CHAPTER VII.—ENTER MRS. PEIXADA.
THE four weeks had wound away. I shall not detain the reader with ahistory of them. The log-book of a prosperous voyage is apt to bedull literature. They were four weeks of delightful progress toward amuch-desired goal—four weeks of unmitigated happiness. The course oftrue love ran smooth. Time flew. Looking forward, to be sure, Arthurthought the hoped-for day would never come. But looking backward fromthe eve of it, he was compelled to wonder whither the time had sped.
On Thursday, the 24th of July, in the office ofAssistant-district-attorney Romer, were seated Arthur, Peixada, andMr. Romer himself. Arthur held an open letter in his hand. The letter,written in a heavy, English chirography, was signed with considerableflourish, “Reginald Graham.” Arthur had just finished reading italoud. Said he, folding it up and putting it into his pocket, “So alltrace of her is lost. We are back at the point we started from.”
Said Peixada, “Well, we shall simply be obliged to adopt the plan thatI suggested in the first place—advertise.”
Assented Romer, “Yes, an advertisement is our last hope.”
“A forlorn one. She would never answer it,” croaked Arthur.
“That depends,” said Romer.
“Upon what?”
“Upon the adroitness with which the advertisement is framed.”
“Well, for instance? Give us a sample.”
“Let me think,” said Romer. After a moment’s reflection, “Howwould this answer?” And he applied pen to paper. Presently hesubmitted the paper for inspection to his companions. Its contents wereas follows:
“Peixada.—If Mrs. Judith Peixada, née Karon, widow of BernardPeixada, Esquire, late of the city of New York, deceased, and formerlyadministratrix of the goods, chattels, and credits of said decedent,will communicate either personally or by letter with her brother-in-law,Benjamin Peixada, No.——-Reade Street, New York, she will learnsomething affecting the interests of her estate greatly to heradvantage.”
“That, I think,” said Romer, “ought to be inserted in theprincipal newspapers of America, England, France, and Germany.”
“That’s what I call first-rate,” was Peixada’s comment.
Arthur held his peace.
“Well,” demanded Romer, “how does it strike you?”
Arthur deliberated; at length said, “Candidly, Romer, do you regardthat as altogether square and above-board?”
“Why not? It’s a decoy. The use of decoys in dealing withcriminals—this woman is a criminal, mind you; a murderess andpractically a thief as well—the use of decoys in such cases isjustified by a hundred precedents.”
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Peixada. “Nothing’s thematter with me,” retorted Arthur, a bit sharply; “but I must say, Ithink such a proceeding as this is pretty low.”
“Oh, come; no, you don’t,” urged Romer.
“I do. And what’s more, I won’t lend myself to it. If thatadvertisement appears in the papers, Mr. Peixada will have to retainanother man in my place.”
“But, goodness alive, it’s our last resort. Would you rather havethe whole business fall through? Be reasonable. Why, it’s a ruse thedaintiest men at the bar wouldn’t stick at.”
“Perhaps they wouldn’t; but I do.”
“Well, what else is there to be done?”
“And besides,” said Arthur, not heeding Romer’s question, “youmake a great mistake in fancying that she would be deceived by it. Ifthat woman is any thing, she’s shrewd. She’s far too shrewd to bitewhen the hook’s in sight.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean she’d sniff danger at once—divine that it is—what youhave called it—a decoy. What under the sun could her brother-in-lawhave to communicate that would be to her advantage?”
“All right,” said Romer, shrugging his shoulders; “suggest a morepromising move, and I’ll be with you.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Arthur, “I’m not too squeamish. Iwon’t connive at downright falsehood; but I’m willing to compromise.It’s a bitter pill to swallow—it goes against the grain—but I’llconsent to something like this. Let me take your pen.”
Arthur scratched off a line or two.
“Here,” he said.
