The Mystery of Mary by Grace Livingston Hill

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THE MYSTERY
OF MARY

BY
GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL LUTZ

AUTHOR OF

MARCIA SCHUYLER,
PHOEBE DEANE, ETC.

FRONTISPIECE BY

ANNA W. SPEAKMAN

[Illustration]

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

* * * * *

Made in the United States of America

COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

THE MYSTERY OF MARY

[Illustration: THEY STRUGGLED UP, SCARCELY PAUSING FOR BREATH _Page 8_]

The Mystery _of_ Mary

I

He paused on the platform and glanced at his watch. The train on which he
had just arrived was late. It hurried away from the station, and was
swallowed up in the blackness of the tunnel, as if it knew its own
shortcomings and wished to make up for them.

It was five minutes of six, and as the young man looked back at the long
flight of steps that led to the bridge across the tracks, a delicate
pencilling of electric light flashed into outline against the city's
deepening dusk, emphasizing the lateness of the hour. He had a dinner
engagement at seven, and it was yet some distance to his home, where a
rapid toilet must be made if he were to arrive on time.

The stairway was long, and there were many people thronging it. A shorter
cut led down along the tracks under the bridge, and up the grassy
embankment. It would bring him a whole block nearer home, and a line of
cabs was standing over at the corner just above the bridge. It was against
the rules to walk beside the tracks--there was a large sign to that effect
in front of him--but it would save five minutes. He scanned the platform
hastily to see if any officials were in sight, then bolted down the
darkening tracks.

Under the centre of the bridge a slight noise behind him, as of soft,
hurrying footsteps, caught his attention, and a woman's voice broke upon
his startled senses.

"Please don't stop, nor look around," it said, and the owner caught up
with him now in the shadow. "But will you kindly let me walk beside you
for a moment, till you can show me how to get out of this dreadful place?
I am very much frightened, and I'm afraid I shall be followed. Will you
tell me where I can go to hide?"

After an instant's astonished pause, he obeyed her and kept on, making
room for her to walk beside him, while he took the place next to the
tracks. He was aware, too, of the low rumble of a train, coming from the
mouth of the tunnel.

His companion had gasped for breath, but began again in a tone of apology:

"I saw you were a gentleman, and I didn't know what to do. I thought you
would help me to get somewhere quickly."

Just then the fiery eye of the oncoming train burst from the tunnel ahead.
Instinctively, the young man caught his companion's arm and drew her
forward to the embankment beyond the bridge, holding her, startled and
trembling, as the screaming train tore past them.

The pent black smoke from the tunnel rolled in a thick cloud about them,
stifling them. The girl, dazed with the roar and blinded by the smoke,
could only cling to her protector. For an instant they felt as if they
were about to be drawn into the awful power of the rushing monster. Then
it had passed, and a roar of silence followed, as if they were suddenly
plunged into a vacuum. Gradually the noises of the world began again: the
rumble of a trolley-car on the bridge; the "honk-honk" of an automobile;
the cry of a newsboy. Slowly their breath and their senses came back.

The man's first thought was to get out of the cut before another train
should come. He grasped his companion's arm and started up the steep
embankment, realizing as he did so that the wrist he held was slender, and
that the sleeve which covered it was of the finest cloth.

They struggled up, scarcely pausing for breath. The steps at the side of
the bridge, made for the convenience of railroad hands, were out of the
question, for they were at a dizzy height, and hung unevenly over the
yawning pit where trains shot constantly back and forth.

As they emerged from the dark, the man saw that his companion was a young
and beautiful woman, and that she wore a light cloth gown, with neither
hat nor gloves.

At the top of the embankment they paused, and the girl, with her hand at
her throat, looked backward with a shudder. She seemed like a young bird
that could scarcely tell which way to fly.

Without an instant's hesitation, the young man raised his hand and hailed
a four-wheeler across the street.

"Come this way, quick!" he urged, helping her in. He gave the driver his
home address and stepped in after her. Then, turning, he faced his
companion, and was suddenly keenly aware of the strange situation in which
he had placed himself.

"Can you tell me what is the matter," he asked, "and where you would like
to go?"

The girl had scarcely recovered breath from the long climb and the fright,
and she answered him in broken phrases.

