CHAPTER XI

PAULINE’S FLIGHT

LOFT had sent for Angel, feeling that he wanted a friend to confer with.

“Pauly’s gone away,” he said briefly, as Baldwin entered the library.

Angel gave him a quick glance, but said, merely,

“Where to?”

“I don’t know,” Loft returned. “In fact, Angel, she went without my knowing it. I tried to find her just now, but she has gone off in the little car.”

“Who took her?”

“Bates, and Tessie went with her. The housekeeper told me all this but she knew nothing more. Bates ought to be back by this time, if Pauline went to the Railway Station, and the housekeeper thinks she did.”

“Well, we can’t wait for any Bates,” Kinney broke in, impatiently. “I know, Mr. Loft, how you hate publicity and all that, but Miss Fuller has been doing queer things----”

“What do you mean by queer things?” Loft spoke quietly, but there was a steely gleam in his eye that Angel knew meant battle. “Miss Fuller has done nothing that you know of. You have no proof that she took Mr. Curran’s watch, or that she ever saw the thing. There is a deep-minded criminal behind all this business, and it is not a woman. Some daring and ingenious villain entered my house, killed Hugh Curran and tried to fasten the blame on Miss Fuller. That’s the way I see it.”

“And that’s the way I should see it, if I were the young lady’s intended, as you are,” Kinney returned, dryly. “But being a detective,--not a great one, but at least, a clear-headed one, I say that when a ‘feather left around’ is hidden in her own bedroom, and when it is taken from its hiding place, she misses it and immediately disappears herself;--then my clear-sightedness leads me to think she ought to be looked up.”

“No one wants to ‘look her up’ more than I do,” Loft said, earnestly. “And, as a bit of disinterested advice, Kinney,--”

“Excuse me, Mr. Loft, you’re not capable of giving disinterested advice just now. And, excuse me again, I don’t want it. My duty is to find Miss Fuller. My intention is to do it in my own way.”

“But, I say, Kinney,” Angel put in, “if Mr. Loft wants to find the lady, I’m sure his method of search will be more successful than any you can attempt.”

“Sure you may be, sir, but that makes no difference to me. I know my duty, and I’m going to do it. Now, it’s true, the hunt for Miss Fuller may mean publicity, may mean police procedure, but I’ll promise you this, I’ll keep it as quiet as I can. If you want to help,--where do you think she’d go, Mr. Loft?”

“Here’s the car,” Angel cried, looking from the window. “Bates can surely tell us something.”

Bates and Tessie were called in, and Loft asked the chauffeur what Miss Fuller had said.

“She sent Tessie to me,” Bates replied, “and said she’d like the little car to go to the station for the four-forty-five. So I was at the door, and she and Tessie got in the car, and we went to the station. There she bid me get her a ticket to New York and a chair. I did that, and then when the train came in she got on it. That’s all I know, Mr. Loft.”

“Well, Tessie,” the detective spoke this time, “what can you tell us about Miss Fuller’s journey?”

“Nothing, sir,” and though not impertinent, Tessie looked mutinous.

“Detail all she said to you, as she prepared to go,” Kinney ordered, sternly.

“Why, she only said, ‘I’m going to New York, Tessie. Pack me an overnight bag.’ And I did.”

“What did you put in it?”

“Only her night things and toilet articles.”

“No dresses? No jewels?”

“No, sir, just enough for a night’s stay,--without dressing for dinner.”

“H’m,--looks bad. Now, didn’t Miss Fuller say a word,--while you were helping her dress,--about her plans?”

“Not a word, sir.”

“Do you mean she said nothing at all,--or nothing about her plans?”

Tessie considered. “I don’t remember her saying anything at all. If she did it was only to direct me what gown she wanted to wear,--or what shoes.”

“What did she wear?”

“A black Canton crêpe, with cape to match,--and a black hat with a small veil.”

“Inconspicuous costume,--naturally. She took a lot of money with her?”

“I don’t know. She always carries a small handbag which she packs herself.”

“All her money and jewels in that, of course. Well, Mr. Loft, I doubt if you’ll see Miss Fuller again very soon.”

“Is that your opinion, Mr. Kinney? Be good enough not to express it to me again. Tessie, you may go. Wait a moment, tell me,--did Miss Fuller say nothing at all that gave you any indication of why she went, or how long she meant to stay?”

