The Hollow of Her Hand

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He entered and she closed the door.

"Just the--just the news that it was Mr. Wrandall," he replied
jerkily. "Later on they'll have--"

She interrupted him. "Let me have them, please." Without so much
as a glance at the headlines, she tossed the papers on the table.
"I have sent for two messenger boys. It is too early to accomplish
much by telephone, I fear. Will you be so kind as to telephone at
seven o'clock or a little after to my apartment?--You will find
the number under Mr. Wrandall's name. Please inform the butler or
his wife that they may expect me by ten o'clock, and that I shall
bring a friend with me--a young lady. Kindly have my motor sent
to Haffner's garage, and looked after. When the reporters come, as
they will, please say to them that I will see them at my own home
at eleven o'clock."

"Can't I--we--I should say, don't you want us to send word to
your--your friends, Mrs. Wrandall,--the family, I mean? No trouble
to do it, and--"

"Thank you, no. The messengers will attend to all that is necessary.
When my lawyer arrives, please send him here to me. Mr. Carroll.
Thank you."

The clerk, considerably relieved, took his departure in some
haste, and she was left with the morning papers, each of which she
scanned rapidly. The details, of course, were meagre. There was a
double-leaded account of her visit to the inn and her extraordinary
return to the city. Her chief interest, however, did not rest in
these particulars, but in the speculations of the authorities as
to the identity of the mysterious woman--and her whereabouts. There
was the likelihood that she was not the only one who had encountered
the girl on the highway or in the neighbourhood of the inn. So far
as she could glean from the reports, however, no one had seen the
girl, nor was there the slightest hint offered as to her identity.
The papers of the previous afternoon had published lurid accounts of
the murder, with all of the known details, the name of the victim
at that time still being a mystery. She remembered reading the
story with no little interest. The only new feature in the case,
therefore, was the identification of Challis Wrandall by his
"beautiful wife," and the sensational manner in which it had been
brought about. With considerable interest she noted the hour that
these despatches had been received from "special correspondents,"
and wondered where the shrewd, lynx-eyed reporters napped while
she was at the inn. All of the despatches were timed three o'clock
and each paper characterised its issue as an "Extra," with Challis
Wrandall's name in huge type across as many columns as the dignity
of the sheet permitted.

Not one word of the girl! Absolute mystery!

Mrs. Wrandall returned to her post beside the bed of the sleeper
in the adjoining room. Deliberately she placed the newspapers on
a chair near the girl's pillow, and then raised the window shades
to let in the hard grey light of early morn.

It was not her present intention to arouse the wan stranger, who
slept as one dead. So gentle was her breathing that the watcher
stared in some fear at the fair, smooth breast that seemed scarcely
to rise and fall. For a long time she stood beside the bed, looking
down at the face of the sleeper, a troubled expression in her eyes.

"I wonder how many times you were seen with him, and where, and by
whom," were the questions that ran in a single strain through her
mind. "Where do you come from? Where did you meet him? Who is there
that knows of your acquaintance with him?"

There was no kindly light in her eyes, nor was there the faintest
sign of animosity. Merely the look of one who calculates in the
interest of a well-shaped purpose. She was estimating the difficulties
that were likely to attend the carrying out of a design as yet
half-formed and quixotic. There were many things to be considered.
At present she was working in utter darkness. What would the light
bring forth?

Her lawyer came in great haste and perturbation at eight o'clock,
in response to the letter delivered by one of the messengers.
A second letter had gone by like means to her husband's brother,
Leslie Wrandall, instructing him to break the news to his father
and mother and to come to her apartment after he had attended to
the removal of the body to the family home near Washington Square.
She made it quite plain that she did not want Challis Wrandall's
body to lie under the roof that sheltered her.

His family had resented their marriage. Father, mother and sister had
objected to her from the beginning, not because she was unworthy,
but because her tradespeople ancestry was not so remote as his. She
found a curious sense of pleasure in returning to them the thing
they prized so highly and surrendered to her with such bitterness
of heart. She had not been good enough for him: that was their
attitude. Now she was returning him to them, as one would return
an article that had been tested and found to be worthless. She
would have no more of him!

Leslie, three years younger than Challis, did not hold to the views
that actuated the remaining members of the family in opposing her
as an addition to the rather close corporation known far and wide
as "the Wrandalls." He had stood out for her in a rather mild but
none-the-less steadfast manner, blandly informing his mother on
mere than one occasion that Sara was quite too good for Challis,
any way you looked at it: an attitude which provoked sundry caustic
references to his own lamentable shortcomings in the matter of
family pride and--intelligence.

