The Gray Mask

She breathed hard for a moment.

"Since I've known you I've doubted, but I couldn't turn back. You despise me, Jim, but in a way I have done good. I made them respect me. I have restrained them. I think, because I have been with them, I have saved lives. And always I had planned at the end to punish them as they deserved. But now – in a trap. We're like mice in a trap, Jim. I've done that to you. They'll find me out now, and what's behind the mask, too. They'll kill us both. They'll have to. Listen!"

"We'll make a fight of it, Nora," he said grimly. "No matter what I do, trust me."

"Hush!" she breathed. "I think the door is open."

"I'm going to flash the light," he answered.

"No. I know they are here. I know they are in the room. I hear – "

He snapped the button. The white shaft pierced the darkness. Nora had been right. Slim and three others with ready revolvers were half way across the room. Garth put his finger to his lips.

"Sh – h," he said. "Wait! Don't come any closer."

"What's wrong, Simmons?" Slim whipped out. "Who called? That's George. What – "

"He got fresh with the girl," Garth answered.

Slim waited, taking in the details of the tableau, weighing Garth's words and manner, studying Nora's collapsed figure and its proximity to Garth's.

"You're bluffing, Simmons," he said at last. "I'm after facts now. Toss up your hands."

He raised his revolver, aiming at Garth's body. Nora gave a little cry. Garth laughed.

"You don't quite understand," he answered slowly, "and you're usually so observant, Slim. Look around. The safe is open behind us. Your bullets would clip through Nora and me into those sacks of army destroyers. What then? So you won't be surprised when I take my hands down."

He lowered them. He took his own revolver from his pocket.

"But," he went on, "there's nothing behind you but a steel wall, and if one of you comes a step closer I'll shoot."

The four gathered together, whispering, inaudibly to Garth; but this tense grouping, this excited council warned him of their only possible answer.

"If you try to rush me," he cried, "or if you try to get out of the room, I'll turn the revolver on the safe and blow the whole lot of us to powder in this pleasant steel shell."

Slim turned, white-faced.

"You wouldn't have the nerve," he said. "After all, you're a bull."

"Just to show you," Garth answered quietly, "I'll put the whole pack on the table. You've called the turn, Slim. I'm that."

He snatched the mask from his face, and took a police whistle from his pocket. He raised it to his lips. He blew a call which he felt would penetrate beyond these steel walls. It was the first unrestrained sound the room had heard that night. It thrilled Garth. It was like a tonic. He laughed outright.

"No more fighting in the dark. Thank God!"

The four men stared with the helpless rage, the abandoned suffering of snared animals.

CHAPTER IV

GARTH BUYS A BOUTONNIÈRE

Garth wondered if relief would ever come. He was afraid that the slip of frayed white paper must have gone astray. Otherwise, it seemed to him, it would have brought help even before he had sounded his shrill alarm.

He glanced at Nora. She had placed her hand on his arm. She gazed at the open door.

"I thought I heard – "

Then Garth heard, too – a tramping in the house, a struggle outside the door, a voice whose roar betrayed excitement and triumph.

"Where's Garth?"

The door filled with men in uniform.

Nora covered her face with her hands and turned away. With a start Garth grasped the reason. Planning vaguely, he arose and leaned over the prostrate figure of George. The man breathed. The wound was in the shoulder and appeared of little real consequence. He straightened to find the inspector standing over him with a look of pleasure. It hurt Garth to think of that expression's vanishing for one of unbelief and revolt.

"This fellow will stand his trial," he said.

He added gently:

"For the murder of Joe Kridel. It was here, you know."

The inspector puffed.

"Garth, I'm proud of you."

His eye caught the figure of Nora, crouched against the safe. His voice grew hard and business-like.

"Bring that woman here."

Slim, bound and at the door, laughed.

Garth grasped the inspector's arm.

"Don't," he said. "Don't bother about her. Let her go."

But the inspector strode to the safe, raised Nora, and drew her hands from her face.

He gasped and leaned heavily against the divan. All at once he appeared old.

Garth sprang to his side. He knew the inspector must not speak now.

"I'll tell you," he cried. "You have to thank Nora as much as me."

