XII
THE NAME OF THE LADY WITH THE EYES--EVIDENCE HEAPS UP SWIFTLY
Ste. Marie drove home to the rue d'Assas with his head in a whirl, andwith a sense of great excitement beating somewhere within him--probablyin the place where his heart ought to be. He had a curiously surefeeling that at last his feet were upon the right path. He could nothave explained this to himself--indeed, there was nothing to explain,and if there had been he was in far too great an inner turmoil to manageit. It was a mere feeling--the sort of thing which he had once tried toexpress to Captain Stewart and had got laughed at for his pains.
There was, in sober fact, no reason whatever why Captain Stewart'spossession of a photograph of the beautiful lady whom Ste. Marie hadonce seen in company with O'Hara should be taken as significant ofanything except an appreciation of beauty on the part of Miss Benham'suncle--not even if, as Mlle. Nilssen believed, Captain Stewart was inlove with the lady. But to Ste. Marie, in his whirl of reawakenedexcitement, the discovery loomed to the skies, and in a series ofingenious but very vague leaps of the imagination he saw himself, withthe aid of this new evidence (which was no evidence at all, if he hadbeen calm enough to realize it), victorious in his great quest: leadingyoung Arthur Benham back to the arms of an ecstatic family, and kneelingat the feet of that youth's sister to claim his reward. All of whichseems a rather startling flight of the imagination to have had itsbeginning in the sight of one photograph of a young woman. But, then,Ste. Marie was imaginative if he was anything.
He fell to thinking of this girl whose eyes, after one sight of them,had so long haunted him. He thought of her between those two men, thehard-faced Irish adventurer, and the other, Stewart, strange compound ofintellectual and voluptuary, and his eyes flashed in the dark and hegripped his hands together upon his knees. He said again:
"I won't believe it! I won't believe it!" Believe what? one wonders.
He slept hardly at all: only, toward morning, falling into an uneasydoze. And in the doze he dreamed once more the dream of the dim, wasteplace and the hill, and the eyes and voice that called him back--becausethey needed him.
As early as he dared, after his morning coffee, he took a fiacre anddrove across the river to the Boulevard de la Madeleine, where heclimbed a certain stair, at the foot of which were two glass casescontaining photographs of, for the most part, well-known ladies of theParisian stage. At the top of the stair he entered the reception-room ofa young photographer who is famous now the world over, but who, at thebeginning of his career, when he had nothing but talent and noacquaintance, owed certain of his most important commissions to M. Ste.Marie.
The man, whose name was Bernstein, came forward eagerly from the studiobeyond to greet his visitor, and Ste. Marie complimented him chaffinglyupon his very sleek and prosperous appearance, and upon the newdecorations of the little salon, which were, in truth, excellently welljudged. But after they had talked for a little while of such matters, hesaid:
"I want to know if you keep specimen prints of all the photographs youhave made within the past few months, and, if so, I should like to seethem."
The young Jew went to a wooden portfolio-holder which stood in a corner,and dragged it out into the light.
"I have them all here," said he--"everything that I have made within thepast ten or twelve months. If you will let me draw up a chair you canlook them over comfortably."
He glanced at his former patron with a little polite curiosity as Ste.Marie followed his suggestion, and began to turn over the bigportfolio's contents; but he did not show any surprise nor askquestions. Indeed, he guessed, to a certain extent, rather near thetruth of the matter. It had happened before that young gentlemen--andold ones, too--wanted to look over his prints without offeringexplanations, and they generally picked out all the photographs therewere of some particular lady and bought them if they could be bought.
So he was by no means astonished on this occasion, and he moved aboutthe room putting things to rights, and even went for a few moments intothe studio beyond until he was recalled by a sudden exclamation from hisvisitor--an exclamation which had a sound of mingled delight andexcitement.
Ste. Marie held in his hands a large photograph, and he turned it towardthe man who had made it.
"I am going to ask you some questions," said he, "that will sound ratherindiscreet and irregular, but I beg you to answer them if you can,because the matter is of great importance to a number of people. Do youremember this lady?"
