Part 19 (1/2)

”Not to my knowledge. I--” Norvin hesitated. ”No, Sabella has no sweetheart, but Savigno had. I haven't told you much of that part of my story. It's no use my trying to give you an idea of what kind of woman the Countess of Terranova was, or is--you wouldn't understand.

It's enough to say that she is a woman of extraordinary character, wholly devoted to Martel's memory, and Sicilian to the backbone. After her lover's death, when the police had failed, she swore to be avenged upon his murderers. I know it sounds strange, but it didn't seem so strange to me then. I tried to reason with her, but it was a waste of breath. When I returned to Sicily after my mother died, Margherita--the Countess--had disappeared. I tried every means to find her--you know, Martel left her, in a way, under my care--but I couldn't locate her in any Italian city. Then I learned that she had come to the United States and took up the search on this side. It's a long story; the gist of it is simply that I looked up every possibility, and finally gave up in despair. That was more than four years ago. I have no idea that all this has any connection with our present problem.”

Donnelly listened with interest, and for a time plied Blake with shrewd questions, but at length the subject seemed to lose its importance in his mind.

”It's a queer coincidence,” he said. ”But the letter was mailed in this city and by some one familiar with Narcone's movements up to date. If your Countess was here you'd surely know it. This isn't New York. Besides, women don't make good detectives; they get discouraged.

I dare say she went back to Italy long ago and is married now, with a dozen or more little counts and countesses around her.”

”I agree with you,” said Blake, ”that she can't be the 'One Who Knows.' There are too many easier explanations, and I couldn't hope--”

He checked himself. ”Well, I guess I've told you about all I know.

Call on me at any time that I can be of a.s.sistance.”

He left rather abruptly, struggling with a sense of self-disgust in that he had been led to talk of Margherita unnecessarily, yet with a curious undercurrent of excitement running through his mood.

X

MYRA NELL WARREN

Miss Myra Nell Warren seldom commenced her toilet with that feeling of pleasurable antic.i.p.ation common to most girls of her age. Not that she failed to appreciate her own good looks, for she did not, but because in order to attain the desired effects she was forced to exercise a nice discrimination which can be appreciated only by those who have attempted to keep up appearances upon an income never equal to one's requirements. She had many dresses, to be sure, but they were as familiar to her as family portraits, and even among her most blinded admirers they had been known to stir the chords of remembrance. Then, too, they were always getting lost, for Myra Nell had a way of scattering other things than her affections. She had often likened her dresses to an army of Central American troops, for mere ragged abundance in which there lay no real fighting strength.

Having been molded to fit the existing fas.h.i.+ons in ladies' clothes, and bred to a careless extravagance, poverty brought the girl many complexities and worries.

To-night, however, she was in a very happy frame of mind as she began dressing, and Bernie, hearing her singing blithely, paused outside her door to inquire the cause.

”Can't you guess, stupid?” she replied.

”Um-m! I didn't know he was coming.”

”Well, he is. And, Bernie--have you seen my white satin slippers?”

”How in the world should I see them?”

”It isn't them, it is just him. I've discovered one under the bed, but the other has disappeared, gone, skedaddled. Do rummage around and find it for me, won't you? I think it's down-stairs--”

”My dear child,” her brother began in mild exasperation, ”how can it be down-stairs--”

The door of Myra Nell's room burst open suddenly, and a very animated face peered around the edge at him.

”Because I left it there, purposely. I kicked it off--it hurt. At least I think I did, although I'm not sure. I kicked it off somewhere.”

Miss Warren's words had a way of rus.h.i.+ng forth head over heels, in a glad, frolicky manner which was most delightful, although somewhat damaging to grammar. But she was too enthusiastic to waste time on grammar; life forever pressed her too closely to allow repose of thought, of action, or of speech.

”Now, don't get huffy, honey,” she ran on. ”If you only knew how I've-- Oh, goody! you're going out!”

”I was going out, but of course--”

”Now don't be silly. He isn't coming to see you.”