“Peixada.—If Mrs. Judith Peixada, née Karon, widow of BernardPeixada, Esquire, deceased, will communicate with her brother-in-law,Benjamin Peixada, No.—— Reade Street, New York, she will confer afavor,” was what Arthur had written.
“This,” he added verbally, “will be quite as likely to fetch heras the other. Its very frankness will disarm suspicion. Besides, it’snot such an out-and-out piece of treachery.”
“What do you think, Mr. Peixada?” inquired Romer.
“Oh, I think she’d sooner cut her thumbs off than do me a favor. ButI leave the decision with you lawyers.”
“I may as well repeat,” volunteered Arthur, “that in the eventof your employing the form Mr. Romer drew, I shall withdraw from thecase.”
“Well,” said Romer, “I’m not sure Ripley isn’t right. At anyrate, no harm giving his way a trial. If it should fail to attractour game, we can use sweeter bait later on. Who’ll see to itsinsertion?”
“I shall have to beg you to do that,” said Arthur, “becauseto-morrow I’m going out of town—to stay about a fortnight. Ishall be on deck again two weeks from Monday—August 11th. Meanwhile,here’s my country address. Telegraph me, if any thing turns up.”
Telling the story of his morning’s work to Hetzel, he concluded thus,“I suppose it was a legitimate enough stratagem—one that few lawyerswould stop at—but, all the same, I feel like a sneak. I should like tokick myself.”
Hetzel responded, cheeringly, “You’ve made your own bed, and nowyou’ve got to lie in it. You ought to have observed these littledrawbacks to the beauty of Themis, before you dedicated yourself to herservice.”
Next day in Mrs. Hart’s parlor, Arthur Ripley and Ruth Lehmyl weremarried. Besides themselves and the clergyman who tied the knot, theonly persons present were Arthur’s mother, Mrs. Hart, Julian Hetzel,and a certain Mr. Arthur Flint.
This last named gentleman was Arthur’s godfather, and had been aclassmate of Arthur’s father at Yale college. He was blessed with awife, a couple of married daughters, and a swarm of grandchildren ofboth sexes; despite which, he had always taken a more than godfatherlyinterest in his namesake. For whatever business Arthur had to do, priorto his connection with Peixada, he was indebted to Mr. Flint. It wasbut natural, therefore, that he should have apprised Mr. Flint of hismatrimonial projects as soon as they were distinctly formed. He hadvisited him one day at his office, and asked him to attend the wedding.
“The 25th of July?” cried Mr. Flint. “At such short notice? Andmy wife and Sue and Nellie away in Europe! It’s a pity I can’t callthem home by the next steamer, to wish you joy. It’ll break theirhearts not to be present at your marriage. However—however, where areyou going on your wedding-journey?”
“I haven’t made up my mind. We were thinking of some place on theNew Jersey coast.”
“The New Jersey coast is all sand and glare. It would spoil yourbride’s complexion. I’ll tell you what you’d better do.You’d better go and pass your honeymoon at my cottage in NewHampshire—Beacon Rock. It’s shut up and doing no one anygood—consequence of my wife’s trip to Europe. Say the word, andI’ll wire Perkins—my general factotum there—to open and air thehouse, start fires, and be ready to welcome you with a warm dinner onthe 26th.”
“You’re too kind. I don’t know what to say,”
“Then say nothing. I’ll take yes for granted. You’ll find BeaconRock just the place for a month’s billing and cooing. Eastward, themultitudinous sea; westward, the hardy New England landscape; and allaround you, the sweetest air it will ever be your luck to breathe. Lookhere.”
Mr. Flint opened a drawer of his desk and extracted a pile ofphotographs.
“Here’s Beacon Rock taken from every available point of
view. Hereare some glimpses of the interior,” he said.
Divided between delight and gratitude, Arthur could only stammer forthbroken phrases.
“Oh, by the way, what’s her address?” demanded Mr. Flint, asArthur was on the point of bidding him good-by.
“I thought I had told you. You’ll be sure to call soon, won’t you?No. 46 Beekman Place.”
