CHAPTER XXIX
THE MISSING PAPER
“How dare you enter this room at such an hour?” demanded the woman in attendance, who, after the first shock had passed, quickly recovered herself and was now prepared to do battle.
“We will have no words upon the subject just now if you please—it is one that will keep, for a while, at least; get restoratives and revive this fainting girl without delay,” Earle commanded, in quiet though stern tones, and then bent anxiously over his unconscious loved one.
The woman, cowed by his authoritative manner, proceeded to attend Editha at once, although it was with a face nearly as white as the waxen one upon the pillow. With a sinking heart, Earle stood by jealously watching her every movement.
Editha, his darling, his promised wife, lay there looking more like a beautiful piece of sculpture than like a human being who would ever breathe or speak again, and a great fear took possession of him that she never would recover. But the woman was evidently a good nurse, and, under the influence of the restoratives she was using, Editha soon gave signs of returning life.
When she at last opened her eyes, Earle was sitting by her side and smiled upon her as she looked at him, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be there.
Yet he actually held his breath, fearing that the shock of his presence might make her swoon again.
“Earle!” she breathed, a look of awe stealing over her countenance.
The look told him that for the moment she believed herself dead, and to have met him in another world.
“Yes, my darling, Earle, and no one else,” he said, softly, bending down and touching her forehead with his lips. That caress brought her more to herself. A wave of gladness swept over her face, her eyes lighted with a beautiful and almost holy look of love, and then, with a sigh that seemed to throw off all its burdens and fear, every feature settled into restfulness and peace.
“I am so glad!” was all she could say, and that in a voice too weak for anything but a whisper.
He could have bowed his head and wept over her to find her thus, all her bright beauty faded, her strength nearly spent, almost dying, he feared.
But he knew he must control himself and minister to her if he would save her.
“Have you anything that will give her strength?” he asked, turning to her attendant.
“Yes; there are wines and liquors in the cabinet, and beef tea warm up on the gas stove in the bathroom.”
Earle had convinced himself with a glance before this that there was only one door to the bathroom, and he now commanded her to bring some of the beef tea.
She brought it almost immediately.
“Taste it yourself first,” he said, curtly.
“You need not fear for her—I have no desire to have the life of anyone to answer for,” she said scornfully, and flushing.
“Drink some of it,” he persisted.
He would not trust her, and she swallowed a mouthful unhesitatingly.
He then slipped his arm gently under Editha’s pillow and lifted her until she could lean comfortably against his shoulder.
“Drink this now, dear, for my sake,” he said, putting the bowl to her lips.
Without a question she obeyed, drinking slowly until the last drop had disappeared, and Earle’s heart began to grow lighter.
If she would do that often she would soon be better, he thought.
“That will give you strength,” he said; “now lie down and try to sleep. I shall not leave you again tonight, and when you are refreshed I will let you talk with me a little.”
He laid her gently back, stopping to kiss her almost hueless lips as he did so.
She put one hand up over the back of his neck and held him a moment so, his face almost touching hers.
“You have saved me, Earle,” she said, feebly.
“I trust so, my injured darling,” he answered, with an unsteady voice, and then watched her while the tired eyes closed; the wan face settled into peace, and she slept like a weary child.
Then he turned his attention to the woman, who had watched him with wondering eyes all the while.
Pointing to a lounge on the opposite side of the room, he said:
“Madam, if you are weary you can lie down there until morning. I shall take charge of your patient henceforth.”
“By what right?” she demanded, bridling.
“The right of her promised husband,” he answered, sternly.
The woman started violently and searched his face a moment, her own growing very pale again.
“Are you—” she began, but her lips refused to complete the sentence.
“My name is Earle Wayne. Doubtless, you have heard it before, and now surmised as much,” he said, not pitying her agitation in the least.
“I do not believe it,” she at last said, in a low, angry tone, while at the same time, she stealthily moved in the direction of the bell pull.
Earle marked the movement.
“You will please sit over there,” he said, quietly, and pointed to the lounge. “I am not in need of any assistance at present and can summon it myself if I think it necessary. It will be wiser for you to comply with my request,” he added, sternly, as she hesitated. “If you make any disturbance, I will have you lodged in a station-house in less than half an hour.”
The woman cowed at once at this and retreated in sullen silence to the lounge, where, settling herself comfortably, she did not move again, while Earle for the next two hours kept his vigil by Editha’s bedside, where she slept quietly, sweetly, and refreshingly.
