The Mask: A Story of Love and Adventure
"My wife? Is she well?"
"Yes, sir. Mrs. Traynor's quite well."
"And Dorothy?"
"Quite well, sir."
"Thank God!"
The servant hesitated.
"That is--sir--Miss Dorothy----"
"Out with it, man. Out with it."
"Mrs. Traynor's being greatly worried sir, lately. Miss Dorothy was at
her aunt's in Philadelphia----"
"Yes, yes----"
"Someone's run away with Miss Dorothy. She's been kidnapped."
"My God!"
"But Mrs. Traynor has a clue. She got a letter yesterday, saying where
the child was. She wouldn't confide in any of us and she left here
only half an hour ago to go to the place."
Again Kenneth was seized by panic.
"Gone to a kidnapper's den. Great God! She's running a terrible risk.
Where has she gone? I'll go to her."
"I don't know, sir, but Mr. Steell may know----"
"Ah, that's right. I'll go and see Steell."
Not waiting to say more he rushed down the steps, and, hailing another
taxi, went off at full speed in the direction of Wilbur Steell's office.
CHAPTER XX
The startling news from Philadelphia that Dorothy had suddenly
disappeared and was believed to have been kidnapped, fell upon the
Traynor home with the crushing force of a bombshell. At first Helen
refused to credit the report. It seemed impossible that any new
suffering was to be inflicted upon her after what she had already
endured. White faced, her whole being shaken by emotion, she read and
re-read her aunt's letter, telling of the child's mysterious
disappearance, and when at last she could read it no more because of
the tears that blinded her, she threw herself limp and broken hearted
into Ray's arms. Hysterically she cried:
"What have I done that I should be made to suffer in this way? My God!
Where is my child? This maddening suspense will kill me."
Ray tried to soothe her. Reassuringly, she said:
"Don't worry, dear. Everything will be all right. A general alarm has
been sent out. The police all over the country are searching high and
low. It's only a question of a few hours and you'll have good news."
But the hours passed and no news came to cheer the distracted,
broken-hearted mother. Dorothy had disappeared completely, leaving no
trace, no clue behind.
There was neither rest nor peace for the Traynor household that day.
Helen, almost out of her mind from grief and worry, refused to eat or
sleep until news of the missing child was received. In her agony she
went down on her knees and prayed as she had never prayed before that
her child be restored to her.
Her little daughter was, she felt, the one link that still bound her to
life. To her husband she felt she could not turn for sympathy. The
romance of their early married life had been shattered forever by the
extraordinary change that had come over him. He had long since ceased
to be to her any more than a name. In her heart, she had come to
despise and detest him as much as before she had worshiped the very
ground he trod. It was an astonishing revulsion of feeling which she
was powerless to explain; she only knew that the old love, the old
passion he had awakened was now quite dead. He inspired in her no more
affection or feeling than the merest stranger. Ever since his return
from South Africa they had lived apart. Ever since that first night of
his return when their tete-a-tete in the library was interrupted by the
bogus telegram, he had quite ceased his amorous advances. He seemed
anxious to avoid her. Only on rare occasions, and then it was by
accident, did they find themselves in each other's company.
In fact, he was practically never home, living almost exclusively at
the club, where he went the pace with associates of his choosing,
mostly gamblers and men about town. He had begun to drink hard and
when not in pool rooms or at the races, betting recklessly on the
horses, squandering such huge sums, and overdrawing his check account
so often that the bank was compelled to ask him to desist, he sat in
the barrooms with his cronies till all hours of the morning when he
would be brought home in a condition of shocking intoxication. Happily
Helen was spared the spectacle of the degradation of a man she once had
loved with all the force of her virgin soul. Roberts, the butler,
aided by the other servants, smuggled their intoxicated master up to
his room, where he remained until sober, when he went back to his club
only to repeat the same performance.
To such a man she could not turn for aid or consolation in the hour of
this new misfortune. Indeed, ever since his return, he had been
strangely indifferent to the welfare of the child, never asking after
her or expressing a desire to see her. At times it seemed as if he had
forgotten that he had a child. By some strange metamorphosis he had
developed into an unnatural father as well as a brutal, indifferent
husband.
But to Helen, alone save for the devoted companionship of her sister,
this was anxiety and suffering enough. Only twenty-four hours had
passed since the child disappeared, but to the unhappy mother it seemed
as many years. Constantly at the telephone, expecting each moment to
hear that the police had been successful in finding the child, she was
gradually wearing herself away to a shadow. Breakfast she left
untouched. Lunch she refused to eat. In vain Ray remonstrated with
her. If she went on like that she would fall ill. But still Helen
refused. Tears choked her, and morning wore into afternoon and still
no news.
After lunch Ray went out to see if Mr. Steell could help them,
promising to return as soon as possible. Helen sat and waited alone.
The clock was just striking two o'clock when the front doorbell rang
and a letter was brought to her. She did not recognize the writing,
but eagerly she tore it open. Instinctively, she felt it concerned her
missing darling. The letter read as follows:
No. -- Lasalle Street, Bronx.
