CHAPTER VIII

A FACE IN THE GLASS

Shortly before one o'clock the chiming gong for luncheon resounded pleasantly through the big house and Mrs. Baxter, with thoughtful consideration, came to the library for Betty, who, owing to her secluded dinner the evening before and her breakfast in bed, had not yet met the relatives.

"Don't you think, my dear," began Eleanor, "that we had better stop this foolishness before it goes any farther? Really, now?"

"It's not foolishness, it's very far from foolishness," declared the girl. "You promised to respect my wishes, Mrs. Baxter." Her eyes were so serious that the other yielded forthwith and, leading the way to the dining room, presented Mr. Baxter's new secretary, Miss Thompson, to the assembled guests; and, suddenly, by their indifferent civility, Betty realized how, by a word, she had reduced her importance in the world of Ipping House to about that of a nursery governess.

Very much on her dignity, the new secretary began her meal, seated between Harriet Merle and Lionel Fitz-Brown and directly opposite the Countess Clendennin, whom she studied with alert feminine interest, partly because Kate was obviously a pretty woman of the dashing, showy kind that all other women regard as natural enemies (especially if they happen to be widows under thirty) and chiefly because the countess had Bob Baxter on her right and seemed disposed to make the most of this proximity. "She isn't losing any time," thought Betty, giving Lionel the "listening look," while she noted the breezy unconcern of Kate Clendennin's attack. "She'll be calling him 'old top' in another minute," she said to herself, and Kate, in the next breath, actually did say "my dear boy." Betty laughed aloud, causing Lionel to beam with the happy consciousness of having scored a hit.

Some deprecating references to a Hollandaise sauce served with the turbot drew from Eleanor an apology for the inefficiency of a new cook. There was trouble in the kitchen, she explained, owing to the fact that Mr. Baxter had discharged the housekeeper, Mrs. Edge. This was the first thing he had done the previous evening. He thought Mrs. Edge extravagant and no doubt she was, and, of course, Mr. Baxter must do as he thought best, but it did seem a pity to upset the household.

This indication of Hiram's attitude toward extravagance cast a momentary gloom over the company, which was dissipated by the countess, who pointed out amusingly, and with surprising culinary knowledge, exactly what was wrong with the Hollandaise and added that the late count, her husband, had been an invalid for years before his death, during which time Kate had personally seen to the preparation of his meals.

"I say, Miss Thompson," chuckled Fitz-Brown, in a whisper, "she probably poisoned the old boy. Eh, what?" This genial fancy threw the gentleman into a paroxysm of suppressed laughter.

Betty turned to scrutinize her neighbor and the sight of his jolly, wholesome countenance, as he put forth this singular suggestion, brought her back to complete good humor. England has produced various types of great men, great fighters on land and sea, great writers, great orators, and so have other countries, but England has undisputed preëminence in one variety of masculine product, that is the amiable, monocled, haw-haw, dear old chap, well-meaning, silly ass creation that blooms extensively in London clubs and drawing-rooms.

Such was Lionel Fitz-Brown, who had not been at Betty's side for five minutes before he had given her detailed information as to his dear old uncle in Upper Tooting, who had the title, don't you know, that would come to him one of these days if something would only happen to his cousin in Wormwood Scrubs, who stood between and was disgustingly healthy.

"Can't you get him to go in for flying machines?" suggested Betty mirthfully.

"I say! that's an idea, Miss Thompson," exclaimed Lionel, readjusting his eyeglass. "By Jove, that's an idea! What an awfully jolly thing if I could get one of those airmen or birdmen to give my uncle a few lessons!" And again he burst into roars of laughter.

Betty's attention was now drawn to some remarks of Harriet Merle touching the Progressive Mothers' bazaar that was to be opened this afternoon in St. Timothy's parish house. Harriet dwelt with pride on the fact that her husband, the Reverend Horatio, was to deliver the address. The Reverend Horatio, she said, was at present resting in his room in preparation for his oratorical flights and Harriet would bring him up a light luncheon on a tray. Horatio found it necessary to be very abstemious at these periods of intense mental concentration.