“Now, mum’s the word,” proceeded Mr. Flint.
“I don’t want you to breathe a syllable of this business to yoursweetheart. Lead her to suppose that you’re going to some Purgatorialsummer hotel; and then enjoy her surprise when she spies Beacon Rock.Oh, yes, I’ll call and pay her my respects—likely enough some nightthis week. Good-by. God bless you.”
Mr. Flint called, pursuant to his promise. On the stoop, as he wasleaving, he clapped Arthur upon the shoulder, and cried, “By George,my boy, your Jewess is a jewel!”
Three days later came a paper parcel, addressed to Mrs. Lehmyl. Itcontained a small purple velvet box. To the outside of the box wasattached a card, bearing the laconic device, “Sparks from a Flint.”Inside, upon a cushion of lavender silk lay a gold breastpin, from thecenter of which a cluster of wondrous diamonds shot prismatic rays. Itwas the sole bit of jewelry that adorned Ruth’s wedding-gown.
“Immediately after the ceremony,” says Hetzel, in a letter writtenat the time, “they got into a hack, and were driven to the Fall Riverboat. We, who were left behind, crossed the street and assembled uponthe loggia. There we waited till the Bristol hove in sight down theriver. Then, until it had disappeared behind Blackwell’s Island, therewas much waving of handkerchiefs between the travelers—whom wecould make out quite clearly, leaning against the rail—and us poorstay-at-homes. Afterward, Mrs. Ripley and Mrs. Hart adapted theirhandkerchiefs to other purposes.”
A week elapsed before the bride and groom were heard from. EventuallyHetzel got a voluminous missive. Portions of it read thus:
“In Boston, as our train didn’t leave till noon, we sought theDecorative Art Rooms, and spent an hour or so coveting the pretty thingsthat they are full of. At the depot I had a slight unpleasantness withthe potentate from whom I bought our tickets—(confound the insolenceof these railroad officials! Why doesn’t some ingenious Yankeecontrive an automaton by which they may be superseded?)—but despiteit, we got started comfortably enough, and were set down at Portsmouthpromptly at three o’clock. She enjoyed the drive in an open carriagethrough the quaint old New England town immensely; but when we hadreached the open country, and were being whisked over bridges, downleafy lanes, across rugged pasture lands, on our way to New Castle, herpleasure knew no bounds. There is something peculiarly refreshing inthis keen New Hampshire air, compounded as it is of pine odors and thesmell of the sea, and something equally refreshing in this homely NewHampshire landscape, with its thorns and thistles growing alongsidedaisies and wild roses.
’The locust dinned amid the trees;
The fields were high with corn,’
as we spun onward behind the horses’ hoofs. Now and then, much to herconsternation, a brilliant striped snake darted from the foot-pathinto the bushes.... I had given her to believe, you know, thatour destination was the * * * hotel, a monstrous barracks of anestablishment, perched on the top of a hill in this neighborhood;and when we clattered past it without stopping, she was altogethermystified. I parried her questions successfully, however; and at theend of another half mile Beacon Rock rose before us.... For a while wedid—could do-nothing but race around the outside of the house, andattempt by eloquent attitudes, frantic gestures, ecstatic monosyllables,to express something of the admiration which it inspired. Mr. Flint hadshown me photographs of the cottage before I left New York; but hehad shown me no photographs of the earth, sea, and sky by which it issurrounded—and that is its superlative merit. It falls in perfectlywith the nature round about. It is indigenous—as thoroughly so as theseaweed, the stone walls, the apple trees. It looks as though it mighthave grown out of the soil: or as