# Ainslee's Magazine/The Mystery of the Pink Pieces/Chapter 5

pp. 19–24.

#### CHAPTER V.

It was a little after six o'clock that evening when Willy Gaines knocked cautiously on the door of Miss O'Hara's sitting room. This gentle tapping he had to repeat two or three times before it was answered by Ernestine, who opened the door but a crack, and presented a most forbidding and austere countenance. At the sight of Gaines, however, she broke into smiles, and, with a reverential dip, threw wide the door. From the encircling shelter of her arms, Ahmed glared malevolently at Willy with green and glittering eyes.
“Ah, Monsieur Gaines,” cooed Ernestine, “'ad I but known zat eet ees you, I would 'ave flown; but,” dropping her voice confidentially, “mademoiselle she rest. W'en she stay all day in town eet ees of ze voice she mus' think. He mus' 'ave hees repose. And ze skin, too, he mus' 'ave cream. W'en one appear before ze public all ze time and——”
“Just so,” said Willy, hastening to stem the tide of these confidences. Ernestine was as voluble as a mountain stream, and could just as thoroughly be depended upon to go on forever. “I feared she might be resting,” he went on; “and of course she should not be disturbed, but——”
“She 'ave given the strictes' orders not,” Ernestine assured him. “I dare not let Ahmed give one little mieu.”
Gaines looked thoughtful. His hand sought his pocket, and as he drew it forth Ernestine saw that it held something green. In the past, whenever Gaines had wanted some little matter arranged with care and discretion by Ernestine, he had always shown a helpful interest in the provision she was making for her old age. Her old age was her fetish; she apparently lived with no other thought than to prepare for future fireside comforts; and now at the sight of that crumpled green bill in Gaines' hand her smile became saccharine, her voice honey.
“But if eet ees of an importance, mademoiselle will nevair forgive me—nevaire.”
“It is of an importance,” said Gaines. “I want you, Ernestine, to give her this note at once.”
“Oui, monsieur.” Ernestine's dip was so deep this time that it proved disconcerting to Ahmed, who squirmed uneasily, and uttered a low growl in his throat. As she rose, her sour visage presented her idea of her sweetest smile.
Gaines in turn presented her with a tip, and, after executing a series of dips and smiles that recalled to his mind a confused remembrance of all the gargoyles he had ever seen, she closed the door.
A moment later, with many petulant expressions, Rose roused herself from a nest of rose-silk coverlids and rose-silk kimono to stretch out her hand for the note. At first she read it drowsily, then with more interest; but when she had fully grasped its contents her drowsiness was dissipated as by magic.
“Hurry, Ernestine,” she cried, springing from the couch, “and get me dressed in less time than it takes to tell!”
In her profession, Ernestine was unequaled. Rose's beauty, usually a matter of pride to her, was occasionally a matter of regret. She loved to exhaust the resources of her skill and genius upon the plain sister; and Rose, from her point of view, was a most disappointing subject. In moments of idleness, Ernestine had a way of gazing long at Miss Hodgkins, and then calling upon all the saints to witness what she could do with even such unpromising material, until at last that severe and cultured person would find, against her will and principles, her imagination inflamed by Ernestine's glowing word painting, would suggest that she prove her boasts, and make the desert blossom as the rose. But Ernestine was obdurate there. She always fell back on her principles, and argued long to show that even for purposes of artistic experimentation it would be taking advantage of her mistress' confidence to transfer her services to another.
However, on this occasion she obeyed Rose's orders almost literally, and had her hair dressed and her slim figure arrayed in a blue gown—even to the last touch, a bunch of great, dewy violets—all in less time than it takes to tell, although the moment Rose left the room she dropped into a chair, and pronounced herself fatigued to the point of dissolution.
“I tell you vat, Mees 'Odgkins,” she remarked to the secretary, who sat before her desk, finishing some belated correspondence, “to be ze maid of an opera singer who ees also a beauty ees an honor, a responsibility, an' a calamity zat frazzle ze nerfs.”
“To be the secretary of an opera singer includes similar experiences,” returned Miss Hodgkins, in cool, precise tones.
Willy was waiting in the lower hall, and the moment Rose stepped from the elevator he came forward, and drew her into a large reading room, very much like an English “lounge,” a cozy, comfortable room, with flowers and books and papers about on the numerous tables—not the usual cold, arid waste of a place that that sort of a hotel room is so frequently, with its long, desert spaces of rugs and polished floor, and dejected artificial palms adding to the dreariness of the picture.