He and Sara had been good friends after a fashion. He was a bit of
a snob but not much of a prig. She had the feeling about him that
if he could be weaned away from the family he might stand for
something fine in the way of character. But he was an adept at
straddling fences, so that he was never fully on one side or the
other, no matter which way he leaned.

He had not been deeply attached to his brother. Their ways were
wide apart. All his life he had known Challis for what he was;
his heart if not his hand was against him. From the first, he had
regarded Sara's marriage as a bad bargain for her, and toward the
last bluntly told her so. Not once but many times had he taken it
upon himself to inform her that she was a fool to put up with all
the beastly things Challis was doing. He characterised as infatuation
the emotion she was prone to call love when they met to discuss
the escapades of the careless Challis, for she always went to him
with her troubles. In direct opposition to his counselling, she
invariably forgave the erring lover who was her husband. Once Leslie
had said to her, in considerable heat: "You act as if you were his
mistress, instead of his wife. Mistresses have to forgive; wives
don't." And she had replied: "Yes, but I'd much rather have him a
lover than a husband." A remark which Leslie never quite fathomed,
being somewhat literal himself.

Carroll, her lawyer, an elderly man of vast experience, was not
surprised to find her quite calm and reasonable. He had come to
know her very well in the past few years. He had been her father's
lawyer up to the time of that excellent tradesman's demise,
and he had settled the estate with such unusual despatch that the
heirs,--there were many of them,--regarded him as an admirable
person and--kept him busy ever afterward straightening out their
own affairs. Which goes to prove that policy is often better than
honesty.

"I quite understand, my dear, that while it is a dreadful shock to
you, you are perfectly reconciled to the--er--to the--well, I might
say the culmination of his troubles," said Mr. Carroll tactfully,
after she had related for his benefit the story of the night's
adventure, with reservation concerning the girl who slumbered in
the room beyond.

"Hardly that, Mr. Carroll. Resigned, perhaps. I can't say that I
am reconciled. All my life I shall feel that I have been cheated,"
she said.

He looked up sharply. Something in her tone puzzled him. "Cheated,
my dear? Oh, I see. Cheated out of years and years of happiness.
I see."

She bowed her head. Neither spoke for a full minute.

"It's a horrible thing to say, Sara, but this tragedy does away
with another and perhaps more unpleasant alternative: the divorce
I have been urging you to consider for so long."

"Yes, we are spared all that," she said. Then she met his gaze with
a sudden flash of anger in her eyes. "But I would not have divorced
him--never. You understood that, didn't you?"

"You couldn't have gone on for ever, my dear child, enduring the--"

She stopped him with a sharp exclamation. "Why discuss it now? Let
the past take care of itself, Mr. Carroll. The past came to an end
night before last, so far as I am concerned. I want advice for the
future, not for the past."

He drew back, hurt by her manner. She was quick to see that she
had offended him,

"I beg your pardon, my best of friends," she cried earnestly.

He smiled. "If you will take PRESENT advice, Sara, you will let go
of yourself for a spell and see if tears won't relieve the tension
under--"

"Tears!" she cried. "Why should I give way to tears? What have I
to weep for? That man up there in the country? The cold, dead thing
that spent its last living moments without a thought of love for
me? Ah, no, my friend; I shed all my tears while he was alive.
There are none left to be shed for him now. He exacted his full
share of them. It was his pleasure to wring them from me because
he knew I loved him." She leaned forward and spoke slowly, distinctly,
so that he would never forget the words. "But listen to me, Mr.
Carroll. You also know that I loved him. Can you believe me when
I say to you that I hate that dead thing up there in Burton's Inn
as no one ever hated before? Can you understand what I mean? I hate
that dead body, Mr. Carroll. I loved the life that was in it. It
was the life of him that I loved, the warm, appealing life of him.
It has gone out. Some one less amiable than I suffered at his hands
and--well, that is enough. I hate the dead body she left behind
her, Mr. Carroll."

The lawyer wiped the cool moisture from his brow.

"I think I understand," he said, but he was filled with wonder.
"Extraordinary! Ahem! I should say--Ahem! Dear me! Yes, yes--I've
never really thought of it in that light."

"I dare say you haven't," she said, lying back in the chair as if
suddenly exhausted.