"Oh yes," said the Jew, readily, "I remember her very well. I neverforget people who are as beautiful as this lady was." His eyes gleamedwith retrospective joy. "She was splendid!" he declared. "Sumptuous! No,I cannot describe her. I have not the words. And I could not photographher with any justice, either. She was all color: brown skin, with adull-red stain under the cheeks, and a great mass of hair that was notblack but very nearly black--except in the sun, and then there were redlights in it. She was a goddess, that lady, a queen of goddesses-- theyoung Juno before marriage--the--"
"Yes," interrupted Ste. Marie--"yes, I see. Yes, quite evidently she wasbeautiful; but what I wanted in particular to know was her name, if youfeel that you have a right to give it to me (I remind you again that thematter is very important), and any circumstances that you can rememberabout her coming here: who came with her, for instance and things ofthat sort."
The photographer looked a little disappointed at being cut off in themiddle of his rhapsody, but he began turning over the leaves of anorder-book which lay upon a table near by.
"Here is the entry," he said, after a few moments. "Yes, I thought so,the date was nearly three months ago--April 5th. And the lady's name wasMlle. Coira O'Hara."
"What!" cried the other man, sharply. "What did you say?"
"Mlle. Coira O'Hara was the name," repeated the photographer. "Iremember the occasion perfectly. The lady came here with threegentlemen--one tall, thin gentleman with an eyeglass, an Englishman, Ithink, though he spoke very excellent French when he spoke to me. Amongthemselves they spoke, I think, English, though I do not understand it,except a few words, such as ''ow moch?' and 'sank you' and 'rady,pleas', now.'"
"Yes! yes!" cried Ste. Marie, impatiently. And the little Jew could seethat he was laboring under some very strong excitement, and he wonderedmildly about it, scenting a love-affair.
"Then," he pursued, "there was a very young man in strange clothes--atourist, I should think, like those Americans and English who come inthe summer with little red books and sit on the terrace of the Cafe dela Paix." He heard his visitor draw a swift, sharp breath at that, buthe hurried on before he could be interrupted. "This young man seemed tobe unable to take his eyes from the lady--and small wonder! He was verymuch epris--very much epris, indeed. Never have I seen a youth more so.Ah, it was something to see, that--a thing to touch the heart!"
"What did the young man look like?" demanded Ste. Marie.
The photographer described the youth as best he could from memory, andhe saw his visitor nod once or twice, and at the end he said:
"Yes, yes; I thought so. Thank you."
The Jew did not know what it was the other thought, but he went on:
"Ah, a thing to touch the heart! Such devotion as that! Alas, that thelady should seem so cold to it! Still, a goddess! What would you? Aqueen among goddesses. One would not have them laugh and make littlejokes--make eyes at love-sick boys. No, indeed!" He shook his headrapidly and sighed.
M. Ste. Marie was silent for a little space, but at length he looked upas if he had just remembered something.
"And the third man?" he asked.
"Ah, yes, the third gentleman," said Bernstein. "I had forgotten him.The third gentleman I knew well. He had often been here. It was he whobrought these friends to me. He was M. le Capitaine Stewart. Everybodyknows M. le Capitaine Stewart--everybody in Paris."
Again he observed that his visitor drew a little, swift, sharp breath,and that he seemed to be laboring under some excitement.
H
owever, Ste. Marie did not question him further, and so he went on totell the little more he knew of the matter--how the four people hadremained for an hour or more, trying many poses; how they had returned,all but the tall gentleman, three days later to see the proofs and toorder certain ones to be printed (the young man paying on the spot inadvance), and how the finished prints had been sent to M. le CapitaineStewart's address.
When he had finished, his visitor sat for a long time silent, his headbent a little, frowning upon the floor and chafing his hands togetherover his knees. But at last he rose rather abruptly. He said:
"Thank you very much, indeed. You have done me a great service. If everI can repay it, command me. Thank you!"
The Jew protested, smiling, that he was still too deeply in debt to M.Ste. Marie, and so, politely wrangling, they reached the door, and witha last expression of gratitude the visitor departed down the stair. Aclient came in just then for a sitting, and so the little photographerdid not have an opportunity to wonder over the rather odd affair as muchas he might have done. Indeed, in the press of work, it slipped from hismind altogether.
But down in the busy boulevard Ste. Marie stood hesitating on the curb.There were so many things to be done, in the light of these newdevelopments, that he did not know what to do first.