It was yet so early that the room was deserted, with the exception of a somnolent old gentleman or so, and Willy selected a pleasant little nook near the wood fire that burned cheerily upon the hearth, and pushed forward an easy-chair for Rose.
“Now, what is it? What is the new development you spoke of in your note?” she asked, as soon as she had seated herself, turning eager eyes upon him.
But it is doubtful if Gaines even heard her question. For the moment he had forgotten the matter for which he had so ruthlessly disturbed her after-her nap, had forgotten himself and herself in their rôles of amateur detectives, and remembering only that he was a man and she was a maid, was lost, drowned, in the depths of those fathomless gray eyes.
“Willy!” There was impatience in her voice, and she tapped his hand with the fan that she was holding as a screen between herself and the fire. “Come down to earth, and stop looking so far away—and, quick, tell me why you dragged me downstairs so early.”
A wave of perfume floated to him from the violets on her breast. Never, never, he felt, had she been so dear, so alluring; but, then, he did not stop to remember that he often told himself that.
“Ah, Rose-of-the-world,” he murmured, “you should never wear anything but blue—blue with violets. If I have violets for you every day in the year, will you always wear them?”
She laughed. “But you told me last night that I should never appear in anything but rose color, and the night before that gray should be my only wear. What is a poor working girl to do?”
“And so you should not,” he answered promptly. “Follow my advice, Rose, and you will never go wrong.”
“But what is your advice?” she asked, bewildered.
“This,” impressively, “and see that you never vary from it: Always wear just what you happen to be wearing.”
She looked at him with unfeigned admiration. “My dear Willy,” she said sweetly, “there is some mistake about all this. I have the Irish name and the Irish nature, but you have the national gift for bulls. The hands are those of Esau”—she looked down at her own strong, white hands, covered with sapphires—“but the voice is that of Jacob. But,” resolutely, “this is no time for argument. Tell me what you know at once.”
“You know,” he said, with a little catch in his voice, and looking at her with meaning.
“I know?” surprisedly.
“Yes.” He bent forward with his rarely charming smile, and a real sincerity and earnestness in his eyes “There's only one thing that I really know in all the world, Rose, and that is that I love you.”
She paled a little—ever so little—for Rose felt, although she carefully and sedulously told herself every day, and many times a day, that she did not want to feel, and could not feel, and would not feel, the undoubted fascination of Willy Gaines.
It was not only his cleverness—for Gaines really was clever nor yet the magnetism that was his by divine right, nor yet his excellent manners that constituted his attraction for women. They always divined that he was not only rather difficult and hard to please in spite of his apparent and immediate subjugation, but that he was at heart really indifferent, and this naturally piqued feminine vanity.
To admit it frankly, the impassive exterior of Willy Gaines contained the heart of a “plunger.” He loved few things so much as a hazard of new fortunes. He never hesitated to put anything to the touch, to win or lose it all, and his favorite mental exercise was first to get himself into a hole, and then to use every faculty of his brain in extracting himself from that difficult situation.
He knew not, he never did know, how he was to achieve results. He merely decided to do a thing, let it crystallize to a fact in his consciousness, and then made it a fact in reality; and the more odds against him the better.
But in those moments when Rose O'Hara became suddenly, overwhelmingly conscious of his attraction for her she always hastened to quell the emotion. “Look here, Willy,” she said briskly, “I did not come down here to play. Now, waste no more time, but tell me what it is you have discovered.”
He sighed. His moment had passed, and he knew it. “Why,” he said, “who do you think arrived during our absence to-day?”
“Who?” she asked quickly.
“No one but the French detective assigned to the case.”
“Really! Are you sure?”
“Dandridge told me the minute we got back from town. He is sure of it, although the man himself has not intimated his mission so far. It is evident that he wishes to remain incognito.”
“Have you met him? What is he like? I only know the French detective of fiction, and there are so many different types of him now; but he is always and under all circumstances consummately clever. Do you suppose he is disguised?”
“I do not,” Gaines affirmed. “Get some of those fictional ideas out of your head, or Monsieur Arnold, as he calls himself, will be a sore disappointment to you. He is rather young, rather—yes, quite—good looking, and rather diffident in manner. He represents himself as merely traveling for pleasure.”
“Ah, of course,” she said significantly. “That would be the most natural rôle for him to assume. Wouldn't he be chagrined if we should make our discoveries first? But,” with a little frown, “things seem to be moving so slowly.”
“Not at all,” he cried. “Remember your discovery to-day at Madame Orville's. And since I have met him the hitherto undeveloped Lecoq in me has been hard at work, with the result that I have evolved a little plan by which I hope to discover whether Mrs. Darrell or Miss MacKenzie is the elusive Anna Klaus.”
