The Tracer of Lost Persons caressed his chin reflectively. “Exactly, Miss Smith. So this is the disease which Dr. Hollis has chosen for her specialty. And only one case on record. Exactly. Thank you.”
Miss Smith replaced the papers in the steel cylinder, slipped it into the pneumatic tube, sent it whizzing below to the safe-deposit vaults, and, saluting Mr. Keen with a pleasant inclination of her head, went out of the room.
The Tracer turned in his chair, picked up the daily detective report, and scanned it until he came to the name Hollis. It appeared that the daily routine of Rosalind Hollis had not varied during the past three weeks. In the mornings she was good to the poor with bottles and pills; in the afternoons she tucked one of Lamour’s famous sixteen volumes under her arm and walked to Central Park, where, with democratic simplicity, she sat on a secluded bench and pored over the symptoms of Lamour’s Disease. About five she retired to her severely simple apartments in the big brownstone office building devoted to physicians, corner of Fifty-eighth Street and Madison Avenue. Here she took tea, read a little, dined all alone, and retired about nine. This was the guileless but determined existence of Rosalind Hollis, M.D., according to McConnell, the detective assigned to observe her.
The Tracer refolded the report of his chief of detectives and pigeonholed it just as the door opened and a tall, well-built, attractive young man entered.
Shyness was written all over him; he offered his hand to Mr. Keen with an embarrassed air and seated himself at that gentleman’s invitation.
“I’m almost sorry I ever began this sort of thing,” he blurted out, like a big schoolboy appalled at his own misdemeanors. “The truth is, Mr. Keen, that the prospect of actually seeing a ‘Carden Girl’ alive has scared me through and through. I’ve a notion that my business with that sort of a girl ends when I’ve drawn her picture.”
“But surely,” said the Tracer mildly, “you have some natural curiosity to see the living copy of your charming but inanimate originals, haven’t you, Mr. Carden?”
“Yes — oh, certainly. I’d like to see one of them alive — say out of a window, or from a cab. I should not care to be too close to her.”
“But merely seeing her does not commit you,” interposed Mr. Keen, smiling. “She is far too busy, too much absorbed in her own affairs to take any notice of you. I understand that she has something of an aversion for men.”
“Aversion!”
“Well, she excludes them as unnecessary to her existence.”
“Why?” asked Carden.
“Because she has a mission in life,” said Mr. Keen gravely.
Carden looked out of the window. It was pleasant weather — June in all its early loveliness — the fifth day of June. The sixth was his birthday.
“I’ve simply got to marry somebody before the day after to-morrow,” he said aloud— “that is, if I want my legacy.”
“What!” demanded the Tracer sharply.
Carden turned, pink and guilty. “I didn’t tell you all the circumstances of my case,” he said. “I suppose I ought to have done so.”
“Exactly,” said the Tracer severely. “Why is it necessary that you marry somebody before the day after to-morrow?”
“Well, it’s my twenty-fifth birthday—”
“Somebody has left you money on condition that you marry before your twenty-fifth birthday? Is that it, Mr. Carden? An uncle? An imbecile grandfather? A sentimental aunt?”
“My Aunt Tabby Van Beekman.”
“Where is she?”
“In Trinity churchyard. It’s too late to expostulate with her, you see. Besides, it wouldn’t have done any good when she was alive.”
The Tracer knitted his brows, musing, the points of his slim fingers joined.
“She was very proud, very autocratic,” said Carden. “I am the last of my race and my aunt was determined that the race should not die out with me. I don’t want to marry and increase, but she’s trying to make me. At all events, I am not going to marry any woman inferior to the type I have created with my pencil — what the public calls the ‘Carden Girl.’ And now you see that your discovery of this living type comes rather late. In two days I must be legally married if I want my Aunt Tabby’s legacy; and to-day for the first time I hear of a girl who, you assure me, compares favorably to my copyrighted type, but who has a mission and an aversion to men. So you see, Mr. Keen, that the matter is perfectly hopeless.”
