“’Twas in the garden of Beaucaire;
I met her on a secret stair.
The night was centuries ago.”
—Old Ballad
THE thick, sticky mist that sometimes blows uptown from the bay veiled Fifth Avenue; and a thin rain fell steadily. The lamps shot their pale rays mysteriously through the fog; cabs and busses rolled drippingly by; and soggy pedestrians hurried along under streaming umbrellas.
The theatre crowds were on their way home, after their hour in the White Light restaurants; but in a little while their time had passed, and the avenue was silent and deserted save for a policeman who would now and then appear, and almost as quickly vanish.
Most of the houses were gloom-fronted; a few scattering windows in the section just below the park showed night lights; but one house was brilliantly illuminated, and a long line of carriages was drawn up at the curb.
It was past midnight when Kenyon came along, enveloped in a rain-coat and with an umbrella held over his head.
“By George!” muttered he, “it is really at Farbush’s! What luck! To get inside now should be comparatively easy. What a fortunate thing it is that he should be giving this thing, whatever it is.”
He stood in the drip of a roof across the street and watched the gaily lighted house. At length a party came out, protected by umbrellas held by footmen; these latter immediately returned and several other parties came out at once and scurried for their vehicles.
“Now is my chance,” said Kenyon. He swiftly crossed the street, passed behind a carriage into which several exclaiming women were being helped, then up the wide steps and into the hall.
“Shall I return your things to the coat-room, sir?” asked a servant.
“Thanks—yes,” answered the adventurer, quietly.
He handed his coat, hat, and umbrella to the man, who received the latter surprisedly. Its folds streamed with water, and he was clearly wondering if the rain were not heavier than he had thought it. However, he took the things away without any comment, and Kenyon, with a light breath of relief, walked into a room in which he could see a number of men smoking.
His entrance being quiet and matter of fact, of course attracted no attention whatsoever. This was what he had calculated upon; he wore the conventional evening clothes; at a glance he looked exactly like the other males present, and no one could say that he was an intruder.
“That is, no one but Farbush,” mused Kenyon, as he took a cigarette from a box upon a stand. “And if he should happen upon me, no doubt I can find a few things to say to him that would sufficiently account for my presence.”
He was lounging calmly in a big chair when a voice at his side remarked:
“It’s a fair cigarette that Farbush keeps, isn’t it. If his champagne were as good I should have nothing to complain of.”
Kenyon turned. A pale-eyed young man with a budding mustache had drawn a chair up close to him, and was in the act of lighting a cigarette. There was a friendly, inconsequential look upon his chubby face, and the adventurer’s eyes snapped.
“Yes, they are rather a good sort,” replied Kenyon, inspecting his cigarette critically. “But I haven’t tried the champagne.”
The other made a wry face.
“Then you may consider yourself lucky,” said he. “These old fellows like Farbush should really leave their cellars for someone else to select. They do make a most dreadful mess of it sometimes. Now, Farbush possibly knows all about tea, and about ships and Chinese stuff and all that, but he’s a baby on the vintage subject. I had about fifteen dozen of that ’93 some time ago which I tried to induce him to buy; but he actually scoffed at it. And then he springs a thing like this to-night upon his unsuspecting friends.”
“Then you sell wines?” said Kenyon, with a show of interest.
“Not in the usual sense,” returned the young man, hastily. “No, no! I sometimes have a small quantity of a few select brands to dispose of to my friends—more to give them the benefit of my experience than anything else. That is all.”
Kenyon smiled. He had heard of the wine agent in society and had known the cigarette boomer at college.
“Our most philanthropic purposes are not always appreciated,” said he. The other shook his head in a way expressive of a wide and early acquaintance with that particular fact. “Now Farbush is a friend of mine,” proceeded Kenyon, “but I must admit that he’s rather shaky upon a good many things. Did he build this house, do you know?”
“I think he did.”
