CHAPTER XXII--SUZANNE FINDS A FRIEND
On Monday evening Ferguson heard from Molly of the scene in the Whitneyoffice. He was incredulous and enraged, refusing to accept what sheinsisted were irrefutable proofs of Esther's guilt.
"What do I care about your 'phone messages and your suppositions!" hehad almost shouted at her. "What do I care about what you _think_. Yousay she didn't answer the charges--she did, she denied them. That'senough for me."
There was no use arguing with him, he was beyond reason. She lapsed intosilence, letting him rage on, seething in his wrath at the Janneys, theWhitneys, herself. When he tried to find out where Esther was, she wasobdurate--_that_ she couldn't tell him. All the satisfaction he got wasthat Miss Maitland was not under arrest, that she was "put awaysomewhere" and had agreed to the arrangement. He left, too angry forgood-nights, with a last scattering of maledictions, leaping down thesteps and swinging off across the garden.
The next morning he telephoned in to the St. Boniface Hotel and heardthat the Janney party were out. Then he tried the Whitney office, gotGeorge on the wire, and was told brusquely that Miss Maitland'swhereabouts could not be divulged to any one. He spent the rest of theday in a state of morose disquiet, denying himself to visitors, shortand surly with his servants. Willitts was solicitous, inquired after hishealth and was told to go to the devil. In the kitchen quarters theytalked about his queer behavior; the butler was afraid he'd had "a touchof sun."
Wednesday wore through to the early afternoon and his inaction becameunendurable. He decided to go into town, look up the Janneys and forcethem to tell him where Esther was. He laid upon his spirit a cautioningcharge of self-control; he must keep his head and his temper, usestrategy before coercion. He had no idea of what he intended doing whenhe did find her, but the idea of getting to her, seeing her, championingher, transformed his moody restlessness into a savage energy. Hisservants flew before his commands; in the garage the chauffeur mutteredangrily as orders to hurry were shouted at him from the drive.
Tuesday had been a day of strain for the Janneys. According to thetelephone message, that night Chapman was to move the child from thecity. He had been under a close surveillance for the two preceding days,and every depot and ferry housed watching detectives. Hope ran highuntil after midnight when reports and 'phone messages came dropping inupon the group congregated in the library of the Whitney house. No childresembling Bebita had left the city at any of the guarded points.Chapman had been in his office all day, had dined at a hotel andafterward had gone to his rooms and remained there. The plan of movingher had either been abandoned or had been intrusted to unknown partieswho had taken her by motor through the city's northern end.
On Wednesday morning a consultation had been held at the Whitney office.This had been stormy, developing the first disagreements in what hadbeen a unity of opinion. Mr. Janney was for going to Chapman anddemanding the child and was seconded by the elder Whitney. Mrs. Janneywas in opposition. She had no fear for Bebita's welfare--Chapman couldbe trusted to care for her--and maintained that a direct appeal to himwould be an admission of weakness and place them at his mercy. In heropinion he would threaten exposure--he was shameless--or make an offerof a financial settlement. George agreed with her; from the start he hadthought Chapman was actuated less by a desire for vengeance than a hopeof gain. Mrs. Janney, thus backed up, became adamant. She would have nodealings with him, would run him to earth, and when he was caught, crushand ruin him.
Suzanne had listened to it all very silent and taking neither side. Herhunted air was set down to mental strain and she was allowed to remainan unconsulted spectator, treated by everybody with subdued gentleness.Back in the hotel, Mrs. Janney had suggested a doctor, but her querulouspleadings to be let alone had conquered, and the old people had gone fortheir afternoon drive, leaving her in the curtained quietness of thesitting room.
The door was hardly shut on them when she drew out of her belt a letter.She had found it in her room on her return from the office and had readit there before lunch. It was a prompter answer than she had dared tohope for.
"Mrs. Suzanne Price,
"_Dear Madam_:
"In answer to your ad. we would say that we are willing to deal through the agent you name. We take your word for it that he is to be trusted, that both you and he understand any attempt to betray us will be visited on your child.
"_Remember Charley Ross!_
"The sum necessary for her release will be thirty thousand dollars. On payment of this we will deliver her over at a time and place to be specified later. If you agree to our terms insert following ad. in the _Daily Record_. 'John--O. K. See you later. Mary.'
"(Signed) _Clansmen_."
On the second perusal of this ominous document Suzanne felt thestrangling rush of dread, the breathless contraction of the heart, thathad seized her when she first read it. Horrors had piled on horrors--asshe had risen to each new step of her progress up this Via Dolorosa,another more fearful and unsurmountable had faced her. When she hadspoken to Larkin of the money she had never thought of it, how much itmight be, how she was to get it. Now, with a stunning impact, she wasbrought against the appalling fact that she had none of her own and didnot dare ask her mother for any.
There was no use in lies; she had lied too much and too diversely to bebelieved. She would have to tell what it was for, and she knew the moodin which her mother would meet the demand. Money would beforthcoming--any amount--but Mrs. Janney, with her iron nerve and herimplacable spirit, would never consent to a tame submission. Suzanneknew that her fortune and her energies would be spent in an effort toapprehend the criminals, and Suzanne had not the courage to take achance. All she wanted was Bebita, back in her arms again, the fiendswho had taken her could go free.
