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they suddenly blazed, that Trevvy Morehouse was looking at her
curiously, that her fingers were ice-cold and that, when she spoke a
word or two in reply to his anxious query, her voice was strangely
unfamiliar. As the applause ceased, there was a general movement
toward the supper-room. Hermia rose stiffly and moved as in a dream.
Was it her own conscience that told her that Carol Gouverneur was
looking at her strangely? Or that there was meaning in the glance and
laughter of Mrs. Renshaw and Archie Westcott as she passed them? She
tried to smile carelessly, but her muscles would not obey her. Would
she never reach the door? People stopped and spoke but she only nodded
and passed on, intent upon the shadows of the hallway, where the lights
glowed dimly and the gaze of these people would no longer burn past her
barriers, searching out the innermost recesses of her heart, which they
read according to the hideous lie which Olga had told. A comedy with a
sting, she had called it, and the sting meant for Hermia, had poisoned
the air with its venom. She leaned heavily on Trevvy's arm but she did
not hear what he was saying; and, as they passed the door into the
hall, two men, neither of whom she knew, followed her pale face with
their glances. Was it her tortured imagination that made her hear one
of them say to the other after she had passed, "That's the girl--?"
What girl? Not herself? She gasped a question to Trevvy. He smiled
gaily.
"Yes--they were pointing you out. Do you wonder that I'm so proud?"
Hermia stopped and faced him. She learned in that moment that the
thing he had dreamed was impossible.
"Please order Mrs. Anstell's machine for me," she said quickly. "I'm
going at once."
"Are you ill? Shall I go with you?"
"No--I want to go alone--alone--" she gasped.
Vaguely troubled, he followed her anxiously to the door of the
dressing-room, but did her bidding.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY
The account of this atrocity did not reach John Markham for some weeks.
With the exception of the people who came to the studio and the few
men he met at the club where he dined, he saw little of society, and
troubled himself less with its affairs. His life was more secluded,
and his work more exacting than ever, and when he walked out, which he
did in the late afternoons, he choose avenues which would not remind
him of the things he was trying to forget. He had given up hope of
Hermia, and though her vision persisted, it was not of the modish,
self-contained creature who had received him so coolly that he thought.
This was not the Hermia he had loved. That other girl, the joyous
companion of his summer idyl, was no more. At times it almost seemed
that she had never been. She had made it clear that she wished no more
of him and he had accepted her dictum without question. A more
sophisticated lover would have laughed away the barriers she had
interposed, followed her carelessly, and brought her to bay when he had
proved or disproved the genuineness of her indifference. But Markham
was singularly ingenuous, his reasoning as simple and direct as that of
a child. He had never understood the woman of society and until Olga
had appeared upon his horizon had let her severely alone. Hermia had
been an accident--a divine accident. Her frankness had disarmed him,
and he had followed his impulses blindly, as (it seemed to him then)
she had followed hers. He gloried in the memory of their pilgrimage,
its gayety, its freedom and the clean spirit with which they both had
entered on it. He had believed in her and in believing had let his
heart carry him where it would, willing to forget that she might not be
infallible. He had been so sure of her--so sure--and now--
He wiped his brushes on a square of cheesecloth, cleaned his palette
and lay in his chair frowning at the portrait, which smiled back at him
with ironical amusement. It was curious. All his portraits now
smiled. His reputation was based on his skill in making people happy
in paint--painting all people happy but himself--_Punchinello_ dancing
while his _Columbine_ lay dead. He straightened with a quick intake of
the breath, then washed his brushes carefully and changed into street
clothes. He was writing to one of his sitters when his knocker clanged
and a man in livery entered bearing a note. He opened it and read:
My Dear Mr. Markham:
I must see you at once on a matter of importance. Can you come up this
afternoon for a dish of tea? I'm sending my car for you in the hope
that your engagements will not forbid. If anything prevents to-day,
won't you lunch with me to-morrow at two?
Very sincerely yours,
Sarah Hammond.
Markham frowned. There was no getting out of it, it seemed.
"You have Mrs. Hammond's car below?" he said to the waiting footman.
"Yes, sir. I was to get an answer or take you up, if you could go."
"I'll go. I'll be down in a moment."
The man retired, and Markham, somewhat mystified, reread Mrs. Hammond's
note and got into this hat and overcoat. A matter of importance!
Another commission, perhaps--she had already got him two. And yet it
seemed, had it been that, she would have expressed herself differently.