“That is what I thought. It’s about the sort of thing he would have put up,” criticised Kenyon, with a severe expression, which said as plainly as words that architectural sins would only be properly dealt with if placed among the deadly kind. “It’s all out of reason, you know.”
“I couldn’t say, really,” returned the pale-eyed young man, hesitatingly. “Architecture is a bit out of my line, you see.”
Kenyon had been more or less confident of that; nevertheless he was pleased to hear the confession, and launched forth in a very caustic condemnation of Farbush’s mansion.
“But it’s the way the rooms are laid out that I particularly criticise,” declared he. “The whole thing is a jumble. Now, I have no doubt but that a man so inoculated with the poison of commercial life as Farbush would have his home office in the most conspicuous room in the house.”
“Oh, but he hasn’t, I assure you,” the other hastened to say. “His apartment for the transaction of his own private affairs is just at the head of the first flight of stairs—a large room, but quite out of the way.”
“Well, I should have thought differently,” replied Kenyon, grudgingly.
After a little more talk, largely upon the part of the wine agent, that person arose.
“I see most of them are going,” said he. “I suppose the rain must have let up.”
Then Kenyon noticed that Farbush had entered the room, and stood by the door leading to the hall, shaking hands with his departing guests.
“It would be preferable were he not to see me,” he thought. So now that his new acquaintance had left him, he arose, and quietly passed through a curtained doorway. The room was almost deserted; however, in one near at hand he could hear the laughing chatter of a great number of women.
“I’ve got but a very few minutes, perhaps,” he muttered. “So I’d better get to work.” He looked out into the hall, from still another doorway. The street doors were wide open and the footmen were calling the carriages in the impatient tone of men who were wet and uncomfortable.
“I should think the excellent Mr. Farbush would have done well to have spread a canopy from his door,” thought Kenyon. His keen eyes took in the fact that no one was observing him; and in an instant he had gained the stairway and had begun to ascend. It was a solid, hard-wood staircase, very wide, with massive balustrades and newel posts. And there were many turns in it, and many landings. Kenyon had reached one of these and stood in the glare of a cluster of lights to look back. As he was so posed he heard the rustle of silken skirts above him; he turned swiftly. Around a bend in the stairway, leaning over the heavy rail and gazing down at him was a girl—a tall girl, with a great crown of blonde hair and delicately tinted face. It was Anna!
“Mr. Kenyon!” she whispered; and he saw the sudden fear in her blue eyes.
For a moment the adventurer was at loss. But as was usual with him the feeling was perfectly masked; to all appearances he was cool and entirely at his ease.
“Ah, how do you do?” smiled he. “I’m charmed, I’m sure.”
She looked at him fixedly; it was evident that she was struggling against her surprise; but her voice shook as she said:
“What—what are you doing here?”
“Social affairs always have an attraction for me,” replied Kenyon. “I like to meet people and exchange ideas with them. The general effect is freshening, I think.”
The girl had recovered somewhat from her first astonishment.
“How foolish of me to be surprised,” she smiled; “of course you were among those asked. I recall it distinctly now.”
Kenyon regarded her with fresh interest. There was the same appealing air about her that he had noticed in Selden’s Square; a girlish sweetness and helplessness that drew one powerfully. But he had noticed another thing. The sweetness and innocence, if anything, increased when she spoke of her recollection of his being asked there that night.
“It might be a hallucination of hers, of course,” thought Kenyon, as his keen eyes searched the girl’s face. “But I’m not sure of it.”
“Will you sit on the stairs with me?” asked Anna. Her teeth were of dazzling whiteness, and her manner full of sudden witchery. “I know it’s very silly and school-girlish, but I’ve always liked it.”
“A fascinating place,” said Kenyon, as he sat at her feet. “Unnoticed we can speed the parting guests through the rails. It’s one of the discoveries of college days that are really worth while.”
She laughed a little at this. The light in her eyes danced softly and girlishly. But for all her smiles Kenyon thought he saw a tightening at the corners of her mouth. It was as though she were possessed of a nervous dread of some sort.
