In Secret. Chambers Robert William
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at his mistress, whose signal he had just obeyed.
Then he scrambled out of his seat and came around to the door, just as Miss Erith opened it and hurriedly descended.
"Wayland," she said, "there's somebody over there on the sidewalk. Can't you see?—there by the marble railing?—by the fountain! Whoever it is will freeze to death. Please go over and see what is the matter."
The heavily-furred chauffeur ran across the snowy oval. Miss Erith saw him lean over the shadowy, prostrate figure, shake it; then she hurried over too, and saw a man, crouching, fallen forward on his face beside the snowy balustrade.
Down on her knees in the snow beside him dropped Miss Erith, calling on Wayland to light a match.
"Is he dead, Miss?"
"No. Listen to him breathe! He's ill. Can't you hear the dreadful sounds he makes? Try to lift him, if you can. He's freezing here!"
"I'm thinkin' he's just drunk an' snorin,' Miss."
"What of it? He's freezing, too. Carry him to the carl."
Wayland leaned down, put both big arms under the shoulders of the unconscious man, and dragged him, upright, holding him by main strength.
"He's drunk, all right, Miss," the chauffeur remarked with a sniff of disgust.
That he had been drinking was evident enough to Miss Erith now. She picked up his hat; a straggling yellow light from the ice-bound lamps fell on McKay's battered features.
"Get him into the car," she said, "he'll die out here in this cold."
The big chauffeur half-carried, half-dragged the inanimate man to the car and lifted him in. Miss Erith followed.
"The Samaritan Hospital—that's the nearest," she said hastily. "Drive as fast as you can, Wayland."
McKay had slid to the floor of the coupe; Miss Erith turned on the ceiling light, drew the fur robe around him, and lifted his head to her knees, holding it there supported between her gloved hands.
The light fell full on his bruised visage, on the crisp brown hair dusted with snow, which lay so lightly on his temples, making him seem very frail and boyish in his deathly pallor.
His breathing grew heavier, more laboured; the coupe reeked with the stench of alcohol; and Miss Erith, feeling almost faint, opened the window a little way, then wrapped the young man's head in the skirt of her fur coat and covered his icy hands with her own.
The ambulance entrance to the Samaritan Hospital was dimly illuminated. Wayland, turning in from Park Avenue, sounded his horn, then scrambled down from the box as an orderly and a watchman appeared under the vaulted doorway. And in a few moments the emergency case had passed out of Miss Erith's jurisdiction.
But as her car turned homeward, upon her youthful mind was stamped the image of a pale, bruised face—of a boyish head reversed upon her knees—of crisp, light-brown hair dusted with particles of snow.
Within the girl's breast something deep was stirring—something unfamiliar—not pain—not pity—yet resembling both, perhaps. She had no other standard of comparison.
After she reached home she called up the Samaritan Hospital for information, and learned that the man was suffering from the effects of alcohol and chloral—the latter probably an overdose self-administered—because he had not been robbed. Miss Erith also learned that there were five hundred dollars in new United States banknotes in his pockets, some English sovereigns, a number of Dutch and Danish silver pieces, and a new cheque-book on the Schuyler National Bank, in which was written what might be his name.
"Will he live?" inquired Miss Erith, solicitous, as are people concerning the fate of anything they have helped to rescue.
"He seems to be in no danger," came the answer. "Are you interested in the patient, Miss Erith?"
"No—that is—yes. Yes, I am interested."
"Shall we communicate with you in case any unfavourable symptoms appear?"
"Please do!"
"Are you a relative or friend?"
"N-no. I am very slightly interested—in his recovery. Nothing more."
"Very well. But we do not find his name in any directory. We have attempted to communicate with his family, but nobody of that name claims him. You say you are personally interested in the young man?"
"Oh, no," said Miss Erith, "except that I hope he is not going to die…. He seems so—young—f-friendless—"
"Then you have no personal knowledge of the patient?"
"None whatever…. What did you say his name is?"
"McKay."
For a moment the name sounded oddly familiar but meaningless in her ears. Then, with a thrill of sudden recollection, she asked again for the man's name.
"The name written in his cheque-book is McKay."
"McKay!" she repeated incredulously. "What else?"
"Kay."
"WHAT!!"
"That is the name in the cheque-book—Kay McKay."
Dumb, astounded, she could not utter a word.
"Do you know anything about him, Miss Erith?" inquired the distant voice.
"Yes—yes!… I don't know whether I do…. I have heard the—that name—a similar name—" Her mind was in a tumult now. Could such a thing happen? It was utterly impossible!
The voice on the wire continued:
"The police have been here but they are not interested in the case, as no robbery occurred. The young man is still unconscious, suffering from the chloral. If you are interested, Miss Erith, would you kindly call at the hospital to-morrow?"
"Yes…. Did you say that there was FOREIGN money in his pockets?"
"Dutch and Danish silver and English gold."
"Thank you…. I shall call to-morrow. Don't let him leave before I arrive."
"What?"
"I wish to see him. Please do not permit him to leave before I get there. It—it is very important—vital—in case he is the man—the Kay McKay in question."
"Very well. Good-night."
Miss Erith sank back in her armchair, shivering even in the warm glow from the hearth.
"Such things can NOT happen!" she said aloud. "Such things do not happen in life!"
And she told herself that even in stories no author would dare—not even the veriest amateur scribbler—would presume to affront intelligent readers by introducing such a coincidence as this appeared to be.
"Such things do NOT happen!" repeated Miss Erith firmly.
Such things, however, DO occur.
Was it possible that the Great Secret, of which the Lauffer cipher letter spoke, was locked within the breast of this young fellow who now lay unconscious in the Samaritan Hospital?
Was this actually the escaped prisoner? Was this the man who, according to instructions in the cipher, was to be marked for death at the hands of the German Government's secret agents in America?
And, if this truly were the same man, was he safe, at least for the present, now that the cipher letter had been intercepted before it had reached Herman Lauffer?
Hour after hour, lying deep in her armchair before the fire, Miss Erith crouched a prey to excited conjectures, not one of which could be answered until the man in the Samaritan Hospital had recovered consciousness.
Suppose he never recovered consciousness. Suppose he should die—
At the thought Miss Erith sprang from her chair and picked up the telephone.
With fast-beating heart she waited for the connection. Finally she got it and asked the question.
"The man is dying," came the calm answer. A pause, then: "I understand the patient has