Friday.
Madame:
Your child is safe and in good hands. She wants to see her mother. If
you come this afternoon (Friday) to the above address you can see her.
It is the house with the closed green shutters. But if you value your
child's life you must come unaccompanied, and you must inform no one of
the contents of this letter, not even the members of your family. If
you disobey, swift punishment will follow and your child will suffer.
Climb eight flights and knock three times on door at end of
passage.----X.
There was no signature. The person who wrote it evidently had reasons
of his own for wishing to remain concealed. That money would be
demanded was more than probable. What other motive could the kidnapper
have? Money she would give--all she had in the world, if only she
could get back her precious child. That a visit to such a place
unattended was full of danger she did not stop to consider. She only
knew that her child was close by--here in New York--and had asked for
her. Not for a moment did she listen to the warnings of prudence. Go
she must, and immediately. She did not even stop to leave a note of
explanation for Ray. Stuffing some money in a bag, she left the house,
saying she would return soon.
Taking the Third Avenue "L" she left the train at Tremont Avenue, and,
after considerable difficulty, found the house indicated in the letter.
Yes, there were the closed green shutters. At first, on seeing it
apparently untenanted, she thought she must have made a mistake in the
number, but, finding that there was no other place near by that
answered the description as well, she decided to risk climbing the long
flight of stairs.
Arrived on the top floor, breathless from the unusual exertion, she saw
a long narrow passage, and, at the end of that, a door. That, no
doubt, was the place. Her heart beating violently, she went up to the
door and gave the three knocks. For a moment or so there was no
answer. A profound stillness reigned. Then she heard footsteps
approaching, The next instant, the door was thrown open and a man's
voice, which sounded somewhat familiar, told her to enter.
At first when she went in, she could see nothing. All the shutters of
the windows looking on the street were closed, and the only light was
that which filtered through the slats. It was an ordinary, cheap flat,
with no carpets on the floors and little or no furniture. On the
floor, scattered here and there, were nailed-up boxes, and parts of
machinery, some already crated, as if to be taken away.
"So you've come! I thought you would," said a voice behind her.
She turned and found herself face to face with Signor Keralio.
At first she was so astonished that she was speechless. Then her
instinct prompted her to turn and flee. If this man had caused her to
be decoyed to this house it could be for no good purpose. But there
was no way of egress. The front door was closed and locked. Not a
human soul was within call. She was alone in an empty house with the
one man she distrusted and feared more than any one else in the world.
Making an effort to conceal her alarm, she turned and faced him boldly:
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
He smiled--a horrid, cynical smile she knew only too well.
"Has not a man the right to be in his own home?"
She started back in surprise.
"This your home?" she exclaimed, glancing around at the scanty and
shabby furnishings.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, don't judge by appearances. I'm really very comfortable here.
It's away from the world. I like to work undisturbed." Significantly,
he added: "Then, you see, it is all my own. I am quite at home here in
my own house. No one can put me out--not even you----"
She raised her hand deprecatingly.
"Please don't remind me of that. I have forgotten it long ago."
His eyes flashed dangerously as he made a step near and exclaimed:
"You have, but I have not. I have not forgotten that you put me out of
your house ignominiously as one turns out a servant. I have neither
forgotten nor forgiven. That is why you are here to-day."
She looked at him in utter astonishment.
"What do you mean?"
He bowed and, with mock courtesy, waved her to a seat.
"I will tell you. Did you receive a letter to-day?"
"Yes--I did."
"You came here in answer to that letter."
"Yes--I did."
"Do you know who wrote that letter?"
"No--not the least."
"It was I--I wrote the letter."
With a stifled cry of mingled fright and amazement, Helen jumped up
from the chair.
"You wrote the letter?" she exclaimed, incredulously.
He nodded.
"Yes--I wrote the letter."
Her eyes opened wide with terror, her hands clasped together nervously,
she exclaimed:
"Then you are----"
He bowed.
"Exactly. I am the kidnapper of your child----"
Speechless, she stared at him, her large black eyes opened wide with
terror. Looking wildly about her as if seeking her little daughter,
she gasped:
"Dorothy? Dorothy here? Where is she?"
"She is safe," he replied calmly.
"Where is she, where is she? Take me to her!" she cried, distractedly,
going up to him and clasping her hands in humble supplication.
He shook off the hand which, in her maternal anxiety, she had laid on
his arm. Lighting a cigarette, he gave a low laugh.
"Plenty of time. There's no hurry. You're not going yet."
Anxiously, she scrutinized his face, as if trying to read his meaning.
"She's going when I go, isn't she?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"That depends--on you."
"What do you mean?"
Again he waved her to a seat.
"Sit down and I'll tell you."
Trembling, she dropped once more on to a chair and waited. He puffed
deliberately at his cigarette for a few moments and then, turning his
glance in her direction, he smiled in a peculiar, horrible way and his