V
THE MYSTERY OF A FOUR-WHEELER
"What's that?" At the first alarm the girl had caught convulsively atKirkwood's arm. Now, when a pause came in the growling of the knocker, shemade him hear her voice; and it was broken and vibrant with a threat ofhysteria. "Oh, what can it mean?"
"I don't know." He laid a hand reassuringly over that which trembled on hisforearm. "The police, possibly."
"Police!" she iterated, aghast. "What makes you think--?"
"A man tried to stop me at the door," he answered quickly. "I got in beforehe could. When he tried the knocker, a bobby came along and stopped him.The latter may have been watching the house since then,--it'd be only hisduty to keep an eye on it; and Heaven knows we raised a racket, cominghead-first down those stairs! Now we are up against it," he added brightly.
But the girl was tugging at his hand. "Come!" she begged breathlessly."Come! There is a way! Before they break in--"
"But this man--?" Kirkwood hung back, troubled.
"They--the police are sure to find and care for him."
"So they will." He chuckled, "And serve him right! He'd have choked me todeath, with all the good will in the world!"
"Oh, do hurry!"
Turning, she sped light-footed down the staircase to the lower hall, heat her elbow. Here the uproar was loudest--deep enough to drown whateversounds might have been made by two pairs of flying feet. For all thatthey fled on tiptoe, stealthily, guilty shadows in the night; and at thenewel-post swung back into the unbroken blackness which shrouded thefastnesses backward of the dwelling. A sudden access of fury on the part ofthe alarmist at the knocker, spurred them on with quaking hearts. In half adozen strides, Kirkwood, guided only by instinct and the _frou-frou_ of thegirl's skirts as she ran invisible before him, stumbled on the uppermoststeps of a steep staircase; only a hand-rail saved him, and that at thelast moment. He stopped short, shocked into caution. From below came acontrite whisper: "I'm so sorry! I should have warned you."
He pulled himself together, glaring wildly at nothing. "It's all right--"
"You're not hurt, truly? Oh, do come quickly."
She waited for him at the bottom of the flight;--happily for him, for hewas all at sea.
"Here--your hand--let me guide you. This darkness is dreadful ..."
He found her hand, somehow, and tucked his into it, confidingly, and notwithout an uncertain thrill of satisfaction.
"Come!" she panted. "Come! If they break in--"
Stifled by apprehension, her voice failed her.
They went forward, now less impetuously, for it was very black; and theknocker had fallen still.
"No fear of that," he remarked after a time. "They wouldn't dare break in."
A fluttering whisper answered him: "I don't know. We dare risk nothing."
They seemed to explore, to penetrate acres of labyrinthine chambers andpassages, delving deep into the bowels of the earth, like rabbits burrowingin a warren, hounded by beagles.
Above stairs the hush continued unbroken; as if the dumb Genius of thePlace had cast a spell of silence on the knocker, or else, outraged, hadsmitten the noisy disturber with a palsy.
The girl seemed to know her way; whether guided by familiarity or byintuition, she led on without hesitation, Kirkwood blundering in her wake,between confusion of impression, and dawning dismay conscious of but onetangible thing, to which he clung as to his hope of salvation: those firm,friendly fingers that clasped his own.
It was as if they wandered on for an hour; probably from start to finishtheir flight took up three minutes, no more. Eventually the girl stopped,releasing his hand. He could hear her syncopated breathing before him, andgathered that something was wrong. He took a step forward.
"What is it?"
Her full voice broke out of the obscurity startlingly close, in his veryear.
"The door--the bolts--I can't budge them."
"Let me ..."
He pressed forward, brushing her shoulder. She did not draw away, butwillingly yielded place to his hands at the fastenings; and what had provedimpossible to her, to his strong fingers was a matter of comparative ease.Yet, not entirely consciously, he was not quick. As he tugged at the boltshe was poignantly sensitive to the subtle warmth of her at his side; hecould hear her soft dry sobs of excitement and suspense, punctuating thequiet; and was frightened, absolutely, by an impulse, too strong forridicule, to take her in his arms and comfort her with the assurance that,whatever her trouble, he would stand by her and protect her.... It werefutile to try to laugh it off; he gave over the endeavor. Even at thiscritical moment he found himself repeating over and over to his heart thequestion: "Can this be love? Can this be love? ..."
