The Mystery of the Pink Pieces/Chapter 2

The mother and daughter were almost opposite them now, and Rose leaned forward with a smile and a word for them, urging them to sit down and tell Mr. Gaines and herself whether it was the sort of day on which she might venture to take her voice out for an airing, as he had been urging her to do.

“I am a poor judge,” laughed Miss Mayhew, perching on the arm of her mother's chair; “all weathers seem good to me, but we came inside because mother insisted that the wind was too high. If it were not for mother, Mr. Gaines, I don't suppose I would know what the inside of a house looks like. Personally I have no curiosity in that direction.”

She looked it; and, with her thin, eager face, tanned by exposure to the sun and wind, and her blowing brown hair, she was, he came to the conclusion, if not exactly pretty, certainly attractive in a breezy, offhand way.

“What is it to-day?” asked Rose. “Sailing, golfing, tennis, or squash?”

“Any or all of them,” replied Vivien Mayhew gayly, “until it's time for tea and bridge. We slaughtered them yesterday, didn't we?”

“Indeed we did! And that reminds me,” quite as if the idea had just occurred to her, “I was trying a bit ago to tell Mr. Gaines that interesting story you told us about those Paris frocks, and I got all mixed up, and even Miss Hodgkins, who is usually as accurate as a clock, couldn't help me out.”

At this polite fiction, Miss Hodgkins' back seemed to stiffen slightly; but she was too cognizant of the duties of her position, and also too thoroughly accustomed to Rose's graceful extravagances of speech—regarding the latter as a manifestation of the singer's unregenerate Irish inheritance—to show her disapproval.

“Oh, that!” Vivien Mayhew smiled deprecatingly. “That is a thoroughly feminine little tale. I'm afraid it would bore a man; and then, too,” she added reflectively, “it can't really be called a story at all, because it has no ending.”

“Ah!” said Willy. “I have come to the conclusion that they are the only interesting ones. They excite curiosity, stimulate interest, and you find yourself turning them over and over in your mind in the hope of finding a reasonable solution long after the rounded and complete story has been forgotten.”

Miss Mayhew threw a quick, half-quizzical glance at him. “I'm afraid then,” she said, “that my story is going to prove a disappointment to you. There is no reasonable solution—at least, they tell me that the best French detectives haven't found one, if there is.”

“I wonder if you dimly realize how exciting all this is?” exclaimed Gaines. “To pit one's brains against the best French detectives in mentally unraveling a plot is a situation I don't often encounter in real life. Miss Mayhew,” pleadingly, as Vivien laughed again, “won't you please begin?”

“Very well,” she said good-humoredly, and slipping into a chair of her own. “I won't keep you on the anxious seat any longer. Mother, prompt me if I omit any important details.”

“My dear girl,” the mother smiled deprecatingly, “I cannot begin to remember all of your stories. Vivien meets so many people,” she explained, in her gentle, rather hesitating, way, “and hears so many extraordinary things that sometimes it fairly makes my head whirl.” She shook her head, and sighed a little.

“The moss of rolling stones,” chuckled the girl. “Mother is always pretending that she wants nothing so much in life as to settle down in some vine-clad cottage in the heart of the country, but I will tell you a secret about her: She would stand it for just one month. You would never believe it, but at heart she is a far greater tramp than I am.”

Mrs. Mayhew's smile had a touch of humor in it. “She's very clever at assuming that I want to do all the things she means to do.”

“But the story,” cried Rose; “the story!”

“Very well,” agreed Vivien lightly; “here it is, and here, Mr. Gaines, is your great opportunity to unravel a skein that the great French Lecoqs have apparently tangled hopelessly. To begin, then, mother and I make it a rule—not exactly fixed, but fairly definite, you know—to go to Paris for a month or six weeks, usually in August or September, and again in February or March. It is a sort of delightful spree for us to go about to all the big dressmaking establishments, and see all the new fashions.

“We are poverty-stricken wretches, you know, but we are also experienced travelers, and usually manage to get the best of everything at the least possible price; and so it is a joy to our souls to revel about Paris, and pick up a few bargains in hats and gowns, and keep in touch with things generally.

“Ordinarily we never have any difficulty in getting into the big houses and seeing the frocks. We are rather well known; and then, too, we have friends at court. You can get ideas that way, and enjoy all the beautiful things, ever if you haven't money enough to buy them. Well, you can imagine our feelings this year, when, fall of pleasant anticipations, we started out to make our rounds.