He went down and got into the elegantly appointed limousine and in a
while, too short to solve his problem, was set down under the _porte
cochre_ of his _patronne_.
He found her at the tea table, a stout but puissant figure in mauve and
black. In the studio she had not bothered him. She had been merely an
amiable millionaire, in pearls and black satin. Here in the majestic
drawing-room, with her small court gathered about her, she dominated
him. He hesitated a second at the door before going forward, but when
she saw him she rose at once and excused herself to her guests. After
their departure, she motioned him to a chair beside her and entered
without delay upon her subject. Her manner was kindly, if restrained,
and he saw at once that the matter was of a personal nature.
"I suppose, Mr. Markham, you think it rather curious that I should have
sent for you in such haste, but I shouldn't have done so had I not
thought it necessary. You understand that, don't you?"
Markham murmured something and waited for her to go on.
"It seems a little difficult to begin, for there are some matters which
are not easy even with a friend."
"I am sure if there is anything in which I can help you--"
"There is, Mr. Markham. I should not have dared to speak to you if I
hadn't, unfortunately, found myself brought into an affair in which
your name has been mentioned."
"My name?"
"Yes. Yours and Miss Challoner's."
He blanched and was immediately conscious that her small eyes were
watching him keenly.
"Wh--what have you heard, Mrs. Hammond?" he blurted out.
"One moment, Mr. Markham. I don't want you to think that I am the kind
of woman who seeks to pry into the affairs of other people. I don't.
I abominate meddlers and will have nothing to say, even if after I tell
you what my motives are, you refuse to answer my questions. But a
great wrong has been done, an advantage taken of my hospitality. I
speak of the theatricals which took place at my house in the country
last month."
He stared at her blankly and she smiled.
"I forgot," she went on, "what a hermit you are. Of course you have
not heard." She leaned over the tea table and took a slip of paper
from under a tea dish. "I shall let you read this so that you may know
in just what terms New York is speaking of you--of me--of us."
She handed him the clipping. It was from a weekly paper, which
concerned itself with the doings of society, and he read, his eyes
glowing:
The much heralded theatricals at "Roods Knoll" have come and gone, but
the echoes of this affair are still reverberating the length of the
Avenue. It seems that the very clever play, written by a well-known
woman of society, was based upon fact, and that the hero and heroine of
the adventures depicted are in New York, the girl in question a member
of the hunting set and the man a distinguished portrait painter--both
of whom shall be nameless. As everyone knows, the play is laid in
rural France, and deals with the loves of a French countess who has
fled from her husband to join her lover, also married, upon the road,
where they become members of a band of strolling mountebanks, the lady
masquerading as a _Dame Orchestre_ and the gentleman as an itinerant
painter of portraits--
Markham stopped, his eyes seeking those of his hostess.
"The play was given," he said hoarsely, "at your house?"
"It was, Mr. Markham," she said simply. "Read it through to the end,
please."
He did so, his horror increasing as the full significance of the
description grew upon him. Hermia had seen--had read this. They were
talking about her and about him? He could not understand.
"You said that Miss--Miss Challoner's name had been mentioned--and
mine," he said slowly. "There is no name--mentioned her. The identity
of the people--"
"Your names have been mentioned, Mr. Markham, in my presence. The
story back of this vile clipping is on the lips of every gossip in
town. Where it originated Heaven only knows, but facts are given and
dates which make it ugly in the extreme. I thought it best that you
should know and sent for you to assure you that I had no knowledge
about the play and its possible reference to any one."
"The play," he asked quietly, "was written by Madame Tcherny?"
She nodded, her eyes regarding him soberly.
"What shall I do, Mr. Markham? If there is some basis of truth in the
reports I hear, I have been grossly imposed upon and, whatever the
facts, have done a great wrong both to you and Hermia. Unfortunately,
she has left New York, and I don't know where to find her. She left
town, I am informed, the day after the play was given. I wish she
hadn't. It makes things awkward for me. I have the best intentions in
the world, but if she ties my hands by silence what can I do?"
Markham had risen and was pacing the floor slowly, his head bent, all
this thoughts of Hermia. Olga's cruelty stunned him. She had promised
not to speak. Had she spoken other than in this ingenious drama? Or
was it--De Folligny? His fists clenched and his jaws worked forward.
De Folligny--a man. Here was something tangible--a man, not a woman,
to deal with. He turned and stood beside the tea table, struggling for
the control of his voice.
