VII
THE LATE EXTRA
Impulsively Whitaker got up to follow Max, then hesitated and sank backin doubt, his head awhirl. He was for the time being shocked out of allcapacity for clear reasoning or right thinking. Uppermost in hisconsciousness he had a half-formed notion that it wouldn't help mattersif he were to force himself in upon the crisis behind the scenes.
Beyond all question his wife had recognized in him the man whom she hadbeen given every reason to believe dead: a discovery so unnerving as torender her temporarily unable to continue. But if theatrical precedentwere a reliable guide, she would presently pull herself together and goon; people of the stage seldom forget that their first duty is to theaudience. If he sat tight and waited, all might yet be well--as well asany such hideous coil could be hoped ever to be....
As has been indicated, he arrived at his conclusion through no suchdetailed argument; his mind leaped to it, and he rested upon it whilestill beset by a half-score of tormenting considerations.
This, then, explained Drummond's reluctance to have him bidden to thesupper party; whatever ultimate course of action he planned to pursue,Drummond had been unwilling, perhaps pardonably so, to have his romanceoverthrown and altogether shattered in a single day.
And Drummond, too, must have known who Sara Law was, even while denyingknowledge of the existence of Mary Ladislas Whitaker. He had lied, lieddesperately, doubtless meaning to encompass a marriage before Whitakercould find his wife, and so furnish him with every reason that couldinfluence an honourable man to disappear a second time.
Herein, moreover, lay the reason for the lawyer's failure to occupy hisstall on that farewell night. It was just possible that Whitaker wouldnot recognize his wife; and _vice versa_; but it was a chance thatDrummond hadn't the courage to face. Even so, he might have hiddenhimself somewhere in the house, waiting and watching to see what wouldhappen.
On the other hand, Max to a certainty was ignorant of the relationshipbetween his star and his old-time friend, just as he must have beenignorant of her identity with the one-time Mary Ladislas. For thatmatter, Whitaker had to admit that, damning as was the evidence tocontrovert the theory, Drummond might be just as much in the dark as Maxwas. There was always the chance that the girl had kept her secret toherself, inviolate, informing neither her manager nor the man she hadcovenanted to wed. Drummond's absence from the house might be due to anyone of a hundred reasons other than that to which Whitaker inclined toassign it. It was only fair to suspend judgment. In the meantime....
The audience was getting beyond control. The clamour of comment andquestioning which had broken loose when the curtain fell was waxing andgaining a high querulous note of impatience. In the gallery the godswere beginning to testify to their normal intolerance with shrillwhistles, cat-calls, sporadic bursts of hand-clapping and a steady,sinister rumble of stamping feet. In the orchestra and dress-circlepeople were moving about restlessly and talking at the top of theirvoices in order to make themselves heard above the growing din. Hadthere been music to fill the interval, they might have been more calm;but Max had fallen in with the theatrical _dernier cri_ and hadeliminated orchestras from his houses, employing only a peal of gongs toinsure silence and attention before each curtain.
Abruptly Max himself appeared at one side of the proscenium arch. It wasplain to those nearest the stage that he was seriously disturbed. Therewas a noticeable hesitancy in his manner, a pathetic frenzy in hishabitually mild and lustrous eyes. Advancing halfway to the middle ofthe apron, he paused, begging attention with a pudgy hand. It was a fullminute before the gallery would let him be heard.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced plaintively, "I much regret toinform you that Miss Law has suffered a severe nervous shock"--his gazewandered in perplexed inquiry toward the right-hand stage-box, then washastily averted--"and will not be able to continue for a few moments. Ifyou will kindly grant us your patience for a very few minutes...." Hebacked precipitately from view, hounded by mocking applause.
A lull fell, but only temporarily. As the minutes lengthened, thegallery grew more and more obstreperous and turbulent. Wave upon wave ofsound swept through the auditorium to break, roaring, against theobdurate curtain. When eventually a second figure appeared before thefootlights, the audience seemed to understand that Max dared not showhimself again, and why. It was with difficulty that the man--evidentlythe stage-manager--contrived to make himself disconnectedly audible.
"Ladies and ..." he shouted, sweat beading his perturbed forehead ..."regret ... impossible to continue ... money ... box-office...."
An angry howl drowned him out. He retreated at accelerated discretion.
