CHAPTER XIII

WHEREIN LADY HERMIONE "ACTS FOR THE BEST"

A dejected and disheveled super-clerk was called on to face a new

crisis soon after he had apparently got rid of most of the persons

concerned in the pandemonium which had raged for hours around that

refuge of middle-class decorum and respectability, the Central Hotel in

27th Street.

As he was wont to explain in later days of blessed peacefulness:

"The queerest part of the whole business was that I never had the

slightest notion as to what was going to happen next. Everything

occurred like a flash of lightning, and imitated lightning by never

striking twice in the same place."

It was not to be expected that a man of the Earl of Valletort's social

standing and experience would allow himself to be brow-beaten by a

police official and an uncertain miscellany of people like Devar and

the members of the Curtis family. When the cool night air had tempered

his indignation, and he was removed from the electrical atmosphere

created by his son-in-law's positive disdain and Steingall's negative

indifference, he began to survey the situation. Though not wholly a

stranger in New York, he was far from being versed in the

technicalities of legal and police methods, so he bethought him of

securing skilled advice. The hour was late, but the fact merely

presented a difficulty which was not insuperable to a person of even

average intelligence. He turned into an imposing looking hotel on

Broadway, produced his card, and asked for the manager.

An affable clerk hurried forward, thinking that his house was about to

earn new laurels; if somewhat surprised by the Earl's explanation that

he was in need of a lawyer of repute, and had applied to the proprietor

of an important hotel as one most likely to further the quest, he

responded with prompt civility.

"There are several lawyers guests in the hotel at this moment, my

lord," he said. "Each is a notable man in one branch of practice or

another. May I ask if you want advice in a matter of real estate, or

some commercial claim, or a criminal charge?"

"The latter, in a sense," said the Earl. "A relative of mine has

contracted a marriage under conditions which are illegal, or, at any

rate, most irregular."

The clerk stroked his chin.

"Mr. Otto Schmidt has just concluded a remarkable nullity of marriage

suit," he pondered.

"Just the man for my purpose. Is he in?"

Within five minutes the Earl was closeted with Mr. Otto Schmidt in the

latter's private sitting-room. The lawyer was a short man, who bore a

remarkable physical resemblance to an egg. Head, rotund body, and

immensely fat legs tapering to very small feet, formed a complete oval,

while his ivory-tinted skin, and a curious crease running round

forehead and ears beneath a scalp wholly devoid of hair, suggested that

the egg had been boiled, and the top cut off and replaced.

But he showed presently that the ovum was sound in quality. He

listened in absolute silence until his lordship had told his story.

All things considered, the recital was essentially true.

There were suppressions of fact, such as the lack of any mention of

collusion between the distraught father and Count Ladislas Vassilan on

the one hand and Jean de Courtois on the other, and there were wholly

unwarrantable imputations against Curtis's character and attributes,

but, on the whole, Mr. Schmidt was able, in his own phrase, "to size up

the position" with fair accuracy.

Like every other man of common sense who became acquainted with the

night's doings in a connected narrative, he began by expressing his

astonishment.

"I have had some singular cases to handle during a long and varied

professional career," he said, and eyelids almost devoid of lashes

dropped for an instant over a pair of dark and curiously piercing eyes,

"but I have never heard of anything quite like this. You say the name

of the detective who gave you the account of the murder, and of the

connection of this John Delancy Curtis with it, is Steingall?"

"Yes."

Again the eyelids fell, and, as Mr. Schmidt's face was also devoid of

eyebrows, and was colorless in its pallor, and as his lips met in a

thin seam above a chin which merged in folds of soft flesh where his

neck ought to be, his features at such a moment assumed the

disagreeable aspect of a death mask, though this impression vanished

when those brilliant eyes peered forth from their bulbous sockets.

"But I know Steingall," he said. "He is at the head of the New York

Detective Bureau, a man of the highest reputation, and one who commands

confidence in the courts, not to speak of his department."

"He struck me as an able man, but I am quite sure he has failed to

appreciate the share this fellow, Curtis, has borne in the affair,"

said the Earl testily.