“I fancy,” thought the ex-lieutenant of Nunez, “that I have been inopportune in some way.”
“You are not going to-night, then?” said Anna, eagerly.
“Oh, yes,” replied Kenyon. “In a very little while.”
There was an expression of relief in the girl’s eyes for an instant, and then she pouted.
“I fancied that uncle would have you with us while you are in town.” She hesitated and then laid her hand upon his shoulder. “And I’m sure that Dallas would be pleased.”
“Dallas?”
“Of course. You must not be guided altogether by appearances. Neither should you heed what others might say. She is an odd girl in some ways. And proud!” with a pretty gesture of dismay. “I never saw such pride before.”
It was the girl that she referred to! Kenyon drew a long breath and then said:
“I agree with you as to the pride. Her attitude toward me, so far, has been rather—ah—distant to say the least.”
“Then she has not treated you well to-night?”
“Is she here?” exclaimed Kenyon, caught by surprise.
“To be sure. Mr. Farbush always insists upon our being present at affairs like this. He is a widower, you know, and he depends entirely upon us to entertain his guests. But is it possible that you have not spoken with her?”
She gave him a curious glance. He saw that it would not do to make admissions of any sort; they were inclined to be dangerous.
“I only ventured out of the smoking room upon one or two occasions,” remarked he. “And then the rooms were so crowded.”
“Oh, yes; that is true.”
But he could see that she was far from being satisfied, for she immediately came back to the subject.
“You are not a very ardent lover, it would seem,” she laughed. “I should think that a man would be breathless in his search for his lady-love, anywhere in which he had occasion to think she would be.”
“It is just possible,” answered Kenyon, slowly, “that I did not dream of finding her here.”
She looked at him quickly, and he felt her small hand tighten upon his arm.
“You are thinking of the affair of a few nights ago at Hong Yo’s,” she cried. “Oh, how dreadful, how horrible it must have been. And before her very eyes.”
“You have heard about it, then?”
“Griscom informed me. And then Dallas also told me, afterwards. But she was compelled to return here. No matter what has been done we cannot leave here, now.”
“I suppose not,” answered Kenyon, in a thoughtful way. “There is much more than personal feeling to be considered.”
“That is what we both think. Otherwise we would not have remained an instant after the night in—in Selden’s Square.”
By this time the last carriage had departed, and they heard the front door slam. Then the harsh voice of Farbush was heard.
“Now, then, come in here, Shallcross; I’ll go over that matter with you in detail.”
They heard footsteps in the hall below; and a door opened and shut.
“There, now!” exclaimed Anna. “You’ll not have a chance to say good-bye to him as you go. That is Mr. Shallcross, the ship-builder from Seattle. They will be deep in tonnages and such stupid things for the next hour.”
“At least,” said Kenyon, as he arose. “You can say good-night for me—in the morning. I’ll get my coat and other things”—as though about to pass her on the stairway.
“But the coat-room is below,” she informed him, hastily. And it also seemed to him that she instinctively barred his way.
“Oh, how stupid of me,” he exclaimed. “I fancied it was on this floor. That is why I was coming up in the first place.”
“Good-night,” she said, holding out her hand, with an eagerness that was a trifle feverish.
“Good-night,” he replied.
There was no one below that he could see. The empty coat-room was only dimly lighted. He entered and drew on his long rain-coat and took up his hat.
“I suppose there is no hope for it,” he muttered, half angrily. “I’ll have to go after all. I had hoped that I wouldn’t be compelled to—”
A murmur of voices outside the partly-opened coat-room door caught his ears.
“Billings, get that rug in off the steps. Mr. Farbush will raise the devil if he hears about it being wet. Old Potter threw it out there because he thought that fat wife of his would slip.”
A moment later the street door opened and then shut heavily. A man passed on his way to the rear of the house. Kenyon opened the coat-room door wide. All the lights, save one, in the lower hall were turned out; and that one only dimly illuminated the place.
