The Red Mouse: A Mystery Romance

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  The Red Mouse

  A Mystery Romance

  By WILLIAM HAMILTON OSBORNE

  ILLUSTRATED BY THE KINNEYS

  _A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York_

  COPYRIGHT, 1909 BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY

  Published, January, 1909

  _To_ L. G. S. O.

  "'DID YOU PUT _HIM_ IN THAT FRAME?'"]

  I

  For years--the best years of her life, for that matter, as she oftenreflected in lonely moments--Miriam Challoner had been trying to proveto her own satisfaction that her husband was no worse than the majorityof young men married to rich women, but she could never find thearguments whereby she might arrive at the desired conclusion. It is notto be wondered at, then, that eventually there came a day when theinformation was brought to her that even in the gay andultra-fashionable world in which they moved people spoke of him as "thatmad Challoner," and were saying that he was going a pace that wasrapidly carrying him far beyond the horizon of anything likerespectability--going to the dogs, in truth, as fast as her money couldtake him there.

  Now Miriam Challoner was not one of those women who deceive themselves,if not their friends, when they say that if ever they hear of theirhusbands doing such-and-such-a-thing they know perfectly well what theywill do. It is true that, like them, she did nothing; nevertheless, shecould not be persuaded to discuss with any one the humiliating positionin which her husband had placed her.

  In a way, this attitude of hers was unfortunate, for it was more or lessresponsible for the note of melancholy cadence which crept into hermind. And so it was that before very long she was dimly conscious of anemotion quite unlike anything that she had hitherto experienced: all thebitterness in her heart had given way to a sickening sensation that she,as well as as he, had been tried in the matrimonial furnace and foundwanting. Somehow, she had fallen grievously in her own estimation!

  And society's estimation? Illusions in that direction were hardlypossible; there, too, doubtless she would incur the loss of a certainamount of consideration. And even the non-possession of a highlyimaginative temperament did not prevent her from fancying the expressiveshrugs, and "Oh, of course his wife is to blame," which, for the sake ofan inference that is obvious, would be voiced by more than oneimpeccable dame of her acquaintance--as often as not superbly gulliblesouls, whose eloquence increases in direct proportion to the world'slack of belief in the fidelity of their liege lords.

  Nor were comments of that kind the worst that she might expect! For, asa penalty for belonging to a set which, to a greater degree, perhaps,than any other, recognises the possibility of an up-to-date couplehaving a mutually implied understanding that neither shall object to thediscreet--and more or less temporary--faithlessness of the other--sheknew that it would be well-nigh miraculous if some kindly disposedpersons did not go still further for an explanation of his conduct, andpoint to her and her husband as a conspicuous example of such a preciouspair. But though her whole being rebelled at the mere thought that therecould be people who would regard her in such a light, she could notbring herself to take decisive action of any kind. There was nothingthat could be said, she told herself, nothing that could be done--sincea most conscientious and pitiless self-analysis had failed to reveal anywifely shortcoming--except to have faith that there were some of hersex--not many, it is true, but still a few friends--who would continueto believe her incapable of doing any of the things that so many othersdid, for whom there was far less excuse than there would be for her.

  But whatever were the opinions of the women, there was no disposition onthe part of the men to hold her in any way responsible for hisbehaviour. Far from it. And in a favourite corner of an exclusive club,when the names of fair ladies--mostly of the stage--were bandied aboutas figuring in young Challoner's escapades, old cronies of his father,between sips of their Scotch and sodas, were wont to boil over withcontemptuous indignation and explosively give thanks to the gods forwilling that their lovable, old-time friend should not live to see theconfirmation of his fears. And how well they recalled those fears!

  For notwithstanding his very moderate circumstances, the elder Challonerhad been that rarest of mortals--a man blissfully content with his lotin life, and, one who seldom missed an opportunity to deplore theinsatiable craze of the rich for more riches, forever protesting thatblatant commercialism, haste and artificiality were the gods of thepresent day; and no picture in their gallery of lasting impressionsstood out more vividly than the one in which, surrounded by a group ofyoung fellows, who had "got him going," as they phrased it, he wasdeclaiming against--what was merely his pet hobby in another form--theegregious folly of poor young men seeking riches through marriage.

  "... and I, young gentlemen," he would conclude with great earnestness,"will always maintain that such a union will make a man lose allincentive to work out what the good Lord has put in him."

