# Ainslee's Magazine/The Mystery of the Pink Pieces/Chapter 6

pp. 24–28.

#### CHAPTER VI.

The infatuation that young Wodeburn had conceived for Vivien Mayhew had become the principal topic of interest at the hotel. Rose O'Hara—her gowns, her voice, all the romantic tales that were current about her—had been discussed until the subject was so threadbare that even the hardened porch and sun-parlor gossips were ashamed to continue it.
Miss MacKenzie was too quiet and insignificant a person to afford much scope for conjecture; and although Mrs. Darrell had served as a topic of conversation for several days, interest in her also had died away. So, as nothing else of soaring importance appeared upon the horizon, there was a general concentration of attention upon these two young persons who exhibited so marked a similarity of tastes.
The interest they aroused, however, had apparently no effect upon either Miss Mayhew or Wodeburn. They went their accustomed way, serenely unconscious of comment, or else quite indifferent to it.
After dinner on the evening of Monsieur Arnold's arrival, this much observed pair had drifted up to Rose and Gaines, who had returned to the lounge, Rose arguing that on a damp, chilly evening such as this had proved to be most of the people they desired to keep under observation would be apt to seek the warmth and cheer of the wood fire.
“And who is Monsieur Arnold?” asked Vivien Mayhew, sitting down in a chair beside Rose and Willy, while Wodeburn drew up one for himself. “And why has he sought the Annesley?
“Suffering from the contagion of idle minds, as one does in a place of this kind,” said Gaines, “that is the question we have just been asking each other.”
“It is being repeated all over the place,” said Wodeburn. “They have temporarily stopped telling each other that Miss Mayhew and I have been inspecting my new Bleriot to-day.”
“But why,” asked Miss Mayhew, “should he have stolen so many furtive glances at Mrs. Danvers Darrell during dinner?”
Rose laughed a little vexedly; it annoyed her that any one else should venture to poach upon the preserves of this fascinating mystery which she wanted to ravel unaided except by Willy Gaines. “Did he?” she said languidly. “But surely she is attractive enough to provoke any amount of admiration.”
“Miss O'Hara and I have been having a discussion about him,” said Willy, with an air of frankness. “So suppose you give us your impressions about him, Miss Mayhew.”
“Such as they are, you are welcome to them,” she returned. “He is well-born, well-bred, cultivated, and with a tidy little fortune of his own. So much for my diagnosis, and I am sure I am right.”
Gaines smiled rather enigmatically. “Naturally,” he said. “One always is.”
“I am sure you are right,” said Rose, with emphasis. “We women,” with a glance at Willy, “have our intuitions, and we know better than to distrust them.”
But Wodeburn was becoming restless; he cared as little for feminine intuitions as he did for Monsieur Arnold. He had succeeded in winning Mrs. Mayhew's consent to accompany him and Vivien on a spin that they meant to take a little later in his racing machine; but for the present all his thoughts were upon mountain climbing, which he and Vivien had been enthusiastically discussing until they joined Rose and Gaines. His mind being full of the subject, he now began, ably seconded by Vivien, to put up several mooted questions to Gaines.
But here Willy was adamant. “Let me inform you two remarkable people that I will not be drawn into any of your technical discussions, Your ideas of enjoyment seem to be to take up some sport enthusiastically, to load yourselves with all the technical expressions you can carry, and then to invite innocent, unsophisticated people to join in your wrangles, putting them to the blush with all kinds of ingenious, hypothetical questions. Now, I am a remarkably well-informed man, but I am not a Professor Parker or an Annie Peck. So for once show us that you really can talk on everyday topics for the tired business man.”
“He wants to hear drivel, Phil; that is what they are supposed to dole out to the tired business man. But neither you nor I are capable of it.” This from Miss Mayhew. “We are interested only in worth-while things.”
“Willy doesn't seem to have appreciated your uplift work,” smiled Rose. “But never mind; I have. Hearing you two talk is just like reading one of Kipling's later stories—unintelligible, but interesting nevertheless.”
“Goodness gracious, Rose!” cried Willy, in consternation. “By trying to be polite you are encouraging them to go on. By the way, Miss Mayhew, I noticed you carrying about a whole sheaf of foreign letters this morning, and I wondered if you had received any fresh information about those Paris robberies you told us of.”
“The Parisian robberies!” she repeated idly, but with a slight change of expression—so slight a change that it was unnoticed by any one except Willy, who got the impression somehow that he had broached an unpleasant topic. “Oh, yes, I remember now. No, I have heard nothing more. I imagine, though, that they have given up all investigations—given up the case as unsolvable.
“But”—she spoke more seriously now—“speaking of robberies, I advise you all to be particularly careful just now, for mother lost a small pin the other day. A belt buckle of mine has also vanished, and one of Mr. Wodeburn's scarfpins is mysteriously missing. We have not complained of the matter, or even mentioned it, because the articles are of no particular value, and may turn up yet.”
Rose was an image of pale consternation. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed. “I have my pearls with me. I shall go to town to-morrow, and put them in my safety-deposit box. And Ahmed!”
