XVII
AT THE GIRLS’ CLUB IN MULBERRY STREET
“If the instinct prompts you to mistrust—obey. For
instincts are the whisperings of the gods.”
—A Maxim of Hong Yo.
STEELE KENYON found the Girls’ Club without a great deal of trouble. It was a new and solid-looking building and from top to bottom every window gleamed with lights. He made inquiries of a sergeant of police who happened along upon his round of inspection. The sergeant was a ruddy-faced, white-haired man with the hale look of that type of old New Yorker whose reminiscences never went above Canal Street.
“That club,” said the silver-haired sergeant, “is one of the finest things in the city; and the women who carry it on deserve every kind of credit. You know how girls are brought up in some parts of the East Side; they don’t get any kind of training; they are not taught to do any useful work in their homes. They get to know the inside of workshops pretty early, and what they hear there, sometimes, is not the best thing for them. Then come the dances, the drink and the street.”
“And this is the class of girls that forms the membership of the club?”
“For the most part. And it helps them a lot. If they have a talent it is developed, if they have a liking it is encouraged. And there is nothing preachy or goody-goody about the place. That’s the secret of its success. They will teach a girl to dance just as readily as they’ll teach one to spell. I think the secretary, Miss Gilbert, is responsible for most of the successful features. She’s a wonderful young lady.”
The sergeant was about to pass on; then paused and continued:
“If you are thinking of helping the club along with a contribution, why, do it. You’ll make no mistake. It’s the real goods.”
“Quite an idea,” mused Kenyon, after the policeman had gone. “By George, it’s the very thing for me!”
He had been standing upon the opposite side; so now he crossed the street and entered the building. A group of girls were in the hall, muffling themselves up, for the night was cold for the time of year. At sight of the tall, elegantly attired young man, they set up a subdued whispering and giggling.
“I am inclined to suspect that male visitors are not very common, here,” thought Kenyon, with a good-humored smile.
One of them, a dark-skinned, black-eyed girl, who plainly showed her Neapolitan blood, approached him.
“Did you want to see anyone, please?” she asked.
“The secretary, Miss Gilbert,” answered he.
“You’ll find her in the office,” directed the black-eyed girl, pointing to an open door across the hall. “Walk right in.”
“Thank you.” He entered at the door indicated and found himself in an apartment lighted only by a shaded cluster of bulbs which hung low over a big desk in the centre of the floor. The shade threw the light downward upon a girl whose beautifully posed head and great mass of dark hair immediately told him who she was. She was bent over the desk, writing; and without looking up, she asked:
“What is it, please?”
Kenyon afterwards admitted that at that moment his heart was pounding as it had never pounded before; but when he answered, his voice was calm and assured.
“I have come to see the secretary,” said he, “and was told I’d find her here.”
At the first sound of his voice she started and lifted her head. The light showed him the color leave her face and then stream back, brilliantly. The surprise was a sharp one, but she did not lose the air of proud self-possession which seemed so natural to her. However, when she spoke, there was a slight break in her voice, a fact which she noticed and which caused her evident annoyance.
“I am the secretary,” she said.
“Ah!” He took a forward step. The light now fell upon him also, and showed a look of mild surprise. “Thank you.”
“Will you state your business,” she asked, coldly. “I have a great deal to do, and it is getting late.”
“Pardon me,” bowing. “I have recently heard good reports of this work, and had thought to send the treasurer a check if I found them verified.”
“The hour is rather unconventional,” she answered. And as he looked at her he could have sworn that he saw a quick flash of amusement in the dark eyes.
“It must be the light,” he thought. “It sometimes plays tricks like that.” Then he continued, aloud, “I fancy that unconventionality is as a rule the usual thing with me.”
“Will you sit down?” She pointed to a chair beside the desk.
“Thank you.”
He seated himself and she regarded him with serious attention. Not since the first surprise had she betrayed the slightest sign of ever having seen him before.
“We are always glad to have people investigate us,” she said. “A great deal of money is paid out of our fund during the year, and, of course, it is necessary that more should come in if the work is to go on.”
“Of course,” replied he.
“There are people who contribute regularly,” she proceeded. “These help us a very great deal. But what they give is not nearly enough; and we are pleased to have new interest aroused, even if it is only passing.”
There was a curiously questioning look in her face as she spoke. Kenyon noticed, but did not understand it. At first he thought it might mean eagerness for the work in which she was engaged. But he dismissed that, instantly. The club and its welfare had no part in her thoughts at the present moment—he felt confident of that; it was other matters—the events of the night before, perhaps—that interested her.
“And she is speaking by rote,” he told himself. “All that she’s saying are the self-evident things that require no attention.”
While these things were passing through his mind she had continued on in the same strain, speaking rapidly and clearly, but wearing the same look of interest in something foreign to her subject. Suddenly this changed. His observant eyes saw it give place to a new eagerness that all but set her a-tremble. She opened a drawer in her desk and took out a book.
