The sinister mark
"Speak low," said Peter, anxiously. "I don't want to miss----"
Again the voice came up to them:
"Did Donald come up with you, Helena? I saw that thing in the paper,
and somebody told me----"
Followed a low murmur in reply from Mrs. Atterbury.
"Who is it?" Peter asked again, excitement apparent in every line of
his face. "A relative? What is her name? Her full name?"
"No, not a relative," Donald answered, bewildered by Peter's obvious
agitation. "We've always called her that. Her name is Rutherford, Kate
Rutherford."
"Good God!" said Peter, starting to his feet. "Rutherford!" Under his
breath he whispered to himself--"The voice! The voice over the wire.
I'm sure, certain. There can be no mistake. I knew I'd recognize it if
ever----"
"What is the matter, Clancy?" Donald had thrown aside the rug under
which he had been lying, and had dropped his feet to the floor. "What
do you know of----"
Peter interrupted sharply with:
"I want to meet her. I must meet her, Morris. Fix it for me. It's
essential I should meet her at once. There's no time to explain. She
may go--oh, for the love of----Mr. Morris, I give you my word that I'm
not crazy--and I must see and talk to Mrs. Rutherford!"
Staggered by the other's impetuosity, Donald got slowly to his feet.
"Wait, wait just a moment," he said, passing his hand over his
forehead. "I don't understand, but of course--what shall I tell her?"
"Just say you heard her voice and came down to see her," whispered
Peter. "Introduce me as a friend--if," he added, with an anxious,
questioning look, "if you think you can go that far."
Morris looked him steadily in the eyes. Then he nodded slightly.
Placing his hand on Peter's shoulder, he said, "I think I can go that
far, Clancy. Come on."
Peter felt Morris's weight on his shoulder as they descended the
stairs, but by the time they had reached the lower porch he was erect
and master of himself.
Mrs. Atterbury started up in surprise as the two men came through the
door, but her brother gave her a warning look, and she subsided into
her chair without a word, though her eyes said plainly, "What in the
world is Don bringing that detective here for?"
He ignored their puzzled question, and advanced with a smile to the
visitor.
"Good to see you again, Aunt Kate," he said, cordially, as he took her
hand, and leaning over, kissed her on the cheek. "It was bully of you
to come down so soon."
Peter, who was directly behind him, did not see the visitor until
Donald stepped back, and said:
"Will you let me present my friend, Mr. Peter Clancy--Mrs. Rutherford."
Then Peter saw, seated in a high-backed Indian chair, as on a throne, a
magnificent old lady whose impressive presence and mien were scarcely
affected by the great weight of flesh which seemed to billow all about
her.
She spoke to him at once, in a voice deep, clear, and resonant. "I'm
glad to meet any friend of Donald's," was all she said, but her
exquisite enunciation made of the commonplace sentence a thing of
beauty.
Morris, observantly following Peter's lead, sat down and joined in the
quiet, ordinary, everyday conversation. The weather and everybody's
health came in for their stereotyped share. Peter, watching, was quite
sure they had interrupted a more intimate talk between the two women.
He guessed what its subject had been but knew that it would not be
resumed in the presence of a stranger.
How was he, himself, to get an opportunity for a private conversation
with Mrs. Rutherford, the necessity for which was uppermost in his
thoughts? And who was she, anyway? That she was a personage there
could be no doubt. Peter racked his brains to remember if he had ever
heard of her, to no purpose. She was of a previous generation, but a
personality like that----
Unconsciously, Mrs. Rutherford proceeded to enlighten him. He was
so preoccupied that he only caught his own name in the middle of a
sentence:
"And Mr. Clancy, judging by his name and appearance," she was saying,
"ought to enjoy the story as much as I did. We're both Irish, aren't
we, Mr. Clancy? As you may possibly know, my name was Rohan once upon a
time, and----"
Rohan. Kate Rohan! Something clicked in Peter's brain. Who, even of his
comparative youth, had not heard of the old Athenæum Company, and of
Kate Rohan, its planet among stars? So! That accounted for--much--the
gracious presence, the wonderful voice--and many, many things besides,
Peter thought.
He missed, almost completely, the amusing Irish story, told with a
delicate, subtle brogue and a perfect inflection, but he heard just
enough to join spontaneously in the laugh which irresistibly followed.
At the end of the story Mrs. Rutherford rose majestically, and like a
great ship getting under way, started toward the door.
"I must be going, Helena," she said, holding out her still beautiful
hand. "I'm coming to see you and Don very soon again. Take care of
yourself, Don, and," with a little quick shake of the head as she put
her hand in his, "don't worry about things, my dear. There's nothing
really worth wasting a lot of expensive worry upon."
"I'll see you to your car, Aunt Kate," said Morris, placing his hand
under her elbow.
She turned on him at that, and drew herself up with a little laugh.
"I'd have you know, Donald, that I walked down here and intend to walk
back," she said, proudly.
"But, Aunt Kate!"
"Yes, my dear. The doctor says that if I don't take some gentle
exercise I'll spoil my figure" (she pronounced it "figgah"), "to
say nothing of having another heart attack. And he calls walking up
the mountain 'gentle exercise'! To be sure, I take it slowly, but
whu-u-u----!" She drew a long breath and let it go in a tragic sigh,
but her eyes were full of an inextinguishable humour.
"Are you going to be long here, Mr. Clancy?" she asked, turning to say
"good-bye" to Peter, who stood close beside her.
