CHAPTER I

HESTER STORM GIVES HER NAME AS JENNY REGAN

A near-sighted German music teacher crossed his legs at an inopportune moment, and this trivial action led directly to the startling incidents of the following narrative, with their momentous effects upon several lives.

This singular occurrence took place on a railway train in England, a boat train with passengers from Paris, three of these, a strangely assorted trio, being brought together by fate within the respectable cushioned walls of a first-class carriage. On one side sat an English bishop, in formal black garments, talking with evident interest and a certain deference to a very pretty and smartly dressed American girl, whose fresh views and charming lack of reverence seemed to delight the rather heavy-minded but well-meaning prelate.

Small wonder that the ecclesiastical gaze was held in rapt attention, for Miss Betty Thompson (of New York and recently of Paris) was not only fair to look upon with her teasing blue eyes, her long curling lashes, her auburn hair shot through with golden lights and her adorable mouth upturned at the corners, but she added to these the fatal gift of unexpectedness. So the bishop looked and listened and marveled, while the tired lines faded from his face and he reflected that, after all, the ride from Dover to London was very short, amazingly short.

The other one of this trio, whose meeting here was to have such far-reaching consequences, was a quietly attired young woman, traveling alone, her black hair and warm ivory coloring seeming to indicate a Latin origin. She, too, was a girl of striking beauty, but there was something of sadness and yearning in the depths of her lustrous dark eyes. As if weary with the journey, she dozed from time to time or seemed to doze, her thick lashes lifting occasionally for a languid glance at her companions and then drooping again, while a faint, half-wistful smile played about her full red lips.

"An interesting face," whispered the bishop to his young friend. "A singularly interesting face. Wouldn't you say so, Miss Thompson?"

Betty studied the sleeping girl a moment and nodded thoughtfully. "A sort of wild beauty. I've been looking at her and wondering if--" She paused in perplexity.

"You think she is a fellow countrywoman?" suggested the bishop.

"I'm not sure, but--I think she's unhappy and--" as the stranger stirred uneasily, "did you ever see anything so deliciously green as these hedges?"

The dark-eyed girl was far away in her reveries, living over again fragments of her life that seemed to flash by in lurid memory pictures, just as this rushing English landscape flashed before her half-closed eyes.

Now ... the great halls of Monte Carlo, hushed groups around green-covered tables, worshiping groups, one would say, with tense, eager faces--and the clink of gold. Stupid people! Bound to lose their money anyway, so--what did it matter?

Now ... the blue of the moon-kissed Mediterranean and a sighing orchestra playing on the marble terrace. And that most ridiculously careless South American general with his gold cigarette case! Fancy having real rubies and emeralds set in a cigarette case! What did the man expect?

Now ... the pigeons at Mentone, circling in frightened sweep over the lazy gardens while a Russian countess suns herself by the beds of chrysanthemums. What a fool to carry all that jewelry in a handbag!

Now ... Paris, a nice enough town and they could have it. All very fine driving in the bois and sipping tea at the Continental, but American secret service men were nosing about and--it's a pity if a girl can't speak a friendly word to an old lady from Grand Rapids, Michigan, without getting called down for it. Time to move on, Hester Storm, especially as you have eight hundred dollars in good coin tucked away and the jewelry. So one ticket, please, to Manhattan Island, for a girl who is going home and--wants to look her sister Rosalie in the eyes and--is just a little sorry for certain things and--anyhow, she's going to keep straight, yes, straight for the rest of her natural life.

At this moment, by some perversity of chance, a phrase in the droning talk opposite caught Hester's ear and brought her to alert attention.

"Five thousand pounds, my dear: not a penny less," the bishop declared impressively.

The Storm girl tingled with sudden interest, yet managed to keep her eyes closed. Then, gradually and cautiously, she lifted her heavy lashes and peeped through them. The bishop was fussing with a handbag, searching for something, taking something out, a purse of brown leather, a fat purse with a heavy elastic band around it. And, in his bland, pompous way he was telling Miss Thompson about his recent and most successful visit to America in the interest of the Progressive Mothers' Society. The Americans had been so kind to him, so generous; their contributions, together with those of Americans in Paris, amounted to this splendid sum that he was now carrying back to London.