He glanced at the girl.

"That is, we put it over together. It was a winning combination, but we didn't have the nerve to put you wise."

The color rushed back to Nora's cheeks, but the inspector's face did not alter. He looked doubtfully from one to the other. At last he seemed to gather his emotions in a volley of wrath for Garth.

"You dragged a woman in this! You ought to be horsewhipped. Dragging my daughter into this hell!"

Garth took the girl's hand.

"Cheer up, chief," he said, "because if you and she would only let me I'd drag her into a lot worse than that."

He turned to her anxiously. There were tears in her eyes. He questioned if they had sprung from pity for him. She touched his hand. He looked away, for the quick pressure expressed only thanks, and a friendship troubled by his persistence.

During the next few days Garth saw little of Nora, meeting her only once or twice by chance in her father's office. He was not inclined, indeed, to urge a more intimate opportunity. He had let her see rather too much of his heart, and he shrank from an appearance of seeking advantage from her gratitude.

That gratitude existed abundantly, and the inspector shared it. The affair of the gray mask had altered a good deal for Garth. It had placed him all at once apart from his fellows in the bureau. The newspaper publicity, which, unlike most of his kind, he would have preferred to avoid, had swept his reputation far beyond the boundaries of his own city. He acknowledged a benefit in that. Such notoriety might deter the desire for revenge of any of the friends of Slim and George who remained at large.

A very real danger for Nora and himself lay there. It created, too, a tie that the inspector visualized with an increasing friendliness and confidence.

"If Slim and George go to the chair," the big man said on one of those mornings when Garth had stumbled into Nora in the office, "you two are probably safe enough. With those birds salted away the weaker brothers aren't likely to take any wild chances, at least until the thing has been pretty well forgotten."

Apprehension clouded his sleepy eyes.

"But, young people, if Slim and George escaped conviction or managed a getaway, I'd look for a new first-class detective, and – "

He took Nora's hand and studied her face, whose dark beauty remained unafraid.

"I guess I'd need another daughter, which I couldn't very well have."

He laughed brusquely.

"Slim and George are tight enough now, so why borrow trouble."

Garth saw the foreboding of his chief's eyes turn to curiosity, a trifle groping.

"Wish you'd kept out of it, daughter."

"Don't scold," she laughed. "You did enough of that the other night."

"I'm not," he grumbled, "I'm only wondering where you got the nerve, and the brains."

"Some from you, father."

"Not as much as all that. I guess your mother gave you a little that we hum-drum New Yorkers don't quite understand."

"If," Garth said, "anything develops, you'll have to send Nora away."

"If there's time," the inspector agreed.

He turned back to his papers, shaking his head.

It is, perhaps, as well, when one fears, that the march of routine brings new and destructive demands. It was only a few days afterwards that Garth and Nora were involved in events that drove their minds for the time from the threat, which they should never have quite lost sight of. Yet the Elmford murder didn't leave room in one's mind for much else.

On the afternoon before that tragedy Garth, leaving headquarters, made an unaccustomed purchase. Not long ago such affectation would have appealed to his sturdy, straightforward mind of a detective as trivial, possibly unmasculine. He reddened as he handed his ten cents to the shapeless Italian woman whose fingers about his coat lapel were confusingly deft. He had no illusions as to the source of this foppish prompting. The inspector had called him in and told him that Nora would welcome him at the flat for dinner that evening. The event appeared a milestone on the amorous path he sought to explore hand in hand with the girl. He realized his desired destination was not yet in view, but such progress required a deviation from the familiar – some peculiar concession to its significance. So he turned away from the cheap sidewalk stand, wearing, for the first time in his life, a flower in his button hole – a rose of doubtful future and unaristocratic lineage.

Before following Garth with his blushing decoration it is serviceable to know what happened at Elmford.

CHAPTER V

WHAT HAPPENED AT ELMFORD

That night on the edge of winter it was thoroughly dark when Dr. John Randall left New York for his Long Island home. Treving had unexpectedly detained him at the club. The interview had evidently projected more than the unforeseen, for Randall's habitual calm, which carried even to his hours of relaxation a perpetual flavor of the professional, was suddenly destroyed by the color and the lines of a passionate indecision. He crossed the Queensborough bridge and threaded the Long Island city streets with a reckless disregard of traffic which probably went undisciplined only because of the green cross on the radiator of his automobile.

