The Destroying Angel. Vance Louis Joseph

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СКАЧАТЬ the others, one was directed to a Mr. C. W. Morton in care of another person at a number on lower Sixth Avenue, New York; and from this Whitaker began to understand the singular manner of his introduction to the wrong room; there's no great difference between Morton and Morten, especially when written carelessly.

      But the third letter caused his eyes to widen considerably. It bore the name of Thurlow Ladislas, Esq., and a Wall Street address.

      Whitaker's mouth shaped a still-born whistle. He was recalling with surprising distinctness the fragment of dialogue he had overheard at his club the previous afternoon.

      IV

      MRS. WHITAKER

      He lived through a long, bad quarter hour, his own tensed nerves twanging in sympathy with the girl's sobbing – like telegraph wires singing in a gale – his mind busy with many thoughts, thoughts strangely new and compelling, wearing a fresh complexion that lacked altogether the colouring of self-interest.

      He mixed a weak draught of brandy and water and returned to the bedside. The storm was passing in convulsive gasps ever more widely spaced, but still the girl lay with her back to him.

      "If you'll sit up and try to drink this," he suggested quietly, "I think you'll feel a good deal better."

      Her shoulders moved spasmodically; otherwise he saw no sign that she heard.

      "Come – please," he begged gently.

      She made an effort to rise, sat up on the bed, dabbed at her eyes with a sodden wisp of handkerchief, and groped blindly for the glass. He offered it to her lips.

      "What is it?" she whispered hoarsely.

      He spoke of the mixture in disparaging terms as to its potency, until at length she consented to swallow it – teeth chattering on the rim of the tumbler. The effect was quickly apparent in the colour that came into her cheeks, faint but warm. He avoided looking directly at her, however, and cast round for the bell-push, which he presently found near the head of the bed.

      She moved quickly with alarm.

      "What are you going to do?" she demanded in a stronger voice.

      "Order you something to eat," he said. "No – please don't object. You need food, and I mean to see you get it before I leave."

      If she thought of protesting, the measured determination in his manner deterred her. After a moment she asked:

      "Please – who are you?"

      "My name is Whitaker," he said – "Hugh Morten Whitaker."

      She repeated the name aloud. "Haven't I heard of you? Aren't you engaged to Alice Carstairs?"

      "I'm the man you mean," he said quietly; "but I'm not engaged to Alice Carstairs."

      "Oh…" Perplexity clouded the eyes that followed closely his every movement. "How did you happen to – to find me here?"

      "Quite by accident," he replied. "I didn't want to be known, so registered as Hugh Morten. They mistook me for your husband. Do you mind telling me how long it is since you've had anything to eat?"

      She told him: "Last night."

      He suffered a sense of shame only second to her own, to see the dull flush that accompanied her reply. His fingers itched for the throat of Mr. C. W. Morton, chauffeur. Happily a knock at the door distracted him. Opening it no wider than necessary to communicate with the bell-boy, he gave him an order for the kitchen, together with an incentive to speed the service.

      Closing the door, he swung round to find that the girl had got to her feet.

      "He won't be long – " Whitaker began vaguely.

      "I want to tell you something." She faced him bravely, though he refused the challenge of her tormented eyes. "I … I have no husband."

      He bowed gravely.

      "You're so good to me – " she faltered.

      "O – nothing! Let's not talk about that now."

      "I must talk – you must let me. You're so kind, I've got to tell you. Won't you listen?"

      He had crossed to a window, where he stood staring out. "I'd rather not," he said softly, "but if you prefer – "

      "I do prefer," said the voice behind him. "I – I'm Mary Ladislas."

      "Yes," said Whitaker.

      "I … I ran away from home last week – five days ago – to get married to our chauffeur, Charles Morton…"

      She stammered.

      "Please don't go on, if it hurts," he begged without looking round.

      "I've got to – I've got to get it over with… We were at Southampton, at my father's summer home – I mean, that's where I ran away from. He – Charley – drove me over to Greenport and I took the ferry there and came here to wait for him. He went back to New York in the car, promising to join me here as soon as possible…"

      "And he didn't come," Whitaker wound up for her, when she faltered.

      "No."

      "And you wrote and telegraphed, and he didn't answer."

      "Yes – "

      "How much money of yours did he take with him?" Whitaker pursued.

      There was a brief pause of astonishment. "What do you know about that?" she demanded.

      "I know a good deal about that type of man," he said grimly.

      "I didn't have any money to speak of, but I had some jewellery – my mother's – and he was to take that and pawn it for money to get married with."

      "I see."

      To his infinite relief the waiter interrupted them. The girl in her turn went to one of the windows, standing with her back to the room, while Whitaker admitted the man with his tray. When they were alone once more, he fixed the place and drew a chair for her.

      "Everything's ready," he said – and had the sense not to try to make his tone too cheerful.

      "I hadn't finished what I wanted to tell you," said the girl, coming back to him.

      "Will you do me the favour to wait," he pleaded. "I think things will seem – well, otherwise – when you've had some food."

      "But I – "

      "Oh, please!" he begged with his odd, twisted smile.

      She submitted, head drooping and eyes downcast. He returned to his window, rather wishing that he had thought to order for himself as well as for the girl; for it was suddenly borne strongly in upon him that he himself had had little enough to eat since dinner with Peter Stark. He lighted a cigarette, by way of dulling his appetite, and then let it smoulder to ashes between his fingers, while he lost himself in profound speculations, in painstaking analysis of the girl's position.

      Subconsciously he grew aware that the storm was moderating perceptibly, the sky breaking…

      "I've СКАЧАТЬ