Could it be love at an hour's acquaintance? Absurd! But he could notlaugh--nor render himself insensible to the suggestion.
He found that he had drawn the bolts. The girl tugged and rattled at theknob. Reluctantly the door opened inwards. Beyond its threshold stretchedten feet or more of covered passageway, whose entrance framed an oblongglimmering with light. A draught of fresh air smote their faces. Behindthem a door banged.
"Where does this open?"
"On the mews," she informed him.
"The mews!" He stared in consternation at the pallid oval that stood forher face. "The mews! But you, in your evening gown, and I--"
"There's no other way. We must chance it. Are you afraid?"
Afraid? ... He stepped aside. She slipped by him and on. He closed thedoor, carefully removing the key and locking it on the outside; then joinedthe girl at the entrance to the mews, where they paused perforce, she asmuch disconcerted as he, his primary objection momentarily waxing in forceas they surveyed the conditions circumscribing their escape.
Quadrant Mews was busily engaged in enjoying itself. Night had fallensultry and humid, and the walls and doorsteps were well fringed andclustered with representatives of that class of London's population whichinfests mews through habit, taste, or force of circumstance.
On the stoops men sprawled at easy length, discussing short, foul cuttiesloaded with that rank and odoriferous compound which, under the name andin the fame of tobacco, is widely retailed at tuppence the ounce. Theirwomen-folk more commonly squatted on the thresholds, cheerfully squabbling;from opposing second-story windows, two leaned perilously forth, slangingone another across the square briskly in the purest billingsgate; and wereimpartially applauded from below by an audience whose appreciation seemedfaintly tinged with envy. Squawking and yelling children swarmed over theflags and rude cobblestones that paved the ways. Like incense, heavy andpungent, the rich effluvia of stable-yards swirled in air made visible byits faint burden of mist.
Over against the entrance wherein Kirkwood and the girl lurked, confoundedby the problem of escaping undetected through this vivacious scene, astable-door stood wide, exposing a dimly illumined interior. Before itwaited a four-wheeler, horse already hitched in between the shafts, whileits driver, a man of leisurely turn of mind, made lingering inspection ofstraps and buckles, and, while Kirkwood watched him, turned attention tothe carriage lamps.
The match which he raked spiritedly down his thigh, flared ruddily; thesucceeding paler glow of the lamp threw into relief a heavy beefy mask,with shining bosses for cheeks and nose and chin; through narrow slitstwo cunning eyes glittered like dull gems. Kirkwood appraised him withattention, as one in whose gross carcass was embodied their only hope ofunannoyed return to the streets and normal surroundings of their world. Thedifficulty lay in attracting the man's attention and engaging him withoutarousing his suspicions or bringing the population about their ears. Thoughhe hesitated long, no favorable opportunity presented itself; and in timethe Jehu approached the box with the ostensible purpose of mounting anddriving off. In this critical situation the American, forced to recognizethat boldness must mark his course, took the girl's fate and his own in hishands, and with a quick word to his companion, stepped out of hiding.
The cabby had a foot upon the
step when Kirkwood tapped his shoulder.
"My man--"
"Lor, lumme!" cried the fellow in amaze, pivoting on his heel. Cupidity andquick understanding enlivened the eyes which in two glances lookedKirkwood up and down, comprehending at once both his badly rumpled hatand patent-leather shoes. "S'help me,"--thickly,--"where'd you drop from,guvner?"
"That's my affair," said Kirkwood briskly. "Are you engaged?"
"If you mykes yerself my fare," returned the cabby shrewdly, "I _ham_."
"Ten shillings, then, if you get us out of here in one minute andto--say--Hyde Park Corner in fifteen."
