Out of the Ashes | Page 4

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 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