The Yellow Crayon | Page 8

few people whom she knows here are at
Newport or in Europe just now."
"Any idea whom she went to the Waldorf to see? More we know the
better."
Mr. Sabin handed him the letter which had been picked up in the cab.
Mr. Skinner read it through, and spat once more upon the floor.

"What the h---'s this funny coloured pencil mean?"
"I do not know," Mr. Sabin answered. "You will see that the two
anonymous communications which I have received since arriving in
New York yesterday are written in the same manner."
Mr. Sabin handed him the other two letters, which Mr. Skinner
carefully perused.
"I guess you'd better tell me who you are," he suggested.
"I am the husband of the Duchess of Souspennier," Mr. Sabin
answered.
"The Duchess send any word home at all?" Mr. Skinner asked.
Mr. Sabin produced a worn telegraph form. It was handed in at Fifth
Avenue, New York, at six o'clock on Friday. It contained the single
word 'Good-bye.'"
"H'm," Mr. Skinner remarked. "We'll find all you want to know by
to-morrow sure."
"What do you make of the two letters which I received?" Mr. Sabin
asked.
"Bunkum!" Mr. Skinner replied confidently.
Mr. Sabin nodded his head.
"You have no secret societies over here, I suppose?" he said.
Mr. Skinner laughed loudly and derisively.
"I guess not," he answered. "They keep that sort of rubbish on the other
side of the pond."
"Ah,!"

Mr. Sabin was thoughtful for a moment. "You expect to find, then," he
remarked, "some other cause for my wife's disappearance?"
"There don't seem much room for doubt concerning that, sir," Mr.
Skinner said; "but I never speculate. I will bring you the facts to-night
between eight and eleven. Now as to the business side of it."
Mr. Sabin was for a moment puzzled.
"What's the job worth to you?" Mr. Skinner asked. "I am willing to
pay," Mr. Sabin answered, "according to your demands."
"It's a simple case," Mr. Skinner admitted, "but our man at the Waldorf
is expensive. If you get all your facts, I guess five hundred dollars will
about see you through."
"I will pay that," Mr. Sabin answered.
"I will bring you the letters back to-night," Mr. Skinner said. "I guess
I'll borrow that locket of yours, too."
Mr. Sabin shook his head.
"That," he said firmly, "I do not part with." Mr. Skinner scratched his
ear with his penholder. "It's the only scrap of identifying matter we've
got," he remarked. "Of course it's a dead simple case, and we can
probably manage without it. But I guess it's as well to fix the thing right
down."
"If you will give me a piece of paper," Mr. Sabin said, "I will make you
a sketch of the Duchess. The larger the better. I can give you an idea of
the sort of clothes she would probably be wearing."
Mr. Skinner furnished him with a double sheet of paper, and Mr. Sabin,
with set face and unflinching figures, reproduced in a few simple
strokes a wonderful likeness of the woman he loved. He pushed it away
from him when he had finished without remark. Mr. Skinner was loud
in its praises.

"I guess you're an artist, sir, for sure," he remarked. "This'll fix the
thing. Shall I come to your hotel?"
"If you please," Mr. Sabin answered. "I shall be there for the rest of the
day."
Mr. Skinner took up his hat.
"Guess I'll take my dinner and get right to work," he remarked. "Say,
you come along, Mr. Sabin. I'll take you where they'll fix you such a
beefsteak as you never tasted in your life."
"I thank you very much," Mr. Sabin said, "but I must beg to be excused.
I am expecting some despatches at my hotel. If you are successful this
afternoon you will perhaps do me the honour of dining with me
to-night. I will wait until eight-thirty."
The two men parted upon the pavement. Mr. Skinner, with his small
bowler hat on the back of his head, a fresh cigar in the corner of his
mouth, and his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, strolled along
Broadway with something akin to a smile parting his lips, and showing
his yellow teeth.
"Darned old fool," he muttered. "To marry a slap-up handsome woman
like that, and then pretend not to know what it means when she bolts.
Guess I'll spoil his supper to-night."
Mr. Sabin, however, was recovering his spirits. He, too, was leaning
back in the corner of his carriage with a faint smile brightening his hard,
stern face. But, unlike Mr. Skinner, he did not talk to himself.

CHAPTER IV
R. Sabin, who was never, for its own sake, fond of solitude, had
ordered dinner for two