Five thousand pounds! And he explained the extraordinary combination of circumstances that had prevented him, at the last moment, just as he was leaving Paris, from depositing this money with his bankers.

Five thousand pounds! It was evidently wiser, unquestionably safer, to remove so large a sum from his careless handbag to the shelter of his ecclesiastical coat, the inside pocket--there! And straightway the transfer was effected with a benignant smile, while the stranger sized up the situation very much as a professional golf player would study a difficult shot.

Not that Hester had any personal interest in this fat brown leather pocketbook or any designs upon it. No, no! She was done with that sort of thing, quite done with it, but from the detached standpoint of a former expert she could not help reflecting that here was an opportunity, a most unusual opportunity, if one could just see the right way of handling it.

Then she thought of the very large sum involved. Five thousand pounds! Twenty-five thousand dollars! How small it made her poor little eight hundred seem! Twenty-five thousand dollars! A fortune--all one could ever need! And there it was for the taking. There in the loosely hung black coat of an absent-minded bishop! Dear, dear, if this wonderful chance had only come sooner--before she made her good resolutions!

However, she had made them and would hold to them. She had given her promise to Rosalie, her promise true, and come what might she was going to keep straight. The bishop's purse was perfectly safe so far as she was concerned. Besides, with only three of them in the carriage, she couldn't get the purse if she wanted to. There must be other passengers, two or three others, so that the coppers would have some one besides her to put the blame on when the big squeal came. There must be at least two other passengers.

As Hester reached this purely academic conclusion the train drew up at a small station and the guard ushered in a near-sighted German music teacher, followed by a friend, who proved to be a trombone player, a very irascible person, and these two straightway fell into a heated discussion of the poisonous and non-poisonous qualities of mushrooms.

The dark-eyed dreamer smiled at the coincidence of their arrival, but remained unshaken in her resolve to leave the bishop's purse alone and all other purses likewise. Too well she remembered that little affair at the Élysêe Palace Hotel. Ugh! When Grimes fixed his cold gray eyes on her! Grimes from Scotland Yard, who happened to be in Paris on a case. Stupid man, who couldn't understand how easily a girl might mistake another woman's cloak for her own! What if it was of costly Russian sable? What did that prove? It was most annoying, and, having wriggled out of this misadventure, Hester did not propose ever again to risk another one.

Besides, it would take more than these two chattering musicians to help her. There must be a mob to shove and jostle. His nobs in the knee breeches must be standing up and somebody must push him against her or trip him up, so that in the scuffle she could sneak the leather. And now, suddenly, as Hester was fortifying herself in this prudent and virtuous decision, there came one of those trifling happenings that change the course of lives and empires--the near-sighted German music teacher crossed his legs. Whereupon the Bishop of Bunchester, who was just starting for the door, as the train drew into Chatham Junction, stumbled over the extended member and was thrown with some violence into Hester's corner, more precisely into Hester's lap, losing his glasses in transit, and was only rescued from this embarrassing position and brought again to a dignified perpendicular after much confusion with assistance and profuse apologies from the two Germans, which apologies the bishop gallantly passed on to the young woman upon whom he had so abruptly descended.

At Chatham Junction there was a stop of ten minutes, during which time the bishop and Miss Thompson walked briskly up and down the platform, but Hester kept her place by the window, looking out with the same odd little smile and wistful glance that had so interested Betty and her venerable friend. When these two returned to their seats the German musicians were gone and as the train resumed its journey to London, the fateful three were once more alone in the carriage.

The bishop and his young friend were now in gay spirits, laughing over something which Betty, apparently, had been describing with delicious drollery. In the self-absorption of their camaraderie, in their utter indifference to Hester's presence, they seemed to her brooding mind, to exclude her as completely from their social atmosphere as if she were a servant. And for some strange reason, the psychic meaning of which she was to understand later, the girl found herself hurt and irritated by this attitude of unconscious superiority.