"Who has told this story, Mrs. Hammond?" he asked at last.
She shrugged her capacious shoulders and settled her head forward in
his direction.
"Frankly, I don't know. Thank God, I'm not in any was responsible for
that part of this misfortune. I only know that Olga Tcherny wrote the
play. As to her motives in doing so I am at a loss. But if I thought
she used my house, violated my hospitality at the expense of one of my
guests, to serve some private end, I would--"
The good lady grew red in the face, and then, controlling herself after
a moment, "I would find some means of getting her the punishment she
deserved. Hermia Challoner was there," she went on quickly. "Her
appearance was remarked. She looked ill and left the house before
supper. You were invited, too, Mr. Markham, if you will remember, but
would not come. I confess I'm at my wit's ends. I shall not question
you. All I ask is your advice."
Markham raised his head and looked her in the eyes for a full moment.
She was much distressed at the position, and the friendliness of her
look was all that could be desired. He hesitated a moment, weighing
his duty with his inclination. What was best for Hermia? How could he
serve her? How build a bulwark to dyke the flood of scandal which
threatened her in her flight? A lie? Obviously that wouldn't do, for
Mrs. Hammond believed in him. And the story had gone too far, was too
diabolic in its accuracy, for a flat denial without explanation. The
truth?
His hostess still regarded him patiently. He searched her with his
eyes, his gaze finally falling.
"If one is guiltless one does not fear the truth," he muttered slowly,
"nor does virtue fear a lie--but a half-truth will damn even the
innocent, Mrs. Hammond."
"There is some basis then for the stories they are telling?" she asked
kindly.
"My lips have been sealed. I'm not sure that I have the right to open
them now. But I will. I don't think I could pay you a higher
compliment than by trusting Miss Challoner's fate entirely into your
hands."
Mrs. Hammond, now keenly interested, smiled at him encouragingly.
"Thanks, Mr. Markham, I'm not so old that I have forgotten how to be
human."
He glanced around the room and lowered his voice.
"You know--Hermia--Miss Challoner very well, Mrs. Hammond?"
"Since her infancy--a creature of moods--willful, wayward, if you
like--but the soul of honor and virtue."
He bowed his head.
"Thanks. You make it easier for me," he said. "I want you to
understand first, Mrs. Hammond, that I alone am responsible for this
misfortune. Miss Challoner and I met upon the highroad in Normandy,
entirely by chance. I was doing the country afoot, as is my custom in
summer. He machine was destroyed in an accident. She was alone. I
asked her to go with me. She accepted my invitation. It was mad of me
to ask her, made of her to accept--but she did accept. We were
together more than a week-traveling afoot by day--sleeping in the open
when the weather was fine and indoors when I could find a room for her.
I had moments of inquietude at my responsibility, for I had done wrong
in letting her go with me. She was a child and trusted me. I began by
being amused. I ended by-- Good God! Mrs. Hammond, I loved--I
worshiped her. I _couldn't_ have harmed her. She was sacred to
me--and is now. You _must_ understand that."
His hostess's expression, which had grown grave during this recital,
relaxed a little.
"I think I understand, Mr. Markham. I am keenly interested. Where does
Olga Tcherny come in?"
Her question bothered him. He thought for a moment, and then went on,
deliberately postponing a reply.
"Our relations were clearly established from the first. We had met
before, you know, earlier in the summer, and I had visited at Westport.
She liked and understood me, and was sensible enough to tell me so;
and I--she attracted me--curiously. I had always lived a solitary sort
of existence. She simply ignored my prejudices and over-rode them.
She invaded my life and took it by storm. She was like the sudden
_capriccioso_ after the _largo_ in a symphony. She was Youth and Joy,
and she got into my blood like an elixir. I loved her for all the
things she was that I was not, but I did not tell her so--not then. I
hid my secret, for I knew that if she guessed it would make a
difference to us both." He raised his head and went on more rapidly.
"We joined a company of strolling mountebanks. Oh, that was true
enough--and went with them as far as Alenon. Hermia--Miss
Challoner--_was_ a _Dame Orchestre_ and I a 'lightning' artist. We
made our living in that way. It was quite wonderful how she
played--wonderful how she forgot what she was--how she became what I
wanted her to be--an earthling among earthlings. With them she lived
in poverty and discomfort, learned the meaning of weariness and felt
the pinch of hunger." He smiled. "I suppose you wonder why I'm
telling you all this, Mrs. Hammond. I wanted you to understand just
what the pilgrimage was--how little it had in common with--with what
you have heard these people saying."
