The Mystery of the Pink Pieces/Chapter 3
CHAPTER III.
Fortunately for the curiosity of those interested, the two new arrivals did make their appearance at luncheon; and one of them, at least, attracted not only the earnest attention of those who fancied they had reason to view her with special interest, but drew to herself from every quarter of the room a keen, if veiled, feminine inspection—not to mention a frank and undisguised masculine admiration.
The lady who received, and, let it be said, merited all this focusing of interest was the one who, as Mrs. Danvers Darrell, had written “London” after her name, although her trunks all bore Paris labels. She was a tall and exceedingly graceful young woman, with a complexion like white magnolia petals, exquisitely arched brows, blue-black, like her shining hair, and faultless hands and feet. She was, one surmised, an American, but evidently an American of cosmopolitan experience, and quite beautiful and charming enough to seem herself the refutation of any ugly suspicions.
So distinct was she in type that for the moment even Rose forgot that other newcomer whom she was equally anxious to observe; and yet, while Mrs. Danvers Darrell had been making her unostentatious, but stirring, progress down the room, Miss S. MacKenzie had slipped in unnoticed, and taken a seat at a table almost directly opposite the one occupied by Miss O'Hara, Miss Hodgkins, and Gaines, whom Rose had invited to sit at her table that, upon this important occasion, he and she might better exchange impressions.
Insignificant was a word that no doubt was frequently applied to the little Scotch girl. She was of barely medium height, and of a lithe, slender figure, which made her look younger than one was inclined to consider her upon closer scrutiny. Her face was rather peculiarly short and broad, and she had a quantity of light hair, which was wound very simply about her head. Her blue eyes were large and clear, and her features were small and piquant. She was accompanied by her maid—or, to put it more properly, her companion—a middle-aged, plain, dour-looking Scotchwoman, who radiated an atmosphere of starched and puritan respectability.
The two of them—mistress and maid—presented a commonplace picture, with no elements of mystery; and Rose, whose taste was for the exotic and picturesque, turned distastefully from the contemplation of them, prosaically enjoying their dinner, to the lovely lady whose poetic profile was more distinctly in the line of her vision.
“A charming creature!” Rose murmured to Willy. “She makes every other woman in the room look provincial.”
“A dry point in black and white by Hallé,” mused Willy. “The high-class adventuress, who models herself upon the women of the great world. Is not all that simple elegance just a shade overdone?”
“How stupid of you!” There was no attempt to veil the scorn of her eyes—those famous eyes. She was quite secure enough in her own empire to be capable of appreciating another woman's beauty—an appreciation uncorroded by envy. “I know what you mean, though,” softening a little. “She is definite—er—clear cut; but that is because she is an American.”
“Convicted of snap judgment,” returned Willy philosophically. “We'll leave her for further discussion. If we go on quarreling this way in public, the whole world will say that we are engaged or secretly married. Let me direct your attention to the other young woman with the severe gorgon beside her. No—wait a moment. She has her eyes fixed on us now.”
“If either of them is guilty, she is the one.”
For some reason, this statement nettled Gaines. The small creature sitting opposite him had, he could not have told why, stirred his sense of chivalry.
To do him justice, he had started out with no more serious intention than to restore Rose O'Hara's interest in the world about her. During the years of his Jacoblike service he had become very thoroughly acquainted with all the vagaries of the artistic temperament. This was not the first time that he had, by one or another cunning device, tided over Rose's moods of ennui, and the determination that usually accompanied them of seeking some remote scene, where he, chained to one spot by the demands of his profession, could not follow her.
Having, then, successfully provided a new interest for her, he was so delighted at seeing her naturally buoyant and soaring spirits return that he stifled the occasional qualm he felt at having involved her in the matter of these murderous anarchists—stifled it to a degree, that is, for there were certain quarters of an hour that were anything but pleasant periods, since both his reason and his experience convinced him that it was likely to prove a much more serious affair than Rose had any idea.
If it affected her in no other way, she was at least likely to be drawn unpleasantly into the explosive scandal that seemed to him certainly brewing for the Annesley. Then, too, she was a prominent figure, and as such more apt to arouse the resentment of these vengeful fanatics if they ever learned that she had been concerned in a crusade against them.
But Willy had two sterling virtues—he never crossed a bridge until he came to it, nor was he ever guilty of crying over spilled milk, easily shifting most responsibilities where he considered they belonged—to the knees of the gods. At any rate, Rose was so tremendously interested in the matter, and so fancied herself in the rôle of amateur detective, that any remonstrances that he or any one else might now voice would, he knew, fall upon deaf ears. So he kept his advice to himself, and let events take their course.
