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CHAPTER VIII.
VERNET “CALLS A TURN.”
Leslie Warburton had replaced her mask, but the face she concealed was engraven upon the memory of her vis-a-vis.
A pure pale face, with a firm chin; a rare red mouth, proud yet sensitive; a pair of brown tender eyes, with a touch of sadness in their depths; and a broad low brow, over which clustered thick waves of sunny auburn. She is slender and graceful, carrying her head proudly, and with inherent self-poise in gait and manner.
She glances about her once more, and then says, drawing still nearer the disguised detective:
“I have been looking for you, Mr. Stanhope, and we have met at a fortunate moment. Nearly all the guests have arrived, and everybody is dancing; we may hope for a few undisturbed moments now. You – you have no reason for thinking yourself watched, or your identity suspected, I hope?”
“None whatever, madam. Have you any fears of that sort?”
“No; none that are well grounded; I dislike secrecy, and the necessity for it; I suppose I am nervous. Mr. Stanhope,” with sudden appeal in her voice, “how much do you know concerning me, and my present business with you?”
“Very little. During my drive hither with Mr. Follingsbee, he told me something like this: He esteemed you very highly; he had known you for years; you desired the services of a detective; he had named me as available, and been authorized by you to secure my services. He said that he knew very little concerning the nature of your business with me, but believed that all that you did would be done wisely, discreetly, and from the best of motives. He pointed you out to me when we entered the house. That is all, madam.”
“Thank you. Mr. Follingsbee is, or was, the tried friend, as well as legal adviser, of my adopted father, Thomas Uliman, and I know him to be trustworthy. When he spoke of you, Mr. Stanhope, he knew that I desired, not only a skillful detective, but a true-hearted man; one who would hold a promise sacred, who would go no further than is required in the matter in hand, and who would respect an unhappy woman’s secret – should it become known to him.”
Her voice died in her throat, and Stanhope rustled his garments uneasily. Then she rallied and went on bravely:
“Mr. Follingsbee assured me that you were all I could desire.”
“Mr. Follingsbee does me an honor which I appreciate.”
“And so, Mr. Stanhope, I am about to trust you. Let us sit here, where we shall be unobserved, and tolerably secure from interruption.”
She turns toward the divan behind the screen and seats herself thereon, brushing aside her glittering drapery to afford the disguised detective a place beside her.
He hesitates a moment, then takes the proffered seat and says, almost brusquely:
“Madam, give me my instructions as rapidly as possible; the very walls have eyes sometimes, and – I must be away from here before midnight.”
“My instructions will be brief. I will state my case, and then answer any questions you find it necessary to ask.”
“I shall ask no needless questions, madam.”
“Then listen.” She nerves herself for a brave effort, and hurries on, her voice somewhat agitated in spite of herself. “For three months past I have been conscious that I am watched, followed, spied upon. I have been much annoyed by this espionage. I never drive or walk alone, without feeling that my shadow is not far away. I begin to fear to trust my servants, and to realize that I have an enemy. Mr. Stanhope, I want you to find out who my enemy is.”
Behind his starry mask, her listener smiled at this woman-like statement of the case. Then he said, tersely:
“You say that you are being spied upon. How do you know this?”
“At first by intuition, I think; a certain vague, uneasy consciousness of a strange, inharmonious presence near me. Being thus put on my guard and roused to watchfulness, I have contrived to see, on various occasions, the same figure dogging my steps.”
“Um! Did you know this figure?”
“No; it was strange to me, but always the same.”
“Then your spy is a blunderer. Let us try and sift this matter: A lady may be shadowed for numerous reasons; do you know why you are watched?”
“N – no,” hesitatingly.
“So,” thought the detective, “she is not quite frank, with me.” Then aloud: “Do you suspect any one?”
“No.”
“Madam, I must ask some personal questions. Please answer them frankly and truly, or not at all, and be sure that every question is necessary, every answer important.”
The lady bows her head, and he proceeds:
“First, then, have you a secret?”