“Put him in your safety-deposit box, too,” urged Willy. “Lock him up and leave him there, by all means, and then lose the key.”
This was sheer, willful recklessness on Gaines' part, and he would probably have repented his rash speech at leisure if Mrs. Mayhew had not created a diversion by joining them just at that moment.
“Now, Mr. Wodeburn,” she said timidly, “if I consent to go with you, you will not drive at your usual alarming rate, will you?”
“Indeed, no, Mrs. Mayhew,” in his most reassuring tone. “It shall go at the slowest pace a racing machine knows. You'll forgive me”—with his pleasant smile—“if it dashes ahead now and then. You know, it does strain on the leash.”
“I suppose I have my uses,” said Mrs. Mayhew to Rose, “but I am afraid that in her heart Vivien regards me as a spoilsport.”
“No, indeed,” said her daughter heartily. “I think the way you persistently and consistently do things that frighten you out of your life entitles you to the best gold medal that Carnegie has in stock.”
Mrs. Mayhew smiled a rather nervous and pathetic smile. “But you will promise not to drive fast, won't you, Mr. Wodeburn?”
“Truly I will,” he affirmed. smiling down upon her kindly. “But really we must hurry, or we shall have no drive at all.”
“Poor soul!” murmured Rose, her eyes following Mrs. Mayhew's manifestly shrinking figure. “I wish, though, that her daughter hadn't told me about those robberies here at the inn. It makes me feel nervous.”
“Nonsense!” said Gaines. “I don't believe there have been any robberies. People are always telling such stories at a place like this. They carelessly mislay their trumpery ornaments, and then they cook up some sensational tale.”
“Well,” said Rose, “I hope it is not true, but if this 'Queen of the Reds' would steal designs I dare say she wouldn't stop at a necklace or so and a few pins. And, Willy, look!” she whispered behind her fan. “There goes that little Miss MacKenzie across the room and out of the door. I am hourly more convinced that she is the guilty person. Everything points to her.”
“Perhaps,” said Gaines skeptically; “but, nevertheless, I do not believe it. She strikes me as: the simplest, most transparent of creatures. I have been sure from the first that it was idle to suspect her, and now, after having seen Mrs. Danvers Darrell's evident agitation at the sight of Monsieur Arnold, certain suspicions of my own have been confirmed.”
Rose looked at him with disdain. “How absurd a man's ideas of simplicity are! I dare say you would have called the little dinner frock that Miss MacKenzie wore to-night simple. It was, too, but it had been made by an artist.”
“But the wearing of Paris frocks by woman who is able to travel all over the globe is hardly a confirmation of guilt,” said Willy mildly
“Ah!” There was a faint edge of triumph in Rose's voice. “But I have other reasons for distrust—reasons that mean something to me. Do you know what that initial 'S.' stands for? Sonia. Sonia MacKenzie! What a combination! One has only to hear it to know that the name is assumed.”
“My dear Rose, your prejudices are running away with you. There is absolutely no accounting for the cruelty of parents. They are apt to fasten any kind of a name on their innocent offspring.”
“She has bewitched you!” Rose cried, with such surprise and scorn in her voice that Willy made haste to create a diversion.
“Here comes Miss Hodgkins evidently seeking you.”
“Miss Hodgkins! What can she possibly want at this time in the evening? Can anything have happened to Ahmed?” She half rose from her chair.
“I hope——” Willy hastily substituted a “not” for the “so” he had been on the verge of uttering.
But something evidently had occurred, for Miss Hodgkins advanced with an air of subdued importance, as behooves one who conveys news of a startling character.
“I have just had an experience that I believe may be of interest to you, and perhaps to Mr. Gaines, Miss O'Hara,” she said, drawing near, and speaking in a low voice, with a little extra primness thrown in; “and at the same time I feel it my duty to report a piece of gross carelessness on the part of Ernestine. When I went to your room a few moments ago I found her gone—probably out again with that handsome mechanician of Mr. Wodeburn's. But what was of more importance, Ahmed was gone, too, his basket empty, and no sign of him anywhere to be seen.
“For an instant my heart was in my mouth; then, realizing that, since the door had been closed, there was only one way for him to escape, I rushed to the open window, and, to my intense relief, saw him playing on the roof of the veranda with what appeared to be a scrap of material, or goods of some sort, in his mouth.
“To my surprise, moreover, Miss MacKenzie was also out on the roof, evidently trying with the utmost eagerness to wrest his spoil away from him; but in vain, for he easily eluded all her efforts to catch him. The darling came to me at once when I called, however, and then I discovered that what he had was a square of painted silk,
“Naturally I asked Miss MacKenzie if it belonged to her; but she said no—that she had merely seen Ahmed coming with it out of one of the windows along the row—just which one she was not certain—and, purely out of curiosity, had tried to find out what he had. Then, with an assumption of indifference, she turned and climbed back into her room; yet—I hope that I am not unjust in saying so—I really had the impression that she would have given almost anything for that scrap of silk I held in my hand.”