His house, although just within the city limits, had an air, particularly under this wan starlight, remote and depressing. It stood in wide grounds not far from the water. Heavy trees, which clustered near, appeared to shroud it.

The doctor, scarcely slackening speed, swung his car through the gateway and glided up the drive. At the turn the house rose before him, square, frowning, black. It was only after a moment that a nebulous radiance from a curtained window upstairs defined itself as light. Usually there was much light and the companionable racket of a busy household.

Randall's hands trembled while he arranged the levers and shut off the engine. Yet the radiance, at last, was somewhat reassuring.

He sprang out, and nearly running, stumbling a little, climbed the steps, crossed the verandah, and pushed the electric button. From far away the response echoed as through an empty house. No sound of hurrying feet followed it. Randall, after waiting for a moment, took out his latch-key and entered.

Because of his impatience he didn't stop to fumble for the switch. Instead he flung his hat haphazard through the darkness, felt his way across the hall, and climbed the stairs.

"Bella!" he called.

Immediately the relieving answer came:

"Here – in my dressing-room, John. Why are you so late?"

He leant weakly against the wall.

"I was detained. What's the matter?"

"Why don't you come in?" she asked.

He straightened and opened the door. The light, shining upon his face, showed it still scarred by anger and indecision. The relief of finding his wife at home and safe was not, then, wholly curative.

He closed the door behind him and stared at her, lying in a reading-chair, a book open on her knees, her dark and lovely face upraised to him, expectant, questioning, a trifle startled.

"Where are all the servants?" he demanded.

She stirred. The youthful fluency of her body in the mauve dressing gown must have impressed itself upon the excited man by the door.

"I had to let myself in. I – Not a light. It frightened me."

"You've forgotten," she answered. "We talked it over a week or so ago, and I thought you had agreed. Ellen's wedding. Naturally they all wanted to go. I had an early dinner and packed them off. But I counted on you. I was growing afraid, all alone in the house. What kept you?"

"Old Mrs. Hanson – at first. She's very ill. I should really have stayed the night. I went to the club for a bite – "

He broke off. He walked closer, looking down into her eyes which did not quite meet his.

"At the club – I knew I must come home to-night. I – I sent your cousin, Tom Redding, to Mrs. Hanson."

Her eyes wavered even more.

"Why? That isn't like you to – to turn a critical case over to another man. I could have managed. Anyway, you'd forgotten about my maid's wedding. So it wasn't that. What – what happened at the club?"

She shivered for a moment uncontrollably.

"John! What's the matter? Why do you glare at me like that? Why do you look so – so – "

She tried to laugh.

"So – murderous?"

His face worked.

"Bella," he said, "I've not been altogether blind about you and Treving."

She exclaimed impatiently, but her shiver was repeated, and the uncertainty of her voice lingered.

"You're not going to commence on that!"

He brushed her interruption aside.

"But Treving's seemed a decent enough sort in spite of the way he spends his money and his Broadway record, and, you see, Bella, I've always trusted you unquestioningly."

"And now? Tell me what you're driving at, John. I won't put up – "

She sprang to her feet, facing him, wide-eyed, furious, yet, one would have suspected, not completely free from apprehension.

Randall touched her arm.

"Don't work yourself up, Bella. You know. I've told you. It's bad for you."

"What do you expect, when you insinuate – "

"What have I insinuated, provided your conscience's clear?"

He urged her back to the chair.

"It's just this: we must talk it out. I've a right to know how far this folly's gone – what it portends, so that I can take measures of defence for myself and for my wife."

She yielded and sat down, but now she bent forward, her hands clasped at her knees to prevent their trembling.

Randall clearly made an effort to speak normally. His tone had resumed its professional quality. It was, in a sense, soothing, but the power of the words themselves could not be diminished, and, as he went on, her emotions strayed farther and farther from the boundaries she had plainly tried to impose.