“Ah, dear!” with a reminiscent sigh. Then, turning to Rose: “You know how fascinating those rounds are. Can't you see those sedate, elegant-looking houses, with the window boxes full of flowers: You, Miss O'Hara, are of course eagerly welcomed—any concessions are made to secure your patronage—but it is the back stairs for us, isn't it, mother?”

“Oh, Vivien,” expostulated that lady mildly, “you are so exaggerated!”

“But, mother, dear, don't you understand that to get the true dramatic effects of my story I've got to present my contrasts? I want them fully to realize how dreadful it was to our confident souls to find ourselves peris shut out of paradise. But really now,” patting her mother's arm reassuringly, “I will be serious, and tell this moving tale quite straight.

“Then, ladies and gentlemen,” nodding gayly to Gaines, “you can imagine our feelings last month when we were met by stern warders at the entrance of each atelier, and informed that we were required to make a formal statement in writing of just how much money we meant to spend, and just what kinds of gowns we meant to order; for, once in, you had to order; and the worst of it was that there was no possible way to circumvent this rigidly enforced rule.”

“Ummm!” There was a touch of cynicism in Gaines' tone. “These French dressmakers must have been making a scientific study of the psychology of advertisement. I suppose they have discovered in this method a new way of stimulating a demand for their frocks and gowns.”

“No.” Miss Mayhew shook her head thoughtfully. “You are wrong. I, too, had that thought until I was enlightened by a newspaper woman who knows everybody and everything. That is her business, and she understands it thoroughly. She told me that the reason for this new dispensation—and, goodness knows, they were exclusive enough before!—is that some of the great houses discovered that their newest and most carefully guarded designs had been stolen in a mysterious way.

“Some of the cleverest detectives in Paris were put on the case, but they couldn't discover a thing. And the anxiety and indignation of the big customers was tremendously increased by the fact that the designs were apparently being disposed of on this side of the water, because models shown in New York were identical with their own—only, sad to say, they were in advance.” Miss Mayhew laughed heartily. “After all, it has its funny side. Most things have.”

“Didn't your newspaper friend tell you any more?” asked Willy curiously. “What steps, for instance, had been taken to discover the thieves, or what theories were held as to the manner of the theft?”

“No.” She shrugged her shoulders lightly. “She evidently hadn't been able to discover that. It's the sort of thing, of course, that is very hard to get any information about. She said that the dressmakers insisted on the investigation being conducted with the greatest secrecy. They do not care for that kind of notoriety.

“So that is all there is to it. As I warned you, it isn't properly a story at all; it is just a tantalizing bit of intrigue that provokes one to all kinds of conjectures; and I've found out to my cost,” with one of her whimsical smiles, rather wry this time, “that he who speculates is lost, haven't I, mother dear?”

“A discovery shared by many others,” sighed Gaines.

“Is that Mr. Wodeburn coming across the lawn?” A peculiarity of Vivien Mayhew was her darting quickness of vision. Rose remembered that the day before, when she had met her, the thing that had most impressed her about Miss Mayhew was a certain noticeable faculty of intense observation, and that when she had spoken of her afterward to Miss Hodgkins and had asked that prim person's opinion of her, the secretary had replied, without hesitation:

“I think she has more curiosity than any one I have ever met. Her eyes are everywhere.”

Now, at the moment that Miss Mayhew spoke, Rose had been looking in the same direction, but she had not seen Philip Wodeburn until long after Vivien's quick eyes had sighted him.

“Yes, it is he,” the girl announced. “Why can't we have a foursome at golf?” She looked longingly out at the links that lay, vividly green, beyond the clipped hedges.

“Why not?” called out Mr. Wodeburn, who had overheard this remark, and was now making for the little group as straight as a die. Ever since the Mayhews had appeared at the inn he had been Vivien's shadow, attaching himself to her from the first, thereby surprising all of his friends, for he had hitherto shown very little interest in the average girl.

He was the son of extremely rich parents—an odd, dare-devil lad; but, it was generally conceded among those who knew him, with no real harm in him. With unlimited spending money, his diversions had all so far turned in the line of sport. He raced his own cars and motor boats, and was already well known as one of the more daring and reckless aviators.

He paused before the little group now, and shook hands all around with an air of hearty good will. He was a tall fellow, with sunburned light hair, and a face as tanned as an Indian's, in which his bright, clear, blue eyes twinkled pleasantly. He was evidently in splendid condition, as hard as nails, and thoroughly fit.