if the waters, in a mood of titanicplayfulness, had cast it up and left it where it stands upon the shore.Fancy a square tower, built of untrimmed stone, fifty feet in height andtwenty in diameter, springing straight up from a bare granite ledge—which, in its turn, sprouts from a grassy lawn, which, in its turn,slopes gradually down to the rocks at the sea’s edge. This solemn,sturdy tower is pierced at its base by divers sinister lookingportholes, which suggest cannon and ambushed warriors, but which,in point of fact, perform no more bellicose a function than that ofadmitting daylight into the cellar. Above these there are deep-setwindows, through which the sun pours merrily all day long. I am seatedat one of them, writing, now. . . . The tower faces the sea, and defiesit. Behind the tower, and sheltered by it, nestles the cottage proper,a most picturesque, gabled, rambling structure of wood, painted terracotta red... . . I don’t know how long we stood around outside.Finally, Mr. Perkins, a native who, aided by his wife, cooks and’chores’ for us, suggested the propriety of entering. We entered;and if the exterior had charmed us, the interior simply carried us away.I shall not attempt an itemized description of it, because probably Ishouldn’t be able to make the picture vivid enough to be worth yourwhile. But imagine the extreme of aestheticism combined with the extremeof comfort, and you will get a rough notion of our environment. Thereare broad, open fire places, deep chimney corners, luxurious Turkeyrugs, antique chairs and tables, beautiful pictures, interestingbooks—though we don’t read them—and every thing else a fellow’sheart could desire. There is no piano—the sea air would make shortwork of one—but I have hired a guitar from a Portsmouth music dealer,and she accompanies her songs on this.... Our mode of existence has beena perpetual dolce far niente, diversified by occasional strolls aboutthe country—to Fort Constitution, a ruin of 1812—to the hotel, wherea capital orchestra dispenses music every afternoon—or simplyacross the meadows, without an objective point. We can sight severallight-houses from the tower windows; and a mile out at sea, ineverlasting restlessness, floats a deep-voiced, melancholy bell-buoy,which recalls all the weird creeping of the flesh we had in reading theshipwreck in L’homme qui rit.. . . Of course we have written a glowingletter of thanks to Mr. Flint. She, I forgot to tell you, could not atfirst believe her senses—believe that this little earthly paradise wasmeant for our occupation. When at last the truth was borne in upon her,you ought to have witnessed her delight.... Oh, Julian, old boy, youcan’t form the least conception of the great, radiant joy that fillsmy heart. I am really half afraid that it’s a dream from which I shallpresently wake up. I don’t dare to verify it by pinching myself,lest that misfortune might indeed befall me. My happiness is so much inexcess of other men’s, I don’t feel that I deserve it; and sometimesI am tormented by a morbid dread that it may not last. Just think, sheis actually my wife! Ah, how my heart leaps, when I say that to myself,and realize all that it means!.... I have tried to put business quiteout of my mind; but now and then it recurs to me, despite myself. I feelmore and more uncomfortable about that advertisement. I have no doubtthe woman richly deserves the worst that can happen to her, and allthat, but nevertheless I can’t get rid of a deucedly unpleasant qualmof conscience, when I think of the trap I have helped to set for her.Between ourselves, I derive some consolation from the thought that thechances are ninety-nine in a hundred that she will decline to nibble atour bait.... Unless I telegraph to the contrary, expect us to breakfastwith you to-morrow week—Saturday, August 9th.”