"Mlle. Coira O'Hara!--_Mademoiselle!_" The thought gave him a suddensting of inexplicable relief and pleasure. She would be O'Hara'sdaughter, then. And the boy, Arthur Benham (there was no room for doubtin the photographer's description) had seemed to be badly in love withher. This was a new development, indeed! It wanted thought, reflection,consultation with Richard Hartley. He signalled to a fiacre, and when ithad drawn up before him sprang into it and gave Richard Hartley'saddress in the Avenue de l'Observatoire. But when they had gone a littleway he changed his mind and gave another address, one in the Boulevardde la Tour Maubourg. It was where Mlle. Olga Nilssen lived. She had toldhim when he parted from her the evening before.
On the way he fell to thinking of what he had learned from the littlephotographer Bernstein, to setting the facts, as well as he could, inorder, endeavoring to make out just how much or how little theysignified by themselves or added to what he had known before. But he wasin far too keen a state of excitement to review them at all calmly. Ason the previous evening, they seemed to him to loom to the skies, andagain he saw himself successful in his quest--victorious--triumphant.That this leap to conclusions was but a little less absurd than thefirst did not occur to him. He was in a fine fever of enthusiasm, andsuch difficulties as his eye perceived lay in a sort of vague mist to bedissipated later on, when he should sit quietly down with Hartley andsift the wheat from the chaff, laying out a definite scheme of action.
It occurred to him that in his interview with the photographer he hadforgotten one point, and he determined to go back, later on, and askabout it. He had forgotten to inquire as to Captain Stewart's attitudetoward the beautiful lady. Young Arthur Benham's infatuation had filledhis mind at the time, and had driven out of it what Olga Nilssen hadtold him about Stewart. He found himself wondering if this point mightnot be one of great importance--the rivalry of the two men for O'Hara'sdaughter. Assuredly that demanded thought and investigation.
He found the prettily furnished apartment in the Avenue de la TourMaubourg a scene of great disorder, presided over by a maid who seemedto be packing enormous quantities of garments into large trunks. Themaid told him that her mistress, after a sleepless night, had departedfrom Paris by an early train, quite alone, leaving the servant to followon when she had telegraphed or written an address. No, Mlle. Nilssen hadleft no address at all--not even for letters or telegrams. In short, theentire proceeding was, so the exasperated woman viewed it, everythingthat is imbecile.
Ste. Marie sat down on a hamper with his stick between his knees, andwrote a little note to be sent on when Mlle. Nilssen's whereaboutsshould be known. It was unfortunate, he reflected, that she should havefled away just now, but not of great importance to him, because he didnot believe that he could learn very much more from her than he hadlearned already. Moreover, he sympathized with her desire to get awayfrom Paris--as far away as possible from the man whom she had seen in sohorrible a state on the evening past.
He had kept the fiacre at the door, and he drove at once back to the rued'Assas. As he started to mount the stair the concierge came out of herloge to say that Mr. Hartley had called soon after Monsieur had left thehouse that morning, had seemed very much disappointed on not findingMonsieur, and before going away again had had himself let intoMonsieur's apartment with the key of the femme de menage, and hadwritten a note which Monsieur would find la haut.
Ste. Marie thanked the woman, and went on up to his rooms, wondering whyHartley had bothered to leave a note instead of waiting or returning atlunch-time, as he usually did. He found the communication on his tableand read it at once. Hartley said:
I have to go across the river to the Bristol to see some relatives whoare turning up there to-day, and who will probably keep me untilevening, and then I shall have to go back there to dine. So I'm leavinga word for you about some things I discovered last evening. I met MissBenham at Armenonville, where I dined, and in a tete-a-tete conversationwe had after dinner she let fall two facts which seem to me veryimportant. They concern Captain S. In the first place, when he told usthat day, some time ago, that he knew nothing about his father's will orany changes that might have been made in it, he lied. It seems that oldDavid, shortly after the boy's disappearance, being very angry at whathe considered, and still considers, a bit of spite on the boy's part,cut young Arthur Benham out of his will and transferred that share to_Captain S._ (Miss Benham learned this from the old man only yesterday).Also it appears that he did this after talking the matter over withCaptain S., who affected unwillingness. So, as the will reads now, MissB. and Captain S. stand to share equally the bulk of the old man'smoney, which is several millions--in dollars, of course. Miss B.'smother is to have the interest of half of both shares as long as shelives. Now mark this: Prior to this new arrangement, Captain S. was toreceive only a small legacy, on the ground that he already had arespectable fortune left him by his mother, old David's first wife (I'veheard, by-the-way, that he has squandered a good share of this.)