Rose looked at him, her mouth trembling slightly with interest, admiration in her gray eyes. “Oh, how?” she breathed.
“Not for anything else would I have braved the terrors of Ernestine,” he said, with a reminiscent smile. “But I really think this is a good plan, and to be commended for its simplicity. I suggest, therefore, that we manage to be on hand when these two women see Monsieur Arnold for the first time. Remember, neither of them knows yet of his presence in the hotel, and it is probable that the guilty one may recognize him as a noted detective, and show some sign of agitation.
“It may seem a rather wild and farfetched idea, but surely it is a chance worth taking. Don't you see that if either Mrs. Darrell or Miss MacKenzie should exhibit any change of expression at the sight of him we may find the problem practically solved?”
“And what is the plan? What are we to do?” Rose was all eagerness.
“Come and see.” He rose, smiling, and looked at his watch. “By Jove, we must hurry! Every one will be coming down to dinner.”
The test he proposed could not have turned out better than it did had he arranged all the details of the meeting himself. The evening had closed in raw and drizzling after a brilliant day, and most of the people stopping at the hotel had assembled in the large reception hall, where a great log fire burned on a baronial hearth.
Monsieur Arnold—was it by accident or design?—stood opposite the elevator and the broad stairway, and midway between the two, surveying the laughing, chattering throng about him with keen, interested eyes.
Rose had seated herself where she could get the same view of the staircase and the elevator that he had, and yet keep him well under her eyes at the same time. She apparently absorbed herself in a conversation with Gaines in order to prevent any one else from distracting their attention from the matter before them; but at the same time she kept Monsieur Arnold, the staircase, and the elevator under her keen observation—an observation that never for a moment suggested anything so open.
“I feel,” she said to Gaines, after a few moments of that veiled and subtle scrutiny, “as if there must be some mistake. I have seen dozens of continental young men of wealth and breeding, and this Monsieur Arnold is surely one of them. He looks to me as if he were one of the studious, reflective kind who has a fad—archæology, perhaps, or some kind of collecting—old pewter, or the early Italian masters—anything but a detective.”
“That,” said Gaines, “merely shows your bondage to preconceived opinion You admit you know nothing of detectives except those presented in current fiction. You may be quite right in a sense. This young man may be a collector—but of criminals. At least, all of the evidence seems to point in that direction. A French detective writes that he is coming, but states that when he arrives he prefers to be incognito. A day or so later a young Frenchman appears upon the scene. What deductions is one to draw?'
They had neither the chance nor the inclination to continue their discussion, for just as that moment Miss MacKenzie stepped from the elevator. She stood still a moment, surveying the whole brilliant, moving group with her cool, comprehensive glance—a glance that took in not only objects in the mass, but in detail. She evidently saw the stranger; her eyes rested lightly on him for a moment, and then passed on. It was plainly only a cursory inspection. From every indication, she had never seen him before.
But before Rose could utter the exclamation of disappointment that rose to her lips, Gaines touched her lightly on the arm, and she looked up to see Mrs. Darrell sweeping down the staircase.
Her eyes were cast down, and she made a striking picture, with her oval face and white shoulders, the smooth, shining mass of her blue-black hair, arranged something in the Japanese style, and the long, trailing gauzes of her black gown. Her accustomed languor seemed accentuated, doubtless from the fatigue of her day in town; and her feet, in their black satin slippers, seemed to hesitate from stair to stair.
Just as she reached the lowest step her eyes fell upon Monsieur Arnold. Involuntarily she stopped and half recoiled. Her eyes had widened and darkened, and her face had grown very pale. Her hand, too, where it rested upon the newel post, was visibly trembling. For an instant—a bare second—she stood so, and then, recovering herself, she gave a slight inclination of the head, and moved on toward the dining room.
“It is she!” whispered Willy
“She knew him.” Rose's voice was trembling a little with excitement. “but what was the emotion that made her look at him that way? It didn't look like fear to me.”
“It may have been terror so great that it simulated courage. She knew she couldn't make a scene here.”
“But why should she have gone on into the dining room?” said Rose. “Would you not think that she would make some attempt to escape?”
“What could she do? She did the only thing possible under the circumstances. At any rate, it still remains for Monsieur Arnold to prove that she is the guilty person. She may have protected herself there so that, although she realizes her danger, she yet has a certain sense of security. But come, let us go in to dinner. We should be sustained. We have had enough exciting events for one day.”
“But do you know,” said Rose, “I have an intuition—a strong one—that all of the interesting events are not over for to-day.”