The Green Jacket/Chapter 6
VI
A shadow fell on the ground-glass door, and paused. Milly looked up quickly. She half reached out to close the open drawer with its ball of wool. Then she withdrew her hand and went on knitting.
The shadow stirred a little and a timid knock came on the door.
"Come in," said Milly. She went on counting stitches.
When she looked up a tall, gaunt figure in black, heavily veiled, was standing hesitatingly by the closed door.
"Will you sit down?" she said. The woman moved forward, almost tremulously, and came to the chair by the desk.
"Are you a detective?" she asked doubtingly.
"I am Millicent Newberry—yes."
With a little gasp of relief the woman sank into the chair.
Milly went on with her knitting. Apparently she had forgotten the woman by the desk. Her eyes following the line of wool, gave no hint that they had taken in each detail of the gaunt figure—even to the hands folded in her lap.
The hands were large, and the knuckles seen through the wrinkled black gloves were slightly misshapen; the fingers seemed to clinch a little, as if to hold themselves steady. Behind the veil the dark eyes studied the woman who was knitting.
She came to the end of the row before she looked up. "Did you want to see me?" she asked as she drew out the needle and turned her work.
The woman's lips moistened themselves and she lifted a hand and threw back the veil as if it suffocated her. The face revealed was very pale. She gave a quick glance about the room. . . . The flowers on the desk, the sunshine filling the room, and the gray woman with her knitting seemed to release some hidden spring and she gave a quick, restful sigh. The pale face turned to Milly with a look of relief.
"I thought you would be different!" she said.
"No, this is the way I am. Can I do something for you?"
The gaunt hands fumbled at the bosom of her gown and drew out an envelope and held it a minute. Then they laid it on the desk. "I wanted—to ask you—about that." She said it quickly. But when Milly's hand reached to the letter, she half-darted to it as if to rescue it. Then she drew back and a wan smile crossed her face.
"You must not mind what I do," she said wistfully. "I have been afraid to come to you!" The voice was full of gentle apology, and the lines of the face seemed to soften as she looked at Milly. They gave to the face the subtle refinement that comes only through suffering and experience. "You must not mind me," she said again. "I am not afraid of you now. I want you to read it, please."
Milly opened the letter with slow fingers. It lay on the desk between them and she did not offer again to take it up. The woman's eyes seemed to follow hers as they read, with a look of questioning in them:
Dear Aunt Helen:
I am thanking you every minute for coming to me. I know now you do not blame me. I could not talk freely with you. I am under a pledge. But a great wrong is being done. You must not rest till you know. The nurse has told me of Millicent Newberry. I think she can help you—and she can keep a secret. Go to her soon, dear Aunt. I am loving you always. Milly read it through without comment and folded it and returned it to her.
"Who is Marian?" she asked. "What is her other name?"
"She was Marian Mason," said the woman.
Milly's needles knit a double stitch before she looked up.
"‘Was'?" she said slowly. "Then she is"
"She died," said the woman. "The day before this was mailed." She touched the letter. There was a little quiver in her voice.
"She called you 'aunt'?" said Milly with a motion toward the letter.
The woman hesitated an instant. "I am not her aunt," she said at last. "She chose to call me aunt—but she was really my adopted daughter. We adopted her when she was twelve years old, and gave her our own name—Mason."
Another double stitch slipped into the wool, and the woman's voice went quietly on.
"You see she tells me to come to you." She touched the letter again. "That means I must tell you everything." She seemed to shrink a little.
"You need not be afraid."
"No—" It was almost eager. "I want to tell you! But I have suffered—and it comes crowding back!" She raised a gaunt hand to her breast and hurried on as if fearful her purpose might fail her.
"I am Mrs. Oswald Mason. We live at Lincoln. We have always lived there, and Marian lived with us until two years ago. Then she went away. I have not seen her since—until two weeks ago when she wrote, asking me to come to her. She said they had told her she was dying, and she wanted to see me—" She paused, wrestling with herself.
"You went to her, did you?" The voice was gentle, and she raised a grateful look.
"I went at once. I could not have kept from going. . . . I always loved her dearly. Even when the trouble came, I loved her—though I was very hard on her." The voice dropped almost to a whisper.
"What was the trouble?" asked Milly.
"A necklace of emeralds—they were mine," said the woman. "And they disappeared."
Something in the words and voice knit a swift, flying stitch into the green wool. But the quiet face was unmoved.
"And you thought she took them?"
"Oh—I didn't know!" The woman's hands in the wrinkled gloves clasped themselves tightly. "I did not think—they were gone!"
"Was there any reason?"
"She was in my room alone nearly all the afternoon before they disappeared. She was doing up some laces for me and we had been looking over my jewels—cleaning some of them." She hesitated a minute. "I do not look like a woman who would have fine jewels, do I?" She raised her hollow eyes. "But my husband thinks I am beautiful." She said it softly and half-apologetically. "He likes to give jewels to me."
Something far within the woman's face—a certain wild beauty—seemed to shine out elusively, and Milly, over her knitting, had a sense of truth in the words and a quick curiosity about the man who had seen and evoked the beauty in its uncouth setting.
"I am old now," went on the woman slowly. "It was when I was young he gave them to me, most of them—but none so beautiful as the emeralds—" She seemed lost in thought, and Milly did not speak or move. Already her mind was busy bringing order out of the detached, chaotic words.