"It seems to me that your daughter, Lady Hermione, could not possibly

have been what is commonly described as 'in love' with de Courtois?

Stupid as the comment may appear, I must search for a motive."

"My good sir, the notion is preposterous. I--I have reason to believe

that she intended this marriage to serve as a shield, or cloak, for her

own purposes, which were, I regret to say, largely inspired by a

stubborn resolve not to marry a man who is suitable as a husband in

every way--by birth, social position, and distinguished prospects."

"Her own purposes. What does that mean exactly?"

"It means that she was contracting a marriage as a matter of form.

Don't you see that this consideration, and this alone, made it possible

for an impertinent outsider like Curtis to offer his services as de

Courtois's substitute, while my misguided daughter was equally prepared

to accept them?"

"Ah!"

The eyelids shut tightly once more, and the Earl, feeling rather

irritated and disturbed by this unpleasing habit, shifted his chair

noisily. He found, however, that Mr. Schmidt merely kept the shutters

down for a rather longer period than before, and, as the lawyer

impressed him with a sense of power and ability, he resolved to put up

with a peculiarity which was certainly disconcerting.

"May I ask if your daughter is what is popularly known as a pretty

girl, my lord?" demanded Schmidt suddenly.

"Yes. She is remarkably good-looking, but----"

"Motive, my lord, motive. I was wondering why Curtis should behave

like a thundering idiot. Now, apart from your natural dislike to the

man, how would you describe him?"

"He looks a gentleman, and, under ordinary conditions, I would regard

him as a social equal," admitted the Earl.

"So, unfortunate as the circumstances may be, he is a more desirable

_parti_ than the French music-master?"

Then the noble lord flared into heat.

"Dash it all!" he cried. "You are almost as bad as that detective

person. I am not bothering my brains as to Curtis's desirableness or

otherwise, or comparing him with a worm like de Courtois. I want this

marriage annulled. I want him arrested. I want the aid of the law to

extricate my daughter from the consequences of her own folly. Surely,

such a marriage cannot be legal!"

Schmidt weighed the point from behind the veil, and an unemotional

reply soothed his fiery client.

"The idea is, perhaps, untenable--almost repulsive," he said, "but the

law on the matter is governed by so many differing decisions that I

cannot express a reasoned opinion offhand. You see, the question of

consideration intervenes. And--and--where is the lady now?"

"I don't know."

"You left Curtis at the Central Hotel!"

"Yes."

"In company with Steingall, and two elderly Curtises, and young Devar?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you demand your daughter's present address?"

"I--I was so stunned by what I regarded as official sanction of an

outrage that I came away in a fury."

Mr. Otto Schmidt rose, or rather, raised his oblong shape from a slight

incline on a chair to a horizontal position.

"Let us go to the hotel," he said. "And there must be no more fury.

Leave the inquiry in my hands, my lord, and it will be strange if I do

not succeed in elucidating points which are now baffling us--in fact, I

may say, inducing mental disturbance."

Thus, it came to pass that Krantz, the reception clerk at the Central

Hotel, had just seen the doctor sent to dose de Courtois with bromide

leaving the building when the Earl and Mr. Schmidt entered.

As it happened, the lawyer was known to him, Schmidt having had legal

charge of the corporation which reconstructed the hotel, so it was

impossible for an employe to be reticent with him about the matters

which were discussed forthwith.

"Mr. Steingall gone?" inquired Schmidt affably.

"Yes, sir. He left here nearly half an hour ago," said the clerk,

outwardly self-possessed, but wondering inwardly what new bomb would be

exploded in his weary brain.

"This murder, and its attendant circumstances, constitute a very

extraordinary affair," said the lawyer.

"Yes, sir."

Krantz was not deceived. He had answered some such remark a hundred

times that evening, but he would surely be put on the rack in a moment

by some fantastic disclosure which none save a lunatic would dream of.

"Now, about this Mr. John Delancy Curtis," purred Schmidt, "has it been

ascertained beyond all doubt that he arrived in New York from Europe

this evening?"

"I think so, sir," was the jaded answer. "The police are satisfied on

that point, I believe, and he himself gave his last address as Pekin."

"Pekin!"

