The Mystery of the Pink Pieces/Chapter 7

Miss S. MacKenzie and Willy Gaines had just been ignominiously beaten at golf by Vivien Mayhew and Phil Wodeburn; therefore Willy calmly sat down upon the greensward, and refused to be taunted into taking up his clubs again. Such harsh epithets as “quitter” and “baby” had absolutely no effect upon him. He had been waiting all the morning for an opportunity to talk to S. MacKenzie, and here she was sitting placidly beside him on a nice, flat stone, professing to enjoy the morning much more than she did the game, which was not strange under the circumstances.

It was also just that particular sort of a morning that inevitably leads to confidences when two are left together in a wide, sunlit meadow, with a sheltering tree spreading its new leaves in a green canopy above their heads.


 * T hope you don't mind being beaten,” said Willy politely. “It's an experience you will frequently enjoy if you continue to play with me. Experts who become surfeited with success frequently seek me out, and beg me to play with them against two of the most wretched scrubs they can find, and the scrubs always come out ahead.”

“I don't mind in the least,” she said, laughing in her quiet way, and continuing to twist round a chain of grasses she was making.

Willy sighed. She had a rather tiresome way of finishing up a conversation by the definiteness and finality of her answers, and one had to be always beginning over again with her.

“You are a great traveler, are you not?” he ventured.

“I would not say that,” she replied, with her customary literalness; “but I have traveled a good deal.”

Willy laughed.

“Why?” she asked, turning her large and penetrating blue eyes upon him.

“I was admiring the Scotch caution of your reply.”

“Was it so?” She, too, smiled a little.

“And I am going to be impertinently American,” he said, realizing that she could and probably would go on baffling him this way indefinitely unless he took command of the situation. “It is always said of us, you know, that we never hesitate to ask all kinds of personal questions. Now I am going to begin, because, as I am going to con fide in you, I am one of the most curious persons in the world. First, why did you come to the Annesley?”

Her smile, a fleeting one, held surprise, amusement, and some other quality that he could not quite analyze. “The golf course is rather famous,” she answered, without hesitation.

“Is it? I did not know it.” He did not attempt to conceal the skepticism of his tone.

“Oh, yes. Friends of mine in Edinburgh told me not to miss it. Then I want to see New York, but I like to take a day there now and then in a leisurely way. I am so fond of fresh air that I do not like to stop in a city.”

“Then you do not care much for people?”

“Oh, people interest me enormously.” She was more communicative now. “I am a great student of human nature.”

“That,” said Gaines, with an air of interest, “encourages me to believe that I am about to extend the scope of my knowledge. There are, it seems to me, a number of—er—unusual people at the Annesley just now.”

“Oh, I would not say a number,” biting a blade of grass in two between her small white teeth. “Among the vast number of stars in the sky there are only a few 'bright, particular' ones. So it is in all conditions of life; so it is now at the Annesley.”

“I never could learn astronomy,” said Willy sadly. “Won't you kindly mention the ones you have in mind?”

“I have an idea”—she spoke carelessly, and yet with meaning—“that you know certain ones better than I do.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Gaines; “but my own point of view does not interest me. What I desire is quite a fresh one—yours.”

“Ah, you wish—what is that American expression?—to compare notes?”

“Exactly,” he said.

“Then the greatest constellation is, of course, Miss O'Hara. To be young, beautiful, and a famous singer is naturally to be a figure of romance.”

“She has but one fault,” said Gaines; “that beastly cat of hers, and her affection for it; but I shall discuss Ahmed all day if I permit myself to begin. Whom would you consider the next important constellation?”

“The beautiful Mrs. Danvers Darrell, of course,” she replied.

“Yes; it is odd, but, admitting her beauty and all that, she some way fails to attract me. There is something a bit self-conscious and overdone—I can hardly express just what it is.”

“So!” she said. “Well, there is more than one kind of mystery; there is the mystery that is merely a fascinating reserve of nature, and—there is the mystery that has something to conceal.”

Was there a distinct meaning, not only in her tone, but in her words? “And which is Mrs. Darrell's kind?” he asked quickly.

