The Sixty-First Second

by Owen Johnson

  *CHAPTER X*

  When, the next morning, Beecher struggled out of a profound stupor, itwas to be awakened by the sounds of Bo Lynch at the telephone. Herolled out of bed after a startled gaze at his watch, recalling in aflash the incidents of the night before. As he emerged he heard thefinal phrase, and the click of the released receiver:

  "Sell at once--throw them over."

  Bo Lynch, a pad of paper in one hand, a tumbler of cracked ice in theother, already dressed for the day, greeted him nonchalantly:

  "Morning."

  "How late did you stay?" asked Beecher.

  "Oh, we breakfasted together," said Lynch, with a wry smile; "charminglittle repast. But I picked up enough to pay for my winter's stabling."

  Beecher glanced at the clock, which was approaching the hour.

  "Waiting for the opening?"

  "Yes." His glance followed Beecher's with a sudden concentration, and,taking up a matchbox, he struck a match and threw it away. "Waiting tosee if I can escape working another year."

  Beecher, comprehending that sympathy would be distasteful, picked up themorning papers. The scareheads were alive with the note of panic: adozen banks were threatened with runs; a rumor was abroad that theAtlantic Trust and two other great institutions might close their doorswithin the next twenty-four hours; an interview with Majendie protestedagainst the action of the Clearing-house, asserting the recklessness ofthe move and the solvency of the Trust Company; a riot was feared on theEast Side, where the small Jewish depositors, always prey to alarms,were in a state of frenzy; vague, guarded hints of further actions to beexpected by the Clearing-house against another prominent chain of banks,and a report that John G. Slade was to tender his resignation, werejoined with rumors from the office of the State Examiner of Banks thatthere might be grounds for the criminal prosecution of certainofficials.

  The telephone rang. Lynch went to the receiver, arranging his padmethodically on the table. Beecher stopped reading, listening to thebroken threads.

  "All right, go ahead." ...

  "How much?" ...

  "Whew! Give me the Northern Pacific figures now." ...

  "Yes--yes--I see." ...

  "Something of a break, isn't it?" ...

  "All right." ...

  "No--that's all in the game. Thank you. I'll send my check to-day.Thanks."

  He put up the receiver, glanced curiously at the clock, which markedtwelve minutes after ten, and studied the pad.

  Beecher had never been intimate with Lynch, but he liked him and hisstandards of Britannic phlegm. He belonged to that curious freemasonryof men, an indefinable, invisible standard of association, but one thatcannot be counterfeited.

  "How did you come out?" he said carelessly.

  "About as I expected. The market has gone wild."

  Bo Lynch poured out a morning peg, adjusted his cravat critically in themirror, and took up his hat.

  "Lunching at the club?"

  "Not to-day."

  "It'll be a cheerful funeral. So long."

  After his departure Beecher studied the jotted figures on the pad. Inthe twelve minutes of the opening, Lynch had lost a clear thirty-twothousand dollars.

  By the time he had dressed and breakfasted, he had answered thetelephone a dozen times, messages from men he knew, anxious to learn ifhis intimacy with young Gunther had brought him any valuableinformation; inquiries as to the effect on his personal fortunes, andrumors of individual losses.

  He himself remained undisturbed by the frenzy. His own fortune, thanksto the wise provision of a hard-headed father, was safely invested insolid properties, and the world of speculation had not entered his ken.He returned to his newspapers, read everything bearing on the personalfate of John G. Slade, which interested him extraordinarily since hisencounter with that abrupt and forceful personality, and, rising, askedhimself how he could kill the time until the hour of his luncheon withRita Kildair.

  The irritation he had felt at the end of his ride with Nan Charters haddisappeared. Studying the evening calmly, he analyzed her words with aclearer perception. He comprehended that, beyond all the cleverness ofher attitude, she had been veritably piqued by his indifference and hisabsorption by Emma Fornez, who treated her as a little actress.Considering the encounter thus, he smiled occasionally, congratulatinghimself that the conversation had ended so abruptly--when a continuancewould have led him perhaps to say some of those sudden, illogicalremarks which are irresistibly drawn from a man by the provoking contactof certain feminine personalities.