“I don’t see anything of the kind,” said Mr. Keen firmly.
“What? — do you believe there is any chance—”
“Of your falling in love within the next hour or so? Yes, I do. I think there is every chance of it. I am sure of it. But that is not the difficulty. The problem is far more complicated.”
“You mean—”
“Exactly; how to marry that girl before day after to-morrow. That’s the problem, Mr. Carden! — not whether you are capable of falling in love with her. I have seen her; I know you can’t avoid falling in love with her. Nobody could. I myself am on the verge of it; and I am fifty: you can’t avoid loving her.”
“If that were so,” said Carden gravely; “if I were really going to fall in love with her — I would not care a rap about my Aunt Tabby and her money—”
“You ought to care about it for this young girl’s sake. That legacy is virtually hers, not yours. She has a right to it. No man can ever give enough to the woman he loves; no man has ever done so. What she gives and what he gives are never a fair exchange. If you can balance the account in any measure, it is your duty to do it. Mr. Carden, if she comes to love you she may think it very fine that you bring to her your love, yourself, your fame, your talents, your success, your position, your gratifying income. But I tell you it’s not enough to balance the account. It is never enough — no, not all your devotion to her included! You can never balance the account on earth — all you can do is to try to balance it materially and spiritually. Therefore I say, endow her with all your earthly goods. Give all you can in every way to lighten as much as possible man’s hopeless debt to all women who have ever loved.”
“You talk about it as though I were already committed,” said Carden, astonished.
“You are, morally. For a month I have, without her knowledge, it is true, invaded the privacy of a very lovely young girl — studied her minutely, possessed myself of her history, informed myself of her habits. What excuse had I for this unless I desired her happiness and yours? Nobody could offer me any inducement to engage in such a practice unless I believed that the means might justify a moral conclusion. And the moral conclusion of this investigation is your marriage to her.”
“Certainly,” said Carden uneasily, “but how are we going to accomplish it by to-morrow? How is it going to be accomplished at all?”
The Tracer of Lost Persons rose and began to pace the long rug, clasping his hands behind his back. Minute after minute sped; Carden stared alternately at Mr. Keen and at the blue sky through the open window.
“It is seldom,” said Mr. Keen with evident annoyance, “that I personally take any spectacular part in the actual and concrete demonstrations necessary to a successful conclusion of a client’s case. But I’ve got to do it this time.”
He went to a cupboard, picked out a gray wig and gray side whiskers and deliberately waved them at Carden.
“You see what these look like?” he demanded.
“Y-yes.”
“Very well. It is now noon. Do you know the Park? Do you happen to recollect a shady turn in the path after you cross the bridge over the swan lake? Here; I’ll draw it for you. Now, here is the lake; here’s the esplanade and fountain, you see. Here’s the path. You follow it — so! — around the lake, across the bridge, then following the lake to the right — so! — then up the wooded slope to the left — so! Now, here is a bench. I mark it Number One. She sits there with her book — there she is!”
“If she looks like that—” began Carden. And they both laughed with the slightest trace of exc
itement.
“Here is Bench Number Two!” resumed the Tracer. “Here you sit — and there you are!”
MR. KEEN’S SKETCH OF THE RENDEZVOUS
“Thanks,” said Carden, laughing again.
“Now,” continued the Tracer, “you must be there at one o’clock. She will be there at one-thirty, or earlier perhaps. A little later I will become benignly visible. Your part is merely a thinking part; you are to do nothing, say nothing, unless spoken to. And when you are spoken to you are to acquiesce in whatever anybody says to you, and you are to do whatever anybody requests you to do. And, above all, don’t be surprised at anything that may happen. You’ll be nervous enough; I expect that. You’ll probably color up and flush and fidget; I expect that; I count on that. But don’t lose your nerve entirely; and don’t think of attempting to escape.”
“Escape! From what? From whom?”
“From her.”
“Her?”
“Are you going to follow my instructions?” demanded the Tracer of Lost Persons.