At which Lionel again exploded softly for Betty's particular benefit. "Haw, haw, haw! I'll tell you about this intellectual concentration," he confided. "There's a jolly good reason why the Reverend Horatio isn't sittin' in that chair next to the countess puttin' down this beastly sauce and all the rest of it."

"Tell me," laughed Betty.

"Bend over so she can't hear. Now! It's because she jolly well locks Horatio in his room and leaves him there until he gets his work done."

Betty's eyes danced. "Doesn't he like to work?" she whispered.

"Like to work! Why, Mrs. Horatio nailed up the blinds yesterday in the Reverend Horatio's room so he couldn't climb out through the window. Haw, haw, haw! Intense intellectual cat!"

Whether this last was meant as a slur on Harriet or a compliment to Martin Luther Betty never discovered, for at this moment the luncheon came to an end with a murmur of talk as to afternoon plans. The countess, having flashed her fascinations on young Baxter, now carried him off with a suggestion of cigarettes. Mrs. Baxter proposed a drive and offered to drop the Merles at St. Timothy's, which offer Harriet accepted for herself alone, explaining that the walk would do Horatio good and would allow him to continue his oratorical meditations uninterrupted. This proved to be an unfortunate decision.

Betty returned to her work in the library, where she was glad to be alone, away from the chatter and the trivialities, alone with her thoughts; yet not alone, for every corner of this great room seemed alive with memories of the morning, memories of him. What a very great difference a few hours had made! How extraordinary that this vigorous young American, whom she had not seen for years, should have suddenly--without intending to do it, without dreaming that he had done it--should have--well, what had he done? What was the truth about her feeling for this playmate of her childhood, Bob Baxter?

Does a woman ever admit, even to herself, that a man has won her heart until she has good reason to believe that she has won his? Does a pretty woman, a young and charming woman, ever admit such a thing? Probably not, and Betty was no exception to this rule of feminine reserve. But there were two significant indications in her thoughts, one that she did not in the least enjoy the Countess Kate's flirtatious tendencies with Bob and the other a decision that now she could not break her incognito, even if she would. Her pride forbade it. To let Bob know that she was his old friend, Betty Thompson, would be a confession of weakness, as if she admitted that she was not charming or pretty enough to attract him simply as Miss Thompson. No, decidedly she would not tell him.

Betty had just arrived at this self-respecting conclusion when there came a step outside and the curate entered.

"I beg your pardon," he began timidly. "I am the Reverend Horatio Merle, one of the relatives. I believe you are Miss Thompson, the new secretary?"

"Yes," said Betty.

Horatio consulted his watch and paused as if making an arithmetical calculation.

"Let me see, the bazaar opens at half past three. My watch says five minutes past three, which means that it is really a quarter past two. I like to keep my watch fifty-five minutes ahead of time, Miss Thompson," he explained, with a bright smile.

"Why not an hour ahead?" she laughed.

"No, no! An hour would be too much. Fifty-five minutes gives me exactly time to dress and shave and--I beg your pardon for going into these details. The point is I had just started for the bazaar--you see I like to go leisurely--and I was passing the lodge when I met a young woman, a fellow country-woman of yours--my wife mentioned to me, Miss Thompson, that you are an American?"

"Yes, I'm an American."

"Ah! Very fortunate! Extremely fortunate!" He stood twisting his long fingers together in great satisfaction. "The young woman I speak of is also an American, a most deserving person, but--er--she has met with reverses and--er--Mrs. Baxter has been kind enough to let her stay at the lodge and do what she can to--er--assist."

"I see," nodded the girl.

"Her name is Hester Storm, and, as she naturally feels lonely here, being an American, I thought that you would speak to her and--er--perhaps encourage her?"

"Of course I would."

"I may add that Miss Storm rendered me an important service the other day when I was sore beset in--er--I'll explain that later on. She is outside now, in fact, she seems anxious to meet you and--er--may I?"

"Certainly," said Betty, with cordial sympathy and following the curate toward the conservatory she made out the figure of a woman in a red cloak, a strangely familiar red cloak, sharply contrasted against the foliage, and as the woman turned and came forward Betty saw, with a start of recognition, that it was her companion on the train, Jenny Regan.