"I know, Mr. Markham. I understand," she said gently. Her eyes
softened and she looked past him as though back through a vista of the
years. "It was Romance--the true Romance," she murmured. "She
borrowed a week from Immortality--that, for once, she might be herself.
She was free--from this thralldom--free!"
"She worked--hard," he went on after a moment, "and she earned what
money she made. And so did I. But I was bothered. My sins were
pursuing me. One day we saw upon the road a man Miss Challoner had
met, and at Alenon--"
"Olga Tcherny?" asked Mrs. Hammond keenly.
Markham paused, looked beyond her and went on.
"And at Alenon, when we were giving a performance, some one I knew
appeared and recognized me. Need I mention names?"
"Not if you prefer to be silent. And the hunting lodge?"
"We fled from Alenon that night and took refuge from the rain in a
house in the forest. Miss Challoner was dead tired. We had been up
since sunrise. So we stayed there, thinking ourselves safe. But in
the morning--" He paused.
Mrs. Hammond had risen and was fingering the flowers on the tea table.
"In the morning," she finished dryly, "Olga Tcherny found you there. I
understand."
He rose and faced her uncomprehendingly. "Mrs. Hammond, do you mean
that you believe--as she did?"
She turned quickly and thrust forth both of her plump jeweled hands,
and he saw that her friendliness was in no way diminished.
"I'm not one to believe half-truths, Mr. Markham, when I hear whole
ones," she said, smiling rosily. "If you had lied to me I should have
known it. But you didn't and I believe in you."
She released his hand and made him sit again.
"I've never been so entertained and delighted since--since hundreds of
years ago," she sighed. "You were mad--quite mad, both of you. And
Hermia--" she stopped, sat quickly upright, and while he watched her,
laughed deliberately. "Hermia comes back to New York and engages
herself to--to Trevelyan Morehouse! The excellent Trevelyan--after
Arcadia! And you?" She read his face like an open book, her humor
dying in a gently smile.
"It doesn't matter about me, Mrs. Hammond," he said quietly.
"But I think it does," she insisted. "Do you mean that you can't
understand?"
"Understand what, Mrs. Hammond?"
"How that poor child has suffered. Do you mean that you don't know why
it is that she has ignored you and fled to Trevelyan Morehouse?"
He made no reply.
"Then I can't help you. There is nothing in the world denser than a
lover. The object of his affections is large in his eyes, so large
that the focus is blurred. He can't see her--that's all. Hermia was
terror-stricken and you were not aware of it. She knew that she was
clean and that you were, and the dirt that threatened her threatened
her idyl, too."
She stopped abruptly and looked past him.
"I'm afraid I've said too much, Mr. Markham. That is because I see how
foolish you have been--both of you in this affair. It's none of my
business."
She fingered the clipping on the table and went on vigorously.
"As to this infamous story that they are telling, I shall find means to
stop it. How, I don't know just yet. This paper shall print a
retraction. I'll manage that. Olga Tcherny--"
"I beg of you--"
"Olga Tcherny's career in New York is ended. She shall never enter my
house, or the house of any of my friends. That play was a lie, written
with a motive. She has used me shamefully--shamefully--made me an
accomplice, and placed me in the undesirable position of sponsor for
her villainies."
She rose, walked to the window and looked out upon the Avenue, her lips
taking firmer lines of resolution. He watched her in silence, and when
she spoke her tones were short and decisive.
"With your permission, Mr. Markham," she said at last, "as Hermia's
friend and yours, I shall deny this story in every detail. You must
provide me with an alibi."
She turned back into the room and faced him.
"You were not in Normandy last summer--that is positive."
He smiled.
"I am in your hands," he said.
"Where were you?"
"In Holland, if you like. I've tramped there."
"And Hermia?"
"In Switzerland. She went there after leaving me. There was a party.
Morehouse was with her. It's easily proved."
"Good. We must lose that week somewhere. It must be wiped from the
calendar. If Hermia only hadn't run away!"
"Mrs. Westfield is still here, I believe," he ventured.
She deliberated a moment.
"Excellent. I shall see her at once. Together we will manage it. You
are to leave things to me. I'm not without influence here in New York,
Mr. Markham. We shall see. All I ask is that you avoid seeing Olga or
taking the matter into your own hands. That would only make a
noise--an unpleasant noise. Will you promise me?"