“I — y-yes, of course.”
“Very well, then, I am going to rub some of this under your eyes.” And Mr. Keen produced a make-up box and, walking over to Carden, calmly darkened the skin under his eyes.
“I look as though I had been on a bat!” exclaimed Carden, surveying himself in a mirror. “Do you think any girl could find any attraction in such a countenance?”
“She will,” observed the Tracer meaningly. “Now, Mr. Carden, one last word: The moment you find yourself in love with her, and the first moment you have the chance to do so decently, make love to her. She won’t dismiss you; she will repulse you, of course, but she won’t let you go. I know what I am saying; all I ask of you is to promise on your honor to carry out these instructions. Do you promise?”
“I do.”
“Then here is the map of the rendezvous which I have drawn. Be there promptly. Good morning.”
CHAPTER XXII
At one o’clock that afternoon a young man earnestly consulting a map might have been seen pursuing his solitary way through Central Park. Fresh green foliage arched above him, flecking the path with fretted shadow and sunlight; the sweet odor of flowering shrubs saturated the air; the waters of the lake sparkled where swans swept to and fro, snowy wings spread like sails to the fitful June wind.
“This,” he murmured, pausing at a shaded bend in the path, “must be Bench Number One. I am not to sit on that. This must be Bench Number Two. I am to sit on that. So here I am,” he added nervously, seating himself and looking about him with the caution of a cat in a strange back yard.
There was nobody in sight. Reassured, he ventured to drop one knee over the other and lean upon his walking stick. For a few minutes he remained in this noncommittal attitude, alert at every sound, anxious, uncomfortable, dreading he knew not what. A big, fat, gray squirrel racing noisily across the fallen leaves gave him a shock. A number of birds came to look at him — or so it appeared to him, for in the inquisitive scrutiny of a robin he fancied he divined sardonic meaning, and in the blank yellow stare of a purple grackle, a sinister significance out of all proportion to the size of the bird.
“What an absurd position to be in!” he thought. And suddenly he was seized with a desire to flee.
He didn’t because he had promised not to, but the desire persisted to the point of mania. Oh, how he could run if he only hadn’t promised not to! His entire being tingled with the latent possibilities of a burst of terrific speed. He wanted to scuttle away like a scared rabbit. The pace of the kangaroo would be slow in comparison. What a record he could make if he hadn’t promised not to.
He crossed his knees the other way and brooded. The gray squirrel climbed the bench and nosed his pockets for possible peanuts, then hopped off hopefully toward a distant nursemaid and two children.
Growing more alarmed every time he consulted his watch Carden attempted to stem his rising panic with logic and philosophy, repeating: “Steady! my son! Don’t act like this! You’re not obliged to marry her if you don’t fall in love with her; and if you do, you won’t mind marrying her. That is philosophy. That is logic. Oh, I wonder what will have happened to me by this time to-morrow! I wish it were this time to-morrow! I wish it were this time next month! Then it would be all over. Then it would be—”
His muttering speech froze on his lips. Rooted to his bench he sat staring at a distant figure approaching — the figure of a young girl in a summer gown.
Nearer, nearer she came, walking with a free-limbed, graceful step, head high, one arm clasping a book.
That was the way the girls he drew would have walked had they ever lived. Even in the midst of his fright his artist’s eyes noted that: noted the perfect figure, too, and the witchery of its grace and contour, and the fascinating poise of her head, and the splendid color of her hair; noted mechanically the flowing lines of her gown, and the dainty modeling of arm and wrist and throat and ear.
Then, as she reached her bench and seated herself, she raised her eyes and looked at him. And for the first time in his life he realized that ideal beauty was but the pale phantom of the real and founded on something more than imagination and thought; on something of vaster import than fancy and taste and technical skill; that it was founded on Life itself — on breathing, living, palpitating, tremulous Life! — from which all true inspiration must come.