  "She may say what she wants," he said, selecting a cigarette. "She wascaught by her own tricks." He took several steps, and grinned tohimself. "It's an amusing game, and a game that will be amusing toplay."

  Despite this feeling of confidence and elation, he had an irresistibledesire to telephone her, to indulge himself in the pleasure of hearingher voice again. He had resisted the impulse several times, convincinghimself of the tactical error; and yet, the more he argued against it,the more the desire haunted him.

  Ordinarily he spent an agreeable half-hour after breakfast, calling upon the telephone those of the opposite sex with whom he was in therelation of a good comrade. He enjoyed these morning snatches ofintimacy, with an enjoyment untouched with any seriousness. Thismorning, as he took the telephone in hand, he thought first of EmmaFornez, but as he had neglected to make his adieu to her on leaving withNan Charters, he considered a moment while he formulated an acceptableapology.

  The prima donna answered him from the languid idleness of her bed, whereshe was resting in a state of complete exhaustion.

  "I am ab-so-lutely _fini_," she said in an anguished tone. "It isfright-ful. I shall never be able to sing--never!" Then sheremembered. "I am very angry with you--yes, yes,--very angry."

  Beecher explained, with crocodile tears, how he had been forced to cometo the aid of a distressed and helpless female.

  "Ta-ta-ta! Stuff and nonsense! You could have boxed her up in acarriage and sent her home--yes, yes, you could. But you are inlove--you are weak--you wanted an excuse--she made a fool of you--shetwisted you around her finger!"

  Beecher denied the charge with indignation.

  "If you wanted to, you could have come back to me--yes, you could."

  "But you had deserted me--I was furious."

  The conversation continued ten minutes on these purely conventionallines and ended with a promise to drop in that afternoon for tea.

  He had hardly ended when Mrs. Fontaine called up with an invitation toher box, for Mme. Fornez's debut in Carmen the following week.

  Then he called up Miss Rivers, not because he particularly wished totalk with her, for he had determined on her decapitation, so to speak,but in order to appease somewhat the desire he had to telephone some oneelse. In conversing over the telephone, he felt a revival of interestand promised to try to drop in for a call that afternoon.

  He rose, looking down at the telephone in a dissatisfied way, and,turning his back, went in search of his hat.

  "She'll expect me to telephone, of course," he thought; "besides, whatexcuse could I give? I'm not going to play into her game--not by a longshot. I know the kind--entirely too much brain-work to suit me. Oh,yes, she'd like to annex me--because I've been attentive to EmmaFornez--sure; but when it comes down to business. Mr. Charles Lorrainehas a hundred thousand a year and I have thirty. She knows that." Helaughed disdainfully and repeated, "You bet she knows that--well, so doI."

  He returned to the sitting-room and selected a cane, glancing out of thecorner of his eye at the accursed telephone.

  "I won't," he said, taking three steps toward it and then turningabruptly away.

  At the moment when he stood wavering, it began to ring. He went to ithastily. Miss Charters was calling him...

  "How lucky!" he said purposely. "I was just going out. I heard youfrom the hall."

  "You know, I never realized until this morning what I h
ad done," saidthe voice at the other end. "I was so upset by Mr. Lorraine's conditionthat I forgot you were there with Madame Fornez."

  "Clever girl," he said to himself, smiling. Then aloud: "Oh, Iexplained matters."

  "I was afraid I'd got you into trouble."

  "No, indeed. Madame Fornez is a good sort; she understood at once."

  "I'm so glad. You've 'phoned her already then?"

  "Yes."

  He remembered McKenna's suggestion, but he did not wish to make thedemand direct.

  "Something of a smash in Wall Street to-day," he said carelessly.

  "You weren't caught, were you?" she said, with a note of quick sympathywhich he admired.

  "No; I don't speculate."

  "I was afraid you might have."

  "By Jove," he said, "I hope you didn't lose anything."

  "No, I don't think so," she said doubtfully. "I had some moneyinvested, but I suppose if I hold on that'll come up again."

  "Not on margins?"

  "No, indeed."

