“You have said nothing,” I suggested.
“No, no; how could I?”
“Perhaps the detectives I saw there have told him.”
“Perhaps; but they cannot know the whole.”
“No, or our words would be unnecessary.”
“Mr. Abbott,” said she, with feverish volubility, “do not try to tell him yet; wait for a few minutes till I have gained a little self-possession, a little command over myself; but no—that may be to risk his life—do not wait a moment—go now, go now, only–” She started, stumbled and fell back into a low seat under a spreading palm. “He is coming here. Do not leave me, Mr. Abbott; step back there behind those plants. I cannot trust myself to face him all alone.”
I did as she bade me. Mr. S–, with a smile on his face—the first I had seen there—came in and walked with a quick step and a resolved air up to Miss Calhoun, who endeavored to rise to meet him. But she was unable, which involuntary sign of confusion seemed to please him.
“Irene,” said he, in a tone that made me start and wish I had not been so amenable to her wishes, “I thought I saw you glide in here, and my guests being now all arrived, I have ventured to steal away for a moment, just to satisfy the craving which has been torturing me for the last hour. Irene, you are pale; you tremble like an aspen. Have I frightened you by my words—too abrupt, perhaps, considering the reserve that has always been between us until now. Didn’t you know that I loved you? that for the last month—ever since I have known you, indeed—I have had but the one wish, to make you my wife?”
“Good God!” I saw the words on her lips rather than heard them. She seemed to be illumined and overwhelmed at once. “Mr. S–,” said she, trying to be brave, trying to address him with some sort of self-possession,
“I did not expect—I had no right to expect this honor from you. I am not worthy—I have no right to hear such words from your lips. Besides–” She could go no further; perhaps he did not let her.
“Not worthy—you!” There was infinite sadness in his tone. “What do you think I am, then? It is because you are so worthy, so much better than I am or can ever be, that I want you for my wife. I long for the companionship of a pure mind, a pure hand–”
“Mr. S–” (she had risen, and the resolve in her face made her beauty shine out transcendently), “I have not the pure mind, the pure hand you ascribe to me. I have meddled with matters few women could even conceive of. I am a member—a repentant member, to be sure—of an organization which slights the decrees of God and places the aims of a few selfish souls above the rights of man, and–”
He had stooped and was kissing her hand.
“You need not go on,” he whispered; “I quite understand. But you will be my wife?”
Aghast, white as the driven snow, she watched him with dilating eyes that slowly filled with a great horror.
“Understand!—you understand! Oh, what does that mean? Why should you understand?”
“Because”—his voice sunk to a whisper, but I heard it, as I would have recognized his thought had he not spoken at that moment—“because I am the chief of the organization you mention. Irene, now you have my secret.”
I do not think she uttered a sound, but I heard the dying cry of her soul in her very silence. He may have heard it, too, for his look showed sudden and unfathomable pity.
“This is a blow to you,” he said. “I do not wonder; there is something hateful in the fact; latterly I have begun to realize it. That is why I have allowed myself to love. I wanted some relief from my thoughts. Alas! I did not know that a full knowledge of your noble soul would only emphasize them. But this is no talk for a ballroom. Cheer up, darling, and–”
“Wait!” She had found strength to lay her hand on his arm. “Did you know that a man was condemned to-day?”
His face took on a shade of gloom.
“Yes,” he bowed, casting an anxious look towards the room from which came the mingled sounds of dance and merriment. “The bell which announces the fact rang during my absence. I did not know there was a name before the society.”
She crouched, covering her face with her hands. I think she was afraid her emotion would escape her in a cry. But in an instant they had dropped again, and she was panting in his ear:
“You are the chief and are not acquainted with these matters of life and death? Traitors are these men and women to you—traitors! jealous of your influence and your power!”
He looked amazed; he measured the distance between himself and the door and turned to ask her what she meant, but she did not give him the opportunity.
“Do you know,” she asked, “the name of the person for whom the bell rang to-day?”
He shook his head. “I am expecting a messenger with it any moment,” said he, looking towards the rear of the conservatory. “Is it any one who is here to-night?”
The gasp she gave might have been heard in the other room. Language and motion seemed both to fail her, and I thought I should have to go to her rescue. But before I could move, I heard the click of a latch at the rear of the conservatory, and saw, peering through the flowers and plants, the wicked face of the man with the receding forehead whom I had seen at madame’s, and in his arms he held THE BOX.
It was a shock which sent me further into concealment. Mr. S–, on the contrary, looked relieved. Exclaiming, “Ah, he has come!” he went to the door leading into the drawing-room, locked it, took out the key and returned to meet the stealthy, advancing figure.
The latter presented a picture of malignant joy, horrible to contemplate. The lips of his large mouth were compressed and bloodless. He came on with the quiet certainty and deadly ease of a slimy thing sure of its prey.
As I noted him I felt that not only Mr. S–‘s life but my own was not worth a moment’s purchase. But I uttered no cry and scarcely breathed. Miss Calhoun, on the contrary, gave vent to a long, shivering sigh. The man bowed as he heard it, but with looks directed solely to Mr. S–.
“I was told,” said he, “to deliver this box to you wherever and with whomsoever I should find you. In it you will find the name.”
Mr. S– gazed in haughty astonishment, first at the box and then at the man.
“This is irregular,” said he. “Why was I not made acquainted with the fact that a name was up for consideration, and why have you removed the box from its place and broken the connection which was made with so much difficulty?”
As he said this he looked up through the glass of the conservatory to a high building I could see towering at the end of the garden. It was the building in which I had first seen that box, and I now understood how this connection had been made.
Mr. S–‘s movement had been involuntary.
Dropping his eyes, he finished by saying, with an almost imperceptible bow, “You may speak before this lady; she is the holder of a key.”
“The connection was broken because suspicion was aroused; to your other question you will find an answer in the box. Shall I open it for you?”
Mr. S–, with a stern frown, shook his head, and produced a key from his pocket. “Do you understand all this?” he suddenly asked Miss Calhoun.
For reply, she pointed to the box.
“Open!” her beseeching looks seemed to say.
Mr. S– turned the key and threw up the lid. “Look under the hand,” suggested the man.
Mr. S– leaned over the box, which had been laid on a small table, discovered a paper somewhere in its depth, and drew it out. It was no whiter than his face when he did so.
“How many have subscribed to this?” he asked.
“You will observe that there are five rings on the hand,” responded the man.
Miss Calhoun started, opened her lips, but paused as she saw Mr. S– unfold the paper.
“The name of the latest traitor,” murmured the man, with a look of ferocity the like of which I had never seen on any human face before.