Part 15 (2/2)

”Here, take hold. Don't let her get away from you.” With a glance round, he took a hypodermic needle from hi pocket, and a quick p.r.i.c.k in the wrist instantly quieted the struggling, captive. ”Get a cab,” he ordered, ”and bring her over to my rooms. The utmost importance--not a sound to anybody. I've got my job cut out for me--no police in this, mind.”

He turned, his manner all gentleness. ”Mrs. Marteen--Mrs. Marteen,” he repeated. She raised her head slightly. ”Will you come with me? My name is Brencherly, and Mr. Gard sent me for you. Come.”

She rose obediently. The name he had spoken seemed to inspire confidence, trust and peace, like a word of power; but her limbs refused to move, and she sank back again. Brencherly took her unresisting hand in his, felt her pulse and shook his head.

”Long!” he called. ”Get a cab. I'll take Mrs. Marteen; stop somewhere and send a taxi back for you; it might look queer to see two of us with unconscious patients.”

When his subordinate turned to go, Brencherly leaned toward the drugged woman, took the bundle from her listless hands and rapidly examined its contents. A coa.r.s.e nightdress, a black waist and a worn and ragged empty wallet rewarded his search. He tied them up again, put the package in its place and turned once more to Mrs. Marteen. ”She's a mighty sick woman,” he murmured. ”Well, it's home for hers, and then me for the old man.”

A taxi drove up, and his a.s.sistant descended. With his help Brencherly half supported, half carried his charge to the curb.

Directing the chauffeur to stop at a nearby hotel before proceeding to Mrs. Marteen's apartment, he climbed in beside the patient, and as the machine gathered headway, murmured a fervent ”Thank G.o.d!”

Mrs. Marteen lay back upon the cus.h.i.+oned seat inert and pa.s.sive. In the flash of each pa.s.sing street-light her face showed waxen pale, a cameo against the dark background; so drawn and pinched were her features, that Brencherly, in panic, seized her pulse, in order to a.s.sure himself that life had not already fled. Obedient to his orders the cab ran up to an hotel entrance, and Brencherly, leaning out, called the starter.

”Here!” he snapped, ”send a taxi over to the park--the bench opposite No. --, and pick up a man with an old lady. She's unconscious.”

For an instant the light glinted on his metal badge as he threw back his coat. The starter nodded. Brencherly settled back again in his place with a sigh of relief. It was only a matter of moments now, and he would have brought to an unexpectedly successful close the task he had set himself. He began to build air castles; to construct for himself a little niche in his own selected temple of Fame. He was aroused from his revery by a voice at his side. Mrs. Marteen was speaking, at first indistinctly, then with insistent repet.i.tion.

”I can't remember--I can't remember.”

He turned to her with gentle questioning, but she did not heed him.

Slowly, with infinite effort, as if her slender hands were weighted down, she lifted them before her face. She stared at them with growing horror depicted on her face. He was suddenly reminded of an electrifying performance of Macbeth he had once witnessed. A red glare from a ruby lamp at a fire-street corner splashed her frail fingers with vivid color as they pa.s.sed it by. She gave a scream that ended in a moan, and mechanically wiped her hands back and forth, back and forth, upon her coat. Brencherly's heart ached for her. Over and over he repeated rea.s.suring words in her deafened ears, striving to lay the awful ghost that had fastened like a vampire on her heart. But to no avail. She was as beyond his reach as if she were a creature of another planet. Never in his active, efficient life had he felt so helpless. It was with thanksgiving that at last he saw the ornate entrance of Mrs. Marteen's home.

”Watch her!” he ordered the chauffeur, as he leaped up the steps and into the vestibule to prepare for her reception.

A message to her apartment brought the maid and butler in haste. With many exclamations of alarm and sympathy they bore her to her own room once more, and laid her upon the bed. She lay limp and still, while they hurried about her with restoratives.

Brencherly was at the telephone. Almost at once, in answer to his ring, Doctor Balys' voice sounded over the wire in hasty congratulations and promises of immediate a.s.sistance. Hanging up the receiver, he turned again to his patient.

Through the silent apartment the sound of the doorbell buzzed with sudden shock. The butler stood as if transfixed.

”It's Miss Dorothy!” he exclaimed in consternation. ”She went out to walk a little, with young Mr. Mahr. She was nervous and couldn't rest, and telephoned for him to come--in spite of--in spite of--” He hesitated. ”Anyway, Mr. Mahr--young Mr. Mahr--came for her, sir.

Mr.--Mr.--I think you'd better break it to her, sir. She mustn't see her mother like this--without warning!”

Brencherly ran down the hall, the servant preceding him. As the door swung wide, Dorothy, followed by Teddy Mahr, entered the hallway. She stopped suddenly, face to face with a stranger.

”Who are you? What do you want?” she asked, sudden fear and suspicion in her eyes.

Brencherly explained quickly.

”Mr. Gard employed me, Miss Marteen, to find your mother, if possible--and--she is here. Don't be alarmed.”

Dorothy sank into a chair, weak with relief. Teddy put forth his hand to help her. Instinctively she remained clasping his arm as if his presence gave her strength.

”And she's all right--she isn't hurt--or--or anything?” she implored breathlessly.

”She's very ill, I'm afraid,” said Brencherly. ”I think you--had better not go to her till the doctor comes. I've sent for him.”

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