She starts, turns her head away, and is silent.
The detective notes the movement, smiles again, and goes on:
“Let us advance a step; you have a secret.”
“Why – do you – say that?”
“Because you have yourself told me as much. We never feel that uneasy sense of espionage, so well described by you, madam, until we have something to conceal – the man who carries no purse, fears no robber. You have a secret. This has made you watchful, and, being watchful, you discover that you have – what? An enemy, or only a tormentor?”
“Both, perhaps,” she says sadly.
“My task, then, is to find this enemy. Mrs. Warburton, I shall not touch your secret; at the same time I warn you in this search it is likely to discover itself to me without my seeking. Rest assured that I shall respect it. First, then, you have a secret. Second, you have an enemy. Mrs. Warburton, I should ask fewer questions if I could see your face.”
Springing up suddenly, she tears off her mask, and standing before him says with proud fierceness:
“And why may you not see my face! There is no shame for my mask to conceal! I have a secret, true; but it is not of my making. It has been forced upon me. I am not an intriguante: I am a persecuted woman. I am not seeking it to conceal wrong doing, but to protect myself from those that wrong me.”
The words that begin so proudly, end in a sob, and, covering her face with her white, jeweled hands, Leslie Warburton turns and rests her head against the screen beside her.
Then impulsive, unconventional Dick Stanhope springs up, and, as if he were administering comfort to a sorrowing child, takes the two hands away from the tear-wet face, and holding them fast in his own, looks straight down into the brown eyes as he says:
“Dear lady, trust me! Even as I believe you, believe me, when I say that your confidence shall not be violated. Your secret shall be safe; shall remain yours. Your enemy shall become mine. If you cannot trust me, I cannot help you.”
“Oh! I do trust you, Mr. Stanhope; I must. Ask of me nothing, for I can tell you no more. To send for you was unwise, perhaps, but I have been so tormented by this spy upon my movements … and I cannot fight in the dark. It was imprudent to bring you here to-night, but I dared not meet you elsewhere.”
There is a lull in the music and a hum of approaching voices. She hastily resumes her mask, and Stanhope says:
“We had better separate now, madam. Trust your case to me. I cannot remain here much longer, otherwise I might find a clue to-night, – important business calls me. After to-night my time is all yours, and be sure I shall find out your enemy.”
People are flocking in from the dancing-room. With a gesture of farewell, “Sunlight” flits out through the door just beside the screen, and a moment later, the Goddess of Liberty is sailing through the long drawing-rooms on the arm of a personage in the guise of Uncle Sam.
“What success, my friend?”
“It’s all right,” replies the Goddess of Liberty; “I have seen the lady.”
A moment more and her satin skirts trail across the toes of a tall fellow in the dress of a British officer, who is leaning against a vine-wreathed pillar, intently watching the crowd through his yellow mask. At sight of the Goddess of Liberty, he starts forward and a sharp exclamation crosses his lips.
“Shades of Moses,” he mutters to himself, “I can’t be mistaken; that is Dick Stanhope’s Vienna costume! Is that Dick inside it? It is! it must be! What is he doing? On a lay, or on a lark? Dick Stanhope is not given to this sort of frolic; I must find out what it means!”
And Van Vernet leaves his post of observation and follows slowly, keeping the unconscious Goddess of Liberty always in sight.
Passing through a net-work of vines, the British officer comes upon two people in earnest conversation. The one wears a scarlet and black domino, the other a coquettish Carmen costume.
“That black and red domino is my patron,” mutters the officer as he glides by unnoticed. “He does not see me and I do not wish to see him just at present.” A few steps farther and the British officer comes to a sudden halt.
“By Heavens!” he ejaculates, half aloud; “what a chance I see before me! It would be worth something to know what brought Dick Stanhope here to-night; it would be worth yet more to keep him here until after midnight. If I had an accomplice to detain him while I, myself, appear at the Agency in time, then the C – street Raid would move without him, the lead would be given to me. It’s worth trying for. It shall be done, and my patron in black and red shall help me.”