"Us?" demanded the fellow aggressively.
Kirkwood motioned toward the passageway. "There's a lady with me--there.Quick now!"
Still the man did not move. "Ten bob," he bargained; "an' you runnin' awyewith th' stuffy ol' gent's fair darter? Come now, guvner, is it gen'rous?Myke it a quid an'--"
"A pound then. _Will_ you hurry?"
By way of answer the fellow scrambled hastily up to the box and snatched atthe reins. "_Ck_! Gee-e hup!" he cried sonorously.
By now the mews had wakened to the fact of the presence of a "toff" in itsmidst. His light topcoat and silk hat-rendered him as conspicuous as a redIndian in war-paint would have been on Rotten Row. A cry of surprise wasraised, and drowned in a volley of ribald inquiry and chaff.
Fortunately, the cabby was instant to rein in skilfully before thepassageway, and Kirkwood had the door open before the four-wheeler stopped.The girl, hugging her cloak about her, broke cover (whereat the hue and cryredoubled), and sprang into the body of the vehicle. Kirkwood followed,shutting the door. As the cab lurched forward he leaned over and drew downthe window-shade, shielding the girl from half a hundred prying eyes. Atthe same time they gathered momentum, banging swiftly, if loudly out of themews.
An urchin, leaping on the step to spy in Kirkwood's window, fell off,yelping, as the driver's whiplash curled about his shanks.
The gloom of the tunnel inclosed them briefly ere the lights of theHog-in-the-Pound flashed by and the wheels began to roll more easily.Kirkwood drew back with a sigh of relief.
"Thank God!" he said softly.
The girl had no words.
Worried by her silence, solicitous lest, the strain ended, she might be onthe point of fainting, he let up the shade and lowered the window at herside.
She seemed to have collapsed in her corner. Against the dark upholstery herhair shone like pale gold in the half-light; her eyes were closed and sheheld a handkerchief to her lips; the other hand lay limp.
"Miss Calendar?"
She started, and something bulky fell from the seat and thumped heavily onthe floor. Kirkwood bent to pick it up, and so for the first time wasmade aware that she had brought with her a small black gladstone bag ofconsiderable weight. As he placed it on the forward seat their eyes met.
"I didn't know--" he began.
"It was to get that," she hastened to explain, "that my father sent me ..."
"Yes," he assented in a tone indicating his complete comprehension. "Itrust ..." he added vaguely, and neglected to complete the observation,losing himself in a maze of conjecture not wholly agreeable. This was a newphase of the adventure. He eyed the bag uneasily. What did it contain? Howdid he know ...?
Hastily he abandoned that line of thought. He had no right toinfer anything whatever, who had thrust himself uninvited into herconcerns--uninvited, that was to say, in the second instance, havingbeen once definitely given his conge. Inevitably, however, a thousandunanswerable questions pestered him; just as, at each fresh facet ofmystery disclosed by the sequence of the adventure, his bewildermentdeepened.
The girl stirred restlessly. "I have been thinking," she volunteered in atroubled tone, "that there is absolutely no way I know of, to thank youproperly."
"It is enough if I've been useful," he rose in gallantry to the emergency.
"That," she commented, "was very prettily said. But then I have never knownany one more kind and courteous and--and considerate, than you." There wasno savor of flattery in the simple and direct statement; indeed, she waslooking away from him, out of the window, and her face was serious withthought; she seemed to be speaking of, rather than to, Kirkwood. "And Ihave been wondering," she continued with unaffected candor, "what you mustbe thinking of me."
"I? ... What should I think of you, Miss Calendar?"
With the air of a weary child she laid her head against the cushions again,face to him, and watched him through lowered lashes, unsmiling.
"You might be thinking that an explanation is due you. Even the way wewere brought together was extraordinary, Mr. Kirkwood. You must be verygenerous, as generous as you have shown yourself brave, not to require somesort of an explanation of me."
"I don't see it that way."
"I do ... You have made me like you very much, Mr. Kirkwood."