She sat down, pushing the damp hair from her forehead and trying tothink. One fact stood out in the midst of her blind, confused suffering.She could not go to Larkin till she had the thirty thousand dollars.Every moment she sat there was a moment lost, a moment added to Bebita'sterm of imprisonment. She stared about the room, the gleam of hershifting eyes, the rise and fall of her breast, the only movements inher stone-still figure.
Suddenly, piercing her tense preoccupation with a buzzing note, came thesound of the telephone. It made her jump, then mechanically, hardlyconscious of her action, she rose to answer it. A woman's voice,languidly nasal, came along the wire:
"Mr. Richard Ferguson is calling."
"Send him up," she gasped and fumbled back the receiver with a shakinghand. With the other she steadied herself against the wall; the room hadswung for a moment, blurred before her vision. She closed her eyes andbreathed out her relief in a moaning exhalation. It was like an answerto prayer, like the finger of God.
Of course Dick was the person--Dick who could always be trusted, whocould always understand. He would give it and say nothing; she couldmake him. He was not like the others--he would sympathize, would agreewith her, in trouble he was a rock to cling to. A broken series ofanswers to unput questions coursed through her head; she could go toLarkin now--she needn't tell him how she'd got it, he thought she wasrich--after it was all over her mother would pay Dick back--in a fewdays she'd have Bebita, the kidnapers would have made their escape--andit would be all right, all right, all right!
Ferguson had come up, grim-visaged, steeled for battle, but when he sawher his fighting spirit died. There was nothing left of her but ablighted shadow, the cloud of golden hair crowning in gay mockery herdrawn and haggard face. Before he could speak she made a clutch at hisarm, drawing him into the room, babbling a broken greeting about wantinghim, wanting his help. He put his hand on hers and felt it trembling; hewould not have been surprised if she had dropped unconscious at hisfeet.
"Lord, Suzanne, you don't want to take it this way," he soothed, guidingher to the sofa. "You must get hold of yourself; you've been broodingtoo much. Of course I'll help you--anything I can do--and we'll get herback, it'l
l be only a few days." He didn't know what to say, he was sosorry for her.
She was past parleys and preliminaries, past coquetry and artifice. Thewhole of her had resolved itself into one raw longing, and before theywere seated on the sofa, she had broken into her story. He didn't atfirst believe her, thought grief had unsettled her brain, but when shethrust the two letters into his hand all doubts left him.
He read them slowly, word by word, then turned upon her a face socharged and vitalized with a fierce interest that, had she been able tosee beyond the circle of her own pain, she would have wondered. If heforgot to ask for Esther's hiding place it was because the larger matterof her vindication had swept all else from his mind. The proofs of herinnocence were in his hands; he did not for a moment doubt theirgenuineness.
It was what he had thought from the first.
His manner changed from that of the sympathizing friend to one of sternauthority. He shot questions at her, tabulating her answers, discardingcumbering detail, seizing on the important fact and separating it fromthe jumble of confused impressions and fancies that she poured out. Afew inquiries set Larkin's position clear before him. The money hedismissed with a curt sentence; of course he would give it, she wasn'tto think of that any more.
"Thank heaven you decided on me," he said. "I'll straighten this out foryou and I'll do it quick."
She was ready to take fright at anything and his eagerness scared her.
"But you'll not do anything they don't want? You'll not tell the policeor try to catch them?"
He had seen from the start that she was dominated by terror, as thekidnapers had intended she should be: and seeing this had recognized heras a negligible factor. To keep her quiet, soothe her fears, and employher services just so far as they were helpful was what he had to do withher. What he had to do without her was shaping itself in his mind.
"You can rely on me. I won't make any breaks. And _you_ have to becareful, not a word about me to this man Larkin. He must think the moneyis yours."
She assured him of her discretion and he felt he could trust her thatfar.
"Now listen," he said slowly and impressively as if he was speaking to achild, "we've both got to go very charily. A good deal of thethreat-stuff in these letters is bluff, but also men who would undertakean enterprise of this kind are pretty tough customers and we don't wantto take any risks. When I'm gone you drive over to Larkin's, tell himyou have the money for the ransom, and to put in the ad. As soon aseither you or he get an answer let me know. I'll be at Council Oaks;I'll go back there now. It's probable you're watched and if they saw mehanging about here they might think I was in the game and take fright.Do you understand?"
She nodded:
"Yes, you've put some courage into me. I was ready to die when you camein."
"Well, that's over now. What you've got to do is to follow myinstructions, keep your nerve and have a little patience."
He smiled down at her as she sat, a huddled heap of finery, on the edgeof the sofa. She tried to return the smile, a grimace of the lips thatdid not touch her somber eyes. No man, least of all Dick Ferguson, couldhave been angry with her.