“What does the morning seem to indicate?” asked Miss Mayhew gayly. “Golf?”

“I wish you would all come out in my new motor boat,” he urged. “She just came down yesterday, and she's a peach. Do come! We'll make a morning of it.”

“Thanks,” said Rose; “but it's not the sort of a morning when I take my throat out. It doesn't go any farther than the sun parlor on such a damp, uncertain spring day.”

“The golden voice!” laughed Miss Mayhew. “What a tyrant it is! Never mind, Mr. Wodeburn, I haven't anything to be careful of—no throat, no complexion, not even myself.”

He smiled delightedly. “That's awfully good of you. You are coming, too, aren't you, Mrs. Mayhew?”

She shook her head, and shrank back in her chair. “Oh, please don't ask me to play chaperon,” she said. “I'm so afraid of those boats that it makes me ill to think of them. Vivien is old enough”

“And experienced enough,” interrupted her daughter, laughing, “to do without a mother's fostering care.”

“I wanted to get an earlier start,” explained Wodeburn, “but I was rather expecting a fellow I know down by the last train. He didn't show up, however.”

“Who did?” asked Rose. “Any new arrivals?”

At this question, so important to those putting in their time at “cures” or resorts, every one stopped in the middle of his or her sentence, and looked up eagerly.

“Only two,” returned Wodeburn, “and both women.”

All of the feminine members of the little group pricked up their ears at this. “l wonder if it is any one we know?” they exclaimed in concert.

“I don't know, I'm sure,” said Wodeburn. “One of them at least had a lot of trunks. They were both so—well, interesting that I looked on the register to see who they were, and where they came from. They didn't seem to know each other. One was tall, and the other was short, and both registered from foreign parts. There! A reporter couldn't have done better than that.”

“What foreign parts?” asked Miss Mayhew, with her invincible curiosity. “Why, mother, it may be some one we know. We've been almost everywhere.”

“Yes, what foreign parts?” echoed Willy Gaines, and for the moment his usual light impassivity dropped from him. His eyes were as eager and curious as Vivien Mayhew's.

“Such curious people!” laughed Wodeburn. “It's lucky for me that I can gratify your curiosity. According to the register, then, one—the tall, good looking one—is Mrs. Danvers Darrell, of London; and the other one—the little one—writes her name 'Miss S. MacKenzie, Edinburgh.'”

There was a faint little wrinkle between Vivien Mayhew's eyes, a look of momentary and intense absorption, as if for one keen moment she sought intensely through the ordered, ticketed pigeonholes of her mind.

“Never heard of them.” She shook her head. “But they sound interesting, and as I never take my impressions from any one—do I, mother?—if I go out in your motor boat, Mr. Philip Wodeburn, you must promise to bring me back in time for luncheon that I may catch a glimpse of these new arrivals.”

He promised, and they laughingly departed. The sun parlor had gradually emptied, every one having read his or her letters, and having departed in quest of other distractions. Rose got up with her usual graceful languor, and, smiling to Gaines, suggested that they stroll about a bit.

“Well, what do you think of it all?” she asked, as soon as they were out of earshot of Mrs. Mayhew and Miss Hodgkins.

“It has its interests,” said Willy enigmatically; “and the skeins that are coming to light seem very agreeably tangled. By the way, I don't think I have told you yet, but this morning when I was talking to Dandridge I suggested that he compile a list of all the guests in the hotel, and then write opposite each name all the relative facts that could be ascertained. Rather a task, but this investigation has to begin somewhere, and the process of elimination often simplifies any inquiry wonderfully.”

“I think it's a very good idea, although,” smiling, “it does put the whole lot of us under suspicion, doesn't it? Ah, if it should become known, what indignation would be expressed—what hasty departures would occur! It's a tremendous temptation, Willy, real sacrifice on my part not to drop a hint here and there. But,” stopping in their ill it's a long time since I told Mr. Dandridge to have that list made out. Surely it should be finished now. Do go and see what has been done. I will wait for you here.”

It was some time before Gaines returned; an interminable time it seemed to Rose, who after a bit, cast down the novel she had been pretending to read, and gave herself up to meditation. Mrs. Mayhew had long ago drifted away, and Miss Hodgkins had retired to write some letters.

When Willy finally appeared there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He explained that he had been detained so long because he had personally assisted Dandridge in going over the list.

