That Affair at Elizabeth, Burton Egbert Stevenson [chromebook ebook reader .txt] 📗

Bay. He was afraid to go any farther away, I suppose. He ought to be here in an hour," he added, and called a boy and gave him the message.

Then he swung around to me again.

"Now let's have the story," he prompted. "I know there's a story."

"Yes," I said; "there's a story. I was just——"

The door burst open with a crash, and in came Burr Curtiss himself.

"I couldn't stay away any longer!" he cried. "I was eating my heart out. Have you any news?"

"Sit down, Curtiss, and pull yourself together," interposed our junior, catching him by the arm. "This won't do. I just wired you to come on. You must have met the boy."

"I believe I did knock over a youngster just outside the door."

"Well, there's no damage done, I guess. Since you're here, Lester can go right ahead with the story."

"But one thing first," interrupted our client. "Did you find out where she went, Mr. Lester?"

"No," I answered. "But I have a message from her."

"Thank God!" he murmured, and sank back in his chair. I guessed what his fear had been—that Marcia Lawrence was no longer among the living.

Looking at him closely, I was shocked at the change a single day had wrought in him. His eyes were bloodshot from want of sleep, his face pale and drawn, his hair and beard unkempt. In a word, he had ceased to be the handsome, well-groomed man the world knew as Burr Curtiss.

I related my doings briefly, including only the essential points. Then I placed the message in his hands. He read it, his face quivering.

"But this tells us nothing," he said hoarsely, looking up at me with piteous eyes.

"Except that she was in New York this morning—and wants to fight her battle out by herself."

Curtiss was on his feet, his face livid.

"But she sha'n't fight it out by herself!" he cried. "Do you think I'm such a coward as that—to stand back, not offering to help?"

"Perhaps you can't help," I interposed.

"Don't talk nonsense!" he retorted. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Lester, but I'm overwrought—I can't choose my words. But it is nonsense. I love her—of course I can help. Don't you see, it's not herself she's thinking of—she's trying to spare me."

I nodded. Perhaps it was for his sake that Marcia Lawrence had taken that wild step. That would be like a woman.

"You may be right," I said. "I'd never thought of that solution, but Mrs. Lawrence's last words to me would seem to point that way. She said that the matter would rest in your hands—that it would be for you to choose, after you'd heard the story."

"I don't want to hear the story!" Curtiss cried. "Good God! What do I care for the story! I've made my choice, once and forever! I want her! Of course it was to spare me she ran away! She'd never think of herself!"

I might have retorted that it had been a rather questionable form of mercy; that she could scarcely have inflicted on him any suffering more acute than that which he had undergone. But I forbore; instead, I took the telegram again and studied it.

"If you really wish to find her," I said, "perhaps this will give us a clue."

"I do wish to find her."

"This form will tell us which station this message was sent from, I think. Wait here a minute," and I crossed the hall to the brokerage offices of Sims & Wesson. "May I speak to your operator?" I asked of the junior partner.

"Certainly," he said, and waved me to the little room where the instruments were clicking merrily away.

"Can you tell me what these characters mean?" I asked, placing the message before the operator and pointing to the row of figures and letters at the top of it—"61CWDDSA8PD."

"The sixty-one," he said, "means that this was the sixty-first message received at Elizabeth this morning; 'CW' means that the message was filed at the Christopher Street office—corner Christopher and West; 'DD' and 'SA' are the initials of the operators who sent and received the message; '8PD' means that there are eight words in the message and that it was prepaid. It's the regular form used on all Western Union messages."

"Thank you," I said, and hurried back across the hall elated, for I had learned more than I had dared to hope.

"Well?" asked Curtiss, looking up with anxious face.

"The message was filed at the Christopher Street office," I said, "Christopher and West streets——"

"West Street?" echoed Mr. Royce. "What on earth was she doing there?"

"She could have been doing only one thing," I pointed out exultantly. "When a woman goes down to the docks, it must be——"

"To take a boat!"

"Just so! And when she goes to that particular portion of the docks, it must be to take a trans-Atlantic liner."

Curtiss stared at me for a moment as though not understanding; then he rose heavily to his feet.

"Well, I can follow her even there," he said, and started for the door.

But Mr. Royce had him by the arm.

"My dear Curtiss!" he protested. "Think what a wild-goose chase you're starting on!"

"Better than sitting idle here," retorted Curtiss doggedly; and I could not but agree with him.

"Perhaps we can narrow the search down a little," I said. "Suppose we drive around to the West Street office."

"Just what I was about to do," said Curtiss, and led the way to the elevator.

During that drive across town, we found little to say. Curtiss was deep in his own thoughts, and I saw from the way Mr. Royce looked at him, how anxious he was concerning him. But at last we reached our destination.

"Can you give me any description of the person who sent this message?" I asked, and spread out the telegram before the man at the desk. "Perhaps you'll let us see the original."

He glanced at the message and then at us.

"No question of a mistake, I hope?" he said. "The message reads straight enough."

"No," I answered; "rather a question of preventing a mistake. I hope you won't refuse us."

He glanced us over again and seemed to understand.

"It's a little irregular," he said; "but I guess I can do it."

He opened a drawer, and ran through a sheaf of papers.

"Here it is," he said, and laid a sheet before us. "You see the message was correctly sent."

"Yes," I agreed; but it was not at the message I was looking; it was at the sheet upon which it was written—a sheet which had embossed at the top the words "S. S. Umbria."