"No, I cannot tell you what is the matter"--she paused and looked at him,
with a sudden comprehension of what he might be thinking about
her--"but--there is nothing--that is--I have done nothing wrong--" She
paused again and looked up with eyes whose clear depths, he felt, could
hide no guile.

"Of course," he murmured with decision, and then wondered why he felt so
sure about it.

"Thank you," she said. Then, with frightened perplexity: "I don't know
where to go. I never was in this city before. If you will kindly tell me
how to get somewhere--suppose to a railroad station--and yet--no, I have
no money--and"--then with a sudden little movement of dismay--"and I have
no hat! Oh!"

The young man felt a strong desire to shield this girl so unexpectedly
thrown on his mercy. Yet vague fears hovered about the margin of his
judgment. Perhaps she was a thief or an adventuress. It might be that he
ought to let her get out of the odd situation she appeared to be in, as
best she might. Yet even as the thought flashed through his mind he seemed
to hear an echo of her words, "I saw you were a gentleman," and he felt
incapable of betraying her trust in him.

The girl was speaking again: "But I must not trouble you any more. You
have been very kind to get me out of that dreadful place. If you will
just stop the carriage and let me out, I am sure I can take care of
myself."

"I could not think of letting you get out here alone. If you are in
danger, I will help you." The warmth of his own words startled him. He
knew he ought to be more cautious with a stranger, but impetuously he
threw caution to the winds. "If you would just tell me a little bit about
it, so that I should know what I ought to do for you----"

"Oh, I must not tell you! I couldn't!" said the girl, her hand fluttering
up to her heart, as if to hold its wild beating from stifling her. "I am
sorry to have involved you for a moment in this. Please let me out here. I
am not frightened, now that I got away from that terrible tunnel. I was
afraid I might have to go in there alone, for I didn't see any way to get
up the bank, and I couldn't go back."

"I am glad I happened to be there," breathed the young man fervently. "It
would have been dangerous for you to enter that tunnel. It runs an entire
block. You would probably have been killed."

The girl shut her eyes and pressed her fingers to them. In the light of
the street lamps, he saw that she was very white, and also that there were
jewels flashing from the rings on her fingers. It was apparent that she
was a lady of wealth and refinement. What could have brought her to this
pass?

The carriage came to a sudden stop, and, looking out, he saw they had
reached his home. A new alarm seized him as the girl moved as if to get
out. His dignified mother and his fastidious sister were probably not in,
but if by any chance they should not have left the house, what would they
think if they saw a strange, hatless young woman descend from the carriage
with him? Moreover, what would the butler think?

"Excuse me," he said, "but, really, there are reasons why I shouldn't like
you to get out of the carriage just here. Suppose you sit still until I
come out. I have a dinner engagement and must make a few changes in my
dress, but it will take me only a few minutes. You are in no danger, and I
will take you to some place of safety. I will try to think what to do
while I am gone. On no account get out of the carriage. It would make the
driver suspicious, you know. If you are really followed, he will let no
one disturb you in the carriage, of course. Don't distress yourself. I'll
hurry. Can you give me the address of any friend to whom I might 'phone or
telegraph?"

She shook her head and there was a glitter of tears in her eyes as she
replied:

"No, I know of no one in the city who could help me."

"I will help you, then," he said with sudden resolve, and in a tone that
would be a comfort to any woman in distress.

His tone and the look of respectful kindliness he gave her kept the girl
in the carriage until his return, although in her fear and sudden distrust
of all the world, she thought more than once of attempting to slip away.
Yet without money, and in a costume which could but lay her open to
suspicion, what was she to do? Where was she to go?

As the young man let himself into his home with his latch-key, he heard
the butler's well trained voice answering the telephone. "Yes, ma'am;
this is Mrs. Dunham's residence.... No, ma'am, she is not at home.... No,
ma'am, Miss Dunham is out also.... Mr. Dunham? Just wait a moment, please
I think Mr. Dunham has just come in. Who shall I say wishes to speak to
him?... Mrs. Parker Bowman?... Yes, ma'am; just wait a minute, please.
I'll call Mr. Dunham."

The young man frowned. Another interruption! And Miss Bowman! It was at
her house that he was to dine. What could the woman want? Surely it was
not so late that she was looking him up. But perhaps something had
happened, and she was calling off her dinner. What luck if she was! Then
he would be free to attend the problem of the young woman whom fate, or
Providence, had suddenly thrust upon his care.