He shot her a covert glance--causelessly, for her _naivete_ was flawless.With a feeling of some slight awe he understood this--a sensation ofsincere reverence for the unspoiled, candid, child's heart and mind thatwere hers. "I'm glad," he said simply; "very glad, if that's the case, andpresupposing I deserve it. Personally," he laughed, "I seem to myself tohave been rather forward."
"No; only kind and a gentleman."
"But--please!" he protested.
"Oh, but I mean it, every word! Why shouldn't I? In a little while, tenminutes, half an hour, we shall have seen the last of each other. Whyshould I not tell you how I appreciate all that you have unselfishly donefor me?"
"If you put it that way,--I'm sure I don't know; beyond that it embarrassesme horribly to have you overestimate me so. If any courage has been shownthis night, it is yours ... But I'm forgetting again." He thought to diverther. "Where shall I tell the cabby to go this time, Miss Calendar?"
"Craven Street, please," said the girl, and added a house number. "I am tomeet my father there, with this,"--indicating the gladstone bag.
Kirkwood thrust head and shoulders out the window and instructed the cabbyaccordingly; but his ruse had been ineffectual, as he found when he satback again. Quite composedly the girl took up the thread of conversationwhere it had been broken off.
"It's rather hard to keep silence, when you've been so good. I don't wantyou to think me less generous than yourself, but, truly, I can tell younothing." She sighed a trace resentfully; or so he thought. "There islittle enough in this--this wretched affair, that I understand myself; andthat little, I may not tell ... I want you to know that."
"I understand, Miss Calendar."
"There's one thing I may say, however. I have done nothing wrong to-night,I believe," she added quickly.
"I've never for an instant questioned that," he returned with a qualm ofshame; for what he said was not true.
"Thank you ..."
The four-wheeler swung out of Oxford Street into Charing Cross Road.Kirkwood noted the fact with a feeling of some relief that their ridewas to be so short; like many of his fellow-sufferers from "the artistictemperament," he was acutely disconcerted by spoken words of praise andgratitude; Miss Calendar, unintentionally enough, had succeeded only inrendering him self-conscious and ill at ease.
Nor had she fully relieved her mind, nor voiced all that perturbed her."There's one thing more," she said presently: "my father. I--I hope youwill think charitably of him."
"Indeed, I've no reason or right to think otherwise."
"I was afraid--afraid his actions might have seemed peculiar, to-night ..."
"There are lots of things I don't understand, Miss Calendar. Some day,perhaps, it will all clear up,--this trouble of yours. At least, onesupposes it is trouble, of some sort. And then you will tell me the wholestory.... Won't you?" Kirkwood insisted.
"I'm afraid not," she said, with a smile of shadowed sadness. "We are tosay good night in a moment or two, and--it will be good-by as well. It'sunlikely that we shall ever meet again."
"I refuse positively to take such a gloomy view of the
case!"
She shook her head, laughing with him, but with shy regret. "It's so, nonethe less. We are leaving London this very night, my father and I--leavingEngland, for that matter."
"Leaving England?" he echoed. "You're not by any chance bound for America,are you?"
"I ... can't tell you."
"But you can tell me this: are you booked on the _Minneapolis_?"
"No--o; it is a--quite another boat."
"Of course!" he commented savagely. "It wouldn't be me to have _any_ sortof luck!"
She made no reply beyond a low laugh. He stared gloomily out of his window,noting indifferently that they were passing the National Gallery. On theirleft Trafalgar Square stretched, broad and bare, a wilderness of sootystone with an air of mutely tolerating its incongruous fountains. ThroughCharing Cross roared a tide-rip of motor-busses and hackney carriages.
Glumly the young man foresaw the passing of his abbreviated romance; theirdestination was near at hand. Brentwick had been right, to some extent, atleast; it was quite true that the curtain had been rung up that very night,upon Kirkwood's Romance; unhappily, as Brentwick had not foreseen, it wasimmediately to be rung down.
The cab rolled soberly into the Strand.