"This is the young woman--Miss Hester Storm," said the curate.

"Miss Hester Storm?" repeated Betty, in surprise, while the other threw her a beseeching glance for silence.

"Yes. An interesting name, is it not?" chattered Merle, quite oblivious to the rapid pantomime that was passing between the two women. "She has been traveling with a Russian princess, but the princess drank--it was very unfortunate and--Hester will tell you about it--won't you, my dear?"

"I'll tell her all about it," answered the dark-eyed girl, and she managed, with the pleading of her eyes, to give the words a double meaning.

This being arranged, Horatio took a hurried departure, announcing that he must have time to compose his mind before the Progressive Mothers' address.

"Well?" questioned Betty, when the two women were alone.

"Don't blame me, Miss Thompson, until you've heard what I have to say," begged Hester.

"He called you Hester Storm."

"I know, but----"

"Your name is Jenny Regan--isn't it?"

"Please let me speak. I couldn't give my real name--after what happened on the train. It's been printed in the papers and--don't you see, nobody here would have trusted me? It's terrible to be suspected of a thing when--when you're innocent."

Betty pondered this. "I suppose that is true," she agreed, and Hester breathed more easily. At least she was to have a chance to tell her story, some story, and her inventive faculties had never failed her yet. It was a pity if she couldn't cook up a tale that would satisfy this rich girl's curiosity without arousing her suspicion.

"You want to know how I happen to be here?" anticipated Hester.

Betty admitted that she would like to know this and straightway the other began her extemporization, the general lines of which, it must be said, had been planned in advance, for she realized that her benefactress was no fool. It was simply a plausible continuation of her hard luck story as outlined on the train, with a vivid insistence on the shock she had suffered through being unjustly suspected. This was the last straw and it had broken her spirit. No one would believe in her or help her, and she hadn't the courage to struggle any longer. She didn't care what happened to her, she didn't want to live and--just as she was in this wicked spirit, she had thought of Betty, and it had seemed as if she heard a voice telling her to go to this gentle lady who had befriended her and--trusted her and----

At this point, as Hester was working up to an effective climax of sighs and tears, Parker entered and addressed Betty in his most haughty manner.

"Mr. Robert Baxter gave me these 'ere letters. He said I was to give 'em to the new secretary."

"Very well," said Betty, and she took the papers, while the dark girl stared in amazement. The tables were suddenly turned.

"The new secretary?" questioned Hester, when the butler had gone. "He called you the new secretary?" Her eyes were on Betty steadily now, and they were no longer pleading, submissive eyes, but had suddenly become hard and suspicious.

"Why--er--I can explain that," Betty hesitated.

Hester nodded shrewdly. "It'll take a lot of explaining, if you ask me. On the level, are you a lady or--what?"

"I've been doing Mr. Baxter's secretarial work----"

She felt the color flaming in her cheeks under Hester's bold scrutiny. "It's a--a sort of a joke."

"A joke? You pound that typewriter--for a joke?"

"Why--er--I do it to help Mr. Baxter."

Hester studied Betty silently, then, in a cold, even tone, "Say, lady, you'll have to show me. I'm in bad myself and--I want to know about you. Ain't this Mr. Baxter that you're tryin' to help, ain't he a rich man?"

"Yes, but--Mr. Baxter has had losses in business and--he has enemies and---- Oh, you wouldn't understand! You can't understand!"

Hester turned away and walked toward the conservatory. She must think. After all it was none of her business why Elizabeth Thompson was doing Baxter's secretary work. Hester was at Ipping House for the golf bag and for nothing else, and straightway she returned to her original plan of propitiating Miss Thompson and thus establishing herself in the Baxter household.

"All right, lady," she said, softening her tone, "I'll take your word for it, but--if you've had troubles yourself you know how I feel and--all I ask is a chance to work and--make a living."

"What kind of work can you do?"

"Sewing, all kinds of sewing and--I can trim hats. I make all my own things. I made this dress and this cloak."

"Really! I think your cloak is very smart," and Hester reflected that it might well be, seeing that she had paid five hundred francs for it on the Rue de la Paix.

