The Lion's Mouse
Page 15
XV
THE NUMBER SEVENTEEN
To go back meant death, and the loss of Beverley's papers. Besides, shehad been seen. For once, Clo's wits refused to work. Like a frozenflower, she remained motionless in the window.
The figure in the doorway was that of a man. The light coming frombehind made his face a blank for her eyes, but the girl saw that he wastaller than O'Reilly and of a different build. Perhaps it was the ownerof the suite, he who had gone out with the beautiful woman. The man madeno move. He stood in the doorway as if rooted to the floor. "My God!"Clo heard him mutter.
"The fool takes me for a ghost," she thought. "Now's my chance, beforehe plucks up courage!"
Down came the other white shoe on the carpet with no more noise than arose-petal falling. Then followed a second of indecision. Should sherisk pushing the man aside, and fleeing past him into the hall? No, hertouch would break the spell. She must go on with the ghost-play, andvanish in the dark!
Light from outside showed her the open door of an adjoining room. Thencecame the draught which had set the curtains blowing. Clo took a fewfloating steps toward the man, then dodged aside, and disappeared intothe room beyond. Softly she closed the communicating door and slid thebolt. Almost opposite where she stood opened a cross passage leading toa wing of the hotel. With a bound she reached it, not daring to lookbehind, yet listening with the ear of the hunted for the hunter, as sheran. Coming to a staircase the girl plunged down it two steps at a time.On the floor below, however, she ventured to moderate her pace. This wasthe dinner hour; most of the guests would be in the restaurant, or outof the hotel for the evening; but there would be servants about. Cloforced herself to descend sedately, flight after flight of stairs, notdaring to enter a lift. At last, when it seemed that she had come toearth from the top of Jacob's ladder, the stairway ended. Timidlyfollowing a passage that opened before her, she ventured into a wide,important hall.
There was a cloakroom in the hall. Ladies were going into it and comingout. Clo heard music in the distance and saw a marble balustrade. Thisbalustrade was for her a landmark. She knew by it that she must havereached the story above the ground floor, and that the large corridor ofthe cloakroom opened on to a gallery overlooking the main hall. She hadglanced up and admired that marble balustrade when she first entered thehotel. She had seen also a wide marble staircase leading up to thegallery. It must be near, she thought, but it was a way of exit toavoid. If O'Reilly were on guard below, or even if he had merelytelephoned her description to the office, she and the stolen envelopewould be promptly nabbed in the hall below. She had dared too much to betamely taken now. Mirrors were let into the panels of the wall, and Clopaused before one, pretending to straighten her hat. She wanted time tomake up her mind.
The ladies who left their wraps in this upstairs cloakroom must bedining in private rooms on the same floor, she thought. "Out there inthe gallery their men will be waiting for them," the girl told herself."And maybe that's where my man is waiting for me!"
One of these ladies, opening a gold chain bag to pull out herhandkerchief, dropped a bit of paper with a number on it--Clo'sfavourite number, 17. It fluttered close to her feet; she stooped andpicked it up. Common sense told her that the numbered slip was acloakroom check. It might mean salvation. She walked leisurely into thecloakroom, though her nerves were a-jerk like the strings of ajumping-jack. "My cousin has asked me to come and fetch her wrap," sheexplained to a bored attendant. "There's a draught through the diningroom. This is her check."
The woman accepted it without a word. She presently produced a long wrapof black chiffon, lined with blue. "Number seventeen. Here you are,miss." So speaking, she removed the duplicate check, which had beenpinned to a frilled hood of the cloak. At sight of that hood a weightlifted from Clo's heart. It was more ornamental than practical, but itwould be immensely useful to her. If she had been given her choice ofcloaks, she couldn't have done better. Seventeen was bringing her luck.
"Oh, I believe I'd better leave my hat!" she said to the attendant, asif on a second thought. Unsuspiciously the woman took it, pinned a bitof paper to the lining, and handed the duplicate to Clo. "Nobody's gotseventeen now, so I'll give it to you again." This seemed a good omen:seventeen for the second time! With the cloak over her arm she saunteredout of the room. Then back she went to the foot of the stairs, where wasa quiet niche behind a big, potted palm, and close by was one of thoseconvenient panel mirrors. Thus refuged, Clo slipped into the wrap, andarranged the floppy hood. It was far from becoming, for the frill fellalmost to her eyes; but it hid the tell-tale red hair, and showed littleof her face save the end of an impudent nose and the tip of a pointedchin. The cloak, made for a taller figure than Clo's, came nearly to herfeet, and holding it together the white dress became invisible.
"Now for it!" she thought, like a soldier who goes "over the top" tocharge the enemy. Head down, hood flapping, cloak floating, she sailedalong the corridor and out into the gallery beyond. Yes, there was themarble staircase, and below was the great, bright hall; but in thisdisguise she could pass O'Reilly if he had assembled half the detectivesin New York. So she tripped down the stairs, sedate, unhurried as thecare-free girl whose cloak she had borrowed. Arrived in the hall, sheknew her way out, and could hardly subdue the triumph in her voice asshe said "Taxi, please," to an attendant porter.
"Where shall I tell him to go, miss?" came the question as she steppedinto the cab; and for half a second she hesitated. By a clock she hadseen in the hall it was just half-past eight. There would be time to gohome, time for Angel to open the envelope and see if the contents wereright, time to tell Angel her own adventures, and time to rest beforekeeping her tryst with Peterson.
She gave the number of the house in Park Avenue where Roger Sands lived.The door of the taxi shut with a reassuring "click." It was heavenly tolean back against the comfortable cushions! She ought to be entirelyhappy, entirely satisfied. Perhaps it was only reaction after so manyhopes and fears, this weight that seemed to press upon her heart. Yet itwas an obstinate weight. It grew heavier as the taxi brought her nearerhome.