He took the receiver, resolved to get out of going to the dinner if it
were possible.

"Good evening, Mrs. Bowman."

"Oh, is that you, Mr. Dunham? How relieved I am! I am in a bit of
difficulty about my dinner, and called up to see if your sister couldn't
help me out. Miss Mayo has failed me. Her sister has had an accident, and
she cannot leave her. She has just 'phoned me, and I don't know what to
do. Isn't Cornelia at home? Couldn't you persuade her to come and help me
out? She would have been invited in Miss Mayo's place if she had not told
me that she expected to go to Boston this week. But she changed her plans,
didn't she? Isn't she where you could reach her by 'phone and beg her to
come and help me out? You see, it's a very particular dinner, and I've
made all my arrangements."

"Well, now, that's too bad, Mrs. Bowman," began the young man, thinking he
saw a way out of both their difficulties. "I'm sorry Cornelia isn't here.
I'm sure she would do anything in her power to help you. But she and
mother were to dine in Chestnut Hill to-night, and they must have left the
house half an hour ago. I'm afraid she's out of the question. Suppose you
leave me out? You won't have any trouble then except to take two plates
off the table"--he laughed pleasantly--"and you would have even couples.
You see," he hastened to add, as he heard Mrs. Parker Bowman's preliminary
dissent--"you see, Mrs. Bowman, I'm in somewhat of a predicament myself.
My train was late, and as I left the station I happened to meet a young
woman--a--a friend." (He reflected rapidly on the old proverb, "A friend
in need is a friend indeed." In that sense she was a friend.) "She is
temporarily separated from her friends, and is a stranger in the city. In
fact, I'm the only acquaintance or friend she has, and I feel rather under
obligation to see her to her hotel and look up trains for her. She leaves
the city to-night."

"Now, look here, Tryon Dunham, you're not going to leave me in the lurch
for any young woman. I don't care how old an acquaintance she is! You
simply bring her along. She'll make up my number and relieve me
wonderfully. No, don't you say a word. Just tell her that she needn't
stand on ceremony. Your mother and I are too old friends for that. Any
friend of yours is a friend of mine, and my house is open to her. She
won't mind. These girls who have travelled a great deal learn to step over
the little formalities of calls and introductions. Tell her I'll call on
her afterwards, if she'll only remain in town long enough, or I'll come
and take dinner with her when I happen to be in her city. I suppose she's
just returned from abroad--they all have--or else she's just going--and if
she hasn't learned to accept things as she finds them, she probably will
soon. Tell her what a plight I'm in, and that it will be a real blessing
to me if she'll come. Besides--I didn't mean to tell you--I meant it for a
surprise, but I may as well tell you now--Judge Blackwell is to be here,
with his wife, and I especially want you to meet him. I've been trying to
get you two together for a long time."

"Ah!" breathed the young man, with interest. "Judge Blackwell! I have
wanted to meet him."

"Well, he has heard about you, too, and I think he wants to meet you. Did
you know he was thinking of taking a partner into his office? He has
always refused--but that's another story, and I haven't time to talk. You
ought to be on your way here now. Tell your friend I will bless her
forever for helping me out, and I won't take no for an answer. You said
she'd just returned from abroad, didn't you? Of course she's musical. You
must make her give us some music. She will, won't she? I was depending on
Miss Mayo for that this evening."

"Well, you might be able to persuade her," murmured the distracted young
man at the 'phone, as he struggled with one hand to untie his necktie and
unfasten his collar, and mentally calculated how long it would take him to
get into his dress suit.

"Yes, of course. You'd better not speak of it--it might make her decline.
And don't let her stop to make any changes in her dress. Everybody will
understand when I tell them she's just arrived--didn't you say?--from the
other side, and we caught her on the wing. There's some one coming now.
Do, for pity's sake, hurry, Tryon, for my cook is terribly cross when I
hold up a dinner too long. Good-by. Oh, by the way, what did you say was
her name?"

"Oh--ah!" He had almost succeeded in releasing his collar, and was about
to hang up the receiver, when this new difficulty confronted him.