She looked at him with a faint, enigmatic smile, but shook her head, declining to answer.

“Next,” he said briskly.

“Next is, of course, yourself,” she answered, with a trace of fun in her voice, but without a touch of coquetry.

“My ego feels a warm glow of anticipation. Am I really among the constellations, and not of the lesser stars? I'll mention it to you confidentially, but I have always had a secret conviction of it. Is there an air of fascinating mystery about me? Oh, Miss MacKenzie, don't keep me on the anxious seat like this!”

“You are an amusing young man, and very nice, too.”

“But quite undistinguished,” mournfully. “I doubt your reading of human nature, after all. My next is Monsieur Arnold.”

She looked at him in undisguised surprise. “But there are thousands like him in France, especially in Paris,” she said.

Gaines felt less and less impressed with her astuteness. This was not much of a game, after all. He repressed a yawn, but nevertheless he did not pro pose to miss this opportunity of finding out something more about this very uncommunicative woman than she had yet disclosed.

“No doubt it sounds banal,” he said, with that mildness of tone with which he often concealed a very definite purpose, “but in my own little private rating of our various constellations you have figured first.”

“And why?” she asked; and now there was undeniable interest in her voice. “Oh”—with a little, sweeping gesture of the hand—“not any pretty speeches. That would be banal.”

“Very well, then,” agreed Gaines sadly. “I had a number of exquisitely beautiful flowers of speech all ready to offer you. You little dream what you have missed. But since you insist upon cold, hard facts, I have been impressed with the idea that a young woman—an attractive young woman, mark you—who spends the greater part of her time in wandering to and fro upon the earth, and who is so manifestly reticent about her experiences, must have had many varied and exciting ones.”

Her face hardened; there was even a bitterness in he glance “You are more right than you think,” she said somberly. “But,” and this with emphasis, “I do not care to talk about them.”

“We will cut them out, then,” said Gaines cheerfully, “and take up the question of personal tastes. You are fond of travel, fond of the study of human nature. Any accomplishments?”

She smiled. “I play very well—almost professionally; and I draw exceptionally—not quite as well as I play, however.”

Gaines bit his lip. She drew well! He felt a sense of disappointment at this bit of information, which Rose would regard as a strong link in the chain of evidence she was forging against this little creature.

“I have also some distinctly feminine accomplishments,” continued Miss MacKenzie; “I can sew.”

Again Willy experienced a faint shock, but reassured himself with the comforting reflection that she would never have admitted these damaging accomplishments if she had had any thing to conceal. Nevertheless, he resolved not to mention them to Rose. She would be sure to see in them positive confirmation of her suspicions, especially after the of episode of Miss Hodgkins and the silk pieces the night before; and Willy, whose suspicions were turning ever more definitely in the direction of Mrs. Danvers Darrell, was anxious not to have his preconceived opinions disturbed by clews that seemed to point in the direction of Sonia MacKenzie.

Her self-reliance interested him. She had none of the exquisite feminine charm of either Rose or Mrs. Darrell, but she had in its place a sort of attractive boyishness; and Gaines felt instinctively that she could understand and enjoy his man language better than either of the others.

And later in the day he saw reason to congratulate himself that he had adhered to his original resolution and confided no part of this conversation to Rose. When one has arrived at an opinion, based upon what one considers various reasonable hypotheses, there is nothing more delightful than to have it borne out by events.

Consequently it is in a mood of unconcealed elation that Willy Gaines drew Rose aside after dinner that evening.

“You might just as well pay me that bet you owe me now, Rose,” he said, “and save the interest on it.”

“What bet?” lifting beautiful, surprised eyes.

“Don't try to evade your responsibilities,” he said severely. “It has not been two days since you boastfully bet me that you would be the first one to untangle this Oppenheim mystery of ours, asserting that you were on the right track, and I on the wrong one.”

“How like your impudence, not to say cheek, not to mention nerve!” she cried. “I did not make any bet with you. I merely vulgarly and colloquially remarked that I bet that I was nearer right than you, but nothing was wagered, as you know very well.”

