Probably not another woman in ten thousand would have acted as I did about the De Lisle affair. I was led into it by my overpowering love of dramatics and my consequent thoughtlessness of results. A real “situation” had never presented itself to me until then, though nightly I interpret far more romantic and thrilling scenes from behind a row of footlights, but in all the five years that I have recited emotional lines on the stage, this one episode has been the sole sensational experience in my unsettled and incident crowded life.
My real or stage name is unimportant, so for euphony's sake I will be Miss Marie Marguette, dramatic reciter, and one of the principals in The Bellini-Marguette *Laceum Concert Company, by which the uninitiated will understand that I am owned by a big bureau which pays a fair salary for whatever artistic ability I may possess, and which sends me out every season in company with two or three other “show people” to take the road anywhere from New York to San Francisco.
We had just opened the season of '95–6 in a small city in northern New York, and had gone through the first performance of a new programme, always an exhausting thing to an artist. My work had been particularly heavy, and at the earliest possible moment I left the theater and returned to the hotel, after regretfully declining to accompany Madam Bellini and our support to the first Bohemian supper of the season.
As I passed the office I begged the night clerk to procure me some refreshments from an adjacent restaurant; then went directly to my room, where I slipped into a tea gown, completed most of my packing, and was glancing over the evening papers when the bell-boy arrived with the tray. I noticed vaguely as he departed that the city clocks were striking twelve, and groaned as I thought of the brief night's rest; we were to leave at seven in the morning.
I had scarcely taken a bite of my solitary rolls and chicken, when suddenly, and without the slightest warning, the door of my room was flung abruptly and noiselessly open, and a well dressed young gentleman dashed in, closed it to, and turned the key in the lock, crouching down as he did so with his ear to the keyhole.
I confess to a feeling of paralyzation, but I managed to rise up with dignity and say, “Young man, you have evidently made some mistake in the room.”
He made a gesture enjoining silence, *nor altered his listening attitude.
“Unlock that door,” I said in a voice like Lady Macbeth. He turned and came towards me swiftly. I saw at a glance that he was extraordinarily handsome, but with a curious, dazed look in his eyes, like that of a frightened child.
“Hide me,” was all he said. “For God's sake, hide me; the detectives are after me.”
A man may be dyed in crime, but if he appeals to one for protection against even a well merited justice, where is the human heart that would not help him? Instantly every dramatic instinct pounded through my blood. The fatal love of a “situation” beat in my pulses like wine. Here was something unequaled on any stage: it was not only realistic, but real.
I looked sharply into his face, a clean-shaven, boyish face, and if I mistook not, one that was unjustly accused. “Where are they?” I ejaculated.
“Down the corridor. Quick! quick!” he whispered.
I flung open the wardrobe. No, that would be the first place suspected; under the bed would be worse still; on it lay my long fur-lined circular cloak and the light fascinator I had removed on coming in from the theater. “Quick!” I said, startled into action by the sound of voices in the hall. In a second I had tossed the wrap about him, wound his head up in the fascinator, seated him at the table, unlocked the door, and thrusting a bit of chicken into his shaking fingers told him to eat for his life, while I seated myself opposite him, laughing and talking in a loud tone—of what, I can never tell to this day.
“Come!” I said when the feared and expected knock resounded on my door, which opened to the summons, “discovering” a colored bell-boy, the night clerk, and a keen-faced man at his elbow.
“I am sorry to disturb you, Miss Marguette,” said the clerk apologetically, “but you seem to be the only one awake in the corridor; did you happen to notice anyone passing your door a moment ago?”
Twice when panic has threatened an audience I have saved the situation by some nameless subtle instinct prompting rapid action. It came to me now again.
“Yes,” I answered in a surprised way; “I heard someone. They came up soon after Madam Bellini (indicating the lady who sat at the table), but I thought it was Mr. Barry, whose room is next door to mine. They certainly went into Mr. Barry's room!”
It was a bold stroke. Suppose Madam Bellini had at that moment come up to her room, which was directly opposite mine! The situation was certainly not without its interests.
“He couldn't have gone into Barry's room,” said the clerk. “Barry went out to supper; his door would be locked.”
I ventured to think not. Mr. Barry was very careless; he seldom locked his door; he had had things stolen from his room more than once. They were already in Mr. Barry's room, with lights turned on and searching assiduously. I followed.