"Who sent the message?" I asked.

"It was brought in by a messenger from the Cunard line pier."

"What time did the Umbria sail?"

"She was to have sailed at twelve o'clock, but was delayed by a little accident of some sort. Perhaps she's still at her pier."

I thanked fortune that I had told our cabman to wait; I think Curtiss would have been crazed by any delay. As it was, we rushed from the office and crowded in.

"The Cunard pier!" cried Mr. Royce, "and in a hurry!" and he waved a bill under the cabman's nose.

Not until we were under way did Curtiss speak.

"Did you see?" he asked, in a voice which shook convulsively. "The message was in Marcia's writing."

"Yes," I said. "I recognised it."

"We must catch the boat. Why don't that fellow whip up?"

"He's going as fast as he can," said Mr. Royce. "Sit still, Curtiss," and he threw an arm about him.

What a ride that was over the cobble-stones! Half a dozen times I thought a collision inevitable, but we had fallen into skilful hands, and were safely piloted through openings in the crowd of vehicles where it seemed a hand-barrow could not hope to go.

"Here we are!" cried cabby, and we tumbled out. He had done his best to earn his tip, and got it.

The pier was crowded, but we forced our way along it with scant regard for the feelings of other people. Had the ship sailed—were we in time——

"She's gone," said Mr. Royce, as we gained the front of the crowd. "See there."

There she was, headed squarely down the stream, just gathering speed. There was a flutter of hand-kerchiefs from her deck, we could see the people crowding against the rail in their eagerness to wave a last good-bye——

Curtiss, who had been staring at her stupidly, suddenly flushed and pulled himself erect.

"There she is!" he cried. "See—standing alone by that forward boat."

I stared with all my eyes. There was indeed a figure there—a woman clad in black—but the face was the merest blur.

"You think so?" I asked incredulously.

"I know so!" and he swung sharp round, his face alight with eagerness. "Come—there must be some way to catch her—a tug——"

He accosted the first blue-coated official he could find, but that worthy shook his head. No tug could catch the Umbria now; besides, there was none at hand to make the trial. By the time one could be secured, the ship would be far down the bay, settling into her speed. What was the trouble—a lady on board?

"Well, the best you can do is to meet her at Liverpool when she lands," he said.

"Meet her?" echoed Curtiss. "But how?"

"Take the Oceanic. She'll sail in half an hour from Pier 48, just below here. She'll reach Liverpool ahead of the Umbria—perhaps a day ahead."

I saw Curtiss's lips tighten with sudden resolution.

"Thank you," he said. "I'll do it."

There was nothing to be said. He was past arguing with, even had we felt like arguing—which I, for one, did not.

"I'll cable," he promised, as we stood in the shadow of the big liner, "and let you know if I find her."

"Have you money enough?" asked Mr. Royce. "Don't hesitate to say so, if you haven't."

Curtiss laughed bitterly.

"Oh, I've enough!" he said. "Quite a roll, in fact. I'd expected to spend it on a honeymoon!"

"You'll have the honeymoon yet," said Mr. Royce, with a certainty I thought a little forced. "What will you do for clothes?"

"I can make out some way till I get to the other side—the steward can help me."

Mr. Royce was again looking at him anxiously.

"I don't like it," he said, "your running off this way. You'll kill yourself."

"Oh, I'll be all right," Curtiss assured him. "A sea-voyage is just what would have been prescribed for me," and he attempted a smile.

"But you've got the worst stateroom on board," and indeed the Oceanic had been so crowded that he was fortunate to get that.

"No matter," said Curtiss. "I'd have gone if there'd been no place but the steerage."

"There's one thing," I said. "Have you an enemy in New York who might try to do you an injury? That would explain the letter, you know."

Curtiss thought for a moment with knitted brows. Then he shook his head.

"No," he said decidedly, "I have no enemy—certainly none who'd descend to stabbing me in the back. Besides, what could even the most unscrupulous enemy have written? How could he have hurt me? I can't understand it," he added wearily.

"Neither can I," I agreed. "It's beyond reasoning about."

"An enemy might have written a lie," suggested Mr. Royce.

"But Marcia wouldn't have believed it," retorted Curtiss. "I know her—she would have cast it from her. She trusted me. No; whatever the secret, it was one whose truth she could not doubt."

And I agreed with him.

We shook hands with him, at last; and when the great White Star ship swung out into the stream, he waved us a final good-bye from the deck.

"So he's gone," I said, as we rolled back down town again.

"Yes—and the question is whether he was wise to go—whether it can do any good."

"I think he's wise," I said. "It's a real passion—as you yourself pointed out to me."

"A real passion—yes," agreed our junior. "And yet—do you know, Lester, at the bottom of it all, I suspect some hideous, unbelievable thing. It turns me cold sometimes—trying to imagine what the secret is. It's a sort of dim, vague, threatening monster."

"Yes; I've felt that way about it. I can't grasp it, and yet I feel that it's there, just below the surface of things, ready to jump out and rend us. Well, Curtiss will find out."

"I hope so, if only for his sake. He'll go mad if he doesn't—and so will we, if we talk about it any more. I want you to look over those papers in the Consolidated suit. It comes up this afternoon, you know—and, by Jove! we'll have to hurry, or we'll be late for the hearing."

CHAPTER XIV Recalled to the Front

Never were slippers and easy-chair more welcome to me than they were that night. I was thoroughly weary in mind as well as body, and