Hetzel carried his letter across the street, and gave it to Mrs. Hart.She, not to be outdone, read aloud fragments of one which she hadreceived from Ruth by the same mail. Among the paragraphs in the latterwhich she suppressed was this:
“I have offered twice to tell him the whole story. I very much wantto do so—to have it off my mind. It doesn’t seem right that I shouldkeep it secret; and he is so kind and tender, I feel that I could bringmyself to tell him every thing. But with characteristic generosity, hedeclines to listen—bids me keep my secret as a proof o
f his confidencein me. Perhaps, then, it will be just as well for me to wait till weget back to town. Sooner or later—and the sooner, the better—I shallinsist upon his allowing me to speak. A regret grows upon me daily thatI did not insist upon that before we were married. Though I know so wellthat he loves me, my heart stands still when I stop to think, ’How mayhe feel towards me when he knows it all?’ or, ’Suppose before I haveexplained it to him, he should hear it from somebody else?’ Oh, it isnot possible that he will cease to care for me, is it? I wish I couldgo to him this instant, and tell him about it, and then for good and allknow my fate. Why did I wait till we were married? I could not bear tohave him change in his feelings toward me now. Oh, I wish this miserablesecret were off my mind—it tortures me with such terrifying doubts.But perhaps I had best not interrupt the happiness of his holiday byintroducing a subject which he appears anxious to avoid. Do you agreewith me? I say, I wish I could go, and tell it to him; and yet when thetime comes for doing so, I am afraid my tongue will cleave to the roofof my mouth. If it should destroy his love for me! make him despiseme! If for a single moment, as I was speaking, he should recoil fromme!—withdraw his hand from mine! Oh, God, why can not the past beblotted out? I must speak to him before any body else can do so. If someone of his acquaintances should recognize me, and tell him, what mighthe not do? He thinks he would not care. He says no matter what the pasthas been, it is totally indifferent to him. But perhaps he would notfeel that way if he really knew it. God bless him and keep him from allpain!”
Saturday morning, surely enough, the truants came home, and took uptheir quarters at Mrs. Hart’s, where for the present they were toremain. They hoped to set up a modest establishment of their own in thespring.
Late Monday forenoon Arthur screwed his courage to the sticking place,and tore himself away from his wife’s side. Reading the newspapers onhis way down town, he had the satisfaction of seeing himself in print.The Peixada advertisement occupied a conspicuous position. He wentstraight to his office, where he found a number of letters waiting forhim. These he disposed of as speedily as might be; and then he salliedforth to call upon Mr. Flint. He got back at about halfpast twoo’clock. Less than five minutes later, his office-boy stuck his headthrough the doorway, and announced, “A gentleman to see you.”
“Show him in.”
The gentleman appeared. The gentleman wore the garb of a porter. “Icome from Mr. Peixada, sir, with a note,” he explained.
Arthur took the note and broke it open. The gum on the envelope wasstill damp.
The note bore evidence of having been dashed off in haste. Here it is:
“Office of B. Peixada & Co.,
“No.———Reade Street,
“New York, Aug. 11, 1884.
“Dear Sir:
“If you are in town, (and to-day was the day fixed for your return),please come right over here at your earliest convenience. Mrs. P. is inmy private office! I am keeping her till your arrival.
“Yours truly,
“B. Peixada.”
Arthur stood still, his eyes glued upon this sheet of paper, long enoughto have read it through a dozen times.
“Any answer?” Mr. Peixada’s envoy at last demanded.
“Oh—of course—I’ll go along with you at once.”
His heart was palpitating. The prospect of a face to face encounterwith the redoubtable Mrs. Peixada caused him unwonted trepidation. Thetidings conveyed in Peixada’s note were so unexpected and of suchgrave importance, no wonder Arthur’s serenity was ruffled. Striding upBroadway at the messenger’s heels, he tried to picture to himself theimpending scene. The trap had sprung. What manner of creature would thequarry turn out to be? Poor woman! There was a lot of trouble in storefor her. But it was not his fault. He had done nothing but thatwhich his duty as an attorney had required of him. He would exert hisinfluence in her behalf—try to smooth things down for her, and makethem as comfortable as under the circumstances they could be. Still forall slips of hers, she was one of Eve’s family. He felt that he pitiedher from the bottom of his soul.
Peixada was nervously pacing back and forth in the show-room.
“Ah,” he cried, catching hold of Arthur’s hand and wringing itvigorously, “you have come! What luck, eh? I can scarcely believe itis true. I’m quite put about by it, I declare. She walked in here, aslarge as life, not half an hour ago, and asked to see me. I had no ideathe sight of her would upset me so. I told her that my business with herwas of a legal nature, and I guessed she’d better wait while I sentround for my attorney. But I was desperately afraid you hadn’t gotback. She acted just like a lamb. I tell you, that advertisement wasa happy thought, wasn’t it? Pity we didn’t advertise in thefirst place, and so save all that delay and money. But I’m notcomplaining—not I. I’d be willing to spend twice the same amountright over again for the same result. Now we’ll get a round hundredthousand; and I won’t forget you.”