He turns, and only looks back to mutter:
“Go on, Dick Stanhope; this night shall begin the trial that, when ended, shall decide which of the two is the better man!”
And the British officer hurries straight on until he stands beside the black and scarlet domino.
CHAPTER IX.
“A FALSE MOVE IN THE GAME.”
Pretty, piquant Winnifred French was the staunch friend of Leslie Warburton.
When Winnie was the petted only daughter of “French, the rich merchant,” she and Leslie Uliman had been firm friends. When Leslie Uliman, the adopted daughter of the aristocratic Uliman’s, gave her hand in marriage to Archibald Warburton, a wealthy invalid and a widower with one child, Winnie was her first bridesmaid.
Time had swept away the fortune of French, the merchant, and death had robbed Leslie of her adopted parents, and then Winnifred French gladly accepted the position of salaried companion to her dearest friend.
Not long after, Alan Warburton had returned from abroad, and then had begun a queer complication.
For some reason known only to himself, Alan Warburton had chosen to dislike his beautiful sister-in-law, and he had conceived a violent admiration for Winnie, – an admiration which might have been returned, perhaps, had Winnie been less loyal in her friendship for Leslie. But, perceiving Alan’s dislike for her dearest friend, Winnie lost no opportunity for annoying him, and lavishing upon him her stinging sarcasms.
On her part, Leslie Warburton loved her companion with a strong sisterly affection. As for her feelings toward Alan Warburton, it would have been impossible to guess, from her manner, whether he was to her an object of love, hatred, or simple indifference.
When Winnie and Alan turned their backs upon the scene in the anteroom, and entered the dancing hall, the girl was in a particularly perverse mood.
“I shall not dance,” she said petulantly. “It’s too early and too warm,” and she entered a flowery alcove, and seated herself upon a couch overhung with vines.
“May I sit down, Winnie?”
“No.”
“Just for a moment’s chat.” And he seated himself as calmly as if he had received a gracious permission.
“You are angry with me again, Winnie. Is my sister-in-law always to come between us?”
She turned and her blue eyes flashed upon him.
“Once and for all,” she said sharply, “tell me why you hate Leslie so?”
“Tell me why she has poisoned your mind against me?” he retorted.
“She! Leslie Warburton! This goes beyond a joke, sir. Leslie Warburton is what Leslie Uliman was, a lady, in thought, word, and deed. Oh, I can read you, sir! Her crime, in your eyes, is that she has married your brother. Is she not a good and faithful wife; a tender, loving mother to little Daisy? You have hinted that she does not love her husband – by what right do you make the assertion? You believe that she has married for money, – at least these are fashionable sins! Humph! In all probability I shall marry for money myself.”
“Winnifred!”
“I shall; I am sure of it. It’s an admirable feature of our best society. If we are heiresses, we are surrounded with lovers who are fascinated by our bank account. If we are poor, we are all in search of a bank account; and many of us have to do some sharp angling.”
“My sister-in-law angled very successfully.”
“So she did, if you will put it so. And she did not land her last chance; she might have married as wealthy a man as Mr. Warburton, or as handsome a man as his brother. But then,” with a provoking little gesture of disdain, “Leslie and I never did admire handsome men.”
There was just a shade of annoyance in the voice that answered her:
“Pray go on, Miss French; doubtless yourself and Mrs. Warburton have other tastes in common.”
“So we have,” retorted the girl, rising and standing directly before him, “but I won’t favor you with a list of them. You don’t like Leslie, and I do; but let me tell you, Mr. Alan Warburton, if the day ever comes when you know Leslie Warburton as I know her, you will go down into the dust, ashamed that you have so misjudged, so wronged, so slandered one who is as high as the stars above you. And now I am going to join the dancers; you can come – or stay.”
The last words were flung at him over her shoulder, and before he could rise to follow, she had vanished in the throng that was surging to and fro without the alcove.
He starts forward as if about to pursue her, and then sinks back upon the couch.