“No, sir, not a word.” Tessie’s eyes filled with tears and she resorted to her handkerchief.

“And,” Loft’s voice shook a little, “did she give you any--any message for me? You may speak right out before these gentlemen.”

“Yes, she did!” and now Tessie sobbed openly, “she said to tell you ‘Good-by,’ that’s all, sir, just ‘Good-by.’”

“Very well, Tessie, you may go.”

Valentine Loft had perfect control now of his voice, and he nodded a dismissal to Bates, who stood at attention.

But Angel could read the despair in his eyes, the distress in his tense-drawn lips, and he knew that his friend’s soul was tasting the torments of hell.

Yet Loft turned a calm face to Kinney, and said, “What is your plan? What would be your idea of efficient search?”

“I’ll tell you, sir. We know the lady took the four-forty-five to New York. We’ve only to wire the police authorities along the route to hold her if she leaves the train before she reaches the city. She won’t, though. In all probability, she’ll make straight for the metropolis, knowing she can lose herself there easier than in a small town. She’s a deep one,--that one!”

“Omit your comments on the lady, if you please, Mr. Kinney.” Loft’s tone was icy but his eyes blazed fire.

Angel looked at him with some apprehension, for he feared a real explosion if Kinney irritated him much further.

“All right, sir. Nothing personal meant. Well, say we head her off in New York, and then just have her followed,--that’s better than an immediate arrest.”

“Yes, much better,” said Loft, in such a dry way, that Angel turned quickly to look at him. And the slight smile on Loft’s face puzzled him.

“You see, Mr. Loft,” Kinney went on, “I’m interested in Miss Fuller for more reasons than one. I may as well tell you that I heard her sobbing and weeping in her room,--and crying out, ‘I must forget! How _can_ I forget?’ and after a time, as if by sheer will power, ‘I have forgotten!’ Now, I can construct a pretty little theory, that in a girlish flirtation, Miss Fuller once gave her picture to Mr. Curran, and----”

“Go, Mr. Kinney,” Loft rose and pointed to the door; “go, and take your pretty little theories with you! I may see you later,--though I’d rather not, unless absolutely necessary,--but in any case, I can’t stand any more just now. Go.”

The upraised voice, the steady, pointing finger, rather awed Kinney, for there was no touch of melodrama about Loft. He merely had reached the end of his rope, and said so.

As the door closed behind the detective, Angel asked:

“Why did you smile, Val?”

“At that fool detective. You know, Pauly never went to New York. If she took a ticket for New York it’s a dead certainty that she left the train after a few stops, and went the other way,--to Boston or Albany. I know Pauline so well, that I can read her mental workings. If she wants to disappear,--and it must be, Angel, that she does,--then she would do it more cleverly than any one in the world.”

“You’re right,--of course. But what does it all mean, Val?”

“I don’t know,--but it is serious, very serious. I shan’t let Kinney know I think it so, but it is. Any advice, Angel?”

“Not yet,--maybe I can dope some out. But all my sympathy, old chap, and all my help,--at least, all my efforts. What can I do?”

“I don’t know. I never in my life felt so helpless. What’s all that about Pauly’s crying in her room,--and wanting to ‘forget’?”

“Do you suppose,--you know, Val, if I’m to help we must be entirely frank,--do you suppose she did know Curran before?”

“I know she didn’t,--for she told me so.” Loft spoke simply. “I shall always believe her word against all the witnesses or evidence in the whole world. If she had known Curran before, she would have told me so.”

“Of course,” said Angel, but his acquiescence was based upon his desire to agree with his friend rather than on his faith in feminine candor.

“What about that Rosalie and Mr. S. business,” Loft went on, wrinkling his eyebrows. “I’ve never spoken of it before, but it seemed to me Pauly winced at one of those names.”

“Which one--?”

“I don’t remember. Mr. S., I suppose,--there’s nothing to alarm a woman in another woman’s name.”

“Was she alarmed?”

“Not quite, but I’m so sensitive to any change of expression on her face, that I thought I observed a little tremor of surprise or annoyance. It probably meant nothing,--”

“But it would presuppose a knowledge of Curran in some way,” Angel added, meditatively. “Suppose she did know him before, Val; suppose she didn’t tell you of it,--would it make any difference in your feeling toward her?”

