Part 4 (1/2)
”That is what I am asking you,” he said, a trifle brusquely.
”But how can I tell you?” she cried.
”I am only striving vainly to pierce the fog which seems to envelop us.
Let me begin again. I, a mere stranger in New York, just three hours landed from the _Lusitania_, witnessed a murderous attack on a young man who was alighting from a cab in front of my hotel, the Central, in West 27th Street. I saw him stabbed so seriously that he died within a couple of minutes, and his a.s.sailants made off in an automobile, the very vehicle, in fact, in which he arrived. I managed to note its number, and I gathered, from instructions the victim himself had given, that the chauffeur's Christian name was Anatole. The two men who actually committed the murder--though the chauffeur was in league with them--seemed to me to be Czechs or Hungarians----”
”Ah, I thought so,” broke in the girl.
”And now may I ask why you did think so?”
”I may tell you later, perhaps. Please forgive me. I am quite unnerved, and oh, so unhappy. Why have you come here?”
”That is due to one of those fantastic chances which occur occasionally. In the effort to save Monsieur de Courtois, or rather to seize his slayers, because I was too far away to interfere when the blow was struck, I dropped the overcoat I was carrying. A crowd gathered, and someone gave me a coat which I took as my own. It was not until I had quitted the police and doctor, who arrived almost immediately, and I had gone into Broadway to avoid the clamor in the hotel, that I discovered I was wearing the dead man's overcoat, and in one of the pockets I found a marriage license. Here it is. By that means I learnt your address, and I came here quickly, hoping to save you some of the agony which the appearance of a policeman or detective would have caused. Unfortunately, I have proved but a sorry subst.i.tute for an official messenger.”
”Oh, no, no, Mr. Curtis. You have been most kind, most considerate.
If anyone is to blame, it is I.”
”Will you pardon me, then, if I remind you that time is pressing? Even a half-hour gained to-night by the authorities may be invaluable. If you are able to supply any clew, the least hint of motive, the most shadowy of guesses at a personality behind this beastly crime, you will be rendering a great service.”
”Please, please, give me time to think. I am not heartless--indeed I am not. . . . If I could do anything to save Monsieur de Courtois'
life I would make the sacrifice--you will believe that, won't you? . . . But he is dead, you say, and I might blurt out something in my distress which would cause endless mischief. Perhaps I have thought too much of my own troubles. Now I must begin to endure for the sake of others. That is the woman's lot in life, I fear. . . . Have you a wife or a sister, Mr. Curtis, or is there some woman whom you love?
For her sake, have pity on me, and do not drag me into the horrible arena of courts and newspapers.”
Her pleading, her att.i.tude, her pathetic gestures, gave extraordinary force to an appeal which, by contrast with her extreme agitation, was almost grotesquely inconsequent. Curtis was at his wits' end to find the line of reasoning calculated to convince this beautiful creature that she might, indeed, begin enduring ”for the sake of others” by expressing her determination to give the police all possible a.s.sistance.
”There is no urgency for a few minutes,” was the best reply he could frame on the spur of the moment. ”Shall I leave you alone for a little while? Perhaps you would like to consult your maid? Indeed, her services might meet all the requirements of the case. The police would be the first to recognize that a woman who had lost her affianced husband under such terrible----”
”Ah, but that is the wretched difficulty I am in. Poor Monsieur de Courtois was nothing to me.”
”Nothing to you!”
Probably Curtis's brain did not reel, but it a.s.suredly felt like reeling, and it is quite certain that his eyes blazed down on the half-hysterical girl with an intensity that magnetized her into a broken excuse.
”It is--quite--true,” she stammered, with the diffidence of a child explaining some lapse which, it was hoped, might not be regarded as a real fault. ”I never dreamed of marriage--in the sense--that people mean--when they intend to live happily together. . . . Monsieur de Courtois was to be my husband--only in name. I--I paid him for that. . . . I--I gave him a thousand dollars--and--and---- Don't look at me in that way or I shall scream! . . . I have done nothing wrong. . . . I was trying to protect myself. . . . Oh, if you are a man you will want to help me, rather than push me into the living tomb which threatens to engulf me before to-morrow morning!”
Even in their agitation, they both heard the jar of a bell. The girl sprang upright. There was something splendid in her courage, in the way she threw back her proud head and clenched her tiny hands.
”Ah me!” she sighed. ”Perhaps it is already too late!”
CHAPTER III
EIGHT-THIRTY
They stood in silence, listening to the footsteps of Marcelle on the parquet floor of the pa.s.sage. The outer door was opened, and a murmur of voices reached them indistinctly.
”I have had the honor of knowing you not much longer than ten minutes, Miss Grandison,” said Curtis, and the strong, vibrant note in his voice might well have won any woman's confidence, ”but if you feel that you can trust me, and my help is of value, please command me, that is, if your enemies are men.”
She rewarded him with one swift look of grat.i.tude.