"Yes, sir."

Everybody was invariably astonished when they heard of Pekin. Had

Curtis described his recent residence as "the Moon" it would have been

regarded as only a degree more recondite.

"Then," said Schmidt, closing his eyes, "assuming he is the stranger he

represents himself as being, he could have no personal connection with

the murder of Monsieur Jean de Courtois?"

There! Another comet had fallen in 27th Street. Krantz winced, as if

the lawyer had struck him.

"Mr. de Courtois!" he gasped. "Who says he was murdered? He is--not

very well, it is true, but for all that I can tell, he is sound asleep

in bed at this minute."

"Sound asleep!" roared the Earl, who had been most positive in his

opinion that Curtis must have brought about the Frenchman's death for

his own fell purpose.

Otto Schmidt laid a restraining hand on his lordship's shoulder.

"Steady now," he murmured. "Remember my instructions. The inquiry is

committed to me for the time."

"But, confound it, man----"

"Yes, this is startling, this changes the whole aspect of the case.

But you see the value of calm and judicious method."

The egg-shaped man was certainly entitled to take credit for the

disclosure, and seldom failed to do so in many subsequent expositions

to admiring friends of a singular case, but he never realized how

thoroughly self-deluded the Earl had been by the original blunder.

"But, sir," protested the clerk, "it was never supposed that Mr. de

Courtois had been killed. No one knew who the poor gentleman was at

first, because Mr. Curtis's overcoat and his had been accidently

exchanged in the flurry and excitement after the crime was committed.

The police found the initials H. R. H. on his clothing, and that fact

led to his being recognized as Mr. Henry R. Hunter, a well-known New

York journalist. Had I seen him myself, I would have settled that

point in a moment, because he often came here to visit Mr. de Courtois."

"Indeed! That is very interesting, most decidedly interesting."

"Are you quite certain that what you are saying is correct? Mr.

Hunter, the murdered man, was acquainted with Monsieur de Courtois?"

The question came from the Earl of Valletort, whose angry bewilderment

had suddenly given place to a gravity of demeanor that was significant

of the serious complications involved in the clerk's statement.

Poor Krantz could have bitten his tongue for its too free wagging. He

was thoroughly tired, and had intended to go to his room at the

earliest moment and repair damages by a long night's rest. Now, to all

appearance, he had unwittingly reopened the whole wretched imbroglio.

But there was no help for it. Having put his hand to the plow he was

obliged to turn the furrow.

"Yes, my lord, positive," he said between his teeth.

"Ah!" Schmidt was beginning to think that the amazing marriage

promised to develop into a _cause celebre_. "In that event, it becomes

essential, indeed, I may say imperative, that his lordship and I should

interview Monsieur de Courtois without delay."

"Sorry, sir," said the clerk, desperately availing himself of the

detective's instructions, "but Mr. Steingall left orders that no one

should be permitted to visit Mr. de Courtois to-night."

"Left orders? Is the man in this hotel?"

"Oh, yes, I was aware of that all the time," put in the Earl. "He

lived here--don't you see, that accounts for the mistake I made in

assuming that----"

"Forgive me." The lawyer's monitory hand rose again, and he turned to

the clerk. "You can hardly expect me, Mr. Krantz, to regard Mr.

Steingall's 'orders' as in any way controlling my actions. Kindly show

his lordship and me to Monsieur de Courtois's room at once."

There was nothing for it but to obey. Krantz understood exactly how he

would be jumped on and pulverized in the morning by irate stockholders

in the hotel if any action of his should be adversely reported on by

the great Otto Schmidt.

But the visit to de Courtois fizzled out unexpectedly. The Frenchman,

still attired in evening dress, for that is the conventional wedding

attire of his race, was lying on the bed sleeping the sleep of utter

exhaustion supplemented by bromide. The two negro attendants, who were

hoping for some more exciting experience, were squatted on the floor

playing pinochle, and the strenuous efforts of Lord Valletort to arouse

the slumberer were quite useless. But--and that was a vital thing--he

had seen de Courtois, and knew beyond doubt that he was alive, and

seemingly in good health, or, at any rate, physically uninjured.