  Little wonder, then, that on the announcement that a marriage had been"arranged" between Challoner's son and a daughter of a man whose namethe world over was significant of fiscal potency, the day bid fair to bea memorable one at the club, his contemporaries preparing to make merryat the old fellow's expense. But in a sense his "showing up" there hadbeen a disappointment; one look at the face, which showed symptoms ofdistress and a desire to be reassured, was sufficient to cause thebanter to die in their hearts before it had reached their lips.

  It soon came out that there had been a scene between father and son.These two, for many years, had been the only members of the family; andprobably better than any one in the world the father had known the son'sweaknesses: hypersensitive to new influences, vanity and inability tosay no; and he had pointed out to him the many disadvantages--dangers toone of his temperament--which he could see in such an alliance. To thefather's thinking, the boy would have no home--only establishments,yachts, racing-stables and motor-cars; and he had contended that therewere far more desirable things in life than the possession ofthese--from which it can easily be surmised that J. Lawrence Challoner,senior, was a man little in sympathy with the ideas of modernfashionable society.

  Now to appreciate the mental anguish of another organism--even if thatorganism is one's own parent--is never an easy matter; and of all men,the modern lover is apt to be the last to succumb to an argument thatpredicts a blighted future because of an intention to marry an heiress.And so it was only natural that Lawrence should have regarded his fatheras an old fogy, have resented his warnings and have replied that he wascompetent to look after his own affairs and that, anyhow, the consent ofthe girl's parents had been obtained and no interference was possible.And with that the father's manner had completely changed: he had wishedthe boy the best of luck; sent him away happy. Obviously, all this wasyears ago; parents on both sides had passed away; and yet things hadturned out pretty much as the old man had dreaded. Indeed, matters hadcome to this pass: how long this indulgent wife would continue to keepher eyes shut to her husband making ducks and drakes of her fortune, andwhy she did it, were questions which interested all who knew thiscouple, but which Challoner apparently thought wholly unnecessary to askhimself.

  An automobile--Mrs. Challoner's automobile--was largely instrumental inbringing matters to a climax. As trouble-makers the "machines" rankhigh; in fact, there are moments when it would seem as if the arch-fiendhimself were in them; otherwise, how account for the mysteriousinfluence that makes p
eople lose command of themselves once they are incommand of them; that leads astray, as some one has said, the great andthe good as well as those of lesser clay; that produces theextraordinary state of mind that rejoices in riding rough-shod over therights and feelings of others; while one and all claim to recognise hishandicraft in the ingenuity which the "machines" display in selectingthe most inopportune times and least accessible places for an exhibitionof their mechanical ailments.

  But be that as it may, in this particular instance the devil was notlurking in, tampering with the improvements and refinements of detail inthe big, red body of Mrs. Challoner's Mastodon model--no, it was notwith the machine that he was concerned, but with the man himself,befuddling whatever brains he had left; and the devil it was and noother that incited Challoner to leave a certain establishment,--aboutwhich we shall have something to say later on,--take the wheel from thechauffeur and embark on a sensational, bacchic career up the Avenue atan hour when the view of that fashionable thoroughfare through thesilken, shimmery curtains falling over a window in a corner house facingthe Park was too alluring not to be irresistible.

  And so it came about that the comments on the passing throng made by twowomen, indulging in afternoon tea in Mrs. Challoner's white and golddrawing-room, were interrupted in a manner that was as unexpected as itwas embarrassing.

  "Look, Miriam!" Shirley Bloodgood was saying to her hostess, apropos ofa woman passing by whom they both knew, "did you ever see anything moreatrocious than that gown?"

  The other smiled her appreciation; and again the voluble Miss Bloodgoodwent on:--

  "And do look at the Heath girls in those huge hats--what frights!"

  But whatever were her thoughts on the subject, Miriam Challoner did notanswer, for precisely at that moment her attention was attracted bysomething strangely familiar in an unusually insolent and insistenthonking of a motor-horn, which was causing a wave of apprehension tosweep down the long line of vehicles. And a moment later they saw thatchauffeurs were rudely interrupting the purring of automobiles lazingover their allotted miles; that drivers were swerving their horses intocloser relations with the curb; that hardly had these attained aposition of comparative safety than there flashed by them and fetched upin front of Mrs. Challoner's house a big machine, which a distinguishedthough dissipated looking man had been recklessly forcing with utterdisregard of the right of way, a performance which called forth a volleyof expletives not only from cabbies singularly unappreciative of hisdexterity in executing perilously close shaves, but likewise from angrypedestrians, who had halted on hearing the groan with which themachinery protested his sudden braking.

  For a moment that seemed minutes the atmosphere in the drawing-room waselectric, the tension almost unbearable, for it was impossible foreither of the women to doubt that the other saw what she had seen: thecondition that the man was in who had leaped from the car and was nowcrossing the sidewalk apparently oblivious to the exclamations of wonderand lament that he had escaped authoritative vigilance.

