Out of the Ashes | Page 7

eyes? Dear child, she must keep all the pink and
gold illusions--" The end of his sentence he spoke really to himself. But
an expression in his hearer's face brought him to sudden consciousness.
Quite unexpectedly he had surprised fear in the classic marble of the
goddess face. The woman, who had not hesitated to commit crime,
feared the contact of the world for her child. It was a curious revelation.
All that was best, most generous and kindly in his nature rose to the
surface, and his smile was the rare one that endeared him to his friends.
"Let her have every pleasure that comes her way," he added. "By the
way, I'm sending you our box for Monday night. I hope you will avail
yourself of it. My sister will join you, and perhaps you will all give me
the pleasure of your company at Delmonico's afterward."
She hesitated for a moment, her eyes turning involuntarily toward the
girl. Then the human dimple enriched her cheeks, and it was with real
camaraderie that she nodded an acceptance.
His attitude was humbly grateful. "I'll ask the Dennings, too," he
continued. "They're due elsewhere, I know, but they could join us."
The curtain was already rising and Gard, excusing himself, found his
way to the masculine sanctuary, the directors' box, of which he rarely
availed himself, and from a shadowy corner observed his débutante and
her beautiful mother through his powerful opera glasses. He found
himself taking a throbbing interest in the visitors at the loge opposite.
He was as interested in Dorothy Marteen's admirers as any fond father
could be; and yet his eyes turned with strange, fascinated jealousy to
the older woman's loveliness. Suddenly he drew in the focus of his
glasses. A face had come within the rim of his observation--the face of
a man sitting in the row in front of him. That man, too, had his glasses
turned toward the group on the other side of the diamond horseshoe,
and the look on his face was not pleasant to see. A lean, triumphant
smile curled his heavy purple lips, the radiating wrinkles at the corner
of his eyes were drawn upward in a Mephistophelian hardness.
It was Victor Mahr. His expression suddenly changed to one of intense
disgust, as a tall young man entered the Denning box and bent in
evident admiration over Dorothy's smiling face. Victor Mahr rose from

his seat, and with a curt nod to Gard, who feigned interest elsewhere,
disappeared into the corridor.
* * * * *

III
Mrs. Marteen stood at her desk, a mammoth affair of Jacobean type,
holding in her hand a sheet of crested paper, scrawled over in a large,
tempestuous hand.
MY DEAR MRS. MARTEEN:
If you will be so good as to drop in at the library at five, it will give me
great pleasure to go over with you the details of my stewardship. The
commission with which you honored me has, I think, been well
directed to an excellent result. Moreover, a little chat with you will be,
as always, a real pleasure to--
Yours in all admiration,
J. MARCUS GARD.
P.S.--I suggest your coming here, as the details of business are best
transacted in the quiet of a business office, and I therefore crave your
presence and indulgence.--
J.M.G.
Mrs. Marteen was dressing for the street; her hands were gloved, her
sable muff swung from a gem-studded chain, her veil was nicely
adjusted; yet she hesitated, her eyes upon a busy silver clock that
already marked the appointed hour. The room was large, wainscoted in
dark paneling; a capacious fireplace jutted far out, and was made
further conspicuous by two settees of worm-eaten oak. The chairs that
backed along the walls were of stalwart pattern. A collection of English
silver tankards was the chief decoration, save straight hangings of

Cordova leather at the windows, and a Spanish embroidery, tarnished
with age, that swung beside the door. Hardly a woman's room, and yet
feminine in its minor touches; the gallooned red velvet cushions of the
Venetian armchair; the violets that from every available place shed
their fresh perfume on the quiet air, a summer window box crowded
with hyacinths, the wicker basket, home of a languishing Pekinese
spaniel, tucked under one corner of the table. Mrs. Marteen continued
to hesitate, and the hands of the clock to travel relentlessly.
Suddenly drawing herself erect, she walked with no uncertain tread to
the right-hand wall of the mantel and pushed back a double panel of the
wainscoting, revealing the muzzle of a steel safe let into the masonry of
the wall. A few deft twirls opened the combination, and the metal door
swung outward. Within the recess the pigeonholes were crammed with
papers and morocco