  "Who's your broker?"

  "Mr. Garraboy."

  "Who?"

  "Mr. Garraboy."

  The news produced on him a strangely ominous effect. He forgot all theparleying and the tactical planning of his campaign, overshadowed by asudden sense of sympathy.

  "I want to talk to you about that," he said anxiously. "Have you muchin his hands?"

  "Much for me--about twenty thousand."

  "Are you going to be in this afternoon? Can I see you?"

  "I wish you would."

  Something in her voice struck him by its weakness.

  "You are not worried, are you?" he said.

  "A little."

  "Why don't you call him up?"

  "I've been trying to."

  He was going to offer to telephone for her, when he remembered theantagonism he had felt for the broker, and refrained until a fullerknowledge. He reassured her, making light of her doubts, though feelingan instinctive anxiety for himself. Then he called up McKenna; but thedetective was out, and, leaving word that he would try later, he wentfor his morning ride.

  A little before one o'clock he was in the softly lighted studio of Mrs.Kildair, waiting for his hostess with the pleasurable anticipation of aconfidential tete-a-tete. On one thing he was thoroughly resolved--toconvince her of the seriousness of his purpose in offering hisassistance. As he paced slowly and irregularly about the room, hismind, perplexed by the mystery of the disappearance of the ring,instinctively considering the possibilities for concealment, he wassurprised to hear, behind the closed doors of the bedroom, the sound ofvoices in agitated discussion. He stopped, perplexed, for in his walkabout the room he had arrived at a point in such close proximity thatthe tones were easily distinguishable.

  "But I have already made up my mind," cried a voice which he recognizedat once as Mrs. Bloodgood's.

  Mrs. Kildair answered her, but in a lower tone--a note of warning andremonstrance.

  "Oh, what do I care for the world!" repeated the voice, on a highernote. "The world is all against me. I have only one life--I want tolive some of it."

  Beecher, ill at ease, realizing that he had stumbled on a situationwhich he had no right to surprise, tip-toed away. Hardly had he seatedhimself when the door opened brusquely, and Mrs. Bloodgood appeared,saying:

  "No, no; it is decided. I'm going. My only regret is that we waited solong."

  Two spots of red showed on her dark cheeks, while her head was carrieddefiant, alive with sudden energy. Beecher was struck with the unwontedbrilliancy and youth which the emotion that possessed her hadcommunicated to her whole body. Mrs. Kildair followed her, with thefrown of one who disapproves, but who knows the futility of anycontradiction.

  Beecher rose hastily, emerging from the shadow. The two women stopped,surprised at his presence, considering him nervously. The few snatchesof conversation he had heard, coupled with what Gunther had revealed tohim of the infatuation of Mrs. Bloodgood and Majendie, made him divinethe intention of elopement they had been discussing. His sympathy wastouched by the distress of the young woman, and, advancing quickly, hesaid, with a pretense of shame:

  "By Jove, I must have been nodding! A thousand pardons."

  "How long have you been here?" said Mrs. Kildair.

  "About ten minutes," he said, rubbing his eyes and laughing. "Confoundthat chair--it's infernally comfortable, after being up all night. Youmade me jump."

  Mrs. Bloodgood had regained her calm. She embraced Mrs. Kildair andheld out her hand to Beecher.

  "Won't you let me see you to your carriage?" he said eagerly, with asmile of such good will that she perceived that whatever he hadoverheard, she had no need to fear.

  "It's not necessary--but thank you," she said, giving him a gratefulsmile.

  He went to the door, opening it with a little exaggerated courtesy, andreturned thoughtfully to Mrs. Kildair, who was watching him fixedly.

  "You overheard?" she said directly.

  "A little."

  "And what did you understand from it?"

  "Why, frankly, knowing what I do, I should believe that Mrs. Bloodgoodhad decided to run away," he answered slowly; "which means, of course,one man. I am sorry. I could not help hearing."

  Mrs. Kildair had seated herself on the Recamier sofa and was studyinghim, undecided as to what she should say.

