Part 15 (1/2)

Suddenly she rose and began dressing in frenzied haste, overcoming her bodily weakness with set purpose. Habit came to her rescue, for she was hardly conscious of her movements. Her toilet completed, she began hastily packing her traveling case, the impulse of flight urging her to trembling speed. But when she lifted the bag its weight discouraged her.

Setting it down again upon the dressing table, she lowered her veil and staggered into the dark hallway. Economy dictated delayed illumination in the Mellen household. All was quiet. Somewhat rea.s.sured, she descended the stairs, leaning heavily on the rail. The fever which had relaxed for a brief interval renewed its grip, and filled with vague, indescribable fears, she fled blindly. Something in her subconscious brain suggested Victor Mahr, and it was toward Was.h.i.+ngton Square that she bent her hurried steps.

She entered the park, forcing her failing strength to one supreme effort, and sank, gasping, upon a bench. It faced toward the darkened residence of the murdered man. A few stragglers stood grouped on the pavement before the house, of asked questions of the policeman stationed near by. The electric lights threw lace patterns that wavered over the unfrequented paths. She leaned back, staring at the dark bulk of the mansion with the darker streak at the doorway, which one divined to be the sinister mark of death. Suddenly she sat erect, her aching weariness forgotten. She knew, past peradventure, that _she had sat there upon that very seat the night before_. The memory was but a flash. Already delirium was returning. She was powerless to move. Hours pa.s.sed, and still she sat staring, unseeing, straight before her. Once a policeman pa.s.sed and turned to look at her, but her evident refinement quieted his suspicions, and he moved on.

She was roused at last by a movement of the bench as someone took a place beside her. She looked up and vaguely realized that it was a woman, darkly dressed and heavily veiled like herself. She, too, leaned back and seemed lost in contemplation of the house opposite. Presently she raised the veil, as if it obstructed her vision too greatly, revealing a withered face, narrow and long, with a singularly white skin. She had the look of a respectable working woman, and her black-gloved hands were folded over a neat paper package. Her curious glance turned toward the lady beside her, and seemed to find satisfaction in the elegance that even the darkness could not quite conceal. She moved nearer, and with a birdlike twist of the head, leaned forward and frankly gazed in her companion's face. The other did not resent the action.

The woman slowly nodded her head. ”Don't know what she's doin', not she.

She's one of the silly kind.” She put out a hand like a claw, and touched Mrs. Marteen's shoulder. Mrs. Marteen turned her flushed and troubled face toward the woman with something akin to intelligence in her eyes. ”What are you settin' here fur, lady?” asked the woman harshly. ”Watchin' his house? Well, it's no use; he won't come out again for you or your likes--never again, never again,” and she chuckled.

”I was here last night. I sat here last night,” said Mrs. Marteen, her mind reverting to its last conscious moment.

The woman peered at her closely, striving to see through the meshes of the veil where the electric light touched her cheek.

”You did? What fur? Was he comin' out to ye, or did ye want to be let inside?”

The insult was lost on the sufferer.

The woman s.h.i.+fted her position, and changed her tone to one of cunning ingratiation.

”Goin' to the funeral?” she inquired, and without waiting for an answer, continued to talk. ”I am. I won't be asked, of course--they don't know I'm here; but I'm goin'. I wouldn't miss it--no, not for--nothing. I ought to have some c.r.a.pe, I know, but I don't see's I can. It would be the right thing, though. I'll ride in a carriage,” she boasted. ”I suppose they'll have black horses. I haven't seen anything back where I come from, so's I'd know just what _is_ the fas.h.i.+onable thing. It'll be a fas.h.i.+onable funeral, won't it? He's a great big man, he is. Everybody knows him--and everybody _don't_ know him; but I do--he's a devil I And women love him, always did love him, the fools! Why, _I_ used to love him. You wouldn't think that now, would you? Well, I did.” She laughed a broken cackle, and seemed surprised that her listener remained mute.

”Did you love him?” demanded the crone sneeringly.

”Love him--love him?” exclaimed Mrs. Marteen, her emotions responding where her mind was unreceptive. ”I hated him--I hated him!”

”Of course you hated him. How could a lady help hating him?” murmured the questioner. ”But would _you_ have the courage to kill him--that's what I want to know!”

Under the inquisition Mrs. Marteen half roused to consciousness. She was in the semi-lucid state of a sleepwalker.

”Kill him!” She held up her hands and looked at them as she had done after reading the account of the murder. ”I'm not sure I didn't kill him; perhaps I did--I can't remember--I can't remember,” she moaned more and more faintly.

”Don't you take the credit of _that_!” shouted the woman, so loudly that a young man who had been aimlessly walking up and down as if intent upon some rendezvous, stopped short to gaze at them keenly.

The older woman, with a movement so rapid that it seemed almost prestidigitation, lifted and threw back her companion's veil. The young man gave a start and approached hastily, amazement in every feature. But the two women were unaware of his presence, and what he next heard made him pause, turn, and by a slight detour come up close behind the bench.

”Keep your hands off. Don't you say you killed him. What right have _you_ to take his life, I'd like to know! Don't let me hear you say that again--don't you dare! Just remember that killing him is _my_ business.

You sha'n't try to rob me--it's my right!” She leaned forward threateningly.

A hand closed over her wrist. The woman screamed.

”Hold on, Mother, none of that.” The young man, still retaining his hold, came from behind the seat and stood over her.

She began to whimper and tremble. ”Don't hit me,” she begged pitifully.

”Don't hit me, and I'll be good, indeed, I will.”

Mrs. Marteen had taken no notice of her providential protector. Her head was sunk upon her breast and her hands hung limp in her lap.

The young man whistled twice, never relaxing his hold. A moment later a form detached itself from the group before the door of the house opposite, crossed the street and joined them quickly, yet with no impression of hurry.

”What's up?” the newcomer asked quietly.