"She was crazy," he said to himself as he walked down the hall. "Theywere all crazy and I guess they had enough to make them so. I'll get thechild back, and when I do, I'll make them bite the dust before my girl."
Several people who knew him saw Dick Ferguson driving his black car downFifth Avenue late that afternoon. He saw none of them, steering his waythrough the traffic, his eyes fixed on the vista in front. He stopped atDelmonico's for an early dinner, telling the waiter to bring himanything that was ready, then sat with frowning brows staring at hisplate. Here again were people who knew him and wondered at his gloomyabstraction--not a bit like Ferguson, must have something on his mind.
Night was falling as he crossed the Queensborough bridge, a smolderingglow along the west glazing the surface of the river. When he left thestraggling outskirts of Brooklyn and reached the open country the darkhad come, deep and velvety, a few bright star points pricking throughthe cope of the sky. He lowered his speed, his glance roving ahead tothe road and its edging grasses, startlingly clear under the radiance ofhis lamps.
Round him the country brooded in its rest, silence lying on the palesurface of fields, on the black indistinctness of trees. Here and therethe lights of farms shone, caught and lost through shielding boughs, andthe clustered sparklings of villages. The air was heavy with scents, thebreath of clover knee-high in the grass, grain still giving off thewarmth of the afternoon sun, and the delicate sweetness of the wildgrape draped over the roadside trees. All this night loveliness in itsfragrant quietness, its rich and penetrating beauty, reminded him ofher. He looked up at the sky, and its calm and steadfast splendor cameto him with a new meaning. She was related to it all, in tune with theeternal harmonies, part of everything that was stainless and noble andpure. And he would show the world that she was, clear her of every spot,place her where she would be as far from suspicion, as serenely abovethe meanness of her accusers, as the stars in the crystal depths of thesky.
When he reached Council Oaks he had a vision of her, belonging there, apiece of its life. He saw a future, when, coming back like this to itsfriendly doors, she would be waiting on the balcony to greet him. Therewas no one there now; the house was still, its lights shining across thepebbled drive. Obsessed by his thoughts, he jumped out, and leaving thecar at the steps, entered. From the kitchen wing he could hear theservants' voices raised in cheerful clamor. Crossing the hall, he had aglimpse through the dining room door of the table, set and waiting forhim, two lamps flanking his place. He had no mind for food and wentupstairs, dreams still holding him. In his room he switched on thelights and his vacant glance, sweeping the bureau, brought up on the boxwith the crystal lid.
In his mind the robbery had faded into a background of inconsequentialthings. It had become a side issue, a thread in the tangled skein he hadpledged himself to unravel. When Molly had told him of the evidenceagainst Esther his interest had centered on the charge of kidnaping--themonstrous and unbelievable charge of which she almost stood convicted.Even now, as he looked at the box and remembered what he had hiddenthere, it came to his memory not as another weapon to be used in herdefense, but as a souvenir of the moment when his present passion hadflamed into life. A picture rose of that night, the silver moonspatterings, her hand, white in the white light, with the band on itsthird finger. He opened the box to take it out--it was not there.
He had seen it a few days before, was certain he had, shook up thecontents, then overturned the box, strewing the studs and pins on thebureau. But it was fruitless--the band, crushed and flattened as heremembered it, was gone. He muttered an angry phrase, its loss came as ajar on the exaltation of his mood. Then a soft step on the staircasecaught his ear, and looking up he saw Willitts' head rise into view. Theman came down the passage and spoke with his customary quiet deference:
"I saw the car outside, sir, and knew you'd come back. Would you likedinner--the cook says she can have it ready in a minute?"
"No," Ferguson's voice was short, "I dined in town. Look here, I've lostsomething--" he pointed to the scattered jewelry--"I had a cigar band inthat box and it's gone. Did you see it?"
Willitts looked at the box and shook his head:
"No, sir. A cigar band, a thing made of paper?" There was the faintestsuggestion of surprise in his voice.
"Yes, you must have seen it. It was there a few days ago, underneath allthat truck--I saw it myself."
The man again shook his head and, moving to the bureau, began to shiftthe toilet articles and look among them.
"I'm afraid I didn't see it, sir, or if I did I didn't notice. Maybeit's got strayed away somewhere."
He continued his search, Ferguson watching him with moody irritation:
"What the devil could have happened to it? I put it in there myself, putit in that particular place for safekeeping."
Willitts, feeling about the bureau
with careful fingers, said:
"Was it of any _value_, sir?"
"Yes," Ferguson having little hope of finding it turned away and threwhimself into a chair, "it was of great value. I wouldn't have lost itfor anything. It was evidence--" he stopped, growling a smothered"Damn." He had said enough; he didn't want the servants chattering.
"I'm very sorry, sir, but it doesn't seem to be here. Perhaps thechambermaid threw it away, thinking it had got in the box by mistake."
"I daresay--it sounds likely. I wish the people in this house would letmy room alone, control their mad desire for neatness and leave thingswhere I put them. Have the car taken to the garage, I'm not coming downagain. If any one calls up I'm out. Good-night."
"Good-night, sir," said Willitts, and softly withdrew.