Whitaker, slipping through the stage-door behind the boxes, ran into thelast speaker standing beside the first entrance, heatedly explaining toany one who would listen the utter futility of offering box-officeprices in return for seat checks which in the majority of instances hadcost their holders top-notch speculator prices.
"They'll wreck the theatre," he shouted excitedly, mopping his brow withhis coat sleeve, "and damned if I blame 'em! What t'ell'd she wana pulla raw one like this for?"
Whitaker caught his arm in a grasp compelling attention.
"Where's Miss Law?" he asked.
"You tell me and I'll make you a handsome present," retorted the man.
"What's happened to her? Can't you find her?"
"I dunno--go ask Max."
"Where is _he_?"
"You can search me; last I saw of him he was tearing the stardressin'-room up by the roots."
Whitaker hurried on just in time to see Max disappearing in thedirection of the stage-door, at which point he caught up with him, andfrom the manager's disjointed catechism of the doorkeeper garnered theinformation that the star had hurried out of the building while Max wasmaking his announcement before the curtain.
Max swung angrily upon Whitaker.
"Oh, it's you, is it? Perhaps you can explain what this means? She waslooking straight at you when she dried up! I saw her--"
"Perhaps you'd better find Miss Law and ask her," Whitaker interrupted."Have you any idea where she's gone?"
"Home, probably," Max snapped in return.
"Where's that?"
"Fifty-seventh Street--house of her own--just bought it."
"Come on, then." Passing his arm through the manager's, Whitaker drewhim out into the alley. "We'll get a taxi before this mob--"
"But, look here--what business've _you_ got mixing in?"
"Ask Miss Law," said Whitaker, shortly. It had been on the tip of histongue to tell the man flatly: "I'm her husband." But he retained witenough to deny himself the satisfaction of this shattering rejoinder. "Iknow her," he added; "that's enough for the present."
"If you knew her all the time, why didn't you say so?" Max expostulatedwith passion.
"I didn't know I knew her--by that name," said Whitaker lamely.
At the entrance to the alley Max paused to listen to the uproar withinhis well-beloved theatre.
"I'd give five thousand gold dollars if I hadn't met you thisafternoon!" he groaned.
"It's too late, now," Whitaker mentioned the obvious. "But if I'dunderstood, I promise you I wouldn't have come--at least to sit whereshe could see me."
He began gently to urge Max toward Broadway, but the manager hung backlike a sulky child.
"Hell!" he grumbled. "I always knew that woman was a Jonah!"
"You were calling her your mascot two hours ago."
"She'll be the death of me, yet," the little man insisted gloomily. Hestopped short, jerking his arm free. "Look here, I'm not going. What'sthe use? We'd only row. And I've got my work cut out for me backthere"--with a jerk of his head toward the theatre.
Whitaker hesitated, then without regret decided to lose him. It would beas well to get over the impending interview without a third factor.
"Very well," he said, beckoning a taxicab in to the curb. "What's theaddress?"
Max gave it sullenly.<
br />
"So long," he added morosely as Whitaker opened the cab door; "sorry Iever laid eyes on you."
Whitaker hesitated. "How about that supper?" he inquired. "Is it stillon?"
"How in blazes do I know? Come round to the Beaux Arts and find out foryourself--same's I'll have to."
"All right," said Whitaker doubtfully. He nodded to the chauffeur, andjumped into the cab. As they swung away he received a parting impressionof Max, his pose modelled on the popular conception of Napoleon atWaterloo: hands clasped behind his back, hair in disorder, chin on hischest, a puzzled frown shadowing his face as he stared sombrely afterhis departing guest.
Whitaker settled back and, oblivious to the lights of Broadway streamingpast, tried to think--tried with indifferent success to prepare himselfagainst the unhappy conference he had to anticipate. It suddenlypresented itself to his reason, with shocking force, that his attitudemust be humbly and wholly apologetic. It was a singular case: he hadcome home to find his wife on the point of marrying another man--and_she_ was the one entitled to feel aggrieved! Strange twist of theeternal triangle!...
He tried desperately, and with equal futility, to frame some excuse forhis fault.
Far too soon the machine swerved into Fifty-seventh Street, slippedhalfway down the block, described a wide arc to the northern curb andpulled up, trembling, before a modest modern residence between Sixth andSeventh avenues.
Reluctantly Whitaker got out and, on suspicion, told the chauffeur towait. Then, with all the alacrity of a condemned man ascending thescaffold, he ran up the steps to the front door.