He was silent. She examined him curiously.
"You think you know who told this story?" she asked.
"Yes."
"You think it was not Olga?"
"Yes. She gave me her word she would say nothing. I believed her."
"Was it--" she paused.
"The man we met upon the road in Normandy was Monsieur de Folligny,
Mrs. Hammond."
"Oh! I see." She fingered the sugar tongs a moment. "And you want to
question him?" she asked then.
"Er--I would like to find out if it was he who told."
"And then thrash him? You want the papers full of the whole affair,
with portraits of the principals, and a description of your romantic--"
"God forbid!"
"How like a man! To get a girl talked about and then of course to want
to thrash somebody! I've no patience with you. You must promise to
behave yourself or I'll wash my hands of the whole affair."
He smiled down at his clasped hands. "I suppose you are right," he
muttered.
"Right! Of course I am. This is a case which will require the most
careful handling--a case for the subtlest diplomacy. If I am going to
risk my reputation for veracity--and jeopardize my hopes of Heaven by
the fibs that I must tell in your behalf, I don't propose to have my
efforts spoiled by senseless bungling. Will you give me your promise?"
He shrugged. "I suppose there is nothing left for me to do."
She leaned forward toward the tea table with a laugh.
"I'm so glad that you are sensible. Now we shall have our tea. I owe
you apologies. My business seemed more urgent than my hospitality."
They sat and chatted for a while, Markham sipping his tea and wondering
why he was imparting to this stout and very amiable old lady all his
life's secrets. A half hour later, when he rose to go, he realized
that he had told her all about his week in Vagabondia, including its
sudden termination. She surprised him at intervals by the sympathy of
her appreciation, and at others equally serious by an unseemly mirth or
an impatience which they had not merited. But when he got up to go she
followed him to the door and gave him both of her hands again.
"I like you, John Markham. You're quaint--a relic of a less flippant
age. I'm sorry you won't accept any of my invitations--but I'll
forgive you, if you'll promise to do as I bid you."
"I'm deeply grateful to you, Mrs. Hammond. Of course, I shall be
obedient. I will do whatever you ask of me."
She released him and gave him a gentle push toward the door.
"Then go--and find Hermia!"
"I, Mrs. Hammond?"
"Yes, you. At once."
"But--"
"And when you find her--marry her, do you hear? It's the happiest
issue out of your afflictions." She laughed again, rather
mischievously. "You know, I think you owe her that!"
"I-- She--you--"
"She is waiting for you--somewhere. Find her: Leave the rest to me.
Now go."
He halted again--incredulous, but she waved him past the door where a
man appeared to help him into his coat. And so he bowed his thanks and
went out into the dusk of the Avenue, his brain teeming with nebulous
inconsistencies.
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE BRASS BELL
Hermia, waiting for him! What did Mrs. Hammond mean? Was the woman
mad? Hermia had fled from New York, her proud little head bent before
this cruel story which, of course, had gathered impetus in the telling
and now indicted her of sins unwritten in the fair page of her
experience. Poor child! She had suffered--and he, fool that he was,
had sat in his studio, the victim of his false pride, wrapped in his
own ego while this vile plot was brewing. He might have done something
if he had had his wits about him, instead of hiding his head like an
ostrich and imagining himself unseen. Olga--he did not dare to think
of Olga Tcherny or of De Folligny. He had given his word to Mrs.
Hammond to leave the entire matter in her hands. Even while she had
given him her word not to speak she had been planning this refined
vengeance, probably knew that Pierre de Folligny had already made a
good story of their adventure for some of his new intimates at the
Club. He would have a reckoning with her--some day--and with De
Folligny! His fingers tightened on his stick, and an angry tide warmed
his face and temples. Had he met them, there upon the Avenue at that
moment, all his promises to Mrs. Hammond must have been forgotten--and
he would have made short work of that unspeakable gentleman. Of Olga
Tcherny he thought with hardly less rancor. At one time--a year ago
now--Olga had loomed large upon his horizon. Now in the light of his
present knowledge of her he wondered how he could have ever thought of
her friendship seriously.
She belonged in an atmosphere too sophisticated for his simple rustic
soul. She had always lied to him; her friendship was a lie; her love,
too--a lie. That declaration--Good God!--and he had been actually at
the point of being sorry for her. He had nothing to regret now with
regard to Olga Tcherny. She had wiped the slate clean, and made a new
account at poor Hermia's expense.