"Oh, yes, of course; her name--I had almost forgotten," he went on wildly,
to make time, and searched about in his mind for a name--any name--that
might help him. The telephone book lay open at the r's. He pounced upon it
and took the first name his eye caught.

"Yes--why--Remington, Miss Remington."

"Remington!" came in a delighted scream over the phone. "Not Carolyn
Remington? That would be too good luck!"

"No," he murmured distractedly; "no, not Carolyn. Why, I--ah--I
think--Mary--Mary Remington."

"Oh, I'm afraid I haven't met her, but never mind. Do hurry up, Tryon. It
is five minutes of seven. Where did you say she lives?" But the receiver
was hung up with a click, and the young man tore up the steps to his room
three at a bound. Dunham's mind was by no means at rest. He felt that he
had done a tremendously daring thing, though, when he came to think of it,
he had not suggested it himself; and he did not quite see how he could get
out of it, either, for how was he to have time to help the girl if he did
not take her with him?

Various plans floated through his head. He might bring her into the house,
and make some sort of an explanation to the servants, but what would the
explanation be? He could not tell them the truth about her, and how would
he explain the matter to his mother and sister? For they might return
before he did, and would be sure to ask innumerable questions.

And the girl--would she go with him? If not, what should he do with her?
And about her dress? Was it such as his "friend" could wear to one of Mrs.
Parker Bowman's exclusive dinners? To his memory, it seemed quiet and
refined. Perhaps that was all that was required for a woman who was
travelling. There it was again! But he had not said she was travelling,
nor that she had just returned from abroad, nor that she was a musician.
How could he answer such questions about an utter stranger, and yet how
could he not answer them, under the circumstances?

And she wore no hat, nor cloak. That would be a strange way to arrive at a
dinner How could she accept? He was settling his coat into place when a
queer little bulge attracted his attention to an inside pocket.
Impatiently he pulled out a pair of long white gloves. They were his
sister's, and he now remembered she had given them to him to carry the
night before, on the way home from a reception, she having removed them
because it was raining. He looked at them with a sudden inspiration. Of
course! Why had he not thought of that? He hurried into his sister's room
to make a selection of a few necessities for the emergency--only to have
his assurance desert him at the very threshold. The room was immaculate,
with no feminine finery lying about. Cornelia Dunham's maid was well
trained. The only article that seemed out of place was a hand-box on a
chair near the door. It bore the name of a fashionable milliner, and
across the lid was pencilled in Cornelia's large, angular hand, "To be
returned to Madame Dollard's." He caught up the box and strode over to the
closet. There was no time to lose, and this box doubtless contained a hat
of some kind. If it was to be returned, Cornelia would think it had been
called for, and no further inquiry would be made about the matter. He
could call at Madame's and settle the bill without his sister's knowledge.

He poked back into the closet and discovered several wraps and evening
cloaks of more or less elaborate style, but the thought came to him that
perhaps one of these would be recognized as Cornelia's. He closed the door
hurriedly and went down to a large closet under the stairs, from which he
presently emerged with his mother's new black rain-coat. He patted his
coat-pocket to be sure he had the gloves, seized his hat, and hurried
back to the carriage, the hat-box in one hand and his mother's rain-coat
dragging behind him. His only anxiety was to get out before the butler saw
him.

As he closed the door, there flashed over him, the sudden possibility that
the girl had gone. Well, perhaps that would be the best thing that could
happen and would save him a lot of trouble; yet to his amazement he found
that the thought filled him with a sense of disappointment. He did not
want her to be gone. He peered anxiously into the carriage, and was
relieved to find her still there, huddled into the shadow, her eyes
looking large and frightened. She was seized with a fit of trembling, and
it required all her strength to keep him from noticing it. She was half
afraid of the man, now that she had waited for him. Perhaps he was not a
gentleman, after all.

[Illustration]

II

"I am afraid I have been a long time," he said apologetically, as he
closed the door of the carriage, after giving Mrs. Parker Bowman's address
to the driver. In the uncertain light of the distant arc-lamp, the girl
looked small and appealing. He felt a strong desire to lift her burdens
and carry them on his own broad shoulders.

"I've brought some things that I thought might help," he said. "Would you
like to put on this coat? It may not be just what you would have selected,
but it was the best I could find that would not be recognized. The air is
growing chilly."

He shook out the coat and threw it around her.

