Er and making his will. And at last she had gone to the
apartments of the man who had her letters, in a taxicab covered
with a heavy veil, and had got them back. He had shot himself when
she returned--the husband--but she burned the letters and then called
a Doctor, and he was saved. Not the doctor, of course. The husband.
The villain's only hold on her had been the letters, so he went to South
Africa and was gored by an elephant, thus passing out of her life.
Then and there I knew that I would have to get my letter back from
H. Without it he was powerless. The trouble was that I did not know
where he was staying. Even if he came out of a Cabinet, the Cabinet
would have to be somewhere, would it not?
I felt that I would have to meet gile with gile. And to steal one's
own letter is not really stealing. Of course if he was visiting any
one and pretending to be a real person, I had no chance in the
world. But if he was stopping at a hotel I thought I could manage.
The man in the book had had an apartment, with a Japanese servant,
who went away and drew plans of American Forts in the kitchen and
left the woman alone with the desk containing the Letter. But I daresay
that was unusualy lucky and not the sort of thing to look forward to.
With me, to think is to act. Hannah was out, it being Xmas and her
brother-in-law having a wake, being dead, so I was free to do
anything I wanted to.
First I called the Club and got Carter Brooks on the telephone.
"Carter," I said, "I--I am writing a letter. Where is--
where does H. stay?"
"Who?"
"H.--Mr. Grosvenor."
"Why, bless your ardent little Heart! Writing, are you? It's
sublime, Bab!"
"Where does he live?"
"And is it all alone you are, on Xmas Night!" he burbled. (This is
a word from Alice in WonderLand, and although not in the
dictionery, is quite expressive.)
"Yes," I replied, bitterly. "I am old enough to be married off
without my consent, but I am not old enough for a real Ball. It
makes me sick."
"I can smuggle him here, if you want to talk to him."
"Smuggle!" I said, with scorn. "There is no need to smuggle him.
The Familey is crazy about him. They are flinging me at him."
"Well, that's nice," he said. "Who'd have thought it! Shall I bring
him to the 'phone?"
"I don't want to talk to him. I hate him."
"Look here," he observed, "if you keep that up, he'll begin to
beleive you. Don't take these little quarrels too hard, Barbara.
He's so happy to-night in the thought that you----"
"Does he live in a Cabinet, or where?"
"In a what? I don't get that word."
"Don't bother. Where shall I send his letter?"
Well, it seemed he had an apartment at the Arcade, and I rang off.
It was after eleven by that time, and by the time I had got into my
school mackintosh and found a heavy veil of mother's and put it on,
it was almost half past.
The house was quiet, and as Patrick had gone, there was no one
around in the lower Hall. I slipped out and closed the door behind
me, and looked for a taxicab, but the veil was so heavy that I
hailed our own limousine, and Smith had drawn up at the curb before
I knew him.
"Where to, lady?" he said. "This is a private car, but I'll take
you anywhere in the city for a dollar."
A flush of just indignation rose to my cheek, at the knowledge that
Smith was using our car for a taxicab! And just as I was about to
speak to him severely, and threaten to tell father, I remembered,
and walked away.
"Make it seventy-five cents," he called after me. But I went on. It
was terrable to think that Smith could go on renting our car to all
sorts of people, covered with germs and everything, and that I
could never report it to the Familey.
I got a real taxi at last, and got out at the Arcade, giving the
man.