XXIX
ACCORDING TO THE MORNING PAPERS
Roger had talked of nothing but his plan for the Newport house-warming,after starting the subject; and he had told Beverley that they ought tobe able to move in a week. She must make everything right about theservants: he would see to outside arrangements. And this "big party"could take place in a fortnight. It was ostentatious sending outinvitations longer in advance. They must make a "splash"--worthy of thehouse--and the pearls. Beverley must think up something original in theway of entertainment--a surprise. And as he talked it seemed to the girlthat his eyes never left her face. Beverley promised to move to Newportwhen Roger wished. She promised to write the invitations, and--shepromised to wear the queen's pearls.
At last Roger went, without having alluded to Clodagh Riley. Whetherthis were deliberate, or careless, Beverley could not guess. But she wasthankful.
The instant Roger had gone Beverley seized the paper he had dropped, andfound what she wanted. "Mysterious Murder at Hotel Westmorland" was theheading at the top of a column on the first page. She sat down and readthe whole report.
That day was among the most terrible of Beverley's chequered life. Shehad had several engagements, but she telephoned to put them off. Not foranything would she have left the house, for she hoped to have a messagefrom Clo. She feared to hear also from one whom Peterson served, but itwas best that she should be at home if such a message arrived.
"Have they kept their word? Have they killed Stephen because I didn'tsend back the papers?" she constantly asked herself. "What will they donext? Will they advertise again in the newspapers? Will they telephone?Will they send another man, now Peterson is dead? Or if not, how willthey reach me? Surely they won't leave me in peace for long!"
The day passed with outward monotony. It was only within herself thateach moment was different from every other.
When evening came at last, nothing had happened, yet Beverley's nerveswere jarred as if by a succession of shocks. As Leontine dressed her fordinner, a sharp tap at the door made her jump and cry out. "Aspecial-delivery letter for me, Madame," announced the Frenchwoman."Have I Madame's permission? It is strange I do not know the hand. It isbut a common yellow envelope, addressed in pencil, to MademoiselleLeontine Rossignol--perhaps from someone who begs. Never have I receiveda letter by special delivery!"
"You'd better open it," said Beverley, relieved that the letter was notfor her.
"Rossignol is so odd a name, Madame, that everyone remembers, because itmeans nightingale," said Leontine, gingerly tearing off an end of theflimsy yellow envelope.
Then, suddenly she cried out. "But Madame, the letter is fromMademoiselle Riley! I do not see why she writes to me. I understandnothing of what she says. Will Madame read?"
Hiding eagerness, Beverley took the half sheet of commercial paper.
The letter began:
DEAR LEONTINE:
I am safe in my new home, and there's no need to worry. I am picking up all that I have lost. I hope to call on you before long and show what good progress I have made. With grateful messages for Madame, from her devoted little servant, and kind remembrance to you--I am, faithfully yours,
Clodagh Riley.
P.S.--If possible I should like Mr. O'R. to hear that I am doing well. He has been kind since you saw me last.
There was no date and no address on this letter, which filled only onepage.
Beverley's bewilderment passed as she studied the letter. Clo'sunderlying motives came to the surface with a flash.
"I suppose," she explained quietly, "that Mademoiselle fancied it wouldbe a liberty to write to me. I'm glad to hear from her so soon. As theletter is really for me, perhaps I'd better keep it."
"Please do, madame," Leontine urged, again attacking the tiny hookswhich fastened her mistress's dinner dress. "I noticed that Mademoiselledid not put the number of the house or street where she is staying. But,of course, Madame will know both."
"Of course," echoed Beverley. She guessed that Leontine must be consumedwith curiosity as to Clo's disappearance and the departure of SisterLake.
When Leontine had hooked the last hook Beverley went to the boudoir.There she sat down with Clo's cryptic message, praying that Roger mightnot come till she had unravelled it.
But, after all, the meaning of one sentence after another sprang quicklyto her eyes. She had realized at once that Clo wrote to Leontine becauseshe dared not use the name of Mrs. Sands. This suggested that she was ina house where the name of Sands was not unknown. Now, concentrating uponthe queer letter, Beverley understood each veiled hint. Clo wished hernot to "worry." Clo was "picking up all she had lost." Clo "hoped tocall before long, and show what good progress" she had made. All thiscould have only one meaning. And how like Clo, to have treasured in somebrain-cell Leontine's queer name of "Rossignol"!
She had written nothing to waken suspicion; and as no house, no street,was mentioned, there need be no dread of discovery for guiltyconsciences. Beverley judged that O'Reilly's name as well as Roger'smight be known to someone near to Clo. Evidently she was afraid to senda letter to Justin O'Reilly. But the end of the postscript was amazing.O'Reilly had been kind to Clo!
"She went to see him again!" was the thought in Beverley's mind. "Then,perhaps, she didn't go back to the Westmorland. What can 'kind' mean,unless he's promised to help instead of hurt us?"
But she must find out what had happened last between O'Reilly and Clo.How should she communicate with him? Should she send a note by districtmessenger to the Dietz? Or--should she telephone, before Roger came, andlearn all that she wished to know without delay? Quickly she decidedupon this bolder course. She called up O'Reilly's hotel, and soon heardhis "Hello!"
"I'm Mrs. Sands," she explained. "I've a letter from Clo. She sends youa message."
The voice from the Dietz had sounded indifferent. It was so no longer.
"What news?" O'Reilly asked. "Tell me everything."
She told him, and read Clo's letter to Leontine distinctly, that hemight miss no word. "I understand why it might be dangerous to put anaddress, or to write to you or me," Beverley added. "But it's frightfulnot to know where she is. Explain what you can quickly, because--I'mexpecting someone."
"Peterson stole your pearls," O'Reilly answered. "He 'phoned Heron andoffered to sell them. He must have been hiding in your room andoverheard our talk. Later, I answered him for Heron. Miss Riley was inPeterson's room then, and she and I got in touch. She asked through the'phone if I'd help. I said 'Yes,' and she told me to come with a taxi. Ipicked her up outside the hotel, and took her where she wanted to go: arestaurant, Krantz's Keller. When I'd heard what she had to say Iproposed to employ a private detective. Don't worry; he's absolutelyloyal, and I'm on your side, after all, Mrs. Sands--I may as wellconfess it's for Miss Riley's sake. She repented stealing the papersfrom me, you know, and sent them back in the envelope just as theywere----"
"Clo sent you the papers! You're mistaken. I know she didn't send them,"Beverley cried. She had forgotten her fear of being overheard, forgotteneverything, but the sound of a door closing caused her to start. It wasa strange sound just then, because both doors had already been shut whenshe went to the telephone, the door leading into her bedroom, the doorinto the hall, and she had heard neither open since. Yet she could notbe mistaken. Somebody had closed one of those doors and must previouslyhave opened it.
Sick with fear, Beverley dropped the receiver and ran to look into thehall. No one was there. She flew to the door of her bedroom and peepedin. The room was empty. She rang for Johnson, who appeared at once.
"Has Mr. Sands come in?" she asked.
"I think not, Madam," the butler replied.
"Go and see. Search everywhere."
She did not move while the man was away.
"Mr. Sands is not in the house, Madam," Johnson solemnly announced.
"Thank you!" Beverley said. Yet she was not relieved. Something told herthat it was
Roger who had shut the door.
The Lion's Mouse Page 29