“Have you notified Mr. Romer, too?”
“Oh, yes; of course. Sent word for him to come with his officers.She—she’s in my private office—there—behind that door. Won’tyou go in, and tell her about the will, and keep her occupied till theyget here?”
“I—I think it would be best to wait,” said Arthur, his voicetrembling.
“No—no. She’ll begin to get impatient. Please go in now. It’llrelieve my agitation, anyhow. I’m really surprised to find myself soshaken up. Here—this is the door. Open it, and go ahead in.”
“Oh—very well,” consented Arthur.
He put his hand upon the knob, fortified himself with a long breath, andentered the room. Peixada, sticking his head in behind him, rattled off,“Here, madam, is the gentleman I spoke to you about. He’ll explainwhat we want you for,” and withdrew, slamming the door.
Peixada’s private office was scarcely more than a hole in the wall—asmall, square closet, lighted by a single grimy window, and destitute offurniture except for a desk and a couple of chairs.
In one of these chairs, with her back toward the door, and engagedapparently in looking out of the window, sat a lady.
Standing still, a yard beyond the threshold, Arthur said, “I beg yourpardon, madam—Mrs. Peixada.”
The lady rose, turned around, faced him.
The lady was his wife.
A slight, startled smile crossed her face. “Why—Arthur—you—?”she began in atone of surprise, her eyes brightening.
But suddenly a change; a look of perplexity, followed by one ofenlightenment, as if a dreadful truth had burst upon her. The blood sankfrom her cheeks, her lip curled, her breast fluttered—a terrible fireflashed from her eyes. She drew herself up. She was awful, but she wassuperb.
“Ah,” she said, “I see. So you have been prying into my secretsbehind my back—you, who were too magnanimous to let me tell them toyou! It was for you that Mr. Peixada bade me wait. This is the surprisehe spoke of—a surprise of your contriving. You have found out who Iam. I hope you are—-”
She broke off. Her voice had been very low, but had vibrated withpassion. Now, the flaming, contemptuous eyes with which she covered him,spoke her mind more plainly than her tongue could.
He, upon her first rising and facing him, had started back, gasping,“Good God—you—Ruth!” Since then a chaos of emotions had heldhim, dumb.
But gradually he recovered himself in some measure.
His face a picture of blank amazement, “For heaven’s sake, Ruth,what does this mean?” he cried.
She did not hear him. Her anger of a moment since gave way to a paroxysmof pain.
“Oh, merciful God,” she moaned, “how I have been deceived! Oh, tothink that he—my—my husband—Oh, it is too much! It is more than Ican bear.”
She broke down in a torrent of tears and sobs.
An impulse carried him to her side. He put his arm around her waist,drew her to him, bent over her, stammered out broken syllables of love,comfort, entreaty.
His touch rekindled her wrath, and endowed he
r frame with preternaturalstrength. She repulsed him—flung him away from her, over against theopposite wall, with as little effort as if he had been a stick in herpath. This fragile woman, towering above this stalwart man, her cheeksnow burning scarlet, her limbs quivering with strong emotion, cried,“How dare you touch me? How dare you speak to me? How dare you insultme with your presence? Is it not enough what you have done, withoutforcing me to remain in the same room with you? Are you not content tohave consorted with Benjamin Peixada—to have listened to the storyof your wife’s life from that man’s lips—without coming hereto confront me with it—to compel me to defend myself against hisaccusations. Wasn’t it enough to put that advertisement in the paper?Haven’t you sufficiently punished me by decoying me to this place, asyou have done? What more do you want? What new humiliation? Though youhate me, now that you know who I am and what I haye done—you, whotalked of loving me in spite of every thing—can you not be merciful,and leave me alone? Go—out of my sight—or, at least, stand aside andlet me go.”
