The Mystery of Mary | Page 6

tried to beg off. I told her I
had accidentally met--I hope you will pardon me--I called you a
friend."
"Oh!" she said. "That was kind of you."
"I said you were a stranger in town, and as I was your only
acquaintance, I felt that I should show you the courtesy of taking you to
a hotel, and assisting to get you off on the night train; and I asked her to
excuse me, as that would give her an even number. But it seems she
had invited some one especially to meet me, and was greatly distressed
not to have her full quota of guests, so she sent you a most cordial
invitation to come to her at once, promising to take dinner with you
some time if you would help her out now. Somehow, she gathered from
my talk that you were travelling, had just returned from abroad, and
were temporarily separated from your friends. She is also sure that you
are musical, and means to ask you to help her out in that way this
evening. I told her I was not sure whether you could be persuaded or
not, and she mercifully refrained from asking whether you sang or
played. I tell you all this so that you will be prepared for anything. Of
course I didn't tell her all these things. I merely kept still when she
inferred them. Your name, by the way, is Miss Remington--Mary
Remington. She was greatly elated for a moment when she thought you
might be Carolyn Remington--whoever she may be. I suppose she will
speak of it. The name was the first one that my eye lit upon in the
telephone-book. If you object to bearing it for the evening, it is easy to
see how a name could be misunderstood over the 'phone. But perhaps
you would better give me a few pointers, for I've never tried acting a
part, and can't be sure how well I shall do it."
The girl had been silent from astonishment while the man talked.
"But I cannot possibly go there to dinner," she gasped, her hand going
to her throat again, as if to pluck away the delicate lace about it and
give more room, for breathing. "I must get away somewhere at once. I
cannot trouble you in this way. I have already imposed upon your
kindness. With this hat and coat and gloves, I shall be able to manage

quite well, and I thank you so much! I will return them to you as soon
as possible."
The cab began to go slowly, and Tryon Dunham noticed that another
carriage, just ahead of theirs, was stopping before Mrs. Bowman's
house. There was no time for halting decision.
"My friend," he said earnestly, "I cannot leave you alone, and I do not
see a better way than for you to go in here with me for a little while, till
I am free to go with you. No one can follow you here, or suspect that
you had gone out to dinner at a stranger's house. Believe me, it is the
very safest thing you could do. This is the house. Will you go in with
me? If not, I must tell the driver to take us somewhere else."
"But what will she think of me," she said in trepidation, "and how can I
do such a thing as to steal into a woman's house to a dinner in this way!
Besides, I am not dressed for a formal occasion."
The carriage had stopped before the door now, and the driver was
getting down from his seat.
"Indeed, she will think nothing about it," Dunham assured her, "except
to be glad that she has the right number of guests. Her dinners are
delightful affairs usually, and you have nothing to do but talk about
impersonal matters for a little while and be entertaining. She was most
insistent that you take no thought about the matter of dress. She said it
would be perfectly understood that you were travelling, and that the
invitation was unexpected. You can say that your trunk has not come,
or has gone on ahead. Will you come?"
Then the driver opened the carriage door.
In an instant the girl assumed the self-contained manner she had worn
when she had first spoken to him. She stepped quietly from the carriage,
and only answered in a low voice, "I suppose I'd better, if you wish it."
Dunham paused for a moment to give the driver a direction about
carrying the great pasteboard box to his club. This idea had come as a

sudden inspiration. He had not thought of, the necessity of getting rid
of that box before.
"If it becomes necessary, where shall I say you are going