"I suppose I could recommend you to Mrs. Baxter and the other ladies," hesitated Betty, "for sewing and mending, only--there's our meeting on the train--it's very awkward."

"Why is it? We don't have to tell them about the train, do we? I'm here anyway. The Reverend Merle got me here. All I ask you to do is to let me fix over some dresses and shirtwaists."

"Very well," decided the secretary. "I'll do that."

"Say, will you let me begin right away? Will you? So I can satisfy that she dragon down at the lodge?"

"Mrs. Pottle?"

Hester nodded, with expressive pantomime indicating the nature of the dragon. "If that old thing knows I'm sewing for the ladies here she'll let up on the scrubbing talk. Why should I scrub when I can sew?"

This sounded reasonable and Betty began to feel that she had been not quite kind to Hester.

"It's a good time now," she said, with increasing friendliness. "I've nearly finished this work and, if you don't mind going to my room, we'll see what we can find."

The Storm girl gave a little gasp of joy. Was there ever anything as easy as this? Would she mind going to Miss Thompson's room! Would she mind taking $25,000 on a gold spoon? Oh, dear! Oh, dear!

But she simply answered with a grateful, innocent look, "I'll be glad to go."

So they climbed the winding stair, Hester thrilling with expectation. She had no doubt the bishop's purse was still in the golf bag's depths where she had dropped it, and the golf bag itself was probably in this very room where they were going; or, if not there, it must be knocking about in some odd corner or dusty closet, where she would quickly find it, now that she had the run of the house, and, having found it----

"Oh!" she cried suddenly and stopped short at the open door, unable to speak or to move, for there, in plainest sight, resting against a tall chest of drawers, was the coveted object, the treasure-holding golf bag.

"What is it?" asked Betty.

"Nothing, lady. I--I was a little out of breath," stammered the girl, recovering herself quickly. Here was her golden opportunity and she must not spoil it by any queer behavior.

And now Hester's luck attended her, for not only was Betty quite oblivious to her protégée's agitation, but, after some perfunctory wardrobe investigation, she remembered, with misgivings, those letters that Bob had sent to be copied, and she fell in readily with an artful suggestion that the sewing girl be left here in the chamber to repair a torn skirt while Betty descended to her duties in the library. It really was too easy!

As soon as she was alone Hester moved swiftly toward the golf bag, then paused and glanced cautiously about her. Every moment was precious, but she must make no mistakes. A chance like this wouldn't come twice to a girl and--what was that?

She listened intently, afraid of her own breathing. Silence! It must have been a creaking timber. Absolute silence! Ah, there was the typewriter clicking! A good thing Miss Thompson had left the little door ajar! She could hear any slightest sound from the library, any step on the stair.

Very carefully Hester lifted the golf bag by its supporting strap. She remembered how the clubs had rattled that day in Charing Cross station. They rattled a little now. Should she take them out or try to reach down into the bag? Better see where the purse was first. No, she couldn't see. There were too many clubs packed in close together and--it was all dark--down at the bottom. Perhaps she could see better by the window or--ah! the electric light! There by the dressing table! She could hold the bag right under it.

A moment later, with a smothered click, the lamp gave forth its yellow glare, and, quivering with excitement, Hester looked down among the clubs. One glance was enough. There at the very bottom, nestling comfortably between a niblick and a cleek, lay the fat brown purse held tight in its elastic band, the bishop's purse, with its incredible hoard of banknotes. The thing was done! The trick was turned! She had only to lay the bag softly on Betty's bed--there, and reach her arm in and--what was that?

With a swift, instinctive movement Hester stood the golf bag back in its corner, then turned slowly, and, as her eyes swept the mirror, she saw that she was deathly pale. What was that creaking noise? A step? She strained her ears, but there was no sound save the steady typewriter murmur from below. Then, still looking in the mirror, she gazed, fascinated, at a door on the farther side of the chamber, not the door to the library stair, but another door, a green door, and, as she looked, this door opened slightly and she saw distinctly the reflection of a man's face, a man with a slightly twisted nose and a shock of black hair. He was standing there in the green door staring at her, and it seemed to Hester that she had seen this man somewhere before.

[Illustration: "It seemed to Hester that she had seen this man somewhere before."]