  "You have heard too much, Teddy, not to know all," she said, reassuredby the directness of his glance. "Besides, in twenty-four hours it willbe in every paper in the country. I do not need to ask your promise tokeep secret what you have heard. She is leaving her home and goingopenly away with Mr. Majendie--this very afternoon."

  "Majendie running off?" said Beecher, astounded.

  "Yes."

  "Now--at such a time as this--when he is under fire? I don't believeit!"

  "I should not have believed it either," said Mrs. Kildair thoughtfully.

  "I know his kind," declared Beecher warmly; "he would never commit sucha folly--never!"

  "And yet, that is what is going to happen."

  "That is terrible. Doesn't she realize that he lays himself open toevery charge? He'll be called a defaulter and an absconder--it is worsethan death!"

  "She realizes nothing," said Mrs. Kildair in a solemn voice, "exceptthat she has hated one man and lived with him ten years, and that now,when everything is against the man she adores, she will sacrificeanything to be at his side."

  "But the sacrifice he is making--"

  "Her sacrifice is too great--she doesn't realize that," said Mrs.Kildair, rising. "Poor Elise! Her life has been terrible. She is wildwith anxiety, with the thought of what Majendie may do. When one hassuffered as much as she has, one more sorrow will not stop her."

  Beecher was silent, overcome by the vision of an emptiness which hecould divine only in a general way, having as yet little knowledge ofthe silent tragedies that pass at our elbows. When Mrs. Kildair turnedagain, it was with all her accustomed poise.

  "We can do nothing," she said calmly. "Let us forget it. Luncheon is alittle late. We shall be three; I asked Mr. Slade to join us. By theway, you were kind enough to offer me your help in the matter of myring. I shan't need it now, but thanks all the same."

  "What do you mean?" he asked, surprised.

  "My detectives assure me they are on the right track," she saidcarelessly. "All I ask of you, as I have of every one, is to keep thisunfortunate occurrence to yourself."

  Beecher had been on the point of informing her of his retaining McKenna,confident of her approval. Ignorant as he was of Mrs. Kildair's dreadthat Slade's ownership of the ring might come to light, with all theconsequent public misunderstanding, he was disagreeably impressed by herannouncement. He did not for one moment believe her statement that theright clue had been found. All he understood was that, for some reason,she desired to keep him out of the case, and this understandingirritated him. And the introduction of Slade at what he had conside
redhis privileged hour annoyed him even more. His curiosity increasedtwofold as he was forced to retain his information. Then he rememberedMcKenna's hint, and said carelessly:

  "By Jove, that reminds me--I want the address of your detective agency."

  She raised her eyes very slowly, and her glance rested on his for a fullmoment.

  "Why do you ask that?" she said.

  He repeated the story he had prepared of a friend's demand, mentioningGunther's name.

  Mrs. Kildair rose as though reluctantly, motioning him to wait, and,going to her room, returned after a long moment with an address on aslip of paper.

  "There, Teddy," she said, giving it to him. Her manner had completelychanged. She was again the Rita Kildair who treated him _en camarade_."You are disappointed in not working out an exciting mystery," she said,laughing. "Do you know, Teddy, I am quite surprised at you."

  "How so?" he said warily.

  "I should have thought by this time you would have engaged half thedetectives in New York," she said, turning from him to arrange thecushions at her back. "And here you have done nothing."

  Beecher was not deceived by the innocence of the interrogation.

  In the last days his wits had been trained by contact with differentfeminine personalities. He understood that she wished to find out whathe had done and assumed at once an attitude of boyish candor.

  "It's not my fault, Rita," he said contritely. "You put me off--youremember."

  "That's so," she said. She motioned to him with a little gesture of herfingers and indicated a chair at her side. "Come here, you great boy,"she said, smiling. "You are furious at me, aren't you?"

  "Why?" he said, sitting near her, with a resolve to resist all hercuriosity.

  "You like to be the confidant of pretty women, Teddy," she said,laughing as he blushed. "To be on the inside--to know what otherscan't. Well, you shan't be deprived."

  He looked at her in surprise.

  "What I told you is not true," she said candidly. "I have no clue, asyet, and am quite in the dark. I give you permission to do all you can.You see," she continued, holding out her hand with a charming smile, "Igive you my full confidence--confidence for confidence--_n'est ce pas_?"