The Storm girl stirred uneasily. Her wistful smile hardened into a bitter twist of the lips and through half-shut, envious eyes she studied this other American girl, this fortunate being whose every gesture, every tone of voice and every exquisite detail of costume bore witness to the background of culture and wealth that had always been hers. Why should this piece of pink-and-white prettiness be given all the good gifts, money, social position, friends, while she, Hester Storm, had none of these and never would have? It was all unfair! This whole scheme of life was a--it was a crooked game, where the cards were stacked against some people all their lives. What would this spoiled darling over there, with her clothes and her swell ways--what would she have done if she'd been born in a rotten tenement and--had a sick sister that she loved--a sister she'd die for--like Rosalie? Would she have done any better? Would she?

In the midst of her self-justification, Hester's attention was arrested by a sudden eager interest shown by Miss Thompson in the bishop's talk, which now concerned a man named Hiram Baxter, Betty's guardian, who had, it appeared, crossed on the steamer with the bishop the week before.

"Such a picturesque character, Miss Thompson; so generous and--er--self-reliant and--er----"

"Careful now," warned Betty playfully. "You know Mr. Baxter is very dear to me. Father and he were partners and--he's been like a father to me."

"I know, my child. I only said he was a picturesque character."

"But you were thinking of his slips in grammar and his funny little ways of talking--I just love them."

There was a thrill of almost passionate loyalty in Betty's voice. The bishop, glancing at her eager, flushed face, thought that he had never seen anything lovelier than this ardent championship of Hiram Baxter's foibles.

"I assure you, my dear," he said, hastening to correct her suspicion that he was making fun of Hiram, "I honor Mr. Baxter for the rare qualities of mind and heart that have made him the great man that he is, for the splendid traits that have lifted him to fortune and success from--shall I say so humble a beginning?"

Betty's beautiful eyes kindled with a glow of fondness. "Did he tell you about that? Isn't it splendid the way he fought his way to the top?" Then she added, with a teasing glance, "You see, Guardy has managed his life on the American plan."

"Which abounds in surprises, Miss Thompson, as you may discover."

Betty turned quickly. "What do you mean by that? Did Guardy tell you something?"

The bishop smiled mysteriously. "Mr. Baxter told me a number of things. We walked the deck for hours. We smoked together in the evenings, and--really, I never enjoyed a voyage more."

"Yes, but what did he tell you? Please?" She leaned forward eagerly. "Does it--does it concern me?"

"In a way, but--it's more the general idea. A most extraordinary, a most amusing idea. 'Mr. Baxter,' I said to him when he told me, 'upon my soul, I never met a man like you.'"

"But what was it? Please tell me."

"And Baxter said to me"--the prelate's ample body shook with suppressed merriment--"'Bish,' he said--you know he always calls me 'Bish'--I wish I could remember the speech he made, it was so--so deliciously American. 'Bish,' he said, with that slow drawl of his, 'I'll bet ye four dollars and a quarter'--now what was the rest of it?"

"Never mind the rest of it," interrupted Betty. "Tell me what Guardy's idea is. I must know."

The bishop hesitated while Betty pouted her pretty lips and played petulantly with the strap of her golf bag that stood near. "I suppose he's going to scold me for being extravagant. Is that it?"

The bishop was about to reply when he started in sudden alarm, and, clapping his hand to his coat pocket, exclaimed: "Bless my soul! My purse!"

"Your purse? Why--what?"

The prelate made no answer, but rising quickly, he searched through his garments with grave concern, then, looking at Betty in dismay, he said slowly: "It's gone. I put it in this pocket--you saw me put it there, my dear, and--it's gone."

For some moments neither spoke. Then, by a common impulse, they turned and looked at the stranger whose innocent dark eyes met them with friendly interest and concern.

"I beg your pardon," said the bishop awkwardly. "You haven't by any chance seen a--a purse of mine?"

"A purse," repeated Hester sweetly.

"I may have dropped it," he explained, searching the carriage floor in perplexity. Then he squinted upward at the luggage racks as if expecting to find the purse there.

"You couldn't have dropped it," said Betty. "I saw you put it in your pocket; your inside pocket. It's most extraordinary."

"It's an extremely serious matter," fumed the bishop, and glancing out of the window he saw that they were running into a station.

"I'm sorry," Hester said in a low, sympathetic voice. "Hadn't you better call the guard?"