"I overheard," he said. "It was Delafield and Ross. I went to Ross. I felt I knew him well enough. My dear! It's common scandal – much worse, I'll do you the credit of saying, than the facts. You've been seen with Treving in cafés of doubtful reputation, and out here on Long Island, at some of these unspeakable road houses – "

He turned away.

"People aren't kind at construing those things. He was a damned scoundrel to take you to such places."

"I'll judge that," she said. "If it's all you have to charge me with!"

"Isn't it enough? Good God! How indiscreet!"

"Then why not tell all this to Freddy Treving?" she asked.

The lines about his mouth tightened.

"Treving," he said with an affectation of simplicity, "came into the club while I was talking with Ross. He had been drinking – a great deal. I didn't realize it at first – it's quite necessary you should hear this – so I took him out in the hall and tried to talk to him reasonably. I told him it must stop – any friendship between him and you."

She glanced up tempestuously.

"I'll not have my friendships questioned."

"I'm sorry, Bella. You've placed this one beyond your own control. You made me speak to Treving. It was the only thing to do. And he was impertinent, defiant. As I told you, he had been drinking, but that didn't explain his astounding assurance. I don't want to do you an injustice, but I couldn't help fearing his confidence was based on an understanding with you."

"John! You're mad!"

"No. I think it's Treving who's a little mad as well as drunk."

He studied her face morosely.

"I told him, if I heard of his coming near you again or communicating with you in any way, I would thrash him within an inch of his life. Bella, he laughed at me."

His eyes left hers. A look of utter discouragement entered them. He spoke slowly, with unnatural distinctness.

"Treving offered to lay me any stakes he'd spend this evening with you without my knowing."

His eyes remained averted. Perhaps he didn't dare risk the vital testimony hers might have yielded.

Her voice was sharp.

"Treving said that?"

He nodded.

"But I don't think he'll succeed. And I warned him as he deserved. You may as well make up your mind, Bella, that that incident is finished."

"On the contrary," she answered, "it's only begun."

He swung around and bent over her, grasping her shoulders, shaking her slightly.

"Unless, Bella – unless – "

His hands tightened until she cried out.

"That's why, when I saw the house dark, I was afraid you'd gone. Did you and he know about old Mrs. Hanson? Have you any arrangement with him for to-night?"

She pressed her lips together. Blood congested her cheeks.

He shook her more determinedly.

"Answer. You have to answer that."

Her lips parted.

"Take your hands away."

"Bella! You can't keep quiet. See how you're racking me! Answer."

Somewhere in the house a bell commenced to jangle, and continued, irritatingly, insistently.

She grasped his wrists and pushed his hands aside.

"You've gone rather too far," she whispered.

"I've a right. Answer. Was there an arrangement? Did you expect him here to-night while I struggled in town?"

The discordant jangling appeared to enter his consciousness. He sprang back, listening.

"That might – By gad, if it were!"

"It's the telephone," she said, "in the library."

"Why isn't it answered? Oh, yes. You might have kept Thompson at least. Let it ring. I shan't go down."

"A doctor!" she said scornfully.

She arose with an effort. The lace of the mauve dressing-gown exaggerated the difficulty of her breathing. His glance, which took all this in, was not wholly without contrition.

"Answer it," she said. "I shan't fly from the house to any man's arms while you are in the library."

He half stretched out his hand to her, but the appealing motion resolved itself into a gesture of despair. He walked out and descended to the library.

After a moment the discordant bell was silent. The murmur of his voice, moment by moment interrupted, arose through the quiet house to this single lighted chamber.

She stood for a time by the door, listening. Once or twice she placed her hand above her heart. At last she turned back and gazed through the narrow door to the next room where a yellow ribbon of illumination from the reading light draped itself across her bed. Her face set in the cruel distortion that precedes tears, but at the sound of her husband's returning footsteps it resumed a semblance of control. No tears fell.

"Well?" she asked.

His face was haggard, confessing greater suspense than before.

"The Hansons' butler," he said. "I – I'm afraid the old lady's off this time. Redding had told him to get me. They sent the chauffeur some time ago with a fast car. Man said he ought to be here."