“Are you positive you heard him come into this room?” asked the keen-faced man. Yes, I was positive; indeed, so plain were the movements that I thought, without interest, it was Mr. Barry. I concluded by asking if anything was wrong. The clerk explained they were only looking for a man. But the keen-faced man was laughing.
“Look at that!” he said, pointing to the window; “he's outwitted us again; he must know the hotel like a book!”
I almost screamed in relaxation of nervous tension, for outside the window the skeleton fire-escape wound down to the alley below.
The clerk said a bad word, the bell-boy chuckled, the detective sneered. “Smarter than you are,” he said disgustedly; “you fellows don't seem to know where your fire-escapes are.” I received a further apology from the clerk, the party descended the stairs, and I returned to my room.
But I had scarcely time to close the door when I heard Madam Bellini's voice at the elevator; she was evidently accompanied by the pianist, his wife, and Mr. Barry, into whose room they all adjourned, after banging for me as they went past. My heart dropped down to zero. The fire-escape, which a moment before had presented royal possibilities, was impossible to make use of now. I knew our combination well enough to be assured that when they got together in Mr. Barry's room they would make a night of it.
“Now, young man,” I said severely, regarding the handsome face under the “fascinator”, “I've got you out of a fix, will you tell me how you intend getting me out of the pretty scrape I'll be in if you are found here at this hour?”
“I didn't think of you,” he stammered, rising; “I didn't know it was a lady's room. I saw the light over the transom; the other rooms were dark; it was my only chance of escape.”
“What have you done?” I demanded less harshly.
He looked me straight in the eyes. “You're not likely to betray me now,” he half questioned. “I'll tell you the truth: I'm mixed up in the De Lisle affair.”
“I'm as wise as I was before,” I remarked dryly.
“Have you seen the evening papers?” he asked.
“Yes, and no,” I replied, handing him those I had dropped at his unannounced entrance. He turned them over rapidly, pointing to a column on the “local” page. It was headed sensationally and in large type:
THE DE LISLE AFFAIR
DETECTIVES UNEARTH INCRIMINATING EVIDENCE
The Counterfeit Die *Traced to this City.
A Lady in the Case.
I ran my eye quickly down the column, the sum and substance of which was that a bold gang of counterfeiters had been passing a number of bogus bank-notes in New York; that an old and trusted employee of the De Lisle Brothers, printers and engravers, and formerly of this city, had made statements which had led the detectives to believe the die had been engraved by the firm, that had hitherto borne a most unblemished reputation—for this reason solely the police had deferred making any arrests until positive evidence could be advanced; that the De Lisle establishments, both private and business, had been searched with no results whatever. Here followed the details of some smart detective work that led to the astounding revelation that a counterfeit die had been sent by express to this city and directed to Miss Eleanor Woods, half sister of the De Lisles, and a lady belonging to the most exclusive and fashionable circles of society in town; that at 2.15 this afternoon a young man, one John Robinson, had presented a type-written order from Miss Woods authorizing the express company to give him any packages that were directed to her, and signed by her name in full. The express company, not knowing the character of the package, gave it to Robinson and took his receipt. Twenty minutes after he left the office a New York detective entered with his authorization to intercept the delivery of the counterfeit die, but their bird had flown, and up to the hour of publication had as completely disappeared as if swallowed up in the earth.
“Enquiry at the residence of Miss Woods, 614 Hunter avenue, reveals the fact that the lady left town at 10.30 this morning for a brief shopping trip to Rochester. Every train that leaves the station is being narrowly watched, but John Robinson has not yet boarded one of them.”
A “later” was added. It read: “As we go to press it is discovered that the order presented to the express company, purporting to have been signed by Miss Woods, is a forgery; that the revelations made to the detectives in New York by the “trusted employee” are without the slightest foundation of truth, and were concocted as a mean revenge because of cut wages to the engraving staff, and that the whole connection of the De Lisles with the affair was a villainous plot set afloat to ruin the name of an excellent firm,” etc.
“Well!” I said, laying the paper down.
“I am John Robinson!” he replied in a low tone.
I had already thought as much.
“And the counterfeit die?” I asked.
He drew from his inside pocket a small oblong parcel, handed it to me and watched me unwrap it. Even my unaccustomed eye, practiced only in the engraving of my own lithographs and “paper,” discerned it to be a marvelously accurate counterfeit of a certain denomination of the First National Bank of *Britain.
“Did you know what this was, Mr. Robinson, when you took it from the express office?” I asked.
He shook his head, and for the third time his splendid eyes impressed me *curiously.