“In my feeling toward Pauline! I should say _not_! Why, if she told me all the lies in the catalogue,--or wherever lies grow,--it would make no difference in my feelings toward her! She couldn’t do it,--Pauline is incapable of a real lie,--but if she did,--I’d love her exactly the same,--more, if it were possible,--which it isn’t. You see, Angel, you don’t know from experience what love is. The kind of love I mean. The love that is only possible between--”

“Yes, I know,--two souls that beat as one.”

“No, two souls that know how to beat as one. My boy, all hearts can love,--but only hearts that have accompanying brains can get the most and best out of love.”

“Well, as long as you have faith in her--”

“Which will be as long as I breathe. Nothing could ever rock my faith in Pauly. She knows this,--and that is why her disappearance alarms me. That is why I know it is very serious. She knows I would forgive her anything--”

“Even murder?”

“It’s hard to forgive you that speech, Angel,--but, yes, even murder. It would be a poor love that wouldn’t forgive crime. That would be easier to forgive than some other things.”

“Such as?”

“Deception,--untruthfulness--”

“Lying--”

“Yes,--real lying,--with intent to deceive me. But I would forgive Pauline that,--anything,--_anything_--”

“Then she will come back.”

“No,--she will not come back. She told Tessie to tell me good-by. But I shall find her.”

“She might have told Tessie to say that; if she was merely off on a short errand.”

“No; she has told me twice,--that if ever she disappeared suddenly, and sent me the mere message, ‘Good-by,’ that I never should see her again. I only laughed at the speech,--but I see now that she meant it.”

“Then she had a secret, Val.”

“It may be.” Loft looked straight into Angel’s eyes. “Now to find her,” he said, after a moment’s pause.

“Where do you think she can be?”

“I know where she is.”

“And you can find her?”

“No; but I know this. She started on the New York train. She got off at some way station. She crossed the tracks and took a train on the other side, in the other direction, and after travelling some time she will get out at some inconspicuous town or village,--where she knows some friend who will hide her successfully for as long as she wishes to be hidden.”

“Good Heavens, then how can you find her?”

“The hardest situation to solve,--I know that. But she can never be traced through her bankers or her home people or her lawyers. I am sure of that.”

“I didn’t know Pauline was so extraordinarily clever.”

“It isn’t so much cleverness as common sense. A more ingenious brain might plan to hide in a big city,--it is conceded the best place. But it isn’t. Granting a discreet and loving friend, in a secluded country home, Pauly’s plan is the best. And she has plenty of such friends. But I shall find her.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found.”

“But I want to find her. I want Pauline.”

“Where is her aunt, now?”

“In the New York house. But she is ill and nervous, and in the care of nurses. She’ll see no papers,--even if they carry the story,--and unless I hear from the house, I shall send no message.”

“Has Pauline no other relatives?”

“Only some distant cousins. She is her own mistress, and she comes and goes as she pleases. If Kinney would keep his mouth shut, her absence from here would never be known.”

But Kinney didn’t keep his mouth shut. On the contrary, he opened it very often, indeed. Already he had quizzed the guests and the servants over the entire house. Already he had telephoned orders to follow Pauline if she could be discovered anywhere _en route_ to New York.

Already he had made up his mind that Pauline Fuller had killed Hugh Curran,--but this decision he had the grace to keep to himself and used his busy mouth merely for asking questions.

Miss Hetty Dwyer was greatly excited.

“Now, perhaps you will do something,” she cried. “I’ve had my suspicions of that sly Pauline all the way along. Her, with her long, dark eyes and her thin red lips! I’ve my opinion of her! And her picture in my brother’s watch all the time! The hussy! I’ll bet she knew him since he was engaged to Miss Fitzgerald! Made trouble between ’em, like as not! You’ll catch her, won’t you, Mr. Kinney?”

“I hope so,” he returned. “But I thought you suspected a criminal Book Collector, Miss Dwyer?”

“Oh, Lord, I don’t suspect Miss Fuller of killing Hugh! No,--she’s a sly devil, but not bad enough for that. I can’t conceive of a woman murderer! But she has some reason for running away that’s connected with the crime, I’ll bet on that!”

“Don’t you remember,” Anna said, reminiscently, “almost as soon as Mr. Curran got here, he asked Pauline to walk in the garden with him--alone?”

“What a strange thing to do!” cried Miss Hetty.