"By the way, my dear, have you breakfasted?"

"No. I hadn't given it a thought. Perhaps it would be better if I
had some coffee--"

"I will ring for a waiter," he said, springing to his feet.

"Not now, please. I have a young friend in the other room--a guest
who arrived last night. She will attend to it when she awakes. Poor
thing, it has been dreadfully trying for her."

"Good heaven, I should think so," said he, with a glance at the
closed door, "Is she asleep?"

"Yes. I shall not call her until you have gone."

"May I enquire--"

"A girl I met recently--an English girl," said she succinctly, and
forthwith changed the subject. "There are a few necessary details
that must be attended to, Mr. Carroll. That is why I sent for you
at this early hour. Mr. Leslie Wrandall will take charge--Ah!" she
straightened up suddenly. "What a farce it is going to be!"

Half an hour later he departed, to rejoin her at eleven o'clock,
when the reporters were to be expected. He was to do the talking
for her. While he was there, Leslie Wrandall called her up on the
telephone. Hearing but one side of the rather prolonged conversation,
he was filled with wonder at the tactful way in which she met
and parried the inevitable questions and suggestions coming from
her horror-struck brother-in-law. Without the slightest trace of
offensiveness in her manner, she gave Leslie to understand that
the final obsequies must be conducted in the home of his parents,
to whom once more her husband belonged, and that she would abide by
all arrangements his family elected to make. Mr. Carroll surmised
from the trend of conversation that young Wrandall was about to
leave for the scene of the tragedy, and that the house was in a
state of unspeakable distress. The lawyer smiled rather grimly to
himself as he turned to look out of the window. He did not have to
be told that Challis was the idol of the family, and that, so far
as they were concerned, he could do no wrong!

After his departure, Mrs. Wrandall gently opened the bedroom door
and was surprised to find the girl wide-awake, resting on one
elbow, her staring eyes fastened on the newspaper that topped the
pile on the chair.

Catching sight of Mrs. Wrandall she pointed to the paper with a
trembling hand and cried out, in a voice full of horror:

"Did you place them there for me to read? Who was with you in the
other room just now? Was it some one about the--some one looking
for me? Speak! Please tell me. I heard a man's voice--"

The other crossed quickly to her side.

"Don't be alarmed. It was my lawyer. There is nothing to fear--at
present. Yes, I left the papers there for you to see. You can see
what a sensation it has caused. Challis Wrandall was one of the most
widely known men in New York. But I suppose you know that without
my telling you."

The girl sank back with a groan. "My God, what have I done? What
will come of it all?"

"I wish I could answer that question," said the other, taking
the girl's hand in hers. Both were trembling. After an instant's
hesitation, she laid her other hand on the dark, dishevelled hair
of the wild-eyed creature, who still continued to stare at the
headlines. "I am quite sure they will not look for you here, or in
my home."

"In your home?"

"You are to go with me. I have thought it all over. It is the only
way. Come, I must ask you to pull yourself together. Get up at once,
and dress. Here are the things you are to wear." She indicated the
orderly pile of garments with a wave of her hand.

Slowly the girl crept out of bed, confused, bewildered, stunned.

"Where are my own things? I--I cannot accept these. Pray give me
my own--"

Mrs. Wrandall checked her.

"You must obey me, if you expect me to help you. Don't you understand
that I have had a--a bereavement? I cannot wear these things now.
They are useless to me. But we will speak of all that later on.
Come, be quick; I will help you to dress. First, go to the telephone
and ask them to send a waiter to--these rooms. We must have something
to eat. Please do as I tell you."

Standing before her benefactress, her fingers fumbling impotently
at the neck of the night-dress, the girl still continued to stare
dumbly into the calm, dark eyes before her.

"You are so good. I--I--"

"Let me help you," interrupted the other, deliberately setting
about to remove the night-dress. The girl caught it up as it slipped
from her shoulders, a warm flush suffusing her face, a shamed look
springing into her eyes.

"Thank you, I can--get on very well. I only wanted to ask you a
question. It has been on my mind, waking and sleeping. Can you tell
me anything about--do you know his wife?"

The question was so abrupt, so startling that Mrs. Wrandall uttered
a sharp little cry. For a moment she could not reply.

"I am so sorry, so desperately sorry for her," added the girl
plaintively.

"I know her," the other managed to say with an effort.