But that does not mean that Willy Gaines was not as keenly interested as Rose O'Hara. His one anxiety in the matter was that in the moment of dénouement Rose might not be a sufferer. As for himself, he was hourly becoming more keen in unraveling this very fascinating tangle.
There were, however, no new developments until the day after the arrival of Mrs. Darrell and Miss MacKenzie, and then Willy bore to Rose news that evidently afforded him vast satisfaction.
“The Fates are with us, Rose,” he exclaimed, when he had signaled her that he had something to tell her, and she had, by various tactful ruses, disencumbered herself of Miss Hodgkins, Ernestine, Prince Ahmed, and all of the little court that invariably gathered around her when she was pleased to make her appearance in public.
“I have some good news,” he said. “Fortune favors the brave. That is either you or me, Rose, take it as you please.”
“Willy!” Rose showed a trace of exasperation. “If you could get over this habit of fooling, you might make some headway in your profession. But what is the new development?”
“Not development,” he corrected meekly, “but envelopment. It came in the form of a letter. Don't make reproachful eyes—I won't do it again—but forgive, forget, and listen. Dandridge got a letter from the French secret-service agent this morning, stating that his arrival at the Annesley would be a little delayed, as he wished first to investigate other clews bearing on the matter, and that since the person whom he had reason to suspect was safe at the Annesley, and would probably remain there, he preferred to let things develop further before making an arrest; but that in any event, if this suspected person—no name mentioned—should attempt to leave, it would make no difference, as she was under constant surveillance.”
“Good!” Rose clasped her hands delightedly. “Oh, Willy, I'll lay you long odds that it is Miss S. MacKenzie. And this kind French detective is giving us an opportunity to make our own discoveries.”
“Miss MacKenzie! Nonsense!” There was a dawningly indignant light in his eyes. He had met the Scotch girl through Miss Mayhew, who, discovering that the newcomer, like herself, delighted in outdoor sports, had contrived to strike up an acquaintance with her; and as a result Vivien and Miss MacKenzie, Willy and Phil Wodeburn had been putting in more or less time on the golf links, where not only Miss MacKenzie's play, but her rather unusual personality, had appealed to Willy.
“Nonsense!” he repeated emphatically. “Those unerring feminine intuitions have gone,on a wild-goose chase. Believe me, it is far more likely to be your Mrs. Danvers Darrell. I've been giving that very mysterious person the benefit of my closest observation, and it strikes me that she rather overdoes her pose of the exclusive and exquisite mondaine.”
Rose looked at him more in anger than in sorrow, which meant that a little flash like lightning crinkled her brow, and that her eyes became the color of Lake Killarney in a thunderstorm.
“She's been flattering you,” astutely; “that's plain. Your observations amount to just this.” She snapped her long, artistic fingers before his eyes. “Now, I have met Mrs. Darrell, and I know what I'm saying. I'll be quite fair, and admit that your Miss MacKenzie is interesting, but there is a—a—something”—she narrowed her eyes, and fluttered her fingers in the air—“a”
Willy interrupted her with a short laugh. “I'm afraid 'a—a—something' is beyond my blunted masculine comprehension.”
“You bark like a cross dog. No wonder Ahmed dislikes you,” said Rose calmly; but she was conscious of a faint pang, a touch of wonder that this insignificant, pale, slight creature should have immediately enlisted Willy's championship. Still, she had a generous nature, and hated to appear catty, so she paused a moment to consider her words before speaking.
“One feels things about people,” she began again. “It 1s sometimes hard to put them into words, but you just know them. Now never, if you stop to consider, does Miss MacKenzie impress you as a wealthy young woman with a passion for travel who has started, with her maid, on a journey around the world. And I do not believe that she is Scotch.”
“I should think that that dour-faced maid of hers would be a convincing proof of her nationality,” hazarded Willy.
“Bluff. A valuable adjunct—a part of her game—that's all.”
Now, Gaines was not blind to the value of Rose's intuitions, although he would have qualified that; for, from his experience, he was forced to regard them as erratic. Sometimes they went straight to the mark with the most astonishing surety, and sometimes they went far afield; but he saw that in this case it was no mere instinctive prejudice, but that she was perfectly sincere in her distrust of Miss MacKenzie, and he was determined to get to the root of the matter.
“But what is your real opinion of her?” he insisted. “Or is it too vague to put into words?”
Rose considered this a moment. “It is not so vague,” she said. “In the first place, in spite of her childish appearance, she is nearer thirty-five than twenty-seven, which she told Miss Mayhew was her age. That is no cause for suspicion,” she hastened to add, as Willy began to laugh, “but you must let me gather up the threads in my own way. The thing I really question, though, is her manner. She has, if you will take the trouble to notice it, a remarkable self-control, a trained repose of manner, and yet it is not the repose or the self-control that is developed in social life.
