The Brass Bowl | Page 4

a week old, and two lines requesting him to
communicate with his legal adviser upon "a matter of pressing
moment."
"Bother!" said Maitland. "What the dickens--"
He pulled up short, eyes lighting. "That's so, you know," he argued:
"Bannerman will be delighted, and--and even business is better than
rushing round town and pretending to enjoy yourself when it's hotter
than the seven brass hinges 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