  Rising quickly, Shirley Bloodgood put out her hand. "Good-bye--thank youso much, Miriam!" There was an amazement of question in the eyes thatinvoluntarily sought those of her friend; but her one thought was toescape what she wisely interpreted as an oncoming scene between husbandand wife.

  But though there was a mist before her eyes, a surging in her ears, nota muscle of Miriam Challoner's face moved; and she permitted the girlbefore her to perceive no emotion other than gentle surprise.

  "Surely, my dear, you're not going?--What?--So soon?"

  Conventional though they were, there could be no mistaking the tone ofsincerity in Mrs. Challoner's words as she took the girl's hand in bothof hers with an affectionate movement. Indeed, for the barest fractionof a second it almost succeeded in convincing Shirley that thedistressing incident of the motor had entirely escaped her; at any rate,it augmented the doubt whether the woman before her had even an inklingof the stories in circulation concerning the doings of her husband. Norwas such a conclusion at all illogical. Shirley Bloodgood could recallnot a word that Miriam Challoner had ever uttered during all the yearsof her married life, nor a look that could be construed as implying aknowledge of his dissipations; on the contrary, there had been timeswhen the girl had been so exasperated over the wife's outspokenadmiration for qualities in the man which Shirley knew that he did notpossess, that she had been sorely tempted to enlighten her friend as tohis escapades. But gratifying as was the thought of the wife's possibleignorance, it by no means lessened the necessity of a hasty departure onShirley's part; and somewhat confusedly but affectionately she kissedher hostess good-bye.

  "Oh, my dear Miriam, but I must--your tea is perfectly delicious though.If only I had time...." Shirley stopped abruptly; her endeavour toconceal her anxiety to be gone was making her uncertain of her words.

  "One's tea, like one's friends, my dear, should be of the best," Miriamreturned with a sweet smile. And apparently thinking of nothing but hersomewhat insipid little compliment, she laughed pleasantly, passed herarm lovingly round the girl's waist, and accompanied her to the door ofthe drawing-room.

  Miriam's smile and manner touched Shirley deeply. The inclination tooffer words of comfort was strong in this tall, rangy girl, whose everymovement was as graceful as it was impulsive. How sweet, how easy itwould be, she thought, if Miriam would only give a hint that they wouldbe welcome. But like many another woman, Miriam Challoner had schooledherself to face the world with a smile; had learned that to lay bareone's heart, even to one's friends, is to court surprise, perhapsridicule; and that to dissimulate though it kills is to play well one'spart; and she gave no sign.

  On reaching the hall below, Shirley was able to see through the opendoor Challoner ascending swiftly but uncertainly the grey, stone steps.With a quick movement she drew to one side while he sullenly pushed byhis wife's young butler, Stevens, and began to stumble up thesoft-carpeted, wide stairway; then, unnoticed and with a sigh of relief,she fled out into the street.

  Left rather abruptly alone, Mrs. Challoner went back into thedrawing-room, and resting her arms on the mantel, bowed her head uponthem and gave way to the misery of her reflections. It was not the firsttime, to be sure, that Lawrence had returned in this condition, butheretofore he had been gracious enough to have had it occur at night;and she had cherished the belief that she was his only witness. Now,there was an element connected with his home-coming that was stillharder to bear: the sympathy which pleaded for recognition on the faceof her friend, and which told more plainly than words that she had seenall, understood all. Presently, lifting her head, she crossed the roomand seated herself; then raising her hands she let them dropdespairingly along the arms of the chair while the unbidden tearsoverflowed. In this position she remained until the sound of footstepswarned her of her husband's approach; then a moment of struggle forself-control; a brushing away of tears, and finally, rising, she lefther seat for one behind the tea-table. And it was in this unquestionedpoint of vantage, apparently cool and collected, in the act of pouringherself out a cup of tea, that Challoner's gaze first rested upon hiswife as, lurching in his walk but his eyes holding a purpose, he cameinto her presence.

  "Well, Miriam, here I am ... I've come home, you see!" he blurted out ina don't-care-what-happens sort of manner, and without waiting for ananswer slumped into a chair and added sneeringly: "You're notover-demonstrative, my dear!"

  Mrs. Challoner winced. During the long days and nights of suspense andwonder as to his whereabouts, she had solaced herself with inventingplausible excuses for his absence; how useless they were, his looks,manner, and more than anything else the intonation of his voice nowshowed; she dared not trust herself to speak lest she should give way tofoolish invective.