“We carefully considered each person's name and record, as far as we knew anything about the latter, and slowly checked off all those who were above suspicion. Even so,” he laughed at the remembrance, “many a pillar of the church, and many a haughty dowager, would be surprised and disgusted if they knew how thoroughly they had been discussed. But at last the category of those under suspicion, with or without cause, has narrowed down to the two recent arrivals—the women whom Wodeburn described.”

“But why?” asked Rose.

“On not very convincing evidence, I'll admit, Rose. Solely because, so far as we can find out, neither woman has either friends or acquaintances in the hotel, or any reason for stopping here.”

“I'm getting tremendously anxious to see them. Dear me,” anxiously, “I do hope they won't be the kind that take luncheon in their own rooms. That would be too disappointing. Just think”—in her charming, emotional Irish manner, and with one of her gleaming, lovely smiles—“I was slowly dying of ennui among all these Strasburg geese and various other fatty degenerates until, as usual, you came bearing a new interest. You always rescue me from the bogs I get into.”

The long, azalea-banked room was deserted. The sound of some one playing Chopin nocturne came faintly to theirs. Willy bent forward

“Dear Rose,” murmured, “you often say that I rescue you from various sloughs; then don't you see that with me as a husband, ever at hand, I could prevent your straying into them at all? I hope you understand, Rose—you are sometimes obtuse, you know—that this is one of my delicate methods of asking you to marry me.”

“But you have so many methods,” he pleaded, playing for time. “Sometimes it's the bluff, straightforward kind: and sometimes it's so delicately indirect that you might shout it before a whole roomful. I want you to run the whole gamut, Willy, just to see what you can do, before I give a definite answer.”

“Certainly,” he responded cheerfully. “It will take only a very few moments to run over my entire repertoire, and while I'm doing it you might be considering some graceful form of acceptance. The most artistic and desirable form is, I think, the rather shy, the intensely surprised.”

He looked up with a pained expression as Rose, laughing shortly, murmured the word, “Surprised!”

“As an actress and an artiste, you should have no difficulty in simulating that attitude,” he reproved.

“I warn you, if you begin that tiresome nonsense I'll run.”

“Oh, very well, if you feel that way. Tiresome nonsense! It's a matter of no importance, at any rate. Nothing is of much importance. I think I will go back to town this afternoon.”

“And leave this delightful mystery hanging in the air!” she cried. “Oh, Willy, you are just like Ahmed. If you don't get what you want, you shoot out long claws, and scratch.”

“Don't irritate me further, Rose, by mentioning that devilish cat. If it had not been for him, you would have married me long ago.”

“If I married you, I should never be sure that you wouldn't cuff Ahmed the moment my back was turned.”

“Never be sure of that at any time,” said Gaines, with gloomy meaning. “But, to turn to pleasanter topics—our impending marriage, for instance What? Oh, walking fast, or putting your hands over your ears, will not help matters. I can easily keep up with you, and I mean to talk right on. Do you know what wins in any game, Rose? Perseverance, persistence. Now through mad, feminine folly, you might possibly be tempted to accept another man; but, measured beside my standard of importunity, what a poor weakling he would seem!

“The great majority of men take one refusal as definite; others hold out until they get two or three; but to keep on in the face of a hundred refusals, and be ready to stick in the face of a thousand or so, undaunted and undismayed, is rare heroism. The man who succeeds, Rose, is the man who never sees failure.”

“My patience! There is really no reason why I should have to stand this sort of thing. What is Miss Hodgkins good for? Hereafter any one who wishes to marry me will have to propose in writing, and Miss Hodgkins can have the pleasure of replying to him. Thank goodness!” looking wildly about her. “A sail—a sail! Here come Miss Mayhew and Mr. Wodeburn.”

“Oh, we have had a spin!” cried Miss Mayhew, in her breezy way, as the two entered. “No wonder Mr. Wodeburn is pleased with his new boat. I believe she's the fastest thing going. She is built to fly. But the air on the water is very keen. 1 am as hungry as a hunter. Have you been here ever since we left, Miss O'Hara?”

“Yes,” replied Rose.

“And have the two new arrivals made their appearance yet?” asked Miss Mayhew, her quick, twinkling eyes alight with interest.

“I really do not know. I believe not,” said Rose, a little stiffly. This new acquaintance was agreeable enough, but certainly a remarkably curious person.

“Well, let us hope that we shall see them at luncheon, which surely must be served by this time,” cried Miss Mayhew, springing to her feet, and in no way abashed by Miss O'Hara's manner.