"The man has been drugged," said the lawyer, watching the Earl's

unavailing attempt to awaken the Frenchman. "Is, by any chance, Mr.

Curtis's room situated near this one?"

"It is just overhead," said the clerk.

"Dear me!"

Schmidt looked up at the ceiling as though his eyes might discern a

trap-door. "Is Mr. Curtis there now?"

"No, sir."

"Where is he?"

"He went out with a Mr. Devar."

"Oh! Do you know where he went to?"

Krantz was tempted to prevaricate, but Schmidt was a power in the

Central Hotel.

"I believe, sir, he is at the Plaza."

"A large hotel, near Central Park, is it not?" demanded the Earl

eagerly.

"My lord, pardon me." The lawyer was no believer in letting all the

world into your secrets, and the clerk's manner showed that he was far

from well posted in certain elements of the affair.

Valletort was for rushing forthwith off in a taxi to the Plaza; but

Schmidt vetoed the notion. He shared the Earl's conviction that

Hermione would be discovered there, but, before meeting her, he wanted

to obtain a great many particulars the lack of which in his client's

earlier story his legal acumen had already scented.

So he drew the impatient nobleman into a quiet corner of the

restaurant, and extracted from his unwilling lips certain details as to

Count Vassilan and the marriage project which had not been forthcoming

before.

Krantz seized the opportunity to call up Steingall on the telephone and

told him something, not all, of what had occurred. He did not say that

the Earl and Schmidt had actually seen de Courtois, and suppressed any

mention of his disclosure with reference to Curtis's whereabouts, not

that he wished to mislead the detective willfully, but he felt that he

had been indiscreet, and there was no need to proclaim the fact.

Moreover, he had never heard Hermione's name mentioned, or he was

gallant enough to have risked any trouble next day if a lady would be

saved distress thereby.

Schmidt's lawyer-like caution was destined to have far-reaching effects

on the night's history. It provided one of the minor rills of a

torrent which was gaining irresistible momentum, and would submerge

many people before its uncontrolled madness was exhausted. Had he

yielded to the Earl, and hurried to the Plaza at once, he would have

met Curtis and Steingall there, and those two men might have diverted

the bursting current of events into a new channel. But, naturally

enough, he wanted to understand precisely where he stood. In a word,

the egg was excellent in its constituents, but lacked the exuberant

freshness of the newly-laid article.

Hence, while the Earl nearly choked with indignation at sight of that

entry in the visitors' book at the Plaza--"Mr. and Lady Hermione

Curtis, Pekin,"--mistress and maid were once more discussing the

astounding things which had taken place since the moment when John

Delancy Curtis rang the bell at Flat 10 in Number 1000 59th Street.

"If only I knew how to act for the best!" wailed Hermione half

tearfully. "I am afraid, Marcelle, I have been too egotistical, too

much concerned about myself, I mean, and far too regardless of others.

I have allowed Mr. Curtis to place himself in a dreadful position----"

"I'm sure, miladi, he doesn't think so," interrupted Marcelle

breathlessly.

"That is the worst feature of it, to my thinking. He is making all the

sacrifice."

"What! To get a wife like you, miladi!"

"I am _not_ his wife."

"Well, you are not married like folk who go away for a honeymoon and

find rice in their clothes every day for a week, but Mr. Curtis says,

miladi, that you are his wife right enough in the eyes of the law, and

I'm sure he admires you immensely already, so there's no telling----"

"Marcelle, do you imagine for one single instant that I would really

marry any man who took me as a favor, who conferred an obligation on

me, who came to my assistance in a moment of despair?"

"No, miladi, not if he thought those things. But I have a sort of

notion that Mr. Curtis would hurt any other man who suggested any of

them, and it is easy to see by the very way he looks at you----"

"Oh, have pity, and don't harp on that string! I can be nothing to

him. You mistake his kindness for something which is so utterly

impossible that it almost drives me to hysteria to hear it even spoken

of."

Marcelle knew better. In some recess of her own acute mind she felt

that Lady Hermione's heightened color and shining eyes were due to just

that wild and irresponsible conceit which they were debating. Indeed,

Hermione could not leave the topic alone. She forbade it, rejected it,

stormed at its folly, yet came back to it like a child held spellbound

by some terrifying yet fascinating object.