  Beecher made a rapid mental reservation and repeated her phrase,expecting a direct examination, but her manner became thoughtful againand she said pensively:

  "Besides, you have stumbled on a confidence yourself, and if you are tobe trusted with that you should be trusted entirely." She looked at himquietly for a moment, and then added: "As a proof of my trust, Teddy, Iam going to ask you to be my ally now. Mr. Slade will be here shortly.I do not wish to be alone with him. Do not go until he is gone."

  This request, implying as it did his own superior intimacy, delightedBeecher. He felt half of his suspicions vanish as he answered wisely:

  "I understand. He is quite daffy about you, isn't he?"

  "Quite. But he has to be kept in place."

  "Oh, of course."

  "And now you are happy again," she said, tapping his arm with a littlefriendly gesture and smiling inwardly at the satisfaction which began toradiate from his face. "Teddy, you are a nice boy. I will teach youwhat the world is; you shall be my confidant, and we will laughtogether; only, you must not be sentimental, you understand."

  "Never," he said with vigorous assertion. Then his conscience began toreprove him, and he blurted out: "I say, Rita, I haven't been quitehonest, but you rubbed me the wrong way. I really have been on thejob."

  "Besides Gunther, whom else have you talked with?" she asked.

  "McKenna, the detective; and he's dead keen on the case," he saidenthusiastically, not noticing what she had implied.

  "Oh, McKenna!" she said, nodding appreciatively. "You have done well."

  She sat up, suddenly serious, and, extending her hand, took from him theaddress she had given him.

  "Did McKenna tell you to find out my detective?" she said slowly.

  Beecher comprehended all at once how he had played into her game, but,with her glance on his, it was impossible to deny.

  "Yes," he said; "he told me that he'd been on a dozen cases where thedetectives who had come in to make a search had gone partners with thethief. He wanted to be certain there had been a real search."

  This seemed to reassure her, for she nodded with a return of hercareless manner, as though comprehending the situation. Then, crumplingin her hands the paper with the address, she allowed her body to regainits former languid position and said:

  "I should like to meet McKenna; you must bring him around. How is hestarting on the case?"

  Before Beecher could answer, the bell rang and Slade's bulky figurecrowded the frame of the doorway. He entered, and the portieres, at hispassing, rolled back like two storm clouds.

  Whether or not Mrs. Kildair had calculated the effect of the intimacy ofBeecher's position, Slade saw it at once as he noted savagely theinvoluntary separating movement which each unconsciously performed, and,perceiving it, exaggerated its importance. The look he gave the youngerman revealed to the amused woman how much he would have liked inbarbaric freedom to have seized him and crushed him in his powerfularms.

  "Sorry to be late," he said abruptly, glancing at the clock. "I'vetaken the liberty to leave your telephone number, Mrs. Kildair, in casesomething important turns up."

  They passed immediately into the dining-room, Mrs. Kildair enjoying thisclash of opposite personalities. Slade was not a man of small talk,disdaining the easy and ingratiating phrases with which other menestablish a congenial intimacy. For the first quarter of an hour hewithdrew from the conversation, and, being hungry, ate with relish.Beecher, abetted by his hostess, taking a malicious pleasure in thesuperiority he enjoyed, chatted of a hundred and one things which heshared with his listener, incidents of the party at Lindabury's, gossipof the world they knew, Emma Fornez and Holliday, Mrs. Fontaine andGunther. Then, naturally drawn to the one topic that charged the airwith the electricity of its drama, he related the uproar in the city,the long lines of depositors before the banks, the incident of Bo Lynchin the morning, and the effect on the men they knew. In this both heand Mrs. Kildair had an ulterior motive--to make Slade talk: Mrs.Kildair, for reasons of her own, Beecher alive to his dramatic closenessto the one man about whose success or ruin all the storm of rumor andgossip was raging.

  "Stocks are still dropping," said Mrs. Kildair, glancing at Slade, whoappeared quite unconscious. "An enormous quantity of holdings have beenthrown on the market."