"Oh, thank you," she murmured gratefully, slipping her arms into the
sleeves.

"And this box has some kind of a hat, I hope," he went on. "I ought to
have looked, but there really wasn't time." He unknotted the strings and
produced a large picture hat with long black plumes. He was relieved to
find it black. While he untied the strings, there had been a growing
uneasiness lest the hat be one of those wild, queer combinations of colors
that Cornelia frequently purchased and called "artistic."

The girl received the hat with a grateful relief that was entirely
satisfactory to the young man.

"And now," said he, as he pulled out the gloves and laid them gravely in
her lap, "we're invited out to dinner."

"Invited out to dinner!" gasped the girl.

"Yes. It's rather a providential thing to have happened, I think. The
telephone was ringing as I opened the door, and Mrs. Parker Bowman, to
whose house I was invited, was asking for my sister to fill the place of
an absent guest. My sister is away, and I tried to beg off. I told her I
had accidentally met--I hope you will pardon me--I called you a friend."

"Oh!" she said. "That was kind of you."

"I said you were a stranger in town, and as I was your only acquaintance,
I felt that I should show you the courtesy of taking you to a hotel, and
assisting to get you off on the night train; and I asked her to excuse me,
as that would give her an even number. But it seems she had invited some
one especially to meet me, and was greatly distressed not to have her full
quota of guests, so she sent you a most cordial invitation to come to her
at once, promising to take dinner with you some time if you would help her
out now. Somehow, she gathered from my talk that you were travelling, had
just returned from abroad, and were temporarily separated from your
friends. She is also sure that you are musical, and means to ask you to
help her out in that way this evening. I told her I was not sure whether
you could be persuaded or not, and she mercifully refrained from asking
whether you sang or played. I tell you all this so that you will be
prepared for anything. Of course I didn't tell her all these things. I
merely kept still when she inferred them. Your name, by the way, is Miss
Remington--Mary Remington. She was greatly elated for a moment when she
thought you might be Carolyn Remington--whoever she may be. I suppose she
will speak of it. The name was the first one that my eye lit upon in the
telephone-book. If you object to bearing it for the evening, it is easy to
see how a name could be misunderstood over the 'phone. But perhaps you
would better give me a few pointers, for I've never tried acting a part,
and can't be sure how well I shall do it."

The girl had been silent from astonishment while the man talked.

"But I cannot possibly go there to dinner," she gasped, her hand going to
her throat again, as if to pluck away the delicate lace about it and give
more room, for breathing. "I must get away somewhere at once. I cannot
trouble you in this way. I have already imposed upon your kindness. With
this hat and coat and gloves, I shall be able to manage quite well, and I
thank you so much! I will return them to you as soon as possible."

The cab began to go slowly, and Tryon Dunham noticed that another
carriage, just ahead of theirs, was stopping before Mrs. Bowman's house.
There was no time for halting decision.

"My friend," he said earnestly, "I cannot leave you alone, and I do not
see a better way than for you to go in here with me for a little while,
till I am free to go with you. No one can follow you here, or suspect that
you had gone out to dinner at a stranger's house. Believe me, it is the
very safest thing you could do. This is the house. Will you go in with me?
If not, I must tell the driver to take us somewhere else."

"But what will she think of me," she said in trepidation, "and how can I
do such a thing as to steal into a woman's house to a dinner in this way!
Besides, I am not dressed for a formal occasion."

The carriage had stopped before the door now, and the driver was getting
down from his seat.

"Indeed, she will think nothing about it," Dunham assured her, "except to
be glad that she has the right number of guests. Her dinners are
delightful affairs usually, and you have nothing to do but talk about
impersonal matters for a little while and be entertaining. She was most
insistent that you take no thought about the matter of dress. She said it
would be perfectly understood that you were travelling, and that the
invitation was unexpected. You can say that your trunk has not come, or
has gone on ahead. Will you come?"

Then the driver opened the carriage door.

In an instant the girl assumed the self-contained manner she had worn when
she had first spoken to him. She stepped quietly from the carriage, and
only answered in a low voice, "I suppose I'd better, if you wish it."

Dunham paused for a moment to give the driver a direction about carrying
the great pasteboard box to his club. This idea had come as a sudden
inspiration. He had not thought of, the necessity of getting rid of that
box before.

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