CHAPTER III.
THE ACTRESS CONFIDES.
Nick was led through a couple of sumptuously furnished rooms into the great Swedish actress’ presence.
Helga Lund was a magnificently proportioned woman, well above medium height, and about thirty years of age.
She wore a loose, filmy negligee of silk and lace, and its pale blue was singularly becoming to her fair skin and golden hair. Two thick, heavy ropes of the latter hung down far below her waist.
She was not merely pretty, but something infinitely better—she had the rugged statuesque beauty of a goddess in face and form.
She was pacing the floor like a caged lioness when Nick entered. Her head was thrown back and her hands were clasped across her forehead, allowing the full sleeves to fall away from her perfectly formed, milk-white arms.
“Miss Lund, this is Mr. Carter, of whom I spoke,” Doctor Lightfoot said gently. “He believes he can help you. “I shall leave you with him, but I will be within call.”
He withdrew softly and closed the door. They were alone.
The actress turned for the first time, and a pang shot through the tender-hearted detective as he saw the tortured expression of her face.
She nodded absent-mindedly, but did not speak.
“Miss Lund,” the detective began, “I trust you will believe that I would not have intruded at this time if I hadn’t believed that I might possibly possess the key to last night’s unfortunate occurrence, and that——”
“You—the key? Impossible, sir?” the actress interrupted, in the precise but rather labored English which she had acquired in a surprisingly short time in anticipation of her American tour.
“We shall soon be able to tell,” Nick replied. “If I am wrong, I assure you that I shall not trouble you any further. If I am right, however, I hope to be able to help you. In any case, you may take it for granted that I am not trying to pry into your affairs. I have seen you on the stage more than once, both here and abroad. It is needless to say that I have the greatest admiration for your genius. Beyond that I know nothing about you, except what I have read.”
“Then, will you explain—briefly? You see that I am in no condition to talk.”
“I see that talking, of the right kind, would be the best thing for you, if the floodgates could be opened, Miss Lund,” Nick answered sympathetically. “I shall do better than explain; with your permission, I shall ask you a question.”
“What is it?”
“Simply this: Are you acquainted with a New York surgeon who goes by the name of Doctor Grantley—Hiram A. Grantley?”
The actress, who had remained standing, started slightly at the detective’s words. Her bosom rose and fell tumultuously, and her clenched hands were raised to it, as Ida Jones had described them.
A look of mingled amazement and fright overspread her face.
Nick did not wait for her to reply, nor did he tell her that it was unnecessary. Nevertheless, he had already received his answer and it gave him the greatest satisfaction.
He was on the right track.
“Before you reply, let me say this,” he went on quickly, in order to convince her that she had nothing to fear from him: “Grantley is one of the worst criminals living, and it is solely because our laws are still inadequate in certain ways that he is alive to-day. As it is, he is a fugitive, an escaped prisoner, with a long term still to serve. He escaped last night, but he will undoubtedly be caught soon, despite his undeniable cleverness, and returned to the cell which awaits him. Now you may answer, if you please.”
He was, of course, unaware of the extent of Helga Lund’s knowledge of Grantley. It might not be news to her, but he wished—in view of the actress’ evident fear of Grantley—to prove to her that he himself could not possibly be there in the surgeon’s interest.
His purpose seemed to have been gained. Unless he was greatly mistaken, a distinct relief mingled with the surprise which was stamped on Helga’s face.
“He is a—criminal, you say?” she breathed eagerly, leaning forward, forgetful that she had not admitted any knowledge of Grantley at all.
“You do not know what has happened to Doctor Grantley here in the last year?”
“No,” was the reply. “I have never been in America before, and I have never even acted in England. I do not read the papers in English.”
“You met Grantley abroad, then, some years ago, perhaps?”
The actress realized that she had committed herself. She delayed for some time before she replied, and when she did, it was with a graceful gesture of surrender.
“I will tell you all there is to tell, Mr. Carter,” she said, “if you will give me your word as a gentleman that the facts will not be communicated to the newspapers until I give you permission. Will you? I think I have guessed your profession, but I am sure I have correctly gauged your honor.”