  "How long do you think it will keep up?"

  "That depends; a day, a week--Mr. Slade knows better than any one."

  Slade looked up suddenly.

  "What do they say about me?" he asked grimly.

  "Every one expects the Associated Trust to be the next," said Beecherfrankly.

  "Probably. I'll tell you one bit of news," he added quietly. "TheClearing-house will refuse to clear for us this afternoon."

  "But that means failure," said Mrs. Kildair, with a quick glance at him.

  "We shall see."

  "But the run has already started."

  "Oh, yes; we have paid off five depositors already," he said, with asmile that was almost imperceptible.

  "Only five?"

  "It takes a long time to verify some accounts. Then the law allowsdiscretion in payment--takes quite a while to count out five thousand inhalf dollars." All at once he leaned forward heavily and began tospeak, contemplatively interested. "The real truth is the thing that isnever known. The newspapers never print the news. Sometimes it isgiven to them in confidence, to make certain that they won't print it.How much do you suppose will ever be known of the real causes of thepresent crisis? Nothing. They may let the market go to the dogs forthree days, six days, a month, ruin thousands of victims, and the publicwill never know that the whole thing can be stopped now, in twenty-fourhours, by ten men. And, when they get ready, ten men _will_ stop it.Then there'll be columns of ad
ulation--patriotic services, unselfishdevotion, and all that; and what will have happened--ten men will be inpocket a few millions as the result of their sacrificing devotion. Thepublic must have a victim in order to be calmed, to be satisfied thateverything has been changed. Then a weak man, some unlucky lieutenant,will be served up, and things will go on again, until one group ofmillions is ready to attack another. How the public will howl! Majendiehas taken the gambler's risk; Majendie has failed. There's thecrime--failure; and yet, ninety per cent. of the fortunes today haveturned on the scale--up or down--win or lose. For every promoter thatwins, twenty fail with a little different turn of the luck.

  "We're all criminals--only we don't steal directly. We get it done forus. We want franchises for a great railroad system. We shut oureyes--hire an agent--go out and get this, no strings, nodirections--show us only your results! Everything is inirresponsibility. A million dollars can commit no crime. After all,it's in the motive--a man who steals because he's hungry is a thief; acorporation that bribes a legislature and steals franchises, to create agreat system of transportation, is performing a public service. It'sall in what you're after. There're two ways to look at every big man;see the two periods--first, when he is trying to get togethermoney--power; and second, what he creates when he has it. Same inpolitics--a man's better in office than running for it. Every man ofpower wants to arrive, anything to arrive, but when he getsthere--then's the second period. The way to judge us is whether we wantmoney only, or money to create something big."

  "And you?"

  "I want sixty millions," said Slade abruptly. "Will I get it?" Heshrugged his shoulders, and taking a knife balanced it in seesaw on hisfinger, letting it finally drop with an exclamation of impatience."That's the danger--the getting of it. I may have it in two years moreand then again--" He opened his hand as though flinging sand in theair, and added: "In a week it may be over. _Rouge et noir_--one badturn at the beginning and Napoleon Bonaparte would have been shot as aconspirator. Up to the present, I've been living the firstperiod--afterward I'll justify it; I'll build."

  "In what way?" said Mrs. Kildair, who, while following his brutalexposition with the tribute instinctive to force, was nevertheless awarethat this unusual revelation of himself had likewise a triflingobject--the over-awing of the younger rival.

  "Railroads--a great system--an empire in itself," said Slade; and therecame in his eyes a flash of the enthusiast which surprised her. But,unwilling to enlarge on this topic, he continued: "What I've said soundsraw, doesn't it? So it is. If I do what I want, I justify myself.There are only two classes of human beings--those like you two here, whoget through life with the most pleasure you can, who get through--passthrough; and then a few, a handful, who create something--an empire,like Rhodes, invent a locomotive or a system of electric production, addsomething to human history. What if they steal, or grind out the livesof others? They're the only ones who count. And the public knows it--itforgives everything to greatness; it's only petty crime it hates. Lookat the sympathy a murderer gets on trial--look at the respect a greatmanipulator gets. Why? Because to murder and steal are natural humaninstincts. A couple of thousand years ago, it was a praiseworthy actfor one ancestor, who coveted a hide or a cave that another ancestorhad, to go out and kill him. All animals steal by instinct. We areonly badly educated animals, and we admire in others what we don't daredo ourselves. Only succeed--succeed! Ah, there is the whole of it!"

