Part 19 (2/2)

”What was she then?” persisted Marny.

”I don't know. My only solution was that she was herself in danger of her life and had cooked up the yarn about her brother to get out of Vienna.”

”Did he get his pa.s.sport back?” asked Stirling.

”Yes, three months afterward by mail to his bankers from the Hotel Metropole. She, or somebody else, had been half over Europe with it; twice to St. Petersburg and once to Warsaw. The clothes and bag he never heard of. The waiter at the Cafe Ivanoff--the one she called Polski--had disappeared and he dare not make any inquiries.”

”But I don't see why he was afraid, an American like him,” broke in Marny.

”Let up, Marny!” exclaimed Boggs. ”Don't spoil a good yarn. What difference does it make who she was? You've got a first rate doll, don't pick it to pieces to find out what it's stuffed with; give your imagination play and enjoy it. She suggests a dozen things to me, but I don't want any one of them _proved_. She might have been chief of a band of poisoners with a private graveyard in her cellar; her smile, perdition; her glance, death. She could also have eluded the Secret Service of Russia for years in disguises that the mother who bore her wouldn't have known her in;--her exploits the talk of all Europe. Then her miraculous escapes--one for instance across the frontier in a sledge on forged pa.s.sports, and the disguise of an officer, her maid dressed as an orderly, both of them smothered in priceless furs; her being trailed to her hotel by a sleuth; her lightning change of costume to low-neck gown and jewels given her by a Russian Grand Duke whose body was found in the Neva the morning after she left; the murder of the sleuth, with a card tied to the stiletto marked with a skull and crossbones. You fellows are going wild over this new French impressionistic craze--the vague, the mysterious, and the suggestive. Why not apply it to literature? If a man can paint a figure with three dabs of his brush, why can't a man draw a character or a situation with three strokes of his pen? You are too literal, old man!”

”Anything else, you overstuffed, loquacious sausage?” cried Marny.

”Yes,” retorted Boggs. ”That woman was no doubt a member of the----”

”Stop, you beggar!” cried Jack Stirling. ”Don't let him get loose again, Marny! Stuff a pipe in his mouth. Boggs, you are the only man I know who can start his mouth going and go away and leave it. Here, fellows, get on your feet and line up and receive the spoilt child of fas.h.i.+on. He's coming upstairs: I know his step.”

At this instant Woods's body was thrust around the jamb of the door. He still wore the rose in his b.u.t.ton-hole, the one Miss B. J.--the original of the portrait--had pinned there.

Mac sprang up and caught the intruder by the shoulders before he had time to open his mouth.

”Been having a tea, have you, you gilt-edged fraud! A highly perfumed powder-puff tea, with lace on the edges and two flounces. 'Oh, how exquisite, dear Mr. Woods! And is it really all hand-painted? and did you do it all yourself? How enormously clever you are--How lovely--How--' Got pretty sick of that sort of taffy after they had gormed you up with it for three hours, didn't you, Woods? and you had to come up where you could breathe! Now rip off that undertaker's coat, throw away that rose, get into that sketching jacket, and sit down here and disinfect yourself with a pipe--” and Mac's hearty laugh rang through the room.

PART IX

_Around the Embers of the Dying Fire._

Spring had come. The trees in the old Square were tuneful with impatient birds ready to move in and begin housekeeping as soon as the buds poked their yellow heads out of their nestings of bark. The eager sun, who had been trying all winter to gain the corner of Mac's studio window, had finally carried the sash and grimy pane by a.s.sault: its beams were now basking on the Daghestan rug in full defiance of the smouldering coals crouching half-dead in their bed of ashes.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Around the embers of the dying fire.]

From an open window--Mac had thrown it wide--came a breath of summer air, telling of green fields and fleecy clouds; of lappings about the bows of canoes; of balsam beds under bark slants; of white scoured decks and dancing waves; of queer cafes under cool arched trees and snowy peaks against the blue.

The glorious old fire felt the sun's power and shuddered, trembling with an ill-defined fear. It knew its days were numbered, perhaps its hours.

No more romping and sky-larking; no more outbursts of crackling laughter; no more scurrying up the ghostly chimney, the madcap sparks playing hide-and-seek in the soot; no more hugging close of the old logs, warming themselves and everybody about them; no more jolly nights with the hearth swept and the pipes lighted, the faces of the smokers aglow with the radiance of the cheery blaze.

Its old enemy, the cold, had given up the fight and had crept away to hide in the North; so had the snow and the icy winds. No more! No more!

Spring had come. Summer was already calling. Now for big bowls of blossoms, their fragrance mingling with the pungent odor of slanting lines of smoke. Now for half-closed blinds, through which sunbeams peeped and restless insects buzzed in and out. Now for long afternoons, soft twilights, and wide-open windows, their sashes framing the stars.

Mac had noted the signs and was getting ready for the change. Already had he opened his dust-covered trunk and had hauled out, from a collection of tramping shoes, old straw hats, and summer clothes, a thin painting coat in place of his pet velveteen jacket. It was only at night that he raked out the coals hiding their faces in the ashes, gathered them together--the fire had never gone out since the day he lighted it--and encouraged them with a comforting log.

Most of the members had formed their plans for the summer; one or two had already bidden good-by to the Circle. Lonnegan was off trout-fis.h.i.+ng, and Jack Stirling was three days out--off the Banks really.

”Gone to look up Christine and the old boys and girls,” Marny said; at which Mac shook his head, knowing the bee, and knowing also the kinds and varieties of flowers which grew in the gardens most frequented by that happy-go-lucky fellow.

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