Her words were followed by a prolonged, convulsive shudder.
Exerting his utmost self-control, dazed and bewildered as he was, hebegan, “Ruth, will you not give me a chance to speak? Will you notlisten to me? Can’t you see that this is some—some frightful errorinto which we have fallen—which we can only right by speaking? You aredoing me a great wrong, Ruth. You are wronging yourself. I beg of you,subdue your anger—oh, for God’s sake, don’t look at me like that.Try to be calm, Ruth, and let us talk together. Let me explain to you.Explain to me, for I am as hopelessly in the dark as you can be. Let ushave some understanding.”
His plea passed totally without effect: I suppose, because his wife wasa woman. The tumult and the violence of the shock she had sustained hadshattered her good sense. Her perceptive faculties were benumbed. Herentire vitality was absorbed by her pain and her indignation. I doubtwhether she had heard what he said. But she caught at the last word, atany rate.
“Understanding? What is there to understand? I understand—Iunderstand quite enough. I understand that you have sought informationabout me from Benjamin Peixada. I understand that it was you who gotme here by false pretenses—by that advertisement. I understand thatyou—you think I am—that you believe what Benjamin Peixada hastold you—and that—that the love you protested so much about, hasall—all died away—and you—you shudder to think that I am yourwife. Well, you may understand this, that I too shudder. I shudder tothink that you are my husband—to think that you could have done thisbehind my back—that—that you—even when you were pretending to loveme most, and telling me that you did not care about my secret—eventhen, you were fraternizing with Benjamin Peixada! You may understandthat, however base you may believe me to be, I believe you to be baserstill. Oh, if you would only go away, and never, never intrude yourselfupon my sight again!”
Completely undone, he could only press his hands to his temples, andmurmur, “Oh my God, my God!”
So they stood: he, hanging his head, deserted by his manhood, crushed asby a blow from out the skies; she, erect, scornful, magnificent, all herwomanhood aroused, all her unspeakable fury blazing in her eyes: so theystood, when, the door creaking open, two new personages advanced uponthe scene.
He did not recognize them; but an instinct told him who they were. Hewas petrified. It did not occur to him to interfere.
“Mrs. Peixada, I believe, ma’am?” said one of them, with a smirk.
He had to repeat his query thrice before she deigned to give him herattention.
Then with supreme dignity, bending her neck, “What do you wish withme?” she asked.
“Here, ma’am, is a bench-warrant which I have the honor of servingupon you—matter of the People of the State of New York against JudithPeixada, otherwise known as Judith Karon, charged with murder in thefirst degree upon the person of Edward Bolen, late of the City, County,and State of New York, deceased. Please come along quiet, ma’am, andmake no resistance.—Donnelly, get behind her.”
The officer delivered himself rapidly of this address, and thrust hiswarrant into the prisoner’s hand. The man spoken to as Donnelly, tooka position behind her, obedient to orders. His superior opened the door,and pointing toward it, said, “Please move along fast, ma’am.”
She, flinging one last, brief, scorching glance at her husband, bowed tothe officer, and swept out of the room.
For an instant Arthur remained motionless, riveted to the spot where shehad left him. All at once his body quivered perceptibly. Then, realizingwhat had happened, he dashed headlong through the show-room—heedlessof Romer, Peixada, and a score of Peixada’s clerks, who stood stilland stared—and out into the street, calling, “Ruth, Ruth, come back,come back,” at the top of his voice.
On the curbstone, hatless, out of breath, stupefied, he halted andlooked up and down the street. Ruth was nowhere to be seen.
Here he was joined by Romer and Peixada.
“What is it—what has happened?” Romer asked.
“What has happened?” he repeated, dully. “Did—didn’t you know?She is my wife!”