"I could not help seeing that Marian admired them—the emeralds—while we were cleaning them. She held them up to the light and played with them, and finally she put them on and went over to the mirror and looked at herself a long time." The woman seemed to hurry over the words as if fearful of their import. "I put the necklace in the case and left it, unlocked, on my toilet-table when I went out. I did not come in till just before dinner, and I had to hurry and dress. But just before I went down-stairs, I saw the case and locked it and put it in the cabinet where I always keep it."
She sat silent, looking before her. "I did not look in it. I could not dream of anything—I would sooner have suspected myself!" The hands in the wrinkled gloves were pressed tightly together. "I could not suspect Marian!" she said under her breath.
"When did you miss them?" asked Milly.
The eyes returned to her swiftly. "It was in the morning—next morning. Mr. Mason was starting for New York, and I remembered a pin I wanted him to take—to match a stone that had been lost, and I ran up to my room to get it. The minute I opened the case I knew the emeralds were gone." She paused a minute. "It was curious I should have discovered it so soon. Sometimes I did not open the box for days."
"Did you tell your husband?"
"At once. I hurried down with the box in my hand. I knew how valuable they were and I was so thankful he had not gone before I discovered it. He was terribly startled. I could see from his face, when I told him, that they must have been even more valuable than I knew. But he made light of it. He told me not to worry. He said I had mislaid them and would find them somewhere in the room. He made me promise not to mention it to a soul. Then he had to hurry to catch his train, and I was left alone. . . . I hunted everywhere."
"But you did not find them?"
"No—they had been stolen." The woman's voice was dull, but there was a quick crimson spot in either cheek that gave a wild glow to her face. "They have been a curse to me!" she said almost fiercely. "There has always been a curse on them—always!"
Milly was folding her work slowly. She put it in the drawer and got up.
"You want me to take the case?" she asked.
The woman nodded without speaking. She seemed still wrestling with the emotion that had caused her to cry out.
Milly opened the drawer at the right and took out an agreement form and passed it to her with a pen, indicating the line.
"If you will be kind enough to sign there, I shall be glad to take the case."
The woman received it with dazed look. She read it through and glanced up quickly.
"But this gives you a great deal of power!" she said protestingly.
"Yes, I do not take a case otherwise," replied Milly.
The woman dipped the pen slowly. "It is strange," she said. "But I had thought of asking you to give me this power." She touched the paper.
"You wanted me to find out who took the emeralds—and then let you decide what should be done with the thief?" Milly was not looking at her. The question was almost careless.
"Yes." The woman smiled wanly. "Of course you would not do a thing like that!" She traced her name on the paper and Milly blotted it slowly.
"Yes, I should be quite willing to do it. But you need not be afraid to trust me with this. You and I want the same thing, I think. . . . I will only keep it for safety—in case some one else tries to force my hand." She replaced the paper in the drawer and turned to the woman.
"I want you to drop the case, and any fear or responsibility you may have. Do not think of the emeralds again till I ask you about them."
"But I have not told you all!" protested the woman? "Don't you need to know more than this?" She made a little gesture.
"Sometime—not now," said Milly. "You are tired and nervous. Go home and rest. Forget everything. To-morrow I shall come to you as seamstress."
"But I have not"
"Your clothes need freshening." She glanced kindly at the dingy black garments, and the woman's face flushed.
"This evening," said Milly, "you will see an advertisement in the paper—a first-class seamstress wanting work. You will call your husband's attention to it and say you will telephone me—I shall come out to-morrow. I shall, of course, sleep at the house. I may not be able to stay more than three or four days. If we have not found what we want by that time, I may have to send some one else to take my place for a while, . . . But I think we shall find it."
The woman's face had grown subtly rested, and in it was something of the elusive beauty that had startled Milly a little before. She stood up and held out her hand.
"I cannot tell you what it means to trust you—to trust any one!" she said slowly. "I shall sleep to-night!"
"You are not to worry again, remember. I only wish you had come to me sooner."
"Oh, I could not!" A little shudder ran through the words. "I could not have come now—I should not have known about you if it had not been for this—" She looked down at the letter in her hand. "The nurse told her you could be trusted, you see. That was why I came."
"What was the nurse's name?" asked Milly. "Did you see her?"
"Yes. She was Miss Stanton—Alice Stanton. She said she knew you?" She glanced at her inquiringly.
Milly nodded. "She was concerned in a case I had last year. She is a fine woman."
"Yes—and Marian trusted her." She held out the letter. "I am going to leave this with you." But her fingers seemed still to retain their hold on it.
"Do you want to?" asked Milly.
"I want to leave everything with you!" said the woman impulsively. Something that was like a smile touched the dark face. . . . "I did not think when I came, I should be saying that to you!" she added softly.
"Go home and rest," said Milly. "And to-morrow I shall come to you. I shall help you in every way I can."
When the woman was gone she unfolded the letter she had placed in her hands and read it slowly and thoughtfully, and carried it to the case across the room and locked it away.
Then she went to the telephone and called the down-town office and gave directions for an appointment to be made for her with Daggett & Beals, the leading jewelry firm in the city, at eleven o'clock. She hesitated a moment. Then she called the Corbin Agency and asked for the manager.
After a minute's delay a gruff, important voice came over the wire to her, and she smiled a little as the importance reached her.
"It is Milly, Tom. . . . I am at my office, yes. I want to come in about twelve—to talk over the Mason case. Shall you be there? . . . Yes. All right. Thank you."
She hung up, and took her hat and coat from the closet and left the office.