People were walking about between nights, with umbrellas held low overtheir heads to protect them the better from a straight, steadydownpour. Thus, roofed with wet silk domes they could see littleexcept their own feet and each other. It was only when somethinghappened aloft that it was worth while to unroof themselves: and atsuch moments all attention was concentrated on the sky. The air-showwas a good one. Soaked enthusiasts rushed to the hotel for a "quicklunch" and drinks and rushed away again, or congregated on the roofwith sandwiches in their hands. Waiters in the roof-restaurant walkedwith chins up: and there was a moment when one of their number--oldAnton, the Austrian--was able to lure even the kitchen staff, cooks andall, out of doors for a few minutes. By a weird decree of fate, it wasa flight of mine that they were invited to desert duty in order towitness!

  While the kitchen was empty and the door open, with men's backs turnedto it, Anton had given a signal. A mackintoshed figure slipped in, andfinding the coast clear, made for the food elevator, which was ready tomount. Inside there was room for a man to crouch. Anton, darting intothe kitchen, sent the lift up: then darted out again to tell the cookand cook's assistant a spicy anecdote about me!

  There was no stop for the elevator between kitchen and roof. It was aslow traveller, and as the open front rose above the restaurant floor,the crouching man within could see at a glance what hope he had ofrunning the gauntlet. The moment could not have been better chosen. Iwas in the act of doubling my loop, and everyone on the roof--guestsand waiters--had crowded to the flower-fringed parapet. The lift wasartistically concealed by an arbour of white painted trellis-work, as Ihave explained; but sharp eyes could peer between the squares overhungwith climbing plants, and see all that went on upon the other side.The crouching figure crept out, rose, and precipitated itself down theservice stairway whose railed-in wall was also masked by the trellisarbour.

  It could not have been long after this that I finished my work for theday, and came to the hotel, as I have said, to keep my appointment withHelen Hartland; but meanwhile there had been time for the man in thehigh-collared mackintosh coat to finish _his_ work also. He had not,of course, ventured to try returning by the way he came, but had rundown the service stairs and walked out of the house by a side entrance.Thanks to the rain and the umbrellas, and the call of the sky, heescaped, as he entered, without being seen. If Anton had not beencompelled to betray him later, the mystery of the Aviation Park Hotelwould never have been solved.

  Before I went (as requested in Helen's last letter) to knock at herdoor, a new cause of excitement had arisen. Charlie Bridges hadcrashed to earth in his machine, close to the hotel, and crowds hadcollected round the fallen aeroplane. Those who saw the fall, wereable to explain why the 'plane was scarcely injured. Bridges had beenswooping at the time, so close to earth that the drop amounted tonothing: but for some curious reason he had lost control of themachine. He was far more seriously hurt than he ought to have been,for not having been strapped in, he had slid from his seat somehow, andbeen caught under the machine. Unconscious and suffering fromconcussion the "California Birdman" was carried into a ground floorroom of the hotel, while a "hurry call" was sent over the telephone forthe nearest doctor.

  All this happened unknown to me, for the room in which I was dressingwas on the opposite side of the house. Any shouts I heard, or runningmen I saw through the window, were only part of the ordinary show forme. At precisely five o'clock I went my way through various corridorsand knocked at Helen's door, in ignorance of Charlie Bridges'misfortune.

  The door stood slightly ajar, as if Helen had left it so purposely forme: but no answer followed my knock. I tapped again more loudly, andthe door fell open at my touch. No one was in the room; but close tothe window, on the floor, I saw a bunch of crimson roses, wet with rain.

  "Bridges!" I said to myself, with a smile.

  For a moment I hesitated outside the door: yet rather than go away andmiss the girl when she arrived (I imagined that she had run up to theroof), or lurk in the corridor to be stared at by passing servants, Idecided to walk into the room and wait. Probably, I thought, this waswhat Helen had meant, in leaving the door ajar.

  If the door of the next room had opened at that instant, and Maida hadlooked out, the history of the wretched weeks which followed might havebeen different for us both. But the door remained closed, and noinstinct told me who was behind it. No one saw me walk into HelenHartland's room; and therefore no one could tell at what hour I hadentered.

  I did not look out of the window, or I should have seen the fallenaeroplane which must still have been on the ground. I left theflowers--red as their giver's blood--lying on the floor for Helen tofind when she came: but minutes passed and Helen did not come.

  I sat down in a chair drawn up by the table and glanced at a couple ofbooks. Both had been lent by me at Helen's request, and had my name onthe flyleaf. I laid them down again impatiently on the gaudy cottontablecloth; and took out my watch. Ten minutes after five! ... Soon itwas the quarter past. I was resolving impatiently to scrawl a line ona visiting-card, and go, when I heard a slight noise, as if someone inthe adjoining room were unlocking a door. I knew from Helen'sdescription that there were two doors, with a distance of at leasttwelve inches between.

  "Can she be using that other room, too?" I wondered: when suddenlythere rang out a scream of horror, in a woman's voice. It seemed to methat it was like Maida's, though that must be a mere obsession! but Isprang to my feet, dragging off the tablecloth and bringing down on thefloor books, papers, and a vase of flowers. My chair fell over also:and all this confusion in the room was afterwards used against me.

