The Brass Bowl | Page 4

of hell and you can't think of anything else.... I'll do it!"
He stepped quickly to the corner of the room, where stood the telephone upon a small side table, sat down, and, receiver to ear, gave Central a number. In another moment he was in communication with his attorney's residence.
"Is Mr. Bannerman in? I would like to--"
* * * * *
"Why, Mr. Bannerman! How do you do?"
* * * * *
"You're looking a hundred per cent better--"
* * * * *
"Bad, bad word! Naughty!--"
"Maitland, of course."
* * * * *
"Been out of town and just got your note."
* * * * *
"Your beastly penchant for economy. It's not stamped; I presume you sent it round by hand of the future President of the United States whom you now employ as office-boy. And O'Hagan didn't forward it for that reason."
* * * * *
"Important, eh? I'm only in for the night--"
* * * * *
"Then come and dine with me at the Primordial. I'll put the others off."
* * * * *
"Good enough. In an hour, then? Good-by." Hanging up the receiver, Maitland waited a few moments ere again putting it to his ear. This time he called up Sherry's, asked for the head-waiter, and, requested that person to be kind enough to make his excuses to "Mr. Cressy and his party": he, Maitland, was detained upon a matter of moment, but would endeavor to join them at a later hour.
Then, with a satisfied smile, he turned away, with purpose to dispose of Bannerman's note.
"Bath's ready, sor."
O'Hagan's announcement fell upon heedless ears. Maitland remained motionless before the desk--transfixed with amazement.
"Bath's ready, sor!"--imperatively.
Maitland roused slightly.
"Very well; in a minute, O'Hagan."
Yet for some time he did not move. Slowly the heavy brows contracted over intent eyes as he strove to puzzle it out. At length his lips moved noiselessly.
"Am I awake?" was the question he put his consciousness.
Wondering, he bent forward and drew the tip of one forefinger across the black polished wood of the writing-bed. It left a dark, heavy line. And beside it, clearly defined in the heavy layer of dust, was the silhouette of a hand; a woman's hand, small, delicate, unmistakably feminine of contour.
"Well!" declared Maitland frankly, "I am damned!"
Further and closer inspection developed the fact that the imprint had been only recently made. Within the hour,--unless Maitland were indeed mad or dreaming,--a woman had stood by that desk and rested a hand, palm down, upon it; not yet had the dust had time to settle and blur the sharp outlines.
Maitland shook his head with bewilderment, thinking of the grey girl. But no. He rejected his half-formed explanation--the obvious one. Besides, what had he there worth a thief's while? Beyond a few articles of "virtue and bigotry" and his pictures, there was nothing valuable in the entire flat. His papers? But he had nothing; a handful of letters, cheque book, a pass book, a japanned tin despatch box containing some business memoranda and papers destined eventually for Bannerman's hands; but nothing negotiable, nothing worth a burglar's while.
It was a flat-topped desk, of mahogany, with two pedestals of drawers, all locked. Maitland determined this latter fact by trying to open them without a key; failing, his key-ring solved the difficulty in a jiffy. But the drawers seemed undisturbed; nothing had been either handled, or removed, or displaced, so far as he could determine. And again he wagged his head from side to side in solemn stupefaction.
"This is beyond you, Dan, my boy." And: "But I've got to know what it means."
In the hall O'Hagan was shuffling impatience. Pondering deeply, Maitland relocked the desk, and got upon his feet. A small bowl of beaten brass, which he used as an ash-receiver, stood ready to his hand; he took it up, carefully blew it clean of dust, and inverted it over the print of the hand. On top of the bowl he placed a weighty afterthought in the shape of a book.
"O'Hagan!"
"Waitin', sor."
"Come hither, O'Hagan. You see that desk?"
"Yissor."
"Are you sure?"
"Ah, faith--"
"I want you not to touch it, O'Hagan. Under penalty of my extreme displeasure, don't lay a finger on it till I give you permission. Don't dare to dust it. Do you understand?"
"Yissor. Very good, Mr. Maitland."

II
POST-PRANDIAL
Bannerman pushed back his chair a few inches, shifting position the better to benefit of a faint air that fanned in through the open window. Maitland, twisting the sticky stem of a liqueur glass between thumb and forefinger, sat in patient waiting for the lawyer to speak.
But Bannerman was in no hurry; his mood was rather one contemplative and genial. He was a round and cherubic little man, with the face of a guileless child, the acumen of a successful counsel for soulless corporations (that is to say, of a high order), no particular sense