“Very well,” he says, in rare good humor, “I promise you a story that, while it may not be entirely new to you, will hold your interest to the end. But first, madam, I must beg of you to lay aside your domino, that I may know whether my tale is interesting you or I am courting the unhappy fate which you threatened should be meted out to stupidity.”
The lady in black laughs musically and, partially drawing the box draperies, she tosses off her mask, and, to Ashley’s intense amaze, reveals the face of the handsome woman whom he remembers to have seen with Phillip Van Zandt the preceding night at the Damrosch concert.
But Jack Ashley is not a young man who permits his face or voice to betray his emotions. So he knots the lace once more about his injured digit, settles himself comfortably in his chair and begins:
“Once upon a time—”
“Is this a fairy tale?” interrupts his handsome auditor.
“A fairy tale? Perhaps. But a fairy tale that came true. Once upon a time there lived in a small New England community a youth to whom the simple amusements and rustic pleasures of his native town became as tedious as a twice-told tale. As his father was engaged in a business whose interests extended over the country, the youth was given a roving commission, and soon after he was tasting the sweets of an existence in the great city. Metropolitan life suited him to a T. His only regret was that his means were not sufficient to keep pace with his luxurious tastes.
“In the course of time he met and loved a very pretty girl. She had hair of midnight, eyes like black diamonds, a superb figure and a thousand charms. Whether her heart was as true as her face was fair, I know not. The torrent which bore these two hearts was more or less turbulent. In the trouble which came between them I am charitable enough to believe that the man was to blame. The youth found that living beyond his means has an inevitable and unpleasant result, and it was not long ere his father, after palliating innumerable offenses, summoned him home. He was given a position in a bank in the town which he still despised, and he soon forgot his city love, being assisted in this forgetfulness by a passion which he had conceived for the beautiful daughter of the cashier of the bank in which he was employed.
“The neglected one wrote many letters, but could obtain no satisfaction of her faithless swain. Finally she decided to visit him in his New England home; so on a memorable afternoon she arrived in his town, went to a hotel and sent word to the youth that she desired to see him at once.”
“Well?” demands the lady in black, as Ashley pauses. The flash in her eyes and the nervous fingers tell him that, while his story may not be enjoyed, it is being listened to with intense interest.
“The youth obeyed the summons,” he resumes, “and there was a scene. Money was demanded, and money he had none. But perhaps it was to be had somewhere. That night a murder was committed in the town. It was an extremely mysterious affair, and the excitement which it caused was intensified a day or two later, when the young man of our story suddenly disappeared and was never after heard from. The detective employed on the case assumed that if he could find the mysterious woman who registered at the hotel the day of the tragedy some light might be thrown upon the affair and the whereabouts of the absent young man ascertained.”