“She’ll think I’ve gone, if she’s listening,” muttered he.
With his hand upon the stair rail once more in the act of ascending, Kenyon caught a familiar sound. It was the rich rustle of silken draperies; and through the shadows he made out a figure in white, bending forward upon the last stretch of the staircase. He crouched close to the wall, and held his breath.
“He has gone,” he heard the voice of Anna murmur. “Oh, how I fear that man!”
Then, softly, she stole up the staircase once more, and Kenyon was left alone. He cautiously made his way into one of the great rooms at the front of the house. It was dark, save for what light entered at the windows, from the street. Settling himself in as comfortable a chair as he could find he lay back and began to go over the situation.
“So Anna is afraid of me,” he thought. “Well, that is not altogether a pleasant thing to hear. If I were younger I would be inclined to doubt my personal fascinations. And, while I think she meant it in a general way, I’m pretty sure that there is some reason to think that she had a special fear of me to-night.”
He crossed one leg over the other and placed his clasped hands behind his head.
“If I could have a cigarette, just now,” his thoughts went on, leaping from one thing to another, “I think it would help me. But I suppose it is too risky. Somehow that girl gave me an odd impression. I can’t get rid of the notion that there is another enterprise beside my own afoot here to-night. Take her fright at sight of me. Her relief when she found that I had not been asked to stay over night. Her anxiety that I should go. Her placing herself before me when I made as though to pass her. Her stealing down the staircase to make sure that I had taken my departure.
“Another enterprise would mean what?” He smiled at this. “Heavens, how is it possible to form any sort of a judgment in this business. It gets more snarled every minute. I never did know just what my position was in it; and now I’m beginning to get tangled as to the relative positions and attitudes of the others concerned. But, pshaw! What’s the use. No amount of reasoning will do any good, when one hasn’t anything to use as a base.”
Patiently he waited. An hour went by; then he heard the sound of chairs being drawn back. The ship-builder, Shallcross, took his departure, saying good-night to Farbush, who let him out. Then Farbush closed the door and came back through the hall. From the position which he had now taken behind a portière, Kenyon saw the man stop under the single light for a moment, his head bent as though in deep thought. Then with a gesture and a muttered oath he turned off the light; and the intruder listened to his slow, careful steps down the hall and up the stairway. Then there was silence.
Once more Kenyon resumed the easy chair, leaning back with closed eyes, patiently waiting. Almost an hour went by. Then he arose to his feet and stretched himself, luxuriously.
“It seems to me,” he mused, “as though I had been in this line of business for some time. Perhaps in a former state I was a famous cracksman. What an alarming idea! However, if it be true, I only hope that some of my one-time skill still lingers. I’ll have use for it to-night.”
From his pocket he took a square of black silk with two round holes cut into it. This he snapped about his head with a rubber band, and pulled it down over his face. Then he buttoned his overcoat up to his chin.
“The front of a dress shirt has a certain amount of sheen,” he said. “And I’d better provide for meeting anyone in the halls.”
Upon his feet he drew a pair of soft felt creepers; then he stole noiselessly to the door and listened. All was still. Apparently the servants at the back of the house had also gone to bed. From his vest pocket he drew a tiny electric torch and, pressing the button, it shot its narrow shaft of light along the hall. Almost instantly, however, he shut it off, and began to ascend the stairs.
“At the head of the first flight of stairs, said my friend the wine agent,” thought Kenyon. “But I wonder upon which side.”
At the head of the stairs all was black; he paused and listened once more. Then the tiny beam of light flashed here and there. At the left was a door partly ajar. The light died, and he took a noiseless step forward. He could not see the door, now, but trusted to his judgment of distance to place his hand upon the knob. But his hand was yet reaching out, when the hinges of the door began to creak slowly in the silence. He grew as rigid as a statue, for every instinct told him that he was standing face to face with someone in the darkness.