"I don't quite know," replied Peter, quietly. "It will depend a good
deal on circumstances. I ought to go back to town this afternoon, but I
haven't been around the--the Park much yet, and I promised myself I'd
see something of it--only Don"--(he referred thus familiarly to his
host without the flicker of an eyelash)--"you see, Don doesn't feel
quite up to going about with me, and----"
Quick as a flash Donald Morris intuitively caught Peter's intention.
He did not know what the reason might be, but he grasped the fact that
there was some unknown necessity for Clancy to see Mrs. Rutherford
alone. So completely had the young detective won his confidence that
this was enough for him.
"I do feel a bit seedy, Aunt Kate, and that's a fact," he said,
promptly, "and Peter's just crazy to stretch those long legs of his.
Take pity on him, there's a dear, and let him go along with you."
Again he ignored the questioning, perplexed glance of his sister, who
stood just behind Mrs. Rutherford. "The road up to Mrs. Rutherford's
cottage is the loveliest thing in the park, Peter. When you've seen
that, you'll agree with me that it's one of the most paintable bits in
America."
"Are you a painter, Mr. Clancy?" Mrs. Rutherford asked, a few moments
later as they started up the curving road, Peter accommodating his
long stride to her stately, ponderous step. "I should hardly have
thought----"
"I don't look much like one, do I?" Peter laughed. "Well, frankly, I
don't consider myself one, but I'm very fond of nature--and art. It's
one of the chief regrets of my life, Mrs. Rutherford, that I never saw
you act."
She gave him a quick, almost youthful glance, and smiled. "I think you
could hardly have been born when I left the stage, Mr. Clancy. That was
over thirty years ago."
"But why, Mrs. Rutherford!" exclaimed Peter, tragically, "why did you
leave the stage before I was born?"
She threw back her white head with a hearty, infectious laugh, and
pausing in her slow ascent, she turned to him, making a broad, sweeping
gesture with both hands.
"The answer is before you," she said. "It was this infernal--I may
say infernal to you, Mr. Clancy, may I not?--Well, then, it was this
infernal flesh that came upon me like a thief in the night, and
nothing I could do would stop it--so I had to stop--to give up my
career"--there was bitterness in the beautiful voice now--"all on
account of--oh, Mr. Clancy, who could stand a fat 'Portia'! Thank God,
I had sense enough to stop when I did. At least there are no grotesque
memories of Kate Rohan."
Up to this point in the conversation they had passed several houses
and quite a number of people, to whom Mrs. Rutherford had bowed,
graciously. Now the road before them lay, for a long way, fairly level
and devoid of any sign of life. Unbroken ranks of tall trees threw
their leafy shadows across the red shale of the road, and the soft
whispering of the wind only served to accentuate the sense of solitude.
In another mood, Peter would have been sensible of the wonderful beauty
of the place, but now he saw nothing in it but an opportunity, the
opportunity which he must not miss.
Just ahead, in the shadow of a big pine, he saw a low, flat ledge of
rock, lichen covered on its face and strewn above with a generous
cushion of soft pine needles.
"You're tired, Mrs. Rutherford," he said, gravely. "Let's rest a minute
over there."
She assented, with a whimsical nod, and allowed Peter to place her
comfortably upon the rock. Peter remained standing just in front of her
and regarded her in silence for a moment. There was a seriousness in
his pleasant, homely face that caught her attention.
"What is it, Mr. Clancy?" she asked, with a hint of perplexity in her
deep voice. "Why do you look at me as if--why, as if you wanted to ask
me a question and didn't quite know what to say----"
"That's just it, Mrs. Rutherford," said Peter, eagerly. "That's just my
trouble. There's something I want to know--something I must know----"
"And you think I can tell you?" she asked, wonderingly.
"I _know_ you can tell me, Mrs. Rutherford--if you will."
She gazed up at him in sheer bewilderment. "I can't think what it can
be," she said, conscious of the gravity of the young face before her,
"and I won't promise to answer. But I'm curious to know. Ask your
question, Mr. Clancy."
Peter bent his head and said, slowly, with pauses between the words:
"Will you tell me, Mrs. Rutherford, why--on Monday, the twenty-ninth
of this May--from a pay booth in the Vanderbilt Hotel--you called Mary
Blake's apartment--and asked to speak to her sister, Anne?"
CHAPTER XXII
"ON MONDAY, THE TWENTY-NINTH OF MAY----"
A slow flush spread over the face of Kate Rutherford, mounting to her
snow-white hair. Her eyes never left Peter's.
"On Monday, the twenty-ninth of May, from the Vanderbilt Hotel," she
repeated, slowly. "Yes, I did call--I did call her apartment, one day,
about that time. Well"--a slight pause--"well, what of it? What of it,
Mr. Clancy?"
"Don't you know--why, you must know from yesterday's paper, Mrs.
Rutherford, that it was on Sunday, the twenty-eighth, that Mary Blake
disappeared."
"And you think"--she studied his face intently--"you think I may know
where she's gone?"
"It would seem on the cards, perhaps."
"Well, I don't." She threw out her clenched hands and looked up at him.
There was deep concern in her eyes. "I wish to God I did."
Was she acting? Peter thought. And if so, why? Aloud he said:
"How was it that you happened to call her on that particular day, Mrs.
Rutherford? And why did you cut off so suddenly when----"
"It was you--it was you who answered the call!" she exclaimed, a little
light breaking in upon her. "What have you to do with this affair, Mr.