Part 16 (1/2)

”Oh! but I must--I must!” she cried, tears in her voice.

In the rush of happenings no one had thought of Mrs. Mellows. Hers was not a personality to commend itself in moments of stress. Now she suddenly appeared, her eyes swollen with sleep, her ample form swathed in a dressing gown.

”What _is_ the matter?” she complained. ”I told you, Dorothy, that I thought it very bad form, indeed, for you and Mr. Mahr to go out. In bereavements, such as yours, sir, it's not the proper thing for you to be making exhibitions of yourself. Like as not the reporters have been taking pictures. And at any time they may find out that my poor dear sister is ill and wandering. I don't know _what_ to say! The papers will be full of it. And you!” she exclaimed, having for the first time become aware of the detective's presence. ”Who are you. How did you get in? I hope and pray you're not a reporter!--Dorothy, don't tell me you've brought a reporter in here--or I shall leave this house at once!”

”No, Aunt, no!” cried Dorothy. ”This--this gentleman, has brought my mother home. She's in her room now--she's--”

Mrs. Mellows turned and made a rush down the corridor. Four pairs of hands stayed her in her flight.

”No--no!” begged Dorothy. ”This gentleman says she is very ill. We mustn't disturb her--Aunt--please--the doctor is coming.”

As if the name had conjured him, a ring announced Doctor Balys' arrival.

He entered hastily, his emergency bag in his hand.

”Mr. Brencherly, come with me, please,” he ordered. ”You can tell me the details as I work. Miss Marteen and Mrs. Mellows, wait for me, and I'll come and tell you the facts just as soon as I know them myself.” He nodded unceremoniously and followed Brencherly.

As they neared Mrs. Marteen's room the silence was suddenly broken by a cry. Balys strode past his guide and threw open the door.

Mrs. Marteen, sitting erect in the bed, held out rigid arms as if in desperate appeal. The terrified maid stood by, wringing her hands.

”Gard!” she called. ”Marcus Gard! help me! Tell me--I'll believe you--I'll believe you--will you tell me the truth!” Her strength left her suddenly, and as the physician placed a supporting arm about her, she sank back, her eyes closed wearily. As he laid her gently back upon the pillows, she sighed softly, her heavy lids unclosed a moment. ”I knew you'd come,” she murmured. ”You'll take care of--of Dorothy--you will--” Her voice trailed off into nothingness; then ”Marcus”--she whispered.

The two men turned away. Brencherly coughed. ”Is there any hope?” he asked, breaking the tense silence that seemed suddenly to have entered the room like an actual presence.

The doctor nodded without speaking. ”Yes--hope,” he said at length, as he opened his leather satchel.

XIII

It was well into the small hours of the morning when Brencherly sought his own rooms in an inconspicuous apartment hotel, where he, his activities and, at times, strange companions, were not only tolerated, but welcomed. He was weary, but too excited and elated to desire sleep.

He nodded to the friendly night clerk, and received a favorable response to his request, even at that unwholesome hour, for coffee and scrambled eggs to be served in his rooms.

He found Long, his a.s.sistant, slumbering sonorously in an armchair in the living-room of his modest suite. The open door to the chamber beyond, sufficiently indicated where his charge had been placed.

Long awoke, and stretched himself with a yawn.

”Three o'clock,” he observed, with a glance at the mantel clock. ”Made a good haul, hey? Well, your kidnapped beauty is in there, dead to the world. I tied her feet together before I went to sleep. You can't tell when they're going to come to, you know, and I thought it would be safer. Now, tell a feller, what's the dope?”

Brencherly entered the adjoining apartment without deigning an answer, switched on the lights and approached the bed. The wizen little woman, with her disheveled white hair and tumbled garments looked pitifully weak and helpless; her thin, claw-like hands clutching at the pillow in a childish pose. Her captor stared at her intently, his brain crowded with strange thoughts. Who was she? What was her history? He had his suspicions, but they all remained to be verified.

He took one of the emaciated wrists in his hand. How frail and small it was, and yet, perhaps, an instrument in the hands of Fate. She moved uneasily, and, glancing down, he noticed how securely she was bound.

Leaning over, he loosened the curtain cord with which she had been secured. She sighed as if relieved, and, turning, he left her, as a discreet tapping at his door announced the coming of the meal he had ordered.

A night watchman in s.h.i.+rt sleeves brought in the tray softly and set it upon the table, with a glance of curiosity at the adjoining room. There was usually an interesting story to be gleaned from the guests that the detective brought.

”Come on,” said the host eagerly, ”fall on it, I'm starved.”

”Anything I can do?” inquired the night watchman hopefully.