While she is thus sleeping we will take a bird’s-eye view of the time that had elapsed since her encounter with Tom Drake, after leaving John Loker’s house, and from which she was rescued by the sturdy policeman, only to fall into still deeper trouble.
It will be remembered that after she had taken tea with her father she repaired to her own room, where she made a careful copy of John Loker’s confession, and then hid the original, with his signature attached, beneath the cushion of her jewel box. She then enclosed the copy in an envelope addressed to Earle and proceeded to write a long letter to him, recounting her adventures of the evening.
Her father had gone out immediately after supper, the servants were all abed in their rooms, and she was entirely alone in the front portion of the house.
It had taken her so long to make a copy of the confession that she was not halfway through with her letter when the cathedral clock nearby struck the hour of eleven.
Almost simultaneously with its last stroke the door of her room swung noiselessly open, and a fierce, ugly face, half shaded by a slouch hat, appeared in the aperture. A moment after the figure of a man entered, the door was softly closed, and he advanced with a stealthy, cat-like tread to where the young girl, who was deeply engaged in writing to her lover, sat bending over her writing desk. She was not conscious of the presence of the intruder until, reaching for a new pen, she chanced to raise her eyes and saw him standing close by her side.
A cry of fright parted her lips as she instantly recognized the repulsive features and burly form of Tom Drake. Without giving her time to repeat her cry, he clapped his hand over her mouth in the same way he had done earlier in the evening.
“Ah, ha! my plucky jade, did you think I would tamely give up the chase?” he asked, with a horrible leer. “Not so, my pretty,” he continued; “there is altogether too much at stake for that. But I can’t stand here to hold you—will you promise to keep still if I’ll take my hand from your mouth? You’d better, or I—”
He stopped short, with a fierce look that frightened her excessively.
“The old man is out,” he went on, as she did not make any sign of promise. “I’ve been watching around all the evening—came directly here after I was obliged to leave you so abruptly—ha, ha! and I saw him make for the theater; he probably won’t be home for an hour or two yet, as I have invited one of my friends to give him a little outside entertainment on the way. The servants all went to bed more than an hour ago, and you are completely in my power. Now, once and for all, will you be reasonable, and promise not to make a fuss?”
Editha saw that there was no way but to yield, and a feeling of thankfulness stole over her, despite her terror at finding herself again in the wretch’s power, that she had concealed John Loker’s confession early in the evening.
She signified her assent to the villain’s terms by a motion of her head.
“Honor bright?” he asked, adding, fiercely: “I’ll choke you instanter if you attempt to make any disturbance.”
She nodded again, and he at once released his hold of her.
“Now, little Miss Pluck,” he resumed, “what have you done with that paper I asked you for once before? I want it, and I’m going to have it. Do you hear?”
Editha did hear, and the lines about her small mouth settled into an expression of unyielding firmness.
“You don’t mean to give it to me, hey?” he demanded, reading aright her look.
She was too weak and excited from fright to speak, but she shook her head resolutely.
“But I tell you I’m going to have it, my lady, or it’ll be the worse for you.”
A bright thought darted into her mind, and she immediately acted upon it.
“If I will give you the paper, will you go away at once as quietly as you came, and leave me and everything in the house unmolested?” she asked.
“That’s the talk—now you’re sensible,” the ruffian returned, in a satisfied tone.
“Do you promise?” she persisted.
“Yes; I’ll go instanter. You see it’s very important for my future career that the little document doesn’t get into circulation; so hand it over, and I’ll be off as quiet and quick as a mouse.”
Editha drew from the envelope she had addressed to Earle the copy she had made and passed it to him.
He reached out and took the envelope from her, and read the name written on the back before looking at the paper.
“So, ho! you were going to send it right to headquarters, were you?—and I was just in the nick of time.”
Chuckling to himself, he unfolded the paper she had given him and began to read.
The contents seemed to amuse him immensely, for he continued to chuckle and laugh to himself all the way through; but his face grew stern and threatening as he reached the end, and Editha’s heart failed her when he said, fiercely:
“This won’t do, miss; this is only a copy, and I want the original. Hand it over quickly. Did you think I would be so readily cheated?”
“How do you know it is a copy?” she asked.
She had written that also with a pencil, as she could write more rapidly, and she had thought perhaps he would think it was the one she had written in John Loker’s house.
“Because I saw John Loker sign the other,” he said, with a malignant scowl, adding: “Now, will you hand the other over to me?”
“No, sir, I will not,” was the firm reply.