"Since we are to say good-by so very soon," suggested Kirkwood, "may I aska parting favor, Miss Calendar?"
She regarded him with friendly eyes. "You have every right," she affirmedgently.
"Then please to tell me frankly: are you going into any further danger?"
"And is that the only boon you crave at my hands, Mr. Kirkwood?"
"Without impertinence ..."
For a little time, waiting for him to conclude his vague phrase, shewatched him in an expectant silence. But the man was diffident to adegree--At length, somewhat unconsciously, "I think not," she answered."No; there will be no danger awaiting me at Mrs. Hallam's. You need notfear for me any more--Thank you."
He lifted his brows at the unfamiliar name. "Mrs. Hallam--?"
"I am going to her house in Craven Street."
"Your father is to meet you there?"--persistently.
"He promised to."
"But if he shouldn't?"
"Why--" Her eyes clouded; she pursed her lips over the conjecturalannoyance. "Why, in that event, I suppose--It would be very embarrassing.You see, I don't know Mrs. Hallam; I don't know that she expects me, unlessmy father is already there. They are old friends--I could drive round for awhile and come back, I suppose."
But she made it plain that the prospect did not please her.
"Won't you let me ask if Mr. Calender is there, before you get out, then? Idon't like to be dismissed," he laughed; "and, you know, you shouldn't gowandering round all alone."
The cab drew up. Kirkwood put a hand on the door and awaited her will.
"It--it would be very kind ... I hate to impose upon you."
He turned the knob and got out. "If you'll wait one moment," he saidsuperfluously, as he closed the door.
Pausing only to verify the number, he sprang up the steps and found thebell-button.
It was a modest little residence, in nothing more remarkable than itsneighbors, unless it was for a certain air of extra grooming: the arearailing was sleek with fresh black paint; the doorstep looked the betterfor vigorous stoning; the door itself was immaculate, its brasses shininglustrous against red-lacquered woodwork. A soft glow filled the fanlight.Overhead the drawing-room windows shone with a cozy, warm radiance.
The door opened, framing the figure of a maid sketched broadly in masses ofsomber black and dead white.
"Can you tell me, is Mr. Calendar here?"
The servant's eyes left his face, looked past him at the waiting cab, andreturned.
"I'm not sure, sir. If you will please step in."
Kirkwood hesitated briefly, then acceded. The maid closed the door.
"What name shall I say, sir?"
"Mr. Kirkwood."
"If you will please to wait one moment, sir--"
He was left in the entry hall, the servant hurrying to the staircase andup. Three minutes elapsed; he was on the point of returning to the girl,when the maid reappeared.
"Mrs. Hallam says, will you kindly step up-stairs, sir."
Disgruntled, he followed her; at the head of the stairs she bowed him intothe drawing-room and again left him to his own resources.
Nervous, annoyed, he paced the floor from wall to wall, his footfallssilenced by heavy rugs. As the delay was prolonged he began to fume withimpatience, wondering, half regretting that he had left the girl outside,definitely sorry that he had failed to name his errand more explicitly tothe maid. At another time, in another mood, he might have accorded moreappreciation to the charm of the apartment, which, betraying the femininetouch in every detail of arrangement and furnishing, was very handsome inan unconventional way. But he was quite heedless of externals.
Wearied, he deposited himself sulkily in an armchair by the hearth.
From a boudoir on the same floor there came murmurs of two voices, a man'sand a woman's. The latter laughed prettily.
"Oh, any time!" snorted the American. "Any time you're through with yourconfounded flirtation, Mr. George B. Calendar!"
The voices rose, approaching. "Good night," said the woman gaily; "farewelland--good luck go with you!"
"Thank you. Good night," replied the man more conservatively.
Kirkwood rose, expectant.
There was a swish of draperies, and a moment later he was acknowledging thetotally unlooked-for entrance of the mistress of the house. He had thoughtto see Calendar, presuming him to be the man closeted with Mrs. Hallam;but, whoever that had been, he did not accompany the woman. Indeed, as sheadvanced from the doorway, Kirkwood could hear the man's footsteps on thestairs.