The maid was racking her brain for some feminine argument which should

convince an impulsive mistress that Curtis might reasonably regard his

matrimonial entanglement as by no means so incapable of a satisfactory

outcome as his "wife" deemed it, when a knock at the door of the

sitting-room alarmed both.

And, indeed, the ever-present dread which haunted them was justified,

because a page announced "The Earl of Valletort and Mr. Otto Schmidt,"

and before the petrified Marcelle could utter a word of protest, the

two men were in the room.

Marcelle said afterwards that no incident of those tumultuous hours

surprised her more than the way in which Lady Hermione received her

unbidden and unwelcome visitors. The instant before their arrival she

was an irresponsible and doubting and vacillating girl, torn by

emotion, and swayed hither and thither by gusts of perplexity which

ranged from half-formed hope to blank despair, but now she came from

her bedroom without a second's hesitancy, and faced her father and the

lawyer with a proud serenity which obviously disconcerted them, and

quite dumfounded Marcelle.

"Ah! At last!" said the Earl, trying to speak complacently, but

failing rather badly, because his attitude and words were decidedly

melodramatic.

"And too late!" said his daughter, letting her fine eyes dwell on

Schmidt with the contemplative scrutiny she might bestow on an exhibit

in a natural history museum.

"Pardon me, your ladyship, not too late, but just in time, I fancy."

Otto Schmidt met her gaze without flinching, and he was a man who

undoubtedly commanded attention when he spoke. His tone was

deferential but decisive. His black eyes were taking in this charming

and intelligent woman in full measure. Her rare beauty, her unstudied

pose, her slender elegance, the quiet harmonies of her costume--each

and all made their appeal. He even waited for her reply, compelling it

by some subtle transference of the knowledge that he would not endeavor

to browbeat or misunderstand her.

"I have heard your name, but may I ask why you are here?" she said

composedly.

It pleased him to find that he had not erred by underrating her

intelligence.

"A very proper question, Lady Hermione," he said. "I am a lawyer,

fairly well known in New York, and your father has consulted me with

reference to the marriage you have contracted to-night."

"Since, as you say, the marriage has most certainly been contracted,

the statement hardly explains your presence."

He smiled, and Lord Valletort, who had not seen Otto Schmidt smile once

during the past hour, discovered that he had not begun to appraise his

new ally's qualities at their due worth.

"It is a legal habit to state events in their order," he replied

suavely. "But these are matters which we ought to discuss privately."

"No, Marcelle, do not go," said Hermione, hiding her fear under an

assumption of icy indifference, and checking the maid's movement in

response to the lawyer's hint. "Marcelle Leroux is fully in my

confidence," she explained, "and you can say nothing which she may not

listen to."

"I am obliged to your ladyship, but I had to mention her presence,"

said Schmidt. "Well, I am sorry to be the bearer of unpleasant news,

but you were inveigled into a marriage ceremony with John Delancy

Curtis by gross and fraudulent misrepresentation. He told you, I

assume, that Monsieur Jean de Courtois was dead. That is not true.

Monsieur de Courtois is alive, and in his room at the Central Hotel in

27th Street at this moment. He was detained there at the hour you

awaited him--kept there forcibly, by means which must be investigated,

but the really important fact now is that he lives. Need I tell you

what that statement implies? Need I emphasize the lie with which this

man Curtis attained his object? Your father, the Earl, and I myself,

saw Jean de Courtois a few minutes since. Probably, and not without

reason, you doubt my word. If that is so, will you kindly use the

telephone yourself, ring up the Central Hotel, and ask if Monsieur de

Courtois is there? You will hardly imagine that the hotel staff would

enter into a conspiracy with us to deceive you. Again, you might send

for the manager here. He knows me, and will assure you that I am not a

person who would lend himself to subterfuge or falsehood."

"But some man was killed, was he not?"

Hermione's lips had whitened, but her courage was superb, though her

poor heart was like to burst with its frenzied throbbing, for she was

certain this self-possessed man was speaking truly, and, if he were,

her hero with the head of gold had revealed feet of clay.