Hermia in exile--and suffering! Her innocence could not make her heart
pangs any the less real. Like a child she had followed the line of
least resistance, and seeking freedom from the trammels of convention
had obeyed her impulses blindly. It was such a trivial transgression
to find so crushing a retribution. And he, Markham, walked the streets
of New York the envied hero of an "armourette." This was the law,
which says that women may sin if they are not found out and that men
may sin when they please.
Poor little penitent, atoning for sins uncommitted! All his heart went
out to her, and his memory, passing the forbidding vision of her last
appearance, now pictured the real Hermia that he knew, a brave, buoyant
Hermia, who knew nothing of discouragements and greeted the sunrise
with a smile, her head now bowed and, like _Niobe_, "all tears."
Was she waiting for him? If so, why had she not written? A line, and
he would have sped to her. She knew that. She must have known it when
she had fled. Where was she now? At Westport, perhaps? In the South
somewhere, alone with her maid, avoiding the newspapers, seeking the
company of strangers that her ears might not hear or her eyes see the
record of her transgression? Had she gone abroad again? Who would
know? He might inquire of Phyllis Van Vorst or Caroline Anstell over
the telephone. But when he reached his rooms and had taken up the
receiver he saw that even this information was denied to him. Any
manifest interest or anxiety on his part with regard to Hermia would be
regarded with suspicion. Nor was he any more positive than before that
his quest would meet with the approval of its object. He was
powerless. There was nothing for him but to wait.
The thought of going to his club to dine was repellant to him. The
story that Mrs. Hammond had let him read was not common property and,
though none of his acquaintances would have had the bad taste to
mention his connection with it, his appearance among them must revive
its disagreeable details, at Hermia's expense. So for some days he
dined alone at an obscure restaurant, glooming over the evening paper
and wondering what could be done. Night after night he walked the
street until, at last, wearied and no nearer the solution of his
problem, he went home and to bed, to toss restlessly most of the night
and plan impossibilities. Through his thoughts, the friendship of Mrs.
Berkeley Hammond hovered comfortingly. She was not a woman to promise
idly. She had been interested in his story and felt herself morally
bound to make some sort of restitution to Hermia for her own unwilling
responsibility in the attention that had been drawn to it. He did not
doubt that she would use all her influence to minimize the effect of
Olga's machinations, and he felt sure with such a friend at court that
Hermia need have little fear from the opinions of Mrs. Hammond's
friends and her own, and these after all were the only opinions that
mattered to her.
An early morning, a few days after the interview with Mrs. Hammond,
found Markham at his studio, somber and dark eyed, regarding his latest
work with a savage eye of disapproval. He didn't feel like working,
and by a piece of good fortune his time was free for him to do what he
chose. He would have liked above all things to have employed it in a
visit to the house of Olga Tcherny and thence with dispatch to the
hotel of Monsieur de Folligny, where what remained of his wrath could
be honestly expended in a manner befitting the occasion. This
occupation being denied him, there was nothing left but to take what
pleasure he could from the mental picture that he made of it.
At last he rose and groped for his tobacco. A precious lot of good
that would do him! It would have been a pity, too, because murder,
even such justifiable murder, had not yet received the sanction of
society as represented in the New York Department of Police. He paced
the floor restlessly and brought up before his desk, where the janitor
of the building had a few moments ago laid the morning mail. He took
it up idly--and glanced over it--a note or two in the fashionable
feminine scrawl about sittings, a letter from a framemaker, one from
his Paris agent, and the usual litter of circulars. He took them up
one by one, opened them, put some of them aside and consigned others to
the paper basket. A small package lay at the bottom of the pile, an
unobtrusive package neatly tied with string--evidently an advertisement
of some sort--of a paint or of a canvas. He was about to drop it with
the others when he was made aware that as he turned the small parcel
over it emitted a tinkle as of two metal objects striking together. He
turned it again and examined the address and stamp. His name was
printed in ink as though with a bad pen and the stamp was French. Now
really curious as to its contents and aware of its individuality, he
cut the string and opened it. There was an inner wrapping of tissue
paper containing a small white pasteboard box which bore the name of a
fashionable New York jeweler, and inside the box the origin of the
tinkle was revealed in a small brass bell.
He took the object out, his wonder growing, and held it suspended
between his thumb and forefinger. A brass bell no larger than his
thumbnail, a tarnished little trinket, no longer new, which tinkled
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