“I promise you that no word will find its way, prematurely, into print through me,” Nick declared readily. “I am a detective, as you seem to have surmised, Miss Lund. I called on you, primarily, to get a clew to the whereabouts of Doctor Grantley, but, as I told you, I am confident that it will have a beneficial effect on you to relieve your mind and to be assured, in return, that Grantley is a marked and hunted man, and that every effort will be made to prevent him from molesting you any further.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carter,” the actress responded, throwing herself down on a couch and tucking her feet under her.
The act suggested that her mental tension was already lessened to a considerable degree.
“There is very little to tell,” she went on, after a slight pause, “and I should certainly have confided in my physicians if I had seen any use in doing so. It is nothing I need be ashamed of, I assure you. I did meet Doctor Grantley—to my sorrow—five years ago, in Paris. He was touring Europe at the time, and I was playing in the French capital. He was introduced to me as a distinguished American surgeon, and at first I found him decidedly interesting, despite—or, perhaps, because of—his eccentricities. Almost at once, however, he began to pay violent court to me. He was much older than I, and I could not think of him as a husband without a shudder. With all his brilliancy, there was something sinister and cruel about him, even then. I tried to dismiss him as gently as I knew how, but he would not admit defeat. He persisted in his odious attentions, and one day he seized me in his arms and was covering my face and neck with his detestable kisses, when a good friend, a young Englishman, was announced. My friend was big and powerful, a trained athlete. I was burning with shame and rage. I turned Doctor Grantley over to his tender mercies and left the room. Doctor Grantley was very strong, but he was no match for the Englishman. I am afraid he was maltreated rather severely. At any rate, he was thrown out of the hotel, and I did not see him again until last night. He wrote me a threatening letter, however, to the effect that he would have his revenge some day and ruin my career.
“I was greatly frightened at first, but, as time passed and nothing happened, I forgot him. Last night, those terrible, compelling eyes of his drew mine irresistibly. I simply had to look toward him, and when I did so, my heart seemed to turn to a lump of ice. I forgot my lines—everything. I knew what he meant to do, but I could not resist him. He was my master, and he was killing my art, my mastery. I was a child, a witless fool, in his hands. My brain was in chaos. I tried to rally my forces, to go on with my part, but it was impossible. I did manage to speak, but I do not know what I said, and no one will tell me. Doubtless, I babbled or raved, and the words were not mine. They were words of delirium, or, worse still, words which his powerful brain of evil put into my mouth.”
Helga Lund halted abruptly and threw out her hands again in an expressive gesture.
“That is all, Mr. Carter,” she added. “It was not my guilty conscience which made me afraid of him, you see. As for his whereabouts, I can tell you nothing. I did not know that he had been in trouble, although I am not surprised. I had neither heard nor seen anything of him since he wrote me, five years ago. Consequently, I fear I can be of no assistance to you in locating him—unless he should make another attempt of some sort on me, and Heaven forbid that!”
“I have learned that he was here last night,” said Nick, “and that is all I hoped for. That will give us a point of departure. I assure you that I greatly appreciate your confidence, and that I shall not violate it. With your permission, I shall tell your physicians just enough, in general terms, to give them a better understanding of your trouble. It will be best, for the present, to let the public believe that you are the victim of a temporary nervous breakdown, but I should strongly advise you to allow the facts to become known as soon as Grantley is captured. It will be good advertising, as we say over here, and, at the same time, it will stop gossip and dispel the mystery. It will also serve to reassure your many admirers, because it will give, for the first time, an adequate explanation, and prove that the cause of your mental disturbance has been removed.”
The actress agreed to this, and Nick Carter took leave of her, after promising to apprehend Grantley as soon as possible and to keep her informed of the progress of his search.
Before he left the hotel he had a short talk with Doctor Lightfoot, which gave promise of a more intelligent handling of the case, aside from the benefit which Helga Lund had already derived from her frank talk with the sympathetic detective.
The man hunt could now begin in New York City, instead of at Ossining, and, since the preliminaries could be safely intrusted to his assistants, Nick decided to comply with Warden Kennedy’s urgent request and run up to the prison to see what he could make of the keeper’s condition.