"Yes, unhappily, a journalist named Hunter."

Schmidt was an artist. He knew when to use few words.

"But Mr. Curtis himself may have been deceived."

"Mr. Curtis was among those who pretended to liberate de Courtois from

his bonds. Your unfortunate friend was brutally tied and gagged in his

room in the hotel, and is now recovering from the effects of the

maltreatment he received."

"Mr. Curtis couldn't have known of this when he was here, little more

than half an hour ago."

"He knew it two hours ago. Not only he, but Mr. Steingall knew it.

Did neither of them tell you?"

In utter despair, broken-hearted now not by reason of her own plight,

but rather because of a shattered faith, Hermione appealed to the Earl.

"Father, is this true?"

"Absolutely true, every syllable. I really think you ought to confirm

Mr. Schmidt's statement by inquiry at the Central Hotel."

"And publish my unhappy story more widely! . . . Will you kindly leave

me now? I must think, and act."

"One word, your ladyship, and I have done," said the lawyer, speaking

with a slow seriousness that could not fail to be convincing. "The

mischief is not irreparable--at present. But you must not remain here.

You are registered in the books of the hotel as the wife of John

Delancy Curtis, and, if I may say it with respect, your own sense of

what is right and proper will forbid the notion that you can abide in

the hotel until to-morrow. I pledge my reputation that it will

immensely facilitate the legal steps necessary to secure the annulment

of the marriage if you dissever yourself from your so-called husband at

the earliest moment after you have discovered his tort."

Hermione was not the type of woman who faints in an emergency, though

gladly now would she have found in unconsciousness a respite from the

bitter pain that was rending her innermost fiber.

"I think--I understand," she said brokenly. "Will you please go?"

"But will you not come with me, Hermione?" said her father. "I give

you my word of honor there will be no recriminations."

"I must be alone--to-night," she cried, flaring into a passionate

vehemence. "Marcelle and I will return to my apartment. You know

where it is. Come there in the morning, at any hour you choose, but go

now, this instant, or I shall refuse to leave the hotel, no matter what

the consequences."

Her voice rose almost to a scream, and Schmidt, a profound student of

human nature, realized that any extra pressure would be fatal. He had

succeeded. This girl would keep her promise, of that he was well

assured, but if her high-strung temperament was subjected to undue

force she would put her back against the wall and defy law and

convention alike.

"Come," he said to the Earl, and, with a courteous bow to Hermione, he

literally pulled her father from the room.

Hermione did not weep. She was done with tears, sick with vain regret,

yet braced to unfaltering purpose. The instant the door was closed she

picked up the telephone, and the wretched Krantz was soon in evidence

to verify the lawyer's words.

Marcelle was crying as though she had lost a lover or some dear

relative; when Hermione bade her prepare for their departure, she gave

no heed, but wailed her sorrow aloud.

"I d-don't believe them, miladi," she sobbed. "Mr. Curtis--will wring

the lawyer-man's neck--to-morrow. . . . I know he will. . . . Did Mr.

Curtis kill poor Mr. Hunter? If not, why should he tie that

Frenchman? . . . And wouldn't he t-tie twenty Frenchmen if he w-wanted

to m-marry you!"

Hermione stooped and fondled the girl's shoulders, for Marcelle had

collapsed to her knees on the hearth-rug while her mistress was using

the telephone.

"You have been my very good friend, Marcelle," she said, and the misery

in her voice subjugated the maid's louder grief. "Don't fail me now,

there's a dear! I want to write a letter, and there can be no question

whatever that you and I must get away before Mr. Curtis returns. Don't

fret, or lose faith in Providence. A great man once wrote: 'God's in

Heaven, and all's well with the world.' You and I must try to believe

that, and place utmost trust in its promise. . . . There, now! Hurry,

and I shall join you in a few minutes. We shall send for our baggage

in the morning, and so avoid attracting attention in the hotel

to-night."

Brave as she was, when left alone in the room she pressed her hands to

her face in sheer abandonment of agony. But the storm passed, and she

sat down to write.