“I won’t be a greater fool than nature made me,” he mutters in scornful self-contempt. “If I go, she’ll flirt outrageously under my very nose; if I stay – she’ll flirt all the same, of course. Ah! if a man would have a foretaste of purgatory let him live under the same roof with the woman he loves and the woman he hates!”
A shadow comes between his vision and the gleam of light from without, and, lifting his eyes, he encounters two steady orbs gazing out from behind a yellow mask.
“Ah!” He half rises again, then sinks back and motions the mask to the seat beside him.
“I recognize your costume,” he says, as the British officer seats himself. “How long since you came?”
“Only a few moments. I have been waiting for your interview with the lady to end.”
“Ah!” with an air of abstraction; then, recalling himself: “Do you know the nature of the work required of you?”
Under his mask, Van Vernet’s face flamed and he bit his lip with vexation. This man in black and scarlet, this aristocrat, addressed him, not as one man to another, but loftily as a king to a subject. But there was no sign of annoyance in his voice as he replied:
“Um – I suppose so. Delicate bit of a shadowing, I was told; no particulars given.”
“There need be no particulars. I will point you out the person to be shadowed. I want you to see her, and be yourself unseen. You are simply to discover, – find out where she goes, who she sees, what she does. Don’t disturb yourself about motives; I only want the facts.”
“Ah!” thought Van Vernet; “it’s a she, then.” Aloud, he said: “You have not given the lady’s name?”
“You would find it out, of course?”
“Of course; necessarily.”
“The lady is my – is Mrs. Warburton, the mistress of the house.”
“Ah!” thought the detective; “the old Turk wants me to shadow his wife!”
By a very natural blunder he had fancied himself in communication with Archibald, instead of Alan, Warburton.
“Have you any suspicions? Can you give me any hint upon which to act?” he asked.
“I might say this much,” ventured Alan, after a moment’s hesitation: “The lady has made, I believe, a mercenary marriage and she is hiding something from her husband and friends.”
“I see,” said Vernet. And then, laughing inwardly, he thought: “A case of jealousy!”
In a few words Alan Warburton described to Vernet the “Sunlight,” costume worn by Leslie, and then they separated, Vernet going, not in search of “Sunlight,” but of the Goddess of Liberty.
What he found was this:
In the almost deserted music room stood the Goddess of Liberty, gazing down into the face of a woman in the robes of Sunlight, and both of them engaged in earnest conversation.
He watched them until he saw the Goddess lift the hand of Sunlight with a gesture of graceful reverence, bow over it, and turn away. Then he went back to the place where he had left his patron. He found the object of his quest still seated in the alcove, alone and absorbed in thought.
“I beg your pardon for intruding upon your solitude,” began the detective hastily, at the same time seating himself close beside Alan; “but there is a lady here whose conduct is, to say the least, mysterious. As a detective, it becomes my duty to look after her a little, to see that she does not leave this house until I can follow her.”
“Well?” with marked indifference in his tone.
“If she could be detained,” went on Vernet, “by – say, by keeping some one constantly beside her, so that she cannot leave the house without being observed – ”
Alan Warburton threw back his head.
“Pardon me,” he said, “but I object to thus persecuting a lady, and a guest.”
“But if I tell you that this lady is a man in silken petticoats?”
“What!”
“And that he seems on very free and friendly terms with your wife.”
“With my wi – ”
Alan Warburton stopped short and looked sharply at the eyes gazing out from behind the yellow mask.
Did this detective think himself conversing with Archibald? If so – well, what then? He shrank from anything like familiarity with this man before him. Why not leave the mistake as it stood? There could be no harm in it, and he, Alan, would thus be free from future annoyance.
“I will not remove my mask,” thought Alan. “He is not likely to see Archibald, and no harm can come of it. In fact it will be better so. It would seem more natural for him to be investigating his wife’s secrets than for me.”
So the mistake was not corrected – the mistake that was almost providential for Alan Warburton, but that proved a very false move in the game that Van Vernet was about to play.