“Oh, how can I explain it? Why, by myself!” with a sudden inspiration. “My walk, my movements, the very expressions of my face are different from the average woman. It must be true of me because I have observed it in others. I am a professional, you see. Now that is just what I feel about Miss MacKenzie Whatever she is she is not an amateur. There!” triumphantly “I've put an indefinite feeling into words at last. Whatever she is, she is not an amateur.”
Gaines was impressed in spite of himself. “There may be something in what you say,” he admitted; “but for myself I do not see it. She seems to me merely a quiet, self-contained young woman, whose wide travels have given her a certain self-reliance. That's all.”
But nevertheless Rose had given him food for thought, and that evening an incident occurred that still further whetted his curiosity, and strengthened his determination to find the answer to this puzzle before the French detective took the case into his practiced hands.
The incident was this: That evening after dinner, he and Rose and Mrs. Darrell stood talking together, when they were joined by Miss Mayhew and Miss MacKenzie and Phil Wodeburn. Mrs. Darrell met these three for the first time. Beyond her evident interest in Rose O'Hara, she had showed no disposition to extend her acquaintance at the inn. She spent the greater part of her time either in long rides or drives through the pine woods or else in reading in the sun parlor or on one of the porches, and it was noticeable that she read in French almost exclusively,
In the general conversation that followed these introductions, Gaines mentioned that he had to go into town the next day.
“And I, too,” said Rose; “on business—my tailors.”
“Business!” exclaimed young Wodeburn. “And I thought we all belonged to the vast minority on pleasure bent.”
“You'll have to exclude me,” said Vivien Mayhew gayly. “I'm in the vaster majority. I'm going to town, too, to-morrow. My errand is the interesting one of looking for a job.”
Miss Mayhew was always frank about herself and her plans, but there was a touch of seriousness in her tone that made Gaines wonder if sudden reverses had overtaken the globe-trotting mother and daughter. Phil Wodeburn, however, burst out laughing.
“She's chaffing,” he said.
“I assure you, no.” Miss Mayhew held up a very determined chin. “Really my reason for going to town to-morrow is to look up some newspaper women I knew on the other side, and see if there is any chance for me in the same profession. It is a career that appeals to me more than anything else. I never was meant for the conventional existence, and I'm getting tired of tramping over the globe and exercising my ingenuity in making both ends meet on an absurdly inadequate income. Me for a sphere of honest toil.”
“You'll be the sporting editor,” again laughed Wodeburn. “And, by Jove,” with a flash of admiration in his blue eyes, “you'll be great!”
“I might,” she laughed back. “It isn't a bad idea at all. I'll certainly suggest it to my newspaper friends.”
“But not to-morrow,” urged Wodeburn. “I'm going to town, too. Come and help me buy a new tennis racket and some golf clubs.”
But she was obdurate, and although she treated the matter lightly, and as more or less of a lark, it was plain that she was not to be shaken in her determination.
“Our minds all seem turning in the same direction,” said Mrs. Darrell. “I have an engagement to-morrow at a habit maker's.”
“And I,” said Miss MacKenzie, in her slow and rather precise tones, “must see an oculist.”
“All of you bent on frivolity except myself,” said Miss Mayhew airily. “Golf clubs and glasses, riding habits and chiffons. Didn't you say the other day,” turning to Rose, “that your dress-maker was that supremely smart and soaringly expensive Madame Orville?”
“Yes; but I don't expect to see her to-morrow. I'm going to my tailor's.”
As she said this, Willy happened to glance at Miss MacKenzie, and was struck by the change of expression on that small person's immobile face. At the mention of Orville's name, her eyes widened suddenly as if a new thought had visited her; then they contracted, and she seemed to be deeply cogitating something, as if a fresh idea had been presented to her—a fresh idea and a satisfactory one, Willy decided.
He acted on impulse. “Then, since we all have decreed to be in town to-morrow, won't you all take luncheon with me at the Ritz-Carlton?”
With the exception of Rose and Wodeburn, the acceptances seemed a little hesitating. Nevertheless, they all accepted.
“Doesn't it strike you as odd,” murmured Willy to Rose, as soon as they were alone, “that as soon as one member of our interesting little group decided to go to town for the day, the rest all arrived at the same decision?”
“It may be coincidence,” she said; “but—what do you make of it, Willy?”
“That there are those among us—I wish to goodness I knew who!—who are determined not to let others among us out of their sight. Oh, Rose, if there are not some interesting developments to-morrow I am a false prophet.”