Part 15 (2/2)
Whitaker stared, frowned, and jumped at a conclusion.
”You represent Mrs. Whitaker?”
Mr. Ember shook his head. ”I'm no lawyer, thank G.o.d! But I happen to know a good deal it would be to your advantage to know; so I've taken this liberty.”
”Mrs. Whitaker didn't send you to me? Then how--? What the deuce--!”
”I happened to have a seat near your box at the theatre to-night,” Mr.
Ember explained coolly. ”From--what I saw there, I inferred that you must be--yourself. Afterwards I got hold of Max, confirmed my suspicion, and extracted your address from him.”
”I see,” said Whitaker, slowly--not comprehending the main issue at all.
”But I'm not known here by the name of Whitaker.”
”So I discovered,” said Ember, with his quiet, engaging smile. ”If I hadn't remembered that you sometimes registered as Hugh Morten--as, for instance, at the Commercial House six years ago--”
”You were there!”
”A considerable time after the event--yes.” The man nodded, his eyes glimmering.
Whitaker shot a quick glance round the room, and was relieved to find they were not within earshot of any of the other occupied tables.
”Who the devil are you?” he demanded bluntly.
”I was,” said the other slowly, ”once, a private detective. Now--I'm a person of no particular employment, of independent means, with a penchant--you're at liberty to a.s.sume--for poking my nose into other people's business.”
”Oh....”
A word, ”blackmail,” leapt into Whitaker's consciousness, and served to harden the hostility in his att.i.tude.
”Mrs. George Pett.i.t once employed me to find her sister, Miss Mary Ladislas, who had run away with a chauffeur named Morton,” pursued the man, evenly. ”That was about the time--shortly after--the death of Thurlow Ladislas; say, two months after the so-called elopement.”
”Just a minute,” said Whitaker suddenly--”by your leave--”
Ember bowed gravely. For a thought longer Whitaker's gaze bored into his eyes in vain effort to fathom what was going on behind them, the animus undiscovered by his words; then, remembering, he looked down at the cable message in his hand.
”_Martin Ember_ (it ran) _private agency 1435 Broadway Grace Pett.i.t_.”
Whitaker folded the paper and put it away in a pocket.
”Go on, please,” he said quietly.
”In those days,” Mr. Ember resumed, ”I did such things indifferently well. I had little trouble in following the runaways from Southampton to Greenport. There they parted. The girl crossed to the Connecticut sh.o.r.e, while the man went back to New York with the automobile. He turned the machine in at the Ladislas garage, by the way, and promptly fell into the hands of the police. He was wanted for theft in a former position, was arrested, convicted and sent to Sing Sing; where he presently died, I'm glad to say.... I thought this information might interest you.”
Whitaker nodded grimly.
”Can I order you something to drink?”
”No, thank you--and I'm already smoking.” Mr. Ember dropped the ash from a cigar. ”On the Connecticut side (because it was my business to find out things) I discovered that Miss Ladislas had registered at the Commercial House as Mrs. Morton. She was there, alone, under that name, for nearly a week before you registered as Hugh Morten, and in the s.p.a.ce of a few hours married her, under your true name, and s.h.i.+pped her off to New York.”
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