Miss B. is, of course, much cut up over the injustice to the boy, butshe can't protest too much, as it only excites old David. She says theold man is much weaker.
You see, of course, the significance of all this. If David Stewart dies,as he's likely to do, before young Arthur's return, Captain S. gets themoney.
The second fact I learned was that Miss Benham did not tell her uncleabout her semi-engagement to you or about your volunteering to searchfor the boy. She thinks her grandfather must have told him. I didn't sayso to her, but that is hardly possible in view of the fact that Stewartcame on here to your rooms very soon after you had reached themyourself.
So that makes two lies for our gentle friend--and serious lies, both ofthem. To my mind, they point unmistakably to a certain conclusion._Captain S. has been responsible for putting his nephew out of the way_.He has either hidden him somewhere and is keeping him in confinement, orhe has killed him.
I wish we could talk it over to-day, but, as you see, I'm helpless.Remain in to-night, and I'll come as soon as I can get rid of theseconfounded people of mine.
One word more. Be careful! Miss B. is, up to this point, merely puzzledover things. She doesn't suspect her uncle of any crookedness, I'm sure.So we shall have to tread softly where she is concerned.
I shall see you to-night. R.H.
Ste. Marie read the closely written pages through twice, and he thoughthow like his friend it was to take the time and trouble to put what hehad learned into this clear, concise form. Another man would havescribbled, "Important facts--tell you all about it to-night," orsomething of that kind. Hartley must have spent a quarter of an hourover his writing.
Ste. Marie walked up and down the room with all his strength forcing his
brain to quiet, reasonable action. Once he said, aloud:
"Yes, you're right, of course. Stewart has been at the bottom of it allalong." He realized that he had been for some days slowly arriving atthat conclusion, and that since the night before he had been practicallycertain of it, though he had not yet found time to put his suspicionsinto logical order. Hartley's letter had driven the truth concretelyhome to him, but he would have reached the same truth without it--thoughthat matter of the will was of the greatest importance. It gave him astrong weapon to strike with.
He halted before one of the front windows, and his eyes gazed unseeingacross the street into the green shrubbery of the Luxembourg Gardens.The lace curtains had been left by the femme de menage hanging straightdown, and not, as usual, looped back to either side, so he could seethrough them with perfect ease, although he could not be seen fromoutside.
He became aware that a man who was walking slowly up and down a pathinside the high iron palings was in some way familiar to him, and hiseyes sharpened. The man was inconspicuously dressed, and looked likealmost any other man whom one might pass in the streets without takingany notice of him; but Ste. Marie knew that he had seen him often, andhe wondered how and where. There was a row of lilac shrubs against theiron palings just inside and between the palings and the path, but twoof the shrubs were dead and leafless, and each time the man passed thisspot he came into plain view; each time, also, he directed an obliqueglance toward the house opposite. Presently he turned aside and sat downupon one of the public benches, where he was almost, but not quite,hidden by the intervening foliage.
Then at last Ste. Marie gave a sudden exclamation and smote his handstogether.
"The fellow's a spy!" he cried, aloud. "He's watching the house to seewhen I go out." He began to remember how he had seen the man in thestreet and in cafes and restaurants, and he remembered that he had onceor twice thought it odd, but without any second thought of suspicion. Sothe fellow had been set to spy upon him, watch his goings and comingsand report them to--no need of asking to whom.
Ste. Marie stood behind his curtains and looked across into the pleasantexpanse of shrubbery and greensward. He was wondering if it would beworth while to do anything. Men and women went up and down the path,hurrying or slowly, at ease with the world--laborers, students, bonneswith market-baskets in their hands and long bread loaves under theirarms, nurse-maids herding small children, bigger children spinningdiabolo spools as they walked. A man with a pointed black beard and asoft hat passed once and returned to seat himself upon the public benchthat Ste. Marie was watching. For some minutes he sat there idle,holding the soft felt hat upon his knees for coolness. Then he turnedand looked at the other occupant of the bench, and Ste. Marie thought hesaw the other man nod, though he could not be sure whether either onespoke or not. Presently the new-comer rose, put on the soft hat again,and disappeared down the path going toward the gate at the head of therue du Luxembourg.
Five minutes later the door-bell rang.
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Jason: A Romance Page 12