“Yes?” cried Rose eagerly, as the secretary paused a moment for breath. “Go on—go on!”
“Well,” continued Miss Hodgkins, in the same sedate tones, “I naturally felt more interest in the silk after that, and examining it more carefully——”
“But surely you have it with you!” exclaimed Rose. “What is it like? Oh, do let us see it!”
There was no one near them; the room was almost deserted, and Rose took the bit of silk from Miss Hodgkins, and carefully smoothed it out upon her knee.
“Look!” she exclaimed. “It is a picture—a water-color sketch on silk—of a very smartly gowned woman. Why—why,” her excitement growing, “I believe—no, I am sure—it is the exact counterpart of a gown that I ordered from Orville to-day. She described it to me in detail, showed me all the materials, and I was so pleased with it that I told her to begin on it at once. Oh, Miss Hodgkins! How awfully clever of Ahmed! It must be one of those stolen designs. There is no doubt about it.”
Miss Hodgkins bowed her head as if to say, “Of course.” She tried to look detached and indifferent, but failed.
Willy Gaines was quite as much interested, even excited, as either Rose or Miss Hodgkins. “Why is it all full of little holes?” he asked. “I'm sorry, Rose”—he looked rather dejected himself—“but I am afraid all those pin pricks destroy your beautiful little theory. It's just an ordinary, everyday pincushion cover.”
But both Rose and Miss Hodgkins refused to accept the hypothesis. “Absurd!” cried Rose. “How could a pin-cushion cover that has been in use for days, as this square of silk must have been, if it had been put to that use any——”
“Why for days?” asked Willy.
“It could not have had all these pin pricks otherwise, or this rather worn look.”
“You only strengthen my theory,” he murmured.
“Not a bit of it! Do you think Madame Orville would have dared to suggest that I order a beautiful and expensive gown from a model so well known and so much used that it could be copied in every detail—probably from a fashion magazine—on a pin-cushion cover? She would never dream of such a thing.”
Gaines was forced to admit the value of this argument, although he was not entirely convinced. “Then how do you account for all the little holes?” he asked. “They are evidently made by either needles or pins, perhaps both.”
“Ye-s,” she conceded, and again smoothed out the square of silk with the utmost care. “Ah!” triumphantly. “Now I understand! Those pin pricks, if you will both notice, never touch the figure. You see, the pin holes are all about the edge. It must have been stitched to something.”
“Stitched to something!” cried Gaines. “Ah, that might explain how they were smuggled in, and how the revenue inspectors were hoodwinked. By Jove! It looks as if you had found the real thing, Miss Hodgkins. I believe you are right, Rose, and that this is unquestionably one of the stolen designs.
“But how did Ahmed happen to get hold of it?” Rose continued to follow out her train of thought. “You say that Miss MacKenzie told you she saw him coming out of one of the windows with it, Miss Hodgkins?”
“That was her explanation,” admitted the secretary, but not without a sniff of obvious skepticism.
Rose did not even glance at Willy Gaines. She was generous enough not to exult openly over a worsted disputant, but the tactful and discreet Miss Hodgkins seemed to divine “a situation.” So she arose. “Shall I leave the bit with you, Miss O'Hara?” she asked.
“Oh, certainly,” returned Rose. “I will take the responsibility of it. Willy, dear,” she leaned forward, with her most ingratiating smile, “I don't want to gloat, but you must admit that circumstantial evidence is strong against your little protégée.”
“All lawyers know the value of that,” said Willy loftily, “and I will offset it with Mrs. Darrell's very peculiar behavior when she saw Monsieur Arnold. She is on the same floor, you remember, as you and Miss MacKenzie. Why may not my protégée, as you call her, be telling the truth, and Ahmed have——”
He heard Rose give a little exclamation, and looked up to see Vivien Mayhew advancing toward them. As she was not three feet away, and her approach had been absolutely noiseless, he could not repress a start.
“Goodness!” he cried. “You come and go like a ghost!”
“It's my rubber heels,” she laughed. “And, at any rate, the musicians are making a terrible noise out there. We had a wonderful drive. What is that in your hand, Miss O'Hara—a sample?”
She put the question with her usual frank impertinence. No one seemed ever to have impressed upon her that curiosity too openly exhibited or expressed is a social crime.
Rose flushed slightly with annoyance, and mentally animadverted her stupidity in continuing to hold the design in her hand, although she had crumpled it up so in her palm that she was surprised that even such prying eyes as Miss Mayhew's should have caught a glimpse of it.
“It is somebody's old pincushion cover,” said Gaines quickly. “Miss Hodgkins found it outside of Miss O'Hara's door, and brought it down here a moment or two ago, thinking that it might be one of Miss O'Hara's possessions.”
“A pincushion cover—a pincushion cover,” reflected Miss Mayhew. “Who was it that I heard only a bit ago asking about one? Isn't that provoking! I can't remember, and yet I think I have an impression that it was Mrs. Danvers Darrell.”