There was but one flaw in the plan of the proposed incognito.
Alan’s voice was a peculiarly mellow tenor, and Van Vernet never forgot a voice once heard.
“Did you say that this disguised person knows – Mrs. Warburton?”
“I did.”
“Who is the fellow, and what disguise does he wear?”
“I am unable to give his name. He is costumed as the Goddess of Liberty.”
“Oh!”
Van Vernet had his own reasons for withholding Richard Stanhope’s name.
“So!” he thought, while he waited for Alan’s next words. “I’ll spoil your plans for this night, Dick Stanhope! I wonder how our Chief will like to hear that ‘Stanhope the reliable,’ neglects his duty to go masquerading in petticoats, the better to make love to another man’s wife.”
For Van Vernet, judging Stanhope as a man of the world judges men, had leaped to the hasty, but natural, conclusion, that his masquerade in the garb of the mother of his country, was in the character of a lover.
“Vernet,” said Alan at last, “you are a clever fellow! Let me see; there are half a dozen young men here who are ripe for novelty – set the whisper afloat that behind that blue and white mask is concealed a beautiful and mysterious intruder, and they will hang like leeches about her, hoping to discover her identity, or see her unmask.”
“It’s a capital plan!” cried Vernet, “and it can’t be put into execution too soon.”
CHAPTER X.
“I AM YOUR SHADOW.”
It is not a pleasing task to Alan Warburton, but, spurred on by Vernet, and acting according to his suggestions, it is undertaken and accomplished. Within twenty minutes, two gay, fun-loving young fellows, one habited in the garb of a Celestial, the other dressed as a Troubador, are hastening from room to room in search of the mysterious Goddess of Liberty.
“Who was the Mask that posted us about this mysterious lady?” queries the Celestial, as he lifts a portierie for his comrade to pass.
“If I am not mistaken, it was Warburton.”
“Isn’t that a queer move for His Dignity?”
“Well, I don’t know. Presuming the fair Mystery to be an intruder, he may think it the easiest way of putting her to rout. At any rate there’s a little spice in it.”
And there is spice in it. Before the evening closes, the festive Celestial is willing to vote this meeting with a veiled mystery an occasion full of flavor, and worthy to be remembered.
Leaving the pair in full chase after the luckless, petticoat-encumbered Stanhope, we follow Van Vernet, who, having set this trap for the feet of his unconscious comrade, is about to play his next card.
Gliding among the maskers, he makes his way to a side entrance, and passing the liveried servant on guard at the door with a careless jest, he leaves the house, and hastens where, a few rods distant, a solitary figure is standing.
“How long have you been here, Harvey?” he asks hurriedly, but with noticeable affability.
“About half an hour.”
“Good; now listen, for you are to begin your business. Throw on that domino and follow me; the servants have seen me in conversation with the master of the house and they will not require your credentials. Keep near me, and follow me to the dressing-rooms; by-and-by we will exchange costumes there, after which, you will personate me.”
“But, – ”
“There will be no trouble; just mingle with the throng, saying nothing to anyone. No one will address you who could doubt your identity; I will arrange all that. You comprehend?”
“I think so. You are wanted, or you want to be, in two places at once. This being the least important, you place me here as figure-head, while you fill the bill at the other place.”
“You have grasped the situation, Harvey. Let us go in, and be sure you do justice, in my stead, to the banquet – and the Warburton champagne.”
Van Vernet had planned well. Knowing the importance of the Raid in hand for that night, he had determined to be present and share with Stanhope the honors of the occasion, while he seemed to be devoting all his energies to the solution of the mystery that was evidently troubling his wealthy patron, the master of Warburton Place.
Vernet was a man of many resources, and trying, indeed, must be the situation which his fertile brain could not master.
Having successfully introduced his double into the house, he made his way, once more, to the side of his patron, and, drawing him away from the vicinity of possible listeners, said:
“Mr. Warburton, if you have anything further to say to me, please make use of the present moment. After this it will be best for us to hold no further conversation to-night.”