He seemed staggered for a moment at this.
“You won’t?” he repeated, at length, with an oath, and fixing his eyes upon her in a way that made her catch her breath and feel as if her strength was forsaking her.
“Do you know,” he added, “that you are in the power of a desperate man?”
“Yes, I suppose so; but that paper is of more importance to me than any other possession in the world.”
“Ah, ha! is that the way the wind blows? He’s a lover, eh?” laughed the villain, coarsely, and with a leer that made the blood boil in the young girl’s veins and glow hotly in her cheeks. “Allow me to ask,” he continued, with a sinister gleam in his eye, “if it is more precious to you than your—life?”
She shrank from him in sudden terror at the question, but, after a moment’s thought, she said:
“N-o, I cannot say that it is; but I do not think you would quite dare to murder me to get it. At all events, I shall not give it to you.”
He looked at her with something akin to admiration on his face; he evidently had not expected to find her so resolute, but at the same time, her obstinacy angered him.
“You think I would not dare to put you out of the way?” he repeated, savagely.
“What good would it do you? You surely would not accomplish your object then,” Editha strove to say, dauntlessly, but feeling inwardly very weak and trembling.
He saw the force of her argument and swore again, and, turning to her writing desk, began turning over its contents.
Of course, he did not find what he sought there and then commenced a general search of the room.
Bureau drawers, boxes, and every other receptacle that she had were overturned and thoroughly searched.
Her closets also were ransacked, and the pockets of every dress turned the wrong side out, but with the same result.
Her jewel casket stood on her dressing case open, with all her jewelry nicely arranged on its velvet cushion.
Editha’s heart stood still as she saw him approach this, but she did not move or give a sign of the great fear that oppressed her.
He stooped and looked at the pretty things there, took up one or two and examined them more closely, then laid them back again in their place, and turned his attention to something else.
A mighty burden rolled from the fair girl’s heart as this danger was passed.
She had expected he would put every article in his pocket, and then perhaps turn the box upside down to seek for more, but evidently, he did not care for plunder tonight. At last, he came and stood before her.
“I have searched everywhere. It must be upon your person,” he said, with a desperate gleam in his eye.
She started from him with a look of terror.
“I swear to you that it is not anywhere about me,” she said. “As soon as I made a copy of it I went and hid it, though I could not then have told what made me do it. Now I know,” she added, thoughtfully.
He saw that she was speaking only truth, and in great perplexity, he sat down to think.
“Is it in this room?” he asked, at length.
“I shall not tell you,” Editha answered, her courage beginning to rise as he became discouraged.
“Is it in this house?”
“I shall not tell you,” she repeated.
“You’re a—plucky piece,” he muttered between his teeth and fixing his fierce eyes again upon her in the strange way she had noticed before.
They seemed to transfix her, and a shuddering sensation pervaded her frame whenever she met them.
“Do you mean to brave me and risk the consequences?” he demanded.
“If you ever gain that paper it will be through your own efforts alone. I shall never tell you where it is,” she replied, slowly and firmly.
He acted for a moment as if undecided what to do next. Then he took up the letter she had been writing Earle and read it through.
She could not help this, of course, but her cheeks burned and her eyes flashed indignantly as she thought of the tender little passages that she had thrown in now and then, and that had been intended for her lover’s eye alone.
She had told him a good deal of her adventure, and how that, as soon as she had copied it, she had hidden the precious original; but strangely enough, she never mentioned even to him where, but said that no one but herself knew of its hiding-place, and tomorrow she intended taking it to Mr. Felton to see what he advised about it.
“Aha!” said the wretch, as he read this; “no one knows anything about the precious document but yourself?”
“No.”
“And tomorrow you were intending to tell someone else about it,” he said, rattling the letter he held in his hand.
“Yes.”
“And you are sure nothing will make you give it to me?”
“Never!”
“Then there is but one thing left for me to do,” he muttered, striding angrily toward her.
He seized both her hands in his and again fixed his cruel eye upon hers.
For one moment she looked defiance at him, though she was so frightened by his manner that she had no power to cry out, nor make any effort to release herself from his hold; the next her expression changed, and her eyes began to droop.
“Look at me!” he commanded, bending nearer to her.
She obeyed and gazed into his face as if suddenly fascinated.
For a moment he held her glance, while she felt as if all her willpower was forsaking her.
He made a few passes over her head and face, touched her upon the pit of the stomach, and she instantly became like a reed in his hands.
He had mesmerized her.
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