  Challoner came to the point at once.

  "Miriam, I must have some money!" It was not a request; it was acommand.

  Up to this time the young wife had not lifted her eyes from the tea-cupin her hand. She was a woman with brown eyes and ver
y attractive brownhair, but upon the face that still should have held the freshness ofyouth deep lines were beginning to appear. Pretty she was, in a way,though she had never been beautiful; and yet there was something thatspelt beauty in the brown eyes which she now fixed upon him.

  "For three days you have been away--where have you been?" The necessityfor saying something alone was responsible for the question. Many daysafterward in reviewing the painful scene, she was positive that she hadnot inquired nor had he volunteered the information.

  "I don't know," he answered dully, half-truthfully. "All I know is thatI landed at Cradlebaugh's." And after a moment, noting the look ofmystification on her face, he snapped out: "Cradlebaugh's gamblingrooms--gambling rooms, there--now you know."

  With the last words he rose excitedly, stalked over to a table and smoteit with his clenched hand. "I tell you I must have some money!"

  Miriam Challoner would not have been human if again bitter words had notrisen to her lips. But one quick glance at the puffy face, thered-rimmed eyes was sufficient to warn her of the danger of exciting hisanger while in his present condition; and instead she merely inclinedher head--an action which instantly caused hope to surge into the eyesof Challoner.

  "I want--I must have a thousand dollars." Here again, the attitude wasnot that of a suppliant; in the demand was more of the highwayman thanof the beggar.

  Mrs. Challoner's dark eyes met those of the man, held them steady; thenshe said firmly, decisively:--

  "Lawrence, much as it hurts me to refuse you, I feel that I must. It isfor your own good." The soft gown that clung to her figure seemed totake more rigid lines as she drew herself up and went on with: "I cangive you nothing more--this sort of thing has gone quite far enough."

  For an instant Challoner was stunned. His wife had never looked at himlike that; there was something in the catch of her breath, too, as sheended, that meant denial, he was certain. But he took courage andrenewed his attack; and meeting with no success, he turned to imploring,begging for the money. Did she not know that he would not ask her if hedid not _have_ to have it? Women never could understand why men had tohave money--she didn't understand. If she would only let him have themoney, he would pledge himself to mend his ways, anything--but he musthave money. When men had to have money, they _had_ to have it--that wasall there was to it. And then a violent irresistible impulse to beperfectly truthful, to lay bare his mind before her, took hold of him;and that mind was so warped, his need so desperate, that he cameperilously near to blurting out the real reason why he needed the money.For an instant he actually thought that his wife would see, understand,appreciate the reason as some of his male friends doubtless would.

  "I'll tell you how it is, Miriam ..." he had begun, and then suddenlystopped.

  What was he about to do! Was there not something queer, something notexactly right, in his telling Miriam about the other woman? After all,that was the one thing in his life that he had never told her. She waswelcome to the rest, but that--she mustn't know that; and he ended bypleading:--

  "Surely, Miriam, you're not going to refuse me--come...."

  "I am sorry, Lawrence, but I must." There was a sob in the refusal asshe turned away.

  And still like a spoiled child the husband would not abandon his plea.Besides, he had detected the sob. Once more his attitude underwent achange: he moved toward her, holding out his arms as though to gatherher into them. It was a charm that always worked with Miriam; it wouldnow, he told himself.

  But Challoner was doomed to disappointment. It was the last touch neededto complete her humiliation; and waving him back, she cried:--

  "Laurie, Laurie, anything but that!" There was a flood of tears behindher look of pain.

  "But I must ... Cradlebaugh...." he came to a helpless pause.

  Mrs. Challoner slowly repeated the name:--

  "Cradlebaugh! I wish you had never seen that man--that class of men!Your money--my money very likely has been going to them! Well, if youwant money you will have to...." The tension snapped and she drew herhand across her eyes, then broke down completely.

  "A sign of weakening," Challoner said to himself, and promptly startedtoward her.

  "No, no,--go!" she cried, drawing her hands up to her face as if to shutout the sight of him from her gaze.

  A moment later Challoner was seated in the motorcar. As the chauffeurthrew in the clutch some instinct told Challoner to look back. He had afleeting impression that he had seen a woman's face in the doorway."Surely that's Miriam," he thought, and lifted his hat; but when helooked again there was no one there. Yet if his senses had beenperfectly normal, he would have known that it was her face that he hadseen. But the fates had no intention of letting him know that with hisdeparture his wife's resolution had gone, and that she had come to thedoor to beseech him to come back; for even then they were cunninglyspinning the web which was to encompass him about.