“The order was a forgery,” I asserted. He nodded.
“Do you know Miss Woods?”
“Yes.”
“Did you forge her name?”
“No.”
“Who did? You may trust me; I mean to help you out of this.”
For answer he buried his face in his hands and sobbed hysterically. I had hitherto admired him for his grit. He may have been a sinner, but he was certainly manly and looked innocent. Now I was filled with disgust at the whole affair; I spoke impatiently and ordered him from the room, saying I would help him no further.
“Don't! don't!” he exclaimed, rising and half staggering towards me with outstretched arms, from which I recoiled with horror; as I did so the city clock rang one. The awfulness of my position struck me with terror. My indiscretion had been worse than blamable.
“Go!” I cried. “Why should I help you? Leave my room immediately; you should never have dared to enter it.”
“Why should you help me?” he said, his wonderful eyes riveted on mine, “This is why.”
Before I could utter a sound he had flung off his coat and vest, revealing the most exquisite female curves I have ever seen.
If I could reproduce the horror of the nervous laughter that overcame me at that instant I would make a fortune in my art.
“Sh-sh!” she said warningly, while she turned to the table and with shaking hands filled me a glass with sherry. “I'm in an awful fix and you must help me and them.” I swallowed the wine and looked at her. She was a beautiful woman.
“You are—?” I asked.
“Eleanor Woods.”
The dramatic effect of the whole thing burst upon me. I could enjoy it now without fear; but the comedy followed closely upon its heels. “So the fascinator and the circular cloak were not so absurd after all,” I laughed. She joined my merriment, and for a moment we were two as light-hearted girls as you could find in the whole State.
“I see who you are,” she said finally, checking herself and glancing at the big lettering on my trunk,” and I am going to tell you the whole miserable story. You will swear not to inform on me—or them? You will swear to help me—a fellow woman?”
I lifted my hand a spoke a simple oath.
“I need hardly have asked that,” she apologized, sitting beside me and placing her hand on my arm, “but listen and you will understand. When my father died, mother married old De Lisle—old ‘Diable’ would be a better name for him. To be brief, her life with him was one long torture, relieved only by the kindness, the devotion, the tender love of his three sons. I love those De Lisle boys better than anything else in the world, and because of that love you see me to-night as I am.” She hesitated, glanced at the door, lowered her voice and hurried on. “They are a wild lot, and have seen the ups and downs of life. They have recently had great business worries, and I know they made that die (pointing to the thing on the table) to help them out. Yesterday I received this letter from Will.” She fumbled in her pocket, and handed me the following type-written note:
“New York, October, '95.
“Dear El
“I express to you a very important package, which will reach you to-morrow about noon or a little after. I do not wish it delivered at the house, nor must you go to the office for it. Send some reliable, trustworthy, “mum” person for it, with an order signed by yourself. Conceal it; know nothing whatever of it if you are asked. I have only to tell you it is of infinite value and worth thousands to us, to have you follow my instructions, I know.
“Will you do this for your
“Affect Brother,
“Will.”
“P.S.—In case you don't know how to make out an order I enclose draft of one. Copy it accurately.”
“There is little more to tell,” she said, tearing up the tell-tale letter into fragments. “I read the morning papers. I knew pretty well what the boys had done. I could trust nobody. For once my short hair served me well. After telling the maids I intended going to Rochester for the day, I quietly went out, returned, dressed myself in an old suit of Henry's, went to the express office about two o'clock, presented Will's copy of the order which he had roughly made out for some possible ‘John Robinson,’ and hurriedly scribbled my name where I was to sign it. I got the package, signed the receipt ‘John Robinson,’ and walked right into this hotel and upstairs, where I have been dodging about ever since, waiting until the Rochester train comes in to bring me home.” Here she made a meaning grimace. “How they ‘suspicioned’ me here I don't know. I heard the enquirers; I dashed for escape through the only door I thought to be unlocked; you know the rest!”
“When is the Rochester train due here?” I asked.
“At midnight. I am late now,” she replied with some anxiety.
Twenty-five minutes later I descended the side staircase that led to the ladies' entrance. I was accompanied by a very pretty girl, who was dressed in my brown Redfern, my gray fedora *veiled, while my fur circular concealed whatever misfits were likely to be observed.
To the sleepy bell-boy who let us out I gave directions to call a coupe, which lumbered up from the cab-stand at the corner. She kissed me “goodbye,” after the manner of women, and I ordered the driver to take her