On the third morning after the detective’s visit, seized with insatiable curiosity, she telephoned the office of Doane, Doane & Doane. No, they had nothing to communicate as yet.
Mr. Pearson, one of their best men, was working on the case day and night. They would probably not report before the end of the week, when all possible evidence would have been gathered.
Really, Mrs. Stannard must have a little patience.
So she waited, brooding, scarcely sleeping at all, tormented by her fears. When her husband told her at the breakfast table that she was not looking well, and advised a trip to the mountains or seashore, she could hardly refrain from replying: “Yes, you want me out of the way.” She was, in fact, working herself into a pretty state.
Her husband was absent nearly every afternoon and evening, and she would sit in her room, at the window, gazing dully into the street for hours. Several times she saw a man start from somewhere in the block to follow her husband as he descended the stoop. It was Mr. Pearson.
And then at five o’clock, Friday afternoon, the detective called to make his report.
She received him, as before, in the library. He wore the same brown suit and straw hat — the former, indeed, looked as if he had never taken it off — and he wiped his brow with his handkerchief as he took a seat at her invitation.
She saw something ominous in the deliberate manner with which he turned to face her, drawing the leatherbound book from his pocket with one hand and placing his hat on the floor with the other.
She trembled.
“You... you—”
She could not go on.
“Madam,” said Mr. Pearson impressively, “I am able to give you a full and complete account of your husband’s actions. I may say the thing has been done thoroughly. I did it myself. Are you prepared to listen?”
She nodded, unable to speak.
“In my judgment,” continued the detective, opening the leatherbound book, “your husband is the finest example of a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde I have met in my professional career. Also, he is a clever man. I would have lost him the first day but for my ability to hang onto the tail of a subway express. Evidently he has gone in fear of being followed. But he could not elude me.”
“Tell me! Tell me!” Mrs. Stannard implored.
“Certainly. I am coming to it. I take it, madam, that you do not care to hear the details of the chase. What you want to know is what your husband has done and where he has gone. I have here a list of the dates and places, if you will be so good as to give me your attention.”
He pulled out his handkerchief to mop his brow, cleared his throat, and read as follows in a loud, rhetorical voice:
Friday, July 9, 2.24 p.m., entered Empire Moving Picture Theater, Third Avenue and Thirty-ninth Street. Remained three hours and eleven minutes.
Friday, July 9, 8.15 p.m.; entered Royal Moving Picture Theater, Third Avenue and Grand Street. Remained two hours and thirty-four minutes.
Saturday, July 10, only appearance in company with client, Mrs. Stannard.
Sunday, July 11, a.m., attended church with client.
Sunday, July 11, 7.09 p.m., entered Circle Moving Picture Theater, Ninth Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street. Remained three hours and fifteen minutes.
Monday, July 12, 3.03 p.m., entered Louvre Moving Picture
Theater, Third Avenue and 149th Street. Remained two hours and one minute.
Tuesday, July 13, only appearance in company with client.
Wednesday, July 14, 10.48 p.m., entered Columbia Moving Picture Theater, Eighth Avenue and 117th Street. Remained four hours and twenty-one minutes.
Thursday, July 15, 9.10 a.m., went to Long Beach with client.
Friday, July 16, 1.55 p.m., entered Mecca Moving Picture Theater, Broadway and Ninety-eighth Street. (Evidently getting bolder.)
Left him there to report to client.
Mr. Pearson closed the book and looked at his client with an air of triumph.
She sat motionless, gazing at him stupidly as though she had not comprehended. Then suddenly she was aware of a shadow on the threshold, and she looked up to see her husband standing in the doorway, a puzzled expression on his grave, handsome face at the sight of his wife seated talking to a man he had never seen.
He came toward them and saw the look on his wife’s face.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded.
She struggled for a moment to find her voice, and finally succeeded.
“Jonathan,” she said, “I know all. This is Mr. Pearson, a detective. He will tell you—”
Stannard’s face paled a little as he looked from one to the other.
“A detective!” he repeated. “What for? What is it?”
Then Mr. Pearson spoke.
“Mr. Stannard,” he announced, rising to his feet, “I have just informed your wife that during the past seven days you have spent twenty hours and two minutes in moving picture theaters, with the dates and places.”
There was a silence. Stannard’s face grew white as chalk, and it could be seen that he trembled from head to foot.
The detective gazed at him sternly. His wife had cast her eyes on the floor, as though she could not bear to look at him in that moment.
“I am ruined!” groaned the stricken man, sinking into a chair.
“And I thought it was some kind of a woman,” whispered his wife. Profound regret was in her voice.
The detective stooped to pick up his hat.
“Well,” he said as he started for the door, “I guess you’re through with me.”
Mrs. Stannard nodded her head in silence, then said suddenly:
“But I must pay you; how much is it?”
“That’s all right,” replied the other genially from the threshold; “we’ll mail our bill and you can send a check. I trust the job has been satisfactory?”
Again Mrs. Stannard nodded. “Quite satisfactory.”
“Good. Good day, madam.” He started to go, then turned again to add, “You’ll have to excuse me for hurrying off like this, but I got a date to go to the movies.”
Alone with her husband, Mrs. Stannard turned to look at him with an expression of mingled incredulity and sorrow. The unhappy man sat with his face buried in his hands, moaning piteously; great beads of perspiration stood out on his brow. Thus do strong men, overtaken by their sins, bend under the awful burden of remorse.
Suddenly he looked up and showed her his haggard countenance.
“It is the end,” he whispered miserably. “The end of everything — I cannot — it is too much to expect — Vera, tell me — tell me — can you ever forgive me?”
And then it was that Vera Stannard shone forth in all the glory of her womanliness. She gazed at her husband and saw the dumb pleading of his eyes fastened on her; she heard the agonized despair in his voice, and she felt something come up in her throat, while the hot tears came to her eyes. It is ever woman’s part to forgive. She smiled at him.
“We are one, Jonathan,” she said in a sweet voice that trembled. “Who am I to judge you. I will even” — she hesitated and faltered, then went bravely on — “I will even share your sin. Yes, I will share it and glory in it.”
She stepped forward and laid a hand on his arm.
“Come, dear; let us dress for dinner. Afterward we shall attend the cinema — together.”
Sanétomo
On the day that Henry Brillon took a wife, he renounced — with a pang here and there — the habits and possessions of his single life.
Most important of all was the change from the luxurious bachelor apartments on Forty-sixth Street to a still more luxurious home on Riverside Drive; it he furnished in a style calculated to strain the purse even of a successful broker. Besides his clothing and some paintings and bric-à-brac, he kept only three articles from the downtown apartment: a lacquer-wood humidor, a case of books, and his Japanese manservant, Sanétomo. He could bring himself to part with none of these. Poor Sanétomo! He was lost in the great house on the drive. He could still dress his master; he could still arrange the shining linen, the trousers, the jackets, in neat rows for a hasty selection; but that was all. No longer was he called on to prepare those savory midnight repasts, those dainty breakfasts, those perfect little teas, which had made Harry Brillon’s rooms the Mecca of all jaded palates.