  I rushed to the door leading out to the corridor--which I had closed onentering--and found a swarm of people, guests and waiters, alreadypouring down the service stairs from the roof-garden just above.Everyone saw me come out of Helen Hartland's room: but even if they hadnot seen, there was my hat with my initials in it, on the floor withthe rest of the fallen things, to testify to my late presence.

  As we crowded the narrow corridor, the door of the "best room" whencethe scream had come, was flung wide open, and to my amazement, MaidaOdell--in her grey costume of the Sisterhood--rushed out pale as a deadgirl.

  "Murder! A woman murdered!" she whispered rather than cried, as onestrives voicelessly to shriek in a dream. Just then she saw me, andheld out both hands as if for help. I pushed past everyone else andgot to her: but others surged forward and she and I gave way before thecrowd. A dozen men at least must have jostled into the room after us;but at the instant I hardly knew that they were there. I saw a bigwoman in grey drawing a veil closely round her face as she rose from acushioned lounge: and I saw lying on the floor the body of HelenHartland with a thin stiletto sticking in her breast--a stiletto I hadlent her to use as a paper knife. I recognised it instantly inredoubled horror, though not thinking then of consequences for myself.

  By this time a policeman--one of those always present on the aviationgrounds--forced his way through the crowd massed in the corridor. Hegot rid in summary fashion of everyone, except the two ladies,occupants of the room, myself (because I seemed to know and have somebusiness with them) and the landlord. Another policeman who followedclose on his heels, guarded the doors of the adjoining rooms, anddoubtless a third busied himself in sending off frantic telephone calls.

  Helen Hartland lay on her back on the pale grey carpet stained with herblood; and Maida told tremulously how the tragedy had been discovered.The Head Sister, feeling ill, had lain down on a sofa not far from thedoor of communication between this room and the next. She had fancieda noise on the other side, and asked Maida to try if the door werefastened. Strangely, it was not (though Edson cut in to protest thatit, and all other communicating doors were invar
iably locked). Thedoor had opened as the handle turned, and to the girl's horror thefigure of a dead woman--standing squeezed in between the two doors--hadfallen into the room.

  Hardly had the faltering explanation reached this point when a doctorarrived--the man who had been in the hotel, attending Charlie Bridges.He examined the body, pronounced that life had not been extinct forhalf an hour, and thought from the position of the weapon, that deathhad been caused by another hand than Helen's own.

  There was, of course, no difficulty in identifying the girl, for thelandlord and I were both on the spot retained to give evidence. Itsoon came out that Helen Hartland had told Mrs. Edson she expected avisit from Lord John Hasle, and I without hesitation admitted makingit. The Head Sister chimed in, saying that she and her friend had comefor the express purpose of seeing Miss Hartland and persuading her toleave "her unsuitable position." The adjoining room was entered, forit was found that the second of the double doors was unlocked. Theconfusion was remarked, and silence was maintained when I told how injumping up at the sound of the scream I had thrown down a chair andpulled off a tablecloth.

  The books with my name written in them were handled by the policemanwho had taken charge, and by his superior who soon arrived on thescene. Letters of mine--albeit innocent ones--were unearthed. A fewdrops of blood were discovered on the strawberry-coloured carpetbetween the table and the door, as well as between the double doors, inthe narrow space into which the body had been thrust. Worse than all,my monogram was seen to adorn the stiletto paper-knife; and later (whenI had been rather reluctantly arrested on suspicion) the last letterHelen had written turned up in my pocket. I had slipped it in andforgotten about it; but with so many damaging pieces of evidence thatcapped the climax. The girl accused me in so many words of wishing toget her out of the way, to send her back to England.

  It seemed like a nightmare, and a stupid nightmare: one of thosenightmares when you know you are awake yet cannot rouse yourself: I,John Hasle, brother and heir to the Marquis of Haslemere, lay understrong suspicion of having murdered a pretty little third-rate actresswho had become troublesome to my "lordship"--Helen Hartland.

  Everything was against me, nothing apparently for me: yet I was almostinsolently sure that my innocence would prove itself, until the lawyermy friends engaged in my defence showed me how seriously he took thematter.

  "You're in a bad fix," he said, "unless we can find someone to provethat you weren't in that room long enough to have killed the girl andhidden her between the doors. You see, that would have been a smartdodge on the murderer's part, putting her there. If the next roomhadn't happened to be occupied (it seldom is, the landlady says) theman who did the trick would have had plenty of time to get away beforethe crime was found out. It was an accident that there were ladies onthe other side to open the door of their room and see what was behindit. Your letters, your books, your stiletto----"

  "It seems to me the stiletto is a proof of my innocence, not of myguilt," I ventured. "If I'd wanted to kill the girl, I wouldn't havedone it in a way to incriminate myself, would I?"

  "Hobson's choice," said the famous James Jeckelman, shrugging hisshoulders. "You might have been in a rage and a hurry and had to takewhat there was at hand. You couldn't have shot her, because of thenoise. It was a stab or nothing. No. If we're to save you, we mustget hold of someone who _saw_."