“It is customary,” she said, “for visitors to sign their names here,” placing the book before him. “Complying with this does not indicate their willingness to contribute,” quickly; “it merely enables us to keep track of those who have shown sufficient interest to make inquiries.” She dipped a pen in the ink and held it out to him. “Will you write your name and address, please?”
He took the pen, and a glimmer of humor appeared in his eyes.
“I wonder what happens after I sign?” he asked himself. “It appears to be a lucky thought of some sort.”
He spread his bold signature across the first blank line and placed the name of his hotel under it. Then she took the book and carefully blotted the page; watching her keenly he saw the fixed attention which she gave what he had written, and again saw the swift color sweep into her face. Then she placed the book carefully in the desk, once more, and leaning back in the office chair looked at him. He gasped in rapture; for she was smiling.
“Do you know, Mr. Kenyon,” she said, “I cannot altogether get rid of the notion that you had other things in your mind that you have not mentioned, when you came here to-night.”
“It is quite possible,” returned he, coolly. “Under certain circumstances one does not immediately plunge into the matters which interest one most.”
“You came to ask certain questions, did you not?” She placed her elbows upon the desk and her chin in her palms. For the first time Kenyon noticed the beauty of her hands. “Questions upon matters on which you think information might be of service to you.”
“Precisely.” His admiration blunted his observation; he did not notice that she was entertained by his even manner. “There is information which I fancy would relieve my mind to a greater or less extent. There are facts which have been dancing on ahead of me, so to speak, too elusive to grasp, but interesting enough to make it worth while to try.”
“I think I understand. And it might be some balm to you to know that you have not been alone in this.”
“I do not think,” said Kenyon, slowly, “that you refer to yourself. It is not possible.”
She raised her brows inquiringly, but said nothing.
“A girl of your parts should find no difficulty in obtaining information. There is a bird, I believe, that always waits until some other bird has built a nest. Then it calmly takes possession. I have always thought this a serviceable talent.”
“I do not think I understand.”
“I will be more illuminative. A man runs a desperate risk and works very hard to achieve a certain thing. When the victory is in his hands, a woman snatches it from him.”
She gave a gasp of wonder; her great, startled eyes searched his face.
“It was you!” she said. “It was you—last night!”
“And, I think,” smiled he, “that it was also you.”
“You were masked,” she said. “A masked burglar!” There was terror in her manner and voice, and she shrank a little from him. “I did not recognize you; I was too frightened.”
“You were not too frightened to remain and lay a little plan to beat me out,” remarked he, and there was an admiration in his tone that caused her to flush rosily. “But, then,” slowly, “it was, somehow, about the sort of thing I would have expected of you. Miss Anna did not seem at all the girl for such an undertaking, though of course I thought at first it was she.”
“Why of course?” she asked, a little resentfully.
“Because of her manner last night, when I talked with her on the stairs.”
“You talked with her—on the stairs!”
She half arose in her chair. But almost instantly she recovered her self-possession, though the wide-open eyes told plainly of the excitement that her words had betrayed.
“I—I had not heard of it,” she said, trying to smile. “It sounds interesting; pray tell me about it.”
“It’s no great story. Anna was frightened when she met me on the stairs leading to the second floor; she said some things that meant nothing, but her manner caused me to suspect much. Later I was convinced that I was right, by her stealing downstairs to assure herself that I was gone.”
“What did you suspect?”
“That there was another design upon the safe beside my own—that she had someone concealed in the house who was to help her.”
“No, no, that can’t be true. Anna knows nothing of the packet.”
He looked at her in surprise.
“Then you and she were not partners, so to speak; you knew nothing of her movements?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was so impressed with the notion that she was about to attempt some secret design, that when you caught the glimmer of my torch in the dark hall and came to the office door, I felt sure that it was she.”
A startled look came upon the face of Dallas; her voice was low and frightened as she exclaimed:
“When was this?”
“Before I began operations upon the safe. Don’t you remember? You opened the office door and listened. You could see nothing, the darkness was so thick. You were frightened; and you whispered: ‘Who’s there?’ Then you went slowly down the hall.”
“You heard this?” she demanded, and her face was pale.
“I did.” He regarded her curiously; then a thought struck him. “By George, it was she after all. She must have stolen away to find Forrester.”
“Forrester!”
“Of course. He was there. I saw them together in the lower hall immediately after you snatched the packet and ran. And Farbush was standing before them wild with passion, and with a revolver in his hand.”
Without a word Dallas arose, went swiftly to a small bookcase at the farther side of the room, and opened a secret and cunningly contrived drawer at its base. Then she turned and he saw that her face was as white as death.
“It’s gone!” she said.
“Not—not—?” he could not finish.
“Yes, the packet.”
He stood for a moment overwhelmed.
“You are sure that it is gone?” he cried. “Look again!”
She shook her head.
“No use. I am quite sure.”
“And you are positive that you placed it there?”
She nodded.
“It was the safest place I knew of,” she answered.
“But the drawer is a secret one! Who knew of it beside yourself?”
“Anna, only.”
“Ah!” and a look of intelligence came into his face. “And when was she here last?”
“Less than an hour ago.”