"If I had only known that he had a wife--" began the girl bitterly,
almost angrily.

Mrs. Wrandall grasped her by the arm. "You did not know that he
had a wife?" she cried.

The girl's eyes flashed with a sudden, fierce fire in their depths.

"God in heaven, no! I did not know it until--Oh, I can't speak of
it! Why should I tell you about it? Why should you be interested
in hearing it?"

Mrs. Wrandall drew back and regarded the girl's set, unhappy face.
There was a curious light in her eyes that escaped the other's
notice,--a light that would have puzzled her not a little.

"But you WILL tell me--EVERYTHING--a little later," she said,
strangely calm. "Not now, but,--before many hours have passed. First
of all, you must tell me who you are, where you live,--everything
except what happened in Burton's Inn. I don't want to hear that at
present--perhaps never. Yes, on second thoughts, I will say NEVER!
You are never to tell me just what happened up there, or just what
led up to it. Do you understand? Never!"

The girl stared at her in amazement. "But I--I must tell some one,"
she cried vehemently. "I have a right to defend myself--"

"I am not asking you to defend yourself," said Mrs. Wrandall shortly.
Then, as if afraid to remain longer, she rushed from the room. In
the doorway, she turned for an instant to say: "Do as I told you.
Telephone. Dress as quickly as you can." She closed the door swiftly.

Standing in the centre of the room, her hands clenched until the
nails cut the flesh, she said over and over again to herself: "I
don't want to know! I don't want to KNOW!"

A few minutes later she was critically inspecting the young woman
who came from the bedroom attired in a street dress that neither
of them had ever donned before. The girl, looking fresher, prettier
and even younger than when she had seen her last, was in no way
abashed. She seemed to have accepted the garments and the situation
in the same spirit of resignation and hope: as if she had decided
to make the most of her slim chance to profit by these amazing
circumstances.

They sat opposite each other at the little breakfast table.

"Please pour the coffee," said Mrs. Wrandall. The waiter had left
the room at her command. The girl's hand shook, but she complied
without a word.

"Now you may tell me who you are and--but wait! You are not to say
anything about what happened at the inn. Guard your words carefully.
I am not asking for a confession. I do not care to know what happened
there. It will make it easier for me to protect you. You may call
it conscience. Keep your big secret to yourself. NOT ONE WORD TO
ME. Do you understand?"

"You mean that I am not to reveal, even to you, the causes which
led up to--"

"Nothing--absolutely nothing," said Mrs. Wrandall firmly.

"But I cannot permit you to judge me, to--well, you might say to
acquit me,--without hearing the story. It is so vital to me."

"I can judge you without hearing all of the--the evidence, if that's
what you mean. Simply answer the questions I shall ask, and nothing
more. There are certain facts I must have from you if I am to shield
you. You must tell me the truth. I take it you are an English girl.
Where do you live? Who are your friends? Where is your family?"

The girl's face flushed for an instant and then grew pale again.

"I will tell you the truth," she said. "My name is Hetty Castleton.
My father is Col. Braid Castleton, of--of the British army. My mother
is dead. She was Kitty Glynn, at one time a popular music-hall
performer in London. She was Irish. She died two years ago. My
father was a gentleman. I do not say he IS a gentleman, for his
treatment of my mother relieves him from that distinction. He is
in the Far East, China, I think. I have not seen him in more than
five years. He deserted my mother. That's all there is to that
side of my story. I appeared in two or three of the musical pieces
produced in London two seasons ago, in the chorus. I never got
beyond that, for very good reasons. I was known as Hetty Glynn.
Three weeks ago I started for New York, sailing from Liverpool.
Previously I had served in the capacity of governess in the family
of John Budlong, a brewer. They had a son, a young man of twenty.
Two months ago I was dismissed. A California lady, Mrs. Holcombe,
offered me a situation as governess to her two little girls soon
afterward. I was to go to her home in San Francisco. She provided
the money necessary for the voyage and for other expenses. She is
still in Europe. I landed in New York a fortnight ago and, following
her directions, presented myself at a certain bank,--I have the
name somewhere--where my railroad tickets were to be in readiness
for me, with further instructions. They were to give me twenty-five
pounds on the presentation of my letter from Mrs. Holcombe. They
gave me the money and then handed me a cable-gram from Mrs. Holcombe,
notifying me that my services would not be required. There was no
explanation. Just that.

