Out of the Ashes | Page 4

She was gone, and the Great Man had not the presence of mind to
escort his visitor to the door or ring for attendance. He remained
standing, staring after her. His gaze shifted to the table, where, either
by accident or design, the photographs remained, scattered. He
chuckled grimly. Accident! Nothing was accidental with that
Machiavelli in petticoats. She knew he would read those accursed lines,
and realize with every sentence that in truth she was "letting him down
easy." There was no danger of his backing out of his bargain. Seated at
the desk, he perused his folly, and grunted with exasperation. Well,
after all, what of it? He had coveted a masterpiece; now he was to have
two in one--the contemplation of his own blunder, and Mrs. Marteen's
criminal genius--cheap at the price. How long had this been going on?
Whom had she victimized? And how in the world had she been able to
obtain the whole correspondence? That his lawyers should have been
deceived by copies was not so surprising--they never dreamed of a
substitution; the matter, not the letter, was proof enough to them of
genuineness. But--he thumped his forehead. He had been staying with
friends at Newport at the time. Had Mrs. Marteen been there? Of
course! He took up the incriminating documents again and thoroughly
mastered their contents, every turn of phrase, every between-the-line
inference. Accidents could happen; he must be prepared for the worst.
Not that negotiations would fail--but--not until the originals were in his
hands and personally done away with would he feel secure. He recalled
Mrs. Marteen's graceful and sumptuously clad figure, her clear-cut,
beautiful head, the power of her unwavering sapphire eyes, the gentle
elegance of her voice. And this woman--had--held him up!
He turned on the electric lamp, opened a secret compartment drawer in
the table, abstracted a tiny key, and, deftly making a packet of the

scattered proofs, unlocked a small hidden safe behind a row of first
editions of Bunyan and consigned them to secure obscurity.
A moment later his secretary entered the room in response to his ring.
"I'm going out," he said. "Lock up, will you, and at any time Mrs.
Marteen wants to see me admit her at once."
Mr. Saunders' face shone. He, too, was a devout worshiper at the shrine
of art.
"The Vandyke?" he inquired hopefully.
"Well, no--but I'm negotiating for a very remarkable series of
letters--of--er--Napoleon--concerning--er Waterloo."
* * * * *

II
When Marcus Gard dressed that evening he was so absent-minded that
his valet held forth for an hour in the servants' hall, with assurances that
some mighty coup was toward. Not since the days of B.L. & W. or the
rate war on the S. & O. had his master shown such complete
absorption.
"He's like a blind drunk, or a man in a trance, he is--he's just not there
in the head, and you have to walk around and dress his body, like he
was a dumb wax-work. If I get the lay, Smathers, I'll tip you off. There
might be something in it for us. He's due for dinner and bridge at the
Met., but unless Frenchy puts him out of the motor, he won't know
when he gets there"--which proved true. Three times the chauffeur
respectfully advised his master of their arrival, before the wondering
eyes of the club chasseur, before the Great Man, suddenly recalled to
the present, descended from his car and was conducted to his waiting
host.

The first one of the company to shake hands with him was Victor
Mahr--and Victor Mahr was a friend of Mrs. Marteen. The sudden
recollection of this fact made him cast such a glance of scrutiny at the
gentleman as to quite discompose him.
"What's the old man up to, gimleting me in the eye like that? He's got
something up his sleeve," thought Mahr.
"I wonder did she ever corner him?" was the question uppermost in
Gard's mind. He hated Mahr, and rather hoped that the lady had, then
flushed with resentment at the thought that she would stoop to
blackmail a man so obviously outside the pale. His mood was so
unusual that every man in the circle was stirred with unrest and
misgiving. Dinner brightened the general gloom, though there were but
trifling inroads into the costly vintages. One doesn't play bridge with
the Big Ones unless one's head is clear. Not till supper time did the talk
drift from honors and trumps. Gard played brilliantly. His
absent-mindedness changed to savage concentration. He played to win,
and won.
"What's new in the art world?" inquired Denning, as he lit a cigar.
"There was a rumor you were after the Heim Vandyke."
"Nothing new," Gard answered. "Haven't had time to bother. By the