Part 12 (1/2)
Her letter, her frantic record of pain and misery, was in his pocket. He found it, and feeling that even if he were observed to be absorbed in reading, it could only appear natural in view of his mission, he propped himself with pillows and reread the tear-blistered pages. His spirit rebelled. No, no; the woman who had written those searing, bitter lines of awakening could not be guilty of monstrous murder. He hated himself that his mind had accused her. He cursed himself that by his intervention he had perhaps thrown investigation upon the wrong scent, while the truth, he a.s.sured himself, must exonerate her and bring the real criminal to justice. What could have made him be such a fool? The next instant he thanked his stars that he had been cool enough to plan the scene. As he read the throbbing pages, tears rose to his eyes again and again; he had to lay the letter down and compose himself. Ah, he was wrong, always at fault. By his well-intended interference, he had arranged Dorothy's flight, with results he trembled to foresee. And Dorothy! What was he to tell the child? How was he to prepare her to bear the present strain and the knowledge of what might come?
The fevered hours pa.s.sed slowly. It was with a wrenching effort that he forced his mind to concentrate on the business in hand for the coming day. Yet, for his own honor and the sake of his people, it must be done, and well done. Moreover, there must be no wavering on his part, nothing to let anyone infer an unusual disturbance of mind. He must be prepared to play shocked surprise when the tragic news reached him.
Utter exhaustion finally overpowered his fevered brain and he fell into a troubled sleep, from which he was aroused by Denning's voice. The car was not in motion, and he divined that it had been shunted to await their pleasure. He dressed hastily, his heart still aching with dread and uncertainty.
As he faced himself in the mirror he noted his sunken eyes and ghastly color, and Denning, entering behind him, noted it, too, with a quick thrill of sympathy. He had come to accept as fact his fear, expressed in the directors' room. Gard must be suffering from some deadly disease.
”You look all in, Gard,” he said regretfully. ”I'm sorry I had to drive you so.” He hesitated. ”Has--have the doctors been giving you a scare about yourself?”
Gard divined the other's version of his strange actions, and jumped at an excuse that explained and covered much.
”Don't talk about it,” he said gruffly. ”You know it won't do to have rumors about my health going round.”
Denning took the remark as a tacit acquiescence. His face expressed genuine sympathy and compa.s.sion.
”I'm sorry,” he said slowly.
Gard looked up and frowned, yet the kindliness extended, though it was for an imaginary reason, was grateful to him.
”Well, I can take all the extra sympathy anyone has just now,” he answered in a tone that carried conviction. ”I've had a good deal to struggle against recently--but I'm not whipped yet.”
”Oh, you'll be all right,” Denning encouraged. ”You're a young man still, and you've got the energy of ten young bucks. I'll back you to win. Cheer up; you've got a hard day ahead.” Gard nodded. How hard a day his friend little guessed. ”We'll go on to the hotel when you are ready.
Your first appointment is at nine thirty. Jim is making breakfast for us here.”
”All right,” said Gard; ”I'll join you in a minute. Go ahead and get your coffee.” Left alone, he hurriedly pocketed Mahr's jewelry, paused a moment to grind the stone of the scarf pin from its setting--among the cinders of the terminus the gem and its mangled mounting could both be easily lost. His one desire now was to put himself in telephonic communication with New York, but he did not dare to be too pressing.
However, once at the hotel, he made all arrangements to have a call transferred, and opened connection with Brencherly. He was shaking with nervousness. ”Any news?” he asked.
”None, Mr. Gard, I'm sorry,” the detective's voice sounded over the wire, ”except that I've followed your instructions with regard to the young lady. I've not left the 'phone, sir; slept right here in your armchair. The hospitals have been questioned, and there is nothing reported at police headquarters that could possibly interest you. I've looked over the morning papers carefully to see if there was anything the reporters had that might be a clew. There's nothing. I took the liberty of sending Dr. Balys over to the young lady this morning--she seemed in such a state; he'll be back any minute, though. I've got every line pulling on the quiet. I've done my best, sir.”
Brencherly's voice ceased, and Gard drew a sigh of relief. At least there was no bad news, and as yet nothing in public print concerning the tragedy. The discovery had probably been made early that morning by the servant, whose duty it was to care for the master's private apartments.
The first afternoon papers would contain all the details, and perhaps the ticker would have the news before. He realized that all the haggard night he had been fearing that the morning would bring him knowledge of Mrs. Marteen's death--drowned, asphyxiated, poisoned--the many shapes of the one terrible deed had presented themselves to his subconscious mind, to be thrust away by his stubborn will. Dorothy, summoned to the telephone, had nothing to add to Brencherly's information, but seemed to derive comfort and consolation from Gard's a.s.surances that all would be well. She would call him again at noon, she said.
He came from the booth almost glad. His step was light, his troubled eyes clear once more. He was ready to play his part in every sense, grateful for the respite from his pain. His confidence in himself returned, and he went to the trying and momentous meetings of the morning with his gigantic mental grasp and convincing methods at their best.
Dorothy's message did not reach him till after midday had come and gone.
Once Larkin had left the conclave and returned with his face big with consternation and surprise. Gard divined that the news of the murder was out, but nothing was brought up except the business of the corporation.
When at last he left the meeting he motored back to the hotel, refusing the hospitality cordially extended to him, his one desire to be again in touch with events transpiring in New York. He had hardly shown himself in the lobby when a page summoned him to the telephone.
It was Dorothy, her voice faint with fright.
”It's you,” she cried--”it's you! Have you learned anything about mother? We haven't any news--nothing at all. Mr. Brencherly and the doctor tell me that everything's being done. But I'm almost wild--and listen; something awful has happened. It's your friend, Mr. Mahr, Teddy's father--he's been murdered!”
”What!” exclaimed Gard, thankful that she could not see his face.
”Yes, yes,” she continued, ”murdered in his own room--they found him this morning--they say you were the last person to see him before it was done. Oh, Mr. Gard, aren't you coming home soon? It seems as if terrible things happen all the time--and I'm frightened. Please, come back!”
The voice choked in a sob, and her hearer longed to take her in his arms and comfort her, s.h.i.+eld her from the terrible possibilities that loomed big on their horizon.