In Secret. Chambers Robert William

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      "The name written in his cheque-book is McKay."

      "McKay!" she repeated incredulously. "What else?"

      "Kay."

      "WHAT!!"

      "That is the name in the cheque-book—Kay McKay."

      Dumb, astounded, she could not utter a word.

      "Do you know anything about him, Miss Erith?" inquired the distant voice.

      "Yes—yes!… I don't know whether I do…. I have heard the—that name—a similar name—" Her mind was in a tumult now. Could such a thing happen? It was utterly impossible!

      The voice on the wire continued:

      "The police have been here but they are not interested in the case, as no robbery occurred. The young man is still unconscious, suffering from the chloral. If you are interested, Miss Erith, would you kindly call at the hospital to-morrow?"

      "Yes…. Did you say that there was FOREIGN money in his pockets?"

      "Dutch and Danish silver and English gold."

      "Thank you…. I shall call to-morrow. Don't let him leave before I arrive."

      "What?"

      "I wish to see him. Please do not permit him to leave before I get there. It—it is very important—vital—in case he is the man—the Kay McKay in question."

      "Very well. Good-night."

      Miss Erith sank back in her armchair, shivering even in the warm glow from the hearth.

      "Such things can NOT happen!" she said aloud. "Such things do not happen in life!"

      And she told herself that even in stories no author would dare—not even the veriest amateur scribbler—would presume to affront intelligent readers by introducing such a coincidence as this appeared to be.

      "Such things do NOT happen!" repeated Miss Erith firmly.

      Such things, however, DO occur.

      Was it possible that the Great Secret, of which the Lauffer cipher letter spoke, was locked within the breast of this young fellow who now lay unconscious in the Samaritan Hospital?

      Was this actually the escaped prisoner? Was this the man who, according to instructions in the cipher, was to be marked for death at the hands of the German Government's secret agents in America?

      And, if this truly were the same man, was he safe, at least for the present, now that the cipher letter had been intercepted before it had reached Herman Lauffer?

      Hour after hour, lying deep in her armchair before the fire, Miss Erith crouched a prey to excited conjectures, not one of which could be answered until the man in the Samaritan Hospital had recovered consciousness.

      Suppose he never recovered consciousness. Suppose he should die—

      At the thought Miss Erith sprang from her chair and picked up the telephone.

      With fast-beating heart she waited for the connection. Finally she got it and asked the question.

      "The man is dying," came the calm answer. A pause, then: "I understand the patient has just died."

      Miss Erith strove to speak but her voice died in her throat. Trembling from head to foot, she placed the telephone on the table, turned uncertainly, fell into the armchair, huddled there, and covered her face with both hands.

      For it was proving worse—a little worse than the loss of the Great Secret—worse than the mere disappointment in losing it—worse even than a natural sorrow in the defeat of an effort to save life.

      For in all her own life Miss Erith had never until that evening experienced the slightest emotion when looking into the face of any man.

      But from the moment when her brown eyes fell upon the pallid, dissipated, marred young face turned upward on her knees in the car—in that instant she had known for the first time a new and indefinable emotion—vague in her mind, vaguer in her heart—yet delicately apparent.

      But what this unfamiliar emotion might be, so faint, so vague, she had made no effort to analyse…. It had been there; she had experienced it; that was all she knew.

      It was almost morning before she rose, stiff with cold, and moved slowly toward her bedroom.

      Among the whitening ashes on her hearth only a single coal remained alive.

      CHAPTER III

      TO A FINISH

      The hospital called her on the telephone about eight o'clock in the morning:

      "Miss Evelyn Erith, please?"

      "Yes," she said in a tired voice, "who is it?"

      "Is this Miss Erith?"

      "Yes."

      "This is the Superintendent's office, Samaritan, Hospital, Miss Dalton speaking."

      The girl's heart contracted with a pang of sheer pain. She closed her eyes and waited. The voice came over the wire again:

      "A wreath of Easter lilies with your card came early—this morning.

      I'm very sure there is a mistake—"

      "No," she whispered, "the flowers are for a patient who died in the hospital last night—a young man whom I brought there in my car—Kay McKay."

      "I was afraid so—"

      "What!"

      "McKay isn't dead! It's another patient. I was sure somebody here had made a mistake."

      Miss Erith swayed slightly, steadied herself with a desperate effort to comprehend what the voice was telling her.

      "There was a mistake made last night," continued Miss Dalton. "Another patient died—a similar case. When I came on duty a few moments ago I learned what had occurred. The young man in whom you are interested is conscious this morning. Would you care to see him before he is discharged?"

      Miss Erith said, unsteadily, that she would.

      She had recovered her self-command but her knees remained weak and her lips tremulous, and she rested her forehead on both hands which had fallen, tightly clasped, on the table in front of her. After a few moments she felt better and she rang up her D. C., Mr. Vaux, and explained that she expected to be late at the office. After that she got the garage on the wire, ordered her car, and stood by the window watching the heavily falling snow until her butler announced the car's arrival.

      The shock of the message informing her that this man was still alive now rapidly absorbed itself in her reviving excitement at the prospect of an approaching interview with him. Her car ran cautiously along Park Avenue through the driving snow, but the distance was not far and in a few minutes the great red quadrangle of the Samaritan Hospital loomed up on her right. And even before she was ready, before she quite had time to compose her mind in preparation for the questions she had begun to formulate, she was ushered into a private room СКАЧАТЬ