Alan Warburton turned his eyes toward the detective with a cold, scrutinizing stare.
“Why such caution?”
“Because it seems to me necessary; and, if I may be permitted to suggest, you may make some slight discoveries by keeping an eye, more or less, upon Mrs. Warburton.”
With these words Van Vernet turns upon his heel, and strides away with the air of a man who can do all that he essays.
“He is cool to the verge of impudence!” mutters Alan, as he gazes after the receding figure in the British uniform. “But I will act upon his advice; I will watch Mrs. Warburton.”
It is some moments before he catches sight of her glimmering robes, and then he sees them receding, gliding swiftly, and, as he thinks, with a nervous, hurried movement unusual to his stately sister-in-law.
She is going through the drawing-room, away from the dancers, and he hastens after, wondering a little as to her destination.
From a flower-adorned recess, a fairy form springs out, interrupting the lady in the glimmering robes.
“Mamma!” cries little Daisy, “oh Mamma, I have found Mother Goose —real, live Mother Goose!”
And she points with childish delight to a quaintly dressed personation of that old woman of nursery fame, who sits within the alcove, leaning upon her oaken staff, and peering out from beneath the broad frill of her cap, her gaze eagerly following the movements of the animated child.
“Oh Mamma!” continues the little one, “can’t I stay with Mother Goose? Millie says I must go to bed.”
At another time Leslie Warburton would have listened more attentively, have answered more thoughtfully, and have noted more closely the manner of guest that was thus absorbing the attention of the little one. Now she only says hurriedly:
“Yes, yes, Daisy; you may stay a little longer, – only,” with a hasty glance toward the alcove, “you must not trouble the lady too much.”
“The lady wants me, mamma.”
“Then go, dear.”
And Leslie gathers up her glimmering train and hastens on without once glancing backward.
Pausing a few paces behind her, Alan Warburton has noted each word that has passed between the lady and the child. And now, as the little one bounds back to Mother Goose, who receives her with evident pleasure, he moves on, still following Leslie.
She glides past the dancers, through the drawing rooms, across the music room, and then, giving a hasty glance at the few who linger there, she pulls aside a silken curtain, and looks into the library. The lights are toned to the softness of moonlight; there is silence there, and solitude.
With a long, weary sigh, Leslie enters the library and lets the curtain fall behind her.
Alan Warburton pauses, hesitates for a moment, and then, seeing that the little group of maskers near him seem wholly absorbed in their own merriment, he moves boldly forward, parts the curtain a little way, and peers within.
He sees a woman wearing the garments of Sunlight and the face of despair. She has torn off her mask, and it lies on the floor at her feet. In her hand is a crumpled scrap of paper, and, as she holds it nearer the light and reads what is written thereon, a low moan escapes her lips.
“Again!” she murmurs; “how can I obey them? – and yet I must go.” Then, suddenly, a light of fierce resolve flames in her eyes. “I will go,” she says, speaking aloud in her self-forgetfulness; “I will go, – but it shall be for the last time!”
She thrusts the crumpled bit of paper into her bosom, goes to the window and looks out. Then she crosses to a door opposite the curtained entrance, opens it softly, and glides away.
In another moment, Alan Warburton is in the library. Tearing off the black and scarlet domino he flings it into a corner, and, glancing down at his nautical costume mutters:
“Sailors of this description are not uncommon. Wherever she goes, I can follow her – in this.”
Ten minutes later, while Leslie Warburton’s guests are dancing and making merry, Leslie Warburton, with sombre garments replacing the robes of Sunlight, glides stealthily out from her stately home, and creeps like a hunted creature through the darkness and away!
But not alone. Silently, with the tread of an Indian, a man follows after; a man in the garments of a sailor, who pulls a glazed cap low down across his eyes, and mutters as he goes:
“So, Madam Intrigue, Van Vernet advised me well. Glide on, plotter; from this moment until I shall have unmasked you, I am your shadow!”