  That was easy to say, but not to do. Not a soul came forward to statethat I had opened Helen Hartland's door at precisely five o'clock, tofind the room empty; and that at a quarter past five the girl's bodyhad fallen into the room next door. Even if there had been suchevidence in my favour, it could not have freed me from suspicion.There might have been time to murder the girl, and hide her between thedoors in less than fifteen minutes. But it was strange that she hadnot screamed.

  Circumstantial evidence piled up: and the most hateful part for me wasthat Maida, as well as the directress of the Grey Sisterhood, should becalled as a witness. I writhed at the thought that Maida was involvedin the case, a case concerning the murder of a woman supposed to haveloved me "not wisely but too well."

  At first I thought only of this distressing phase of the business: butit wasn't long before I began to realise that Jeckelman had notexaggerated. My "position" was not to be allowed to tell in my favour,and socialists were hot in anger against the British "lord" who thoughthe could break any commandment he chose in America.

  If only I had been sure how Maida felt, there might have been a rift inthe dark sky. Could it be that her loyalty had stood this greatesttest, or had the evidence and the Head Sister's hatred done their work?I could not tell, and day after day I saw more clearly that I might goto my death without knowing.

  The coroner's inquest had found against me: and the trial was coming onwhen one day Charlie Bridges suddenly woke to consciousness. For weekshe had lain between life and death. The concussion from which hesuffered was so severe that for a time he had been a mere log. Hissoul seemed to have gone out of him. Delirium followed this state.Then he fell into a long, sound sleep, and waking, his first wordswere: "What's happened since I fell? Have they got the man who madeHelen Hartland kill herself?"

  The nurse who heard these questions thought that delirium had seizedher patient again: but the doctor, coming in at that moment, understoodthat Bridges was in a normal state of mind. He realised that everyword the sick man said might mean life or death for me. Cautiously heanswered the question by another, speaking quietly, not to startle hispatient. "Did Helen Hartland kill herself? Weeks have passed sinceyou've been laid up, and the case was supposed to be murder."

  "It was the same as murder," Bridges answered wearily. "Nearlyeveryone who knew us, knew I used to fly past her window and fling in abunch of flowers. It was one of my stunts. I could always see whatHelen was doing if she was in: and there was generally time for asmile. A smile's a thing quickly done. And that was the reward I got.This last time I saw a man standing over her in a strange way with hishand on her forehead, for all the world as if he was hypnotising her: abig tall man I'd never seen before. I was so surprised that I turnedand flew back. The fellow must have seen my flowers fall into the roomwith my first go; but the second time I swooped past, Helen was_stabbing herself_ with a kind of stiletto. That was all I saw. Iwent queer and sick, and felt that I'd lost control. My one thoughtwas to get out and save her. I believe I must have tried to jump.That's the last thing I remember."

  When he had finished, he fell back exhausted, and had to be revived.But there wasn't much time to waste. Knowing the immense importance ofthe statement, Doctor Graves got Bridges to repeat it as soon as he wasable. As the words left his lips they were taken down, and then signedby him. Later he swore that the man he had seen with Helen was notLord John Hasle.

  "If it had been, I'd have let him go to the chair, even if he didn'tkill her with his own hands. I'd not have opened my mouth to helphim," Bridges said. "I hated the fellow because Helen liked him betterthan me. But I must say he didn't seem to encourage her much. AnyhowI can't keep still and let an innocent man die."

  When asked if he could identify the hypnotist. Bridges was not sure.All he could say "for certain," he persisted, was that "John Hasle wasyounger and slighter and altogether a different type: there was nochance of a mistake."

  I was saved--saved by my rival, poor Charlie Bridges, the last man onearth to whom I should have looked for help. But then, his help didn'tprecisely come from the earth: it came from the air.

  I had been a fool, and I felt unworthy of the traditions I had made formyself, not to have suspected in what manner the crime had beencommitted. Of course I had thought of Doctor Rameses. I thoughtalways of Doctor Rameses! But I had not seen any way of connecting himwith the murder of Helen Hartland, even if he were the man to whom shehad gone for lessons in "will power." Now, I saw the way, and Ibelieved that at last the police would see also. Indeed, they wereready to see. When Rameses' name as one of the leadin
g "crank doctors"of New York was earnestly brought forward by me, it was arranged thatBridges was to be given a sight of him. Unfortunately, however, on theday when the California Birdman first woke from his long trance, and itwas prematurely announced in the papers that his delirium might befollowed by a return of normal consciousness, Doctor Rameses left townfor a holiday. His servants said that he had been suffering fromnervous strain through hard work, and had been preparing for some timeto take a rest. His favourite summer country resort was, it appeared,the White Mountains. He was sought there, but not found. And Ibelieved that he never would be found--unless by me.

  My only happy souvenir of these miserable weeks was a letter fromMaida, which I shall keep as long as I live.

  "I knew from the first that you were innocent," she wrote, "and if Ihad been called I intended to say so in the witness-box."