A man-servant answered his ring without undue delay.
Was Miss Law at home? He would see.
This indicated that she was at home. Whitaker tendered a card with hissurname pencilled after that of _Mr. Hugh Morten_ in engraved script. Hewas suffered to enter and wait in the hallway.
He stared round him with pardonable wonder. If this were truly the homeof Mary Ladislas Whitaker--her property--he had builded far better thanhe could possibly have foreseen with that investment of five hundreddollars six years since. But who, remembering the tortured, half-starvedchild of the Commercial House, could have prefigured the Sara Law ofto-day--the woman who, before his eyes, within that hour, had burstthrough the counterfeit of herself of yesterday like some splendidcreature emerging from its chrysalis?
Soft, shaded lights, rare furnishings, the rich yet delicate atmosphereof exquisite taste, the hush and orderly perfection of a home made andmaintained with consummate art: these furnished him with dim, provokingintimations of an individuality to which he was a stranger--less than astranger--nothing....
The man-servant brought his dignity down-stairs again.
Would Mr. Whitaker be pleased to wait in the drawing-room?
Mr. Whitaker surrendered top-coat and hat and was shown into thedesignated apartment. Almost immediately he became aware of femininefootsteps on the staircase--tapping heels, the faint murmuring ofskirts. He faced the doorway, indefinably thrilled, the blood quickeningin throat and temples.
To his intense disappointment there entered to him a woman impossible toconfuse with her whom he sought: a lady well past middle-age, with thedignity and poise consistent with her years, her manifest breeding andher iron-gray hair.
"Mr. Whitaker?"
He bowed, conscious that he was being narrowly scrutinized, nicelyweighed in the scales of a judgment prejudiced, if at all, not in hisfavor.
"I am Mrs. Secretan, a friend of Miss Law's. She has asked me to saythat she begs to be excused, at least for to-night. She has suffered asevere shock and is able to see nobody."
"I understand--and I'm sorry," said Whitaker, swallowing his chagrin.
"And I am further instructed to ask if you will be good enough to leaveyour address."
"Certainly: I'm stopping at the Ritz-Carlton; but"--he demurred--"Ishould like to leave a note, if I may--?"
Mrs. Secretan nodded an assent. "You will find materials in the deskthere," she added, indicating an escritoire.
Thanking her, Whitaker sat down, and, after some hesitation, wrote a fewlines:
"Please don't think I mean to cause you the slightest inconvenience or distress. I shall be glad to further your wishes in any way you may care to designate. Please believe in my sincere regret...."
Signing and folding this, he rose and delivered it to Mrs. Secretan.
"Thank you," he said with a ceremonious bow.
The customary civilities were scrupulously observed.
He found himself in the street, with his trouble for all reward for hispains. He wondered what to do, where to go, next. There was in his minda nagging thought that he ought to do something or other, somehow orother, to find Drummond and make him understand that he, Whitaker, hadno desire or inclination to stand in his light; only, let the thing beconsummated decently, as privately as possible, with due deference tothe law....
The driver of the taxicab was holding the door for him, head bent tocatch the address of the next stop. But his fare lingered still indoubt.
Dimly he became aware of the violent bawlings of a brace of news-vendorswho were ramping through the street, one on either sidewalk. Beyond twowords which seemed to be intended for "extra" and "tragedy" their crieswere as inarticulate as they were deafening.
At the spur of a vague impulse, bred of an incredulous wonder if thepapers were already noising abroad the news of the fiasco at the TheatreMax, Whitaker stopped one of the men and purchased a paper. It wasdelivered into his hands roughly folded so that a section of the frontpage which blazed with crimson ink was uppermost--and indicated,moreover, by a ridiculously dirty thumb.
"Ther'y'are, sir. 'Orrible moider.... Thanky...."
The man galloped on, howling. But Whitaker stood with his gaze rivetedin horror. The news item so pointedly offered to his attention wasclearly legible in the light of the cab lamps.
LATEST EXTRA
TRAGIC SUICIDE IN HARLEM RIVER
Stopping his automobile in the middle of Washington Bridge at 7.30 P.M., Carter S. Drummond, the lawyer and fiance of Sara Law the actress, threw himself to his death in the Harlem River. The body has not as yet been recovered.
The Destroying Angel Page 7