Out of the Ashes | Page 5

way, Mahr, what sort of a girl is the little débutante daughter of Mrs.
Marteen--you know her, don't you?" He was watching Mahr keenly,
and fancied he detected a shifty glance at the mention of the name. But
Mahr answered easily:
"Dorothy? She's the season's beauty--really a stunning-looking girl.
You must have seen her; she was in Denning's box with her mother at
'La Bohème' last week."
"And," added Denning, "she'll be with us again to-morrow night."
"Oh," said Card, with indifference. "The dark one--I
remember--tall--yes, she's like her mother, devilish handsome. Must
send that child some flowers, I suppose."

Gard returned home, disgusted with himself. Why had he forced his
mood upon these men? Why, above all things, had he mentioned Mrs.
Marteen to Mahr, whom he despised? For the simple pleasure of
speaking of her, of mentioning her name? Why had he suspected Mahr
of being one of her victims? And why, in heaven's name, had he
resented the very same notion? He lay in bed numbering the men of
money and importance whom he knew shared Mrs. Marteen's
acquaintance. They were numerous, both his friends and enemies. What
had they done? What was her hold over them? Had she in all cases
worked as silently, as thoroughly, as understandingly as she had with
him? Did she always show her hand at the psychological moment? Did
she rob only the rich--the guilty? Was she Robin Hood in velvet,
antique lace and sables? Ah, he liked that--Mme. Robin Hood. He fell
asleep at last and dreamed that he met Mrs. Marteen under the
greenwood tree, and watched her as with unerring aim she sent a bolt
from her bow through the heart of a running deer.
He awoke when the valet called him, and was amused with his dream.
Not in years had such an interest entered his life. He rose, tubbed and
breakfasted, and went, as was his wont, to his sister's sitting room.
"Well, Polly," he roared through the closed doors of her bedroom, "up
late, as usual, I suppose! Well, I'm off. By the way, we aren't using the
opera box next Monday night; lend it to Mrs. Marteen. That little girl of
hers is coming out, you know, and we ought to do something for 'em
now and again. I'll be at the library after three, if you want me."
At the office he found a courteous note thanking him for his kindness
in offering to direct her investments and inclosing Mrs. Marteen's
cheque for twenty-five thousand dollars. Gard studied the handwriting
closely. It was firm, flowing, refined, yet daring, very straight as to
alignment and spaced artistically. Good sense, good taste, nice
discrimination, he commented. He smiled, tickled by a new idea. He
would not give the usual orders in such matters. When a lovely lady
inclosed her cheque, begging to remind him of his thoughtful
suggestion (mostly mythical) at Mrs. So-and-So's dinner, he cynically
deposited the slip, and wrote out another for double the amount, if he

believed the lady deserving; if not, a polite note informed the sender
that his firm would gladly open an account with her, and he was sure
her interests "would receive the best possible attention and advice." In
this case he determined to accept the responsibility exactly as it was
worded, ignoring the circumstances that had forced his hand. He would
make her nest egg hatch out what was required. It should be an honest
transaction in spite of its questionable inception. Every dollar of that
money should work overtime, for results must come quickly.
He gave his orders and laid his plans. Never had his business interests
appealed to him as keenly as at that moment, and never for a moment
did he doubt the honesty of the lady's villainy. She would not "hold out
on him."
His first care that morning had been to make a luncheon appointment
with his lawyer, and to elicit the information that, as far as his attorney
knew, the incriminating correspondence had been destroyed when
received. "As soon as your instructions were carried out, Mr. Gard. Of
course, none of us quite realized the changes that were
coming--but--what those letters would mean now! Too much care
cannot be taken. I've often thought a code might be advisable in the
future, when the written word must be relied on."
Gard smiled grimly and agreed. "Those letters would make a pretty
basis for blackmail, wouldn't they? Oh, by the way, you are Victor
Mahr's lawyers, aren't you?"
As he had half expected, he surprised a flash of suspicion and
knowledge in the other's eyes.
"What makes you speak of him in that connection?" laughed the
lawyer.
"I don't," said Gard. "I happened to be playing bridge with him last
night and from something he