“Not at all,” the Countess defended. “He was a guest, and Pauline was a charming hostess,--it wasn’t a bit strange.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what was strange,” said Stella. “Mr. Curran asked Pauline straight out whether she kept her room tidy or not.”

“What?” cried Miss Hetty.

“He did,” Stella persisted, but the Countess said:

“Hush that, Stella. It was the merest chance question, because he was laughing about his own untidy ways. And Lord knows he left his own bedroom in a mess. Papers and ashes and things strewed all over.”

“I think the queerest thing,” Anna said, “was that when he appeared, Pauline stared straight at him, and--she was at the coffee urn,--the cup she was filling overflowed all over the tray. You needn’t tell me she had never seen him before.”

“But she hadn’t,” the Countess averred, “she told me so herself.”

“I’ll tell you what,” and Stella’s eyes beamed with excitement, “likely as not she corresponded with him without ever having seen him! You know how girls will write to actors and authors whom they’ve never seen.”

“Yes,” cried Anna, “and she sent him her picture,--years ago,--and she didn’t want Val to know about it--”

Kinney’s eyes shone. He was getting what he called to himself ‘great dope.’ And if all these things were so,--well,--more might be so--

Angel Bob Baldwin favored the detective with an interview later.

“Don’t think for a minute, Mr. Kinney,” he said, “that I want to put any brake on the wheels of justice. But I do want you to beware how you manage that matter of Miss Fuller’s disappearance. You know as well as I do that she never killed that man. Now, you’re here to discover a murderer; not to pry into the secrets of a lady’s private life. If you must interview Miss Fuller, go ahead and do it,--if you can find her. But as to raising a hue and cry over her absence, you’ve no right to do it.”

“Leave it to me, Mr. Baldwin,” said Kinney, airily. “I’ve learned a bit from the chatter of the women here, and I’ll run this thing in my own way, if you please.”

“Do; but for your own sake let it be a common-sense way. You don’t want to be a laughing stock among your own colleagues, do you?”

This shaft went home, for more than once Kinney’s mistakes had been a source of mirth to some.

“Well, I’ll give you one bit of advice, and you can take it or leave it.” Bob’s tone was light, but he gave the detective a meaning look. “When you want to ‘search for the woman,’ don’t go after an innocent and lovely lady, but find the divorced wife of Hugh Curran. Do you know anything about her?”

“No.”

“Of course you don’t. And she may have had nothing to do with the whole affair, but if I were a detective, the very first person I should want to interview would be the one-time Mrs. Hugh Curran.”

“Mrs. Hugh Dwyer, you mean.”

“Yes, of course, it would be before he took the later name. Now Mr. Kinney, take that tip for what it’s worth,--but I can’t help thinking that she could give you, at least, some information.”

“It’s a good idea, Mr. Baldwin,” the detective said, slowly. “I’d have to send a man out to Reno, I suppose--”

“Well that isn’t at the ends of the earth.”

“No; he could make it in five days, and wire his report. A week would cover it.”

“Don’t do it because I say so. It’s merely a suggestion. You see, Mr. Kinney, I’m a friend of Mr. Loft’s and I want to do something,--anything to help him in this horrible situation.”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Loft has good, staunch friends. Now, you and Mr. Knox are both racking your brains to help him,--so is Mr. Mears, for that matter,--but Mr. Mears is more interested in doing detective work himself than in doing something to help Mr. Loft. You see what I mean, sir?”

“I do, Kinney, and perhaps the efforts of Mr. Knox and myself will amount to more than young Mears’ sleuthing. By the way, what is Mr. Knox doing?”

“His idea is to get more clues. As if there were any, after all these days. But he putters around in Mr. Curran’s bedroom,--I mean the room he occupied in this house that night.”

“Does he find anything?”

“No, sir. He pores over the book catalogues Mr. Curran had, and he mauls over the waste-basket occasionally. But he’s promised not to remove or disturb anything. You never can tell when you want to check up a feather, you know.”

“A feather?”

“Yes; ‘feathers left around’ has come to be a by-word with us,--meaning tiny clues.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. Well, Kinney, if Knox finds any important feathers let me know. My deductions are often better than my discoveries.”

“All right, Mr. Baldwin. And, I’ll think it over, and like as not I’ll try out that Reno plan.”

“Do,” said Angel, little dreaming what that tryout would produce!