He paused, searching her face in an agony of indecision.

"Well?" she repeated.

"Bella," he went on. "Won't you tell me? Won't you promise? That old woman – for years she's depended on me. I could do more for her than Redding. I might help her – a little – "

"Of course you'll go," she said.

He spread his arms.

"How can I go, knowing nothing, imagining everything. Tell me. Was there an arrangement with that beast? Bella, he'd been drinking. He's unfit – "

She raised her hand.

"You only make matters worse. John, you've done your best to make me despise you, to urge me to Freddy Treving. For, understand, I do care for him – a great deal. There's been nothing really wrong, but evidently you're not content it should stop at friendship. We can settle what's to be done to-morrow. Meantime – you've put me in such a position! What am I to say?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Go to your work, I've no arrangement with Freddy. I don't expect him here. If he came I shouldn't let him in. Your honor is safe enough in my hands for to-night. Does that satisfy you?"

Her tone had a merciless lashing quality. He bowed his head before it. His words stumbled.

"I trust you, Bella. I'm sorry."

"Then go. In the morning – "

She waved her hand vaguely.

"We'll arrange – something."

His eyes begged, but she offered nothing more. So he went out, closing the door softly behind him.

Almost immediately he heard the sound of a motor. He couldn't find his hat. The front door bell rang, and, snatching an ancient cap from the table, he opened the door. No one stood in the verandah, but the glare of powerful automobile headlights blinded him.

"You're Mrs. Hanson's chauffeur?" he called.

An indistinct voice came back affirmatively. Randall caught the word "hurry." Therefore he ran down the steps, and, his eyes still blinded by the glare, stepped into a large runabout and settled himself by the driver.

They swung away at a breakneck speed which before long swept Randall's cap from his head and forced him to cling with both hands to the side of the car.

The landscape tore up through the glare and disappeared in a dense and terrifying confusion of darkness.

"Man!" he shouted. "This is dangerous. There's no point in such haste."

He managed to turn, but the other had protected himself against the cold by rolling his collar up about his face and drawing his slouch hat down to meet it.

"Slower!" Randall commanded.

The car swerved. The other cried hoarsely:

"Look out! Hold tight!"

Randall clung, but the car kept the road. Its speed was all at once reduced. With a disconcerting jerk it came to a standstill. As Randall, trying to recover his balance, started to speak angrily, something soft and blinding struck his face and enveloped his head. His hands, raised purposelessly, were caught and pinioned. The cloth suddenly became moist and a familiar odor arose. The other laughed as he fastened a cord about the arms and body. Randall gasped. His bound limbs relaxed.

The driver turned the car, and, with one arm around the senseless doctor, drove in leisurely fashion back towards Elmford.

Hidden among the undergrowth at some distance from the house stood a small, partly ruined stone building, used once, from the water flowing nearby, as a spring house. The driver carried Randall to the interior of this building and placed him on the floor. Lighting a match, he glanced around.

The unfinished walls were mottled with the melancholy vegetation which takes hold in places where the sun is forbidden. Drops of water oozed from the stones. The earth yielded to the pressure of feet soggily.

The man raised his hat higher on his forehead and lowered his coat collar, exposing a face that was handsome in a weak and flippant way. He grinned rather foolishly now at his victim, outstretched on the damp floor. He swayed a trifle, steadied himself with an effort, then, as the glow of the match expired, bent over and thrust his hand in Randall's pocket.

He drew out a key ring. He struck another match and ran quickly over the ring until he had found the key he desired. This he slipped from the ring into his own pocket and returned the rest to Randall's coat.

On the point of leaving, he hesitated, and with a resolute air stooped and removed the cloth from Randall's head and the cord from the body. Afterwards he took a small bottle from his pocket, forced the unconscious man's lips open and poured a quantity of the fluid down his throat. Evidently the doctor would sleep thoroughly and for a long time.

When he had gathered up the cloth, the rope, and the bottle, the man left the stone building, laughing with a satisfaction that was not wholly vicious. In spite of the anger his face had displayed the situation for him possessed at least a tiny element of humour.

He secreted the compromising bundle beneath a large stone in the bed of the stream.