"On the steamer I met--HIM. His deck chair was next to mine. I
noticed that his name was Wrandall--'C. Wrandall' the card on the
chair informed me. I--"

"You crossed on the steamer with him?" interrupted Mrs. Wrandall
quickly.

"Yes."

"Had--had you seen him before? In London?"

"Never. Well, we became acquainted, as people do. He--he was very
handsome and agreeable." She paused for a moment to collect herself.

"Very handsome and agreeable," said the other slowly.

"We got to be very good friends. There were not many people on
board, and apparently he knew none of them. It was too cold to stay
on deck much of the time, and it was very rough. He had one of the
splendid suites on the--"

"Pray omit unnecessary details. You landed and went--where?"

"He advised me to go to an hotel--I can't recall the name. It was
rather an unpleasant place. Then I went to the bank, as I have stated.
After that I did not know what to do. I was stunned, bewildered.
I called him up on the telephone and--he asked me to meet him for
dinner at a queer little cafe, far down town. We--"

"And you had no friends, no acquaintances here?"

"No. He suggested that I go into one of the musical shows, saying
he thought he could arrange it with a manager who was a friend.
Anything to tide me over, he said. But I would not consider it,
not for an instant. I had had enough of the stage. I--I am really
not fitted for it. Besides, I AM qualified--well qualified--to
be governess--but that is neither here nor there. I had some
money--perhaps forty pounds. I found lodgings with some people in
Nineteenth street. He never came there to see me. I can see plainly
now why he argued it would not be--well, he used the word 'wise.'
But we went occasionally to dine together. We went about in a
motor--a little red one. He--he told me he loved me. That was one
night about a week ago. I--"

"I don't care to hear about it," cried the other. "No need of that.
Spare me the silly side of the story."

"Silly, madam? In God's name, do you think it was silly to me?
Why--why, I believed him! And, what is more, I believe that he DID
love me--even now I believe it."

"I have no doubt of it," said Mrs. Wrandall calmly. "You are very
pretty--and charming."

"I--I did not know that he had a wife until--well, until--" She
could not go on.

"Night before last?"

The girl shuddered. Mrs. Wrandall turned her face away and waited.

"There is nothing more I can tell you, unless you permit me to tell
ALL," the girl resumed after a moment of hesitation.

Mrs. Wrandall arose.

"I have heard enough. This afternoon I will send my butler with
you to the lodging house in Nineteenth street. He will attend to
the removal of your personal effects to my home, and you will return
with him. It will be testing fate, Miss Castleton, this visit to
your former abiding place, but I have decided to give the law its
chance. If you are suspected, a watch will be set over the house
in which you lived. If you are not suspected, if your association
with--with Wrandall is quite unknown, you will run no risk in going
there openly, nor will I be taking so great a chance as may appear
in offering you a home, for the time being at least, as companion--or
secretary or whatever we may elect to call it for the benefit of
all enquirers. Are you willing to run the risk--this single risk?"

"Perfectly willing," announced the other without hesitation. Indeed,
her face brightened. "If they are waiting there for me, I shall go
with them without a word. I have no means of expressing my gratitude
to you for--"

"There is time enough for that," said Mrs. Wrandall quickly. "And
if they are not there, you will return to me? You will not desert
me now?"

The girl's eyes grew wide with wonder. "Desert you? Why do you put
it in that way? I don't understand."

"You will come back to me?" insisted the other.

"Yes. Why,--why, it means everything to me. It means life,--more
than that, most wonderful friend. Life isn't very sweet to me. But
the joy of giving it to you for ever is the dearest boon I crave.
I DO give it to you. It belongs to you. I--I could die for you."

She dropped to her knees and pressed her lips to Sara Wrandall's
hand; hot tears fell upon it.

Mrs. Wrandall laid her free hand on the dark, glossy hair and smiled;
smiled warmly for the first time in--well, in years she might have
said to herself if she had stopped to consider.

"Get up, my dear," she said gently. "I shall not ask you to die for
me--if you DO come back. I may be sending you to your death, as it
is, but it is the chance we must take. A few hours will tell the
tale. Now listen to what I am about to say,--to propose. I offer
you a home, I offer you friendship and I trust security from the
peril that confronts you. I ask nothing in return, not even a word
of gratitude. You may tell the people at your lodgings that I have
engaged you as companion and that we are to sail for Europe in a
week's time if possible. Now we must prepare to go to my own home.
You will see to packing my--that is, our trunks--"

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