"Miss Charters?" said Beecher, turning in amazement to Mrs. Kildair.
She nodded, with a little frown.
"As I told Mrs. Kildair," said Slade, not noticing that Beecher, overwhelmed by this discovery, did not hear him, "I do not believe for a moment that the thief would return. Any one who had the daring to seize the ring the second time had the daring to carry off the ring; in fact, had some such plan in mind. Whoever came back may have come back out of sympathy, or with the idea that the ring was still in the studio—in which case, we have a third manifestation of instinct."
They had passed into the studio again. Slade spoke with all his old decision, the energy of action replacing the bitterness of his former meditative mood. He glanced at the clock, and took his leave in a quick, impersonal manner. Beecher, ignoring the looks Mrs. Kildair sent him, departed with Slade, refusing an invitation to join him in the automobile, and continuing on foot.
He was absolutely at a loss to account for Miss Charters' returning to the studio after having gone to her apartment. If she had any suggestion to offer, why had she not waited, or even requested him to return with her? Why, in fact, could she not have waited until the following day—instead of risking the journey at such an hour?
Full of disturbing surmises, he continued his walk until he reached the great thoroughfare of Forty-second Street, where he turned eastward toward the station, oblivious to the excitement in the street, the break-neck arrival of the newspaper wagons and the sudden, shrill scattering of urchins, extras in hand.
All at once, at the western corner of the station, he raised his eyes instinctively. A coupé with trunks behind it disengaged itself from the confusion of traffic and, turning, slowly passed him. Inside, he recognized the dark, defiant eyes of Mrs. Enos Bloodgood.
In a moment he guessed the full significance of her presence: she had come to meet Majendie, to burn all bridges behind her, in the supreme sacrifice of everything for the possession of a happiness she had never known.
The next instant he was gazing horror-stricken at the head-lines of an extra that a newsboy flung in his face:
SUICIDE OF BERNARD L. MAJENDIE