Over and over to himself he was repeating: “Of course, it is perfectly impossible that I can be in love already. Love doesn’t happen between two ticks of a watch. I am merely amazed at that girl’s beauty; that is all. I am merely astounded in the presence of perfection; that is all. There is nothing more serious the matter with me. It isn’t necessary for me to continue to look at her; it isn’t vital to my happiness if I never saw her again. . . . That is — of course, I should like to see her, because I never did see living beauty such as hers in any woman. Not even in my pictures. What superb eyes! What a fascinately delicate nose! What a nose! By Heaven, that nose is a nose! I’ll draw noses that way in future. My pictures are all out of drawing; I must fit arms into their sockets the way hers fit! I must remember the modeling of her eyelids, too — and that chin! and those enchanting hands—”
She looked up leisurely from her book, surveyed him calmly, absent-eyed, then bent her head again to the reading.
“There is something the matter with me,” he thought with a suppressed gulp. “I — if she looks at me again — with those iris-hued eyes of a young goddess — I — I think I’m done for. I believe I’m done for anyway. It seems rather mad to think it. But there is something the matter—”
She deliberately looked at him again.
“It’s all wrong for them to let loose a girl like that on people,” he thought to himself, “all wrong. Everybody is bound to go mad over her. I’m going now. I’m mad already. I know I am, which proves I’m no lunatic. It isn’t her beauty; it’s the way she wears it — every motion, every breath of her. I know exactly what her voice is like. Anybody who looks into her eyes can see what her soul is like. She isn’t out of drawing anywhere — physically or spiritually. And when a man sees a girl like that, why — why there’s only one thing that can happen to him as far as I can see. And it doesn’t take a year either. Heavens! How awfully remote from me she seems to be.”
She looked up again, calmly, but not at him. A kindly, gray-whiskered old gentleman came tottering and rocking into view, his rosy, wrinkled face beaming benediction on the world as he passed through it — on the sunshine dappling the undergrowth, on the furry squirrels sitting up on their hind legs to watch him pass, on the stray dickybird that hopped fearlessly in his path, at the young man sitting very rigid there on his bench, at the fair, sweet-faced girl who met his aged eyes with the gentlest of involuntary smiles. And Carden did not recognize him!
Who could help smiling confidently into that benign face, with its gray hair and gray whiskers? Goodness radiated from every wrinkle.
“Dr. Atwood!” ex
claimed the girl softly as she rose to meet this marvelous imitation of Dr. Austin Atwood, the great specialist on children’s diseases.
The old man beamed weakly at her, halted, still beaming, fumbled for his eyeglasses, adjusted them, and peered closely into her face.
“Bless my soul,” he smiled, “our pretty Dr. Hollis!”
“I — I did not suppose you would remember me,” she said, rosy with pleasure.
“Remember you? Surely, surely.” He made her a quaint, old-fashioned bow, turned, and peeped across the walk at Carden. And Carden, looking straight into his face, did not know the old man, who turned to Dr. Hollis again with many mysterious nods of his doddering head.
“You’re watching him, too, are you?” he chuckled, leaning toward her.
“Watching whom, Dr. Atwood?” she asked surprised.
“Hush, child! I thought you had noticed that unfortunate and afflicted young man opposite.”
Dr. Hollis looked curiously at Carden, then at the old gentleman with gray whiskers.
“Please sit down, Dr. Atwood, and tell me,” she murmured. “I have noticed nothing in particular about the young man on the bench there.” And she moved to give him room; and the young man opposite stared at them both as though bereft of reason.
“A heavy book for small hands, my child,” said the old gentleman in his quaintly garrulous fashion, peering with dimmed eyes at the volume in her lap.
She smiled, looking around at him.
“My, my!” he said, tremblingly raising his eyeglasses to scan the title on the page; “Dr. Lamour’s famous works! Are you studying Lamour, child?”
“Yes,” she said with that charming inflection youth reserves for age.
“Astonishing!” he murmured. “The coincidence is more than remarkable. A physician! And studying Lamour’s Disease! Incredible!”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 276