He shook his head sadly. “I regret to see such an evidence of moral obliquity on your part,” he murmured. “Trying to get out of paying your just debts! It is always understood that in a wager between a man and a woman, if the wager is not specifically mentioned, it shall be a kiss, or,” hastily correcting himself, “I should say, kisses.”

She looked at him pityingly. “I feel sorry for you sometimes, Willy,” she said. “You venture so far in your audacities that you go beyond human belief.”

“But, my dear girl, I practically stand ready to prove that I have won the bet.”

“Perhaps,” skeptically.

“Ah, but if you only knew what I have up my sleeve!”

“Shake it down, then, and let me see if it is of any importance.”

“I'll shake, and when you see it you will be willing to concede everything. Rose,” again he was exultant, “the whole matter is practically solved.”

She was still maddeningly incredulous, but he could see that her curiosity was distinctly piqued nevertheless, “If you really have anything to tell, Willy,” she said, “don't keep me waiting while you talk all around Robin Hood's barn, but tell me at once what you know. Begin—begin!”

“Very well,” with a touch of triumph in his tone; “you remember, don't you, that Monsieur Arnold was on the porch this afternoon when Mrs. Darrell started for her ride on that big bay horse of hers, announcing that she meant to make the twelve miles to Slipping Rock and back?”

“Certainly,” nodded Rose, “for he turned to me, and asked me about how long I thought it would take for her to cover the distance.”

“Ah!” There was a world of meaning in Willy's tone. “He did not ask that question from idle curiosity, either, as events proved. About an hour after the lady rode off, I was in my room, reading. It was, as you probably know, the warmest afternoon we have had, so I left my door slightly open to secure a current of air.

“Presently a delightful sensation of drowsiness stole over me, the book slid from my fingers, my head nodded back in my chair, and I was just about to enjoy the pleasantest kind of a doze when my attention was suddenly arrested by the sound of footsteps—stealthy, cautious footsteps—coming down the corridor, and pausing at Mrs. Darrell's door, which is just below mine on the opposite side of the hall.

“I remembered that I had seen Mrs. Darrell's maid starting out for a walk only a few moments before, so very cautiously I rose and peered out; but whoever it was had been too quick for me, for the only thing I saw was the door being very softly and noiselessly closed by some one within.

“Suspecting a sneak thief, or one of the servants, and recalling what Miss Mayhew had said about missing small articles, I decided to watch, and see who came out of that door. So I placed myself in a position where I could see without being seen, and prepared to watch Mrs. Darrell's rooms as a cat does a mouse hole.

“About half an hour went by; then the door was opened very carefully, and who should walk out but Monsieur Arnold. He glanced quickly up and down the corridor, and then locked the door with a key that he had obtained probably from the chambermaid—and hurried away. It was evident that he had been making a search of her rooms.”

“Maybe he is a thief himself,” said Rose, “and was ransacking her rooms while she was gone in the hope of finding something of value. I can't—I simply can't—believe anything horrid of her.”

“My dear girl,” said Willy sincerely, “I wish for your sake that we didn't have to. But when you consider that she recognized Monsieur Arnold, who is beyond question the detective in the case, and that she showed real agitation at sight of him—also that she mentioned to Miss Mayhew that she had lost a pincushion cover, evidently in the hope that that gossiping young woman might have heard of the silk piece being picked up, and that thereby she might gain possession of it again without any questions asked—also that Monsieur Arnold has been in her rooms. this afternoon during her absence—what possible motive could he have for such an act except that he considered it imperative to search that apartment?”

“I know.” Rose was convinced in spite of herself. “But I'm just hoping with all my heart that some way it will turn out not to be true. Oh, dear! I thought I knew men and women!” She leaned her lovely head pensively upon her hand. “I do hope I won't have to see her again. And, oh, Willy,” imploringly, “if there is going to be anything horrid, like an arrest, do promise me that you will arrange it so that it shall not happen here!”

“I'll do my best. I promise you that, Rose-of-the-world,” he said tenderly.