At this moment Betty sprang up with a cry of understanding. "I have it! Those two Germans! Don't you remember, Bishop, when they jostled against you? You remember?" she turned to Hester.

"Yes, I remember," nodded the dark-eyed girl.

"I wonder--" reflected the prelate.

"There's no doubt of it," pursued Betty. "That's how pickpockets work--two or three together."

As the train stopped the guard was summoned, and for some minutes there was greater excitement in the little station of Farmingdale than had been known there for years. The Bishop of Bunchester robbed of five thousand pounds! Robbed in a railway carriage in broad daylight! The news spread like wildfire, and presently the station master, the guard and the one officer on duty, were in low-voiced conclave at the carriage door, while wondering groups gathered on the platform. Five thousand pounds!

A careful search of the carriage having revealed nothing, it was decided that the three travelers must alight with their luggage so that the robbery could be further investigated while the train proceeded to London.

"I'll have to ask you to come this way, young lady," said the officer presently, to Hester. "Don't get excited. I'm not saying you took it, but you were in the carriage and--we've got to be on the safe side. How about her, your lordship?" He looked at Betty.

The bishop drew himself up to his full official dignity. "This is Miss Thompson, my friend, who is traveling with me."

"Oh! Beg pardon, miss. We have to know these things." He touched his hat apologetically to Betty. Then turning to the Storm girl: "Now then, it will only take a few minutes"; but his whispered instructions to the station master's wife were that the search must be thorough. The station master's wife nodded grimly and beckoned the girl to follow her into a private room, which Hester did with such an air of simple innocence, showing neither fear nor bravado, that she made a most favorable impression.

"I'm sure she had nothing to do with it," declared Betty. And the bishop agreed that it must have been the Germans.

"We have telegraphed the Chatham police to arrest them, your lordship," said the officer.

A little later the station master's wife reappeared, with mollified visage, and reported that she had searched Hester with the greatest care and had found no sign of the purse nor anything that was in the least suspicious. Furthermore, the girl's frank, honest manner had convinced her that she was innocent.

"Of course she is!" cried Betty, taking the stranger's two hands in hers with quick sympathy. "I knew you didn't take it."

Hester's eyes filled with tears at this proof of confidence. She hesitated a moment as if scarcely able to speak, and then: "Thank you, thank you," she murmured.

It was now decided that the Bishop of Bunchester must return at once to Chatham for the purpose of identifying the suspected Germans. There was a train going back shortly.

"You will pardon me, my dear Miss Thompson, for not escorting you to London, as I promised Mr. Baxter, but you see the seriousness, the urgency----"

"Don't think of me. I'll get to London all right. Thank you for your kindness, and I do hope you'll find the purse." Betty gave the bishop her slim gloved hand, and as he looked into her lovely face, so genuinely sympathetic, he could not help reflecting that in his whole episcopal experience he had never met a more charming, a more fascinating young woman than Betty Thompson. Thus it came about that Betty, on a later train, made the last half hour of her journey to London without the bishop's companionship; but not alone, for she insisted that Hester go with her and sit beside her. To this the station authorities consented, after carefully recording the girl's name (she gave it as Jenny Regan of New York City) and other essential facts concerning her. The purse was certainly not on the girl's person nor in her luggage, and, all things considered, there was no justification for holding an American citizen against whom there appeared to be not a shadow of evidence.

So once more it happened that these two young women, so sharply contrasted in character and in physical beauty, sat together in a first-class railway carriage, quite by themselves this time. There was something about Hester Storm (alias Jenny Regan) that interested Betty strangely, something different. She felt that here was a girl worth studying, and she wished to make amends, if possible, for that humiliating search.

They talked of various things. Betty tactful, sympathetic, vaguely puzzled. Hester equally tactful, equally sympathetic and keenly on her guard, for the truth is that the Storm girl's good resolutions had not been proof against an untoward combination of circumstances; and when the Bishop of Bunchester was rudely tumbled against her, she had yielded to temptation, and with one swift, skillful movement had withdrawn the purse from the episcopal pocket; in other words, Hester Storm had stolen the five thousand pounds!