"This is Mr. Kirkwood?" The note of inquiry in the well-trained voice--avery alluring voice and one pleasant to listen to, he thought--made it seemas though she had asked, point-blank, "Who is Mr. Kirkwood?"
He bowed, discovering himself in the presence of an extraordinarilyhandsome and interesting woman; a woman of years which as yet had not toldupon her, of experience that had not availed to harden her, at least in sofar as her exterior charm of personality was involved; a woman, in brief,who bore close inspection well, despite an elusive effect of maturity, notwithout its attraction for men. Kirkwood was impressed that it would bevery easy to learn to like Mrs. Hallam more than well--with her approval.
Although he had not anticipated it, he was not at all surprised torecognize in her the woman who, if he were not mistaken, had slipped toCalendar that warning in the dining-room of the Pless. Kirkwood's state ofmind had come to be such, through his experiences of the past fewhours, that he would have accepted anything, however preposterous, as acommonplace happening. But for that matter there was nothing particularlyastonishing in this _rencontre_.
"I am Mrs. Hallam. You were asking for Mr. Calendar?"
"He was to have been here at this hour, I believe," said Kirkwood.
"Yes?" There was just the right inflection of surprise in her carefullycontrolled tone.
He became aware of an undercurrent of feeling; that the woman wasestimating him shrewdly with her fine direct eyes. He returned her regardwith admiring interest; they were gray-green eyes, deep-set but large, alittle shallow, a little changeable, calling to mind the sea on a windy,cloudy day.
Below stairs a door slammed.
"I am not a detective, Mrs. Hallam," announced the young man suddenly."Mr. Calendar required a service of me this evening; I am here in naturalconsequence. If it was Mr. Calendar who left this house just now, I amwasting time."
"It was not Mr. Calendar." The fine-lined brows arched in surprise, realor pretended, at his first blurted words, and relaxed; amused, the womanlaughed deliciously. "But I am expecting him any moment; he was to havebeen here half an hour since.... Won't you wait?"
She indicated, with a gracious gesture, a chair, and took for herself oneend of a davenport. "I'm su
re he won't be long, now."
"Thank you, I will return, if I may." Kirkwood moved toward the door.
"But there's no necessity--" She seemed insistent on detaining him,possibly because she questioned his motive, possibly for her owndivertisement.
Kirkwood deprecated his refusal with a smile. "The truth is, Miss Calendaris waiting in a cab, outside. I--"
"Dorothy Calendar!" Mrs. Hallam rose alertly. "But why should she waitthere? To be sure, we've never met; but I have known her father for manyyears." Her eyes held steadfast to his face; shallow, flawed by her everythought, like the sea by a cat's-paw he found them altogether inscrutable;yet received an impression that their owner was now unable to account forhim.
She swung about quickly, preceding him to the door and down the stairs. "Iam sure Dorothy will come in to wait, if I ask her," she told Kirkwood in ahigh sweet voice. "I'm so anxious to know her. It's quite absurd, really,of her--to stand on ceremony with me, when her father made an appointmenthere. I'll run out and ask--"
Mrs. Hallam's slim white fingers turned latch and knob, opening the streetdoor, and her voice died away as she stepped out into the night. For amoment, to Kirkwood, tagging after her with an uncomfortable sense ofhaving somehow done the wrong thing, her figure--full fair shoulders andarms rising out of the glittering dinner gown--cut a gorgeous silhouetteagainst the darkness. Then, with a sudden, imperative gesture, she halfturned towards him.
"But," she exclaimed, perplexed, gazing to right and left, "but the cab,Mr. Kirkwood?"
He was on the stoop a second later. Standing beside her, he stared blankly.
To the left the Strand roared, the stream of its night-life in high spate;on the right lay the Embankment, comparatively silent and deserted, ifbrilliant with its high-swung lights. Between the two, quiet Craven Streetran, short and narrow, and wholly innocent of any form of equipage.