Part 7 (1/2)

”Do I know the woman?” asked De Gollyer, who flattered himself on pa.s.sing through every cla.s.s of society.

”Possibly, but no more than any one else.”

”An actress?”

”What she has been in the past I don't know--a promoter would better describe her. Undoubtedly she has been behind the scenes in many an untold intrigue of the business world. A very feminine woman, and yet, as you shall see, with an unusual instantaneous masculine power of decision.”

”Peters,” said Quinny, waving a warning finger, ”you are destroying your story. Your preface will bring an anticlimax.”

”You shall judge,” said Peters, who waited until his audience was in strained attention before opening his story. ”The names are, of course, disguises.”

Mrs. Rita Kildair inhabited a charming bachelor-girl studio, very elegant, of the duplex pattern, in one of the buildings just off Central Park West. She knew pretty nearly every one in that indescribable society in New York that is drawn from all levels, and that imposes but one condition for members.h.i.+p--to be amusing. She knew every one and no one knew her. No one knew beyond the vaguest rumors her history or her means. No one had ever heard of a Mr. Kildair. There was always about her a certain defensive reserve the moment the limits of acquaintances.h.i.+p had been reached. She had a certain amount of money, she knew a certain number of men in Wall Street affairs and her studio was furnished with taste and even distinction. She was of any age. She might have suffered everything or nothing at all. In this mingled society her invitations were eagerly sought, her dinners were spontaneous, and the discussions, though gay and usually daring, were invariably under the control of wit and good taste.

On the Sunday night of this adventure she had, according to her invariable custom, sent away her j.a.panese butler and invited to an informal chafing-dish supper seven of her more congenial friends, all of whom, as much as could be said of any one, were habitues of the studio.

At seven o'clock, having finished dressing, she put in order her bedroom, which formed a sort of free pa.s.sage between the studio and a small dining room to the kitchen beyond. Then, going into the studio, she lit a wax taper and was in the act of touching off the bra.s.s candlesticks that lighted the room when three knocks sounded on the door and a Mr. Flanders, a broker, compact, nervously alive, well groomed, entered with the informality of a.s.sured acquaintance.

”You are early,” said Mrs. Kildair, in surprise.

”On the contrary, you are late,” said the broker, glancing at his watch.

”Then be a good boy and help me with the candles,” she said, giving him a smile and a quick pressure of her fingers.

He obeyed, asking nonchalantly:

”I say, dear lady, who's to be here to-night?”

”The Enos Jacksons.”

”I thought they were separated.”

”Not yet.”

”Very interesting! Only you, dear lady, would have thought of serving us a couple on the verge.”

”It's interesting, isn't it?”

”a.s.suredly. Where did you know Jackson?”

”Through the Warings. Jackson's a rather doubtful person, isn't he?”

”Let's call him a very sharp lawyer,” said Flanders defensively. ”They tell me, though, he is on the wrong side of the market--in deep.”

”And you?”

”Oh, I? I'm a bachelor,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders, ”and if I come a cropper it makes no difference.”

”Is that possible?” she said, looking at him quickly.

”Probable even. And who else is coming?”