  At this moment the telephone rang, and Slade rose and went to it with alittle more emotion than he usually showed.

  "Is this the cause of his outburst?" thought Mrs. Kildair, while she andBeecher instinctively remained silent.

  At the end of a short moment, Slade returned. The two observers, whoglanced at him quickly, could not find the slightest clue of what hadtranspired. Only he seemed more composed.

  "Speaking of stealing, take the case of the ring," he said, relaxing ina chair. "We know this--incredible as it may seem--that there were atleast two thieves in the company; as a matter of fact, there were manymore. My own opinion is that the crime was not an ordinary one--thatwhoever took it the second time took it out of an uncontrollable spiritof bravado, an overpowering impulse to do an almost impossible thing."

  "By the way--" Beecher began, and then suddenly looked at Mrs. Kildairinterrogatively. Then, receiving permission, he continued: "You knowwho returned that night?"

  Slade nodded.

  "Yourself, Mrs. Cheever, Garraboy, and Miss Charters."

  "Miss Charters?" said Beecher, turning in amazement to Mrs. Kildair.

  She nodded, with a little frown.

  "As I told Mrs. Kildair," said Slade, not noticing that Beecher,overwhelmed by this discovery, did not hear him, "I do not believe for amoment that the thief would return. Any one who had the daring to seizethe ring the second time had the daring to carry off the ring; in fact,had some such plan in mind. Whoever came back may have come back out ofsympathy, or with the idea that the ring was still in the studio--inwhich case, we have a third manifestation of instinct."

  They had passed into the studio again. Slade spoke with all his olddecision, the energy of action replacing the bitterness of his formermeditative mood. He glanced at the clock, and took his leave in aquick, impersonal manner. Beecher, ignoring the looks Mrs. Kildair senthim, departed with Slade, refusing an invitation to join him in theautomobile, and continuing on foot.

  He was absolutely at a loss to account for Miss Charters' returning tothe studio after having gone to her apartment. If she had anysuggestion to offer, why had she not waited, or even requested him toreturn with her? Why, in fact, could she not have waited until thefollowing day--instead of risking the journey at such an hour?

  Full of disturbing surmises, he continued his walk until he reached thegreat thoroughfare of Forty-second Street, where he turned eastwardtoward the station, oblivious to the excitement in the street, thebreak-neck arrival of the newspaper wagons and the sudden, shrillscattering of urchins, extras in hand.

  All at once, at the western corner of the station, he raised his eyesinstinctively. A coupe with trunks behind it disengaged itself from theconfusion of traffic and, turning, slowly passed him. Inside, herecognized the dark, defiant eyes of Mrs. Enos Bloodgood.

  In a moment he guessed the full significance of her presence: she hadcome to meet Majendie, to burn all bridges behind her, in the supremesacrifice of everything for the possession of a happiness she had neverknown.

  The next instant he was gazing horror-stricken at the head-lines of anextra that a newsboy flung in his face:

  SUICIDE OF BERNARD L. MAJENDIE

  He became perfectly collected, clear in mind and instinctive in action,with the decision he had felt in the last charges of a wounded elephant.If Mrs. Bloodgood were here, it was because she expected to meetMajendie; because she was ignorant of the tragedy that had taken place.

  Retracing his steps, he arrived at the carriage the moment Mrs.Bloodgood's hand had thrown open the door.

  "Excuse me," he said, with an authority which instantly impressed thewoman by its ominous seriousness. "Something terrible has happened. Imust speak to you." Then, turning to the coachman, without beingoverheard, he gave him Mrs. Kildair's address, saying: "Drive therequickly. Five dollars to you if you get me there in ten minutes."

  Then he opened the door and joined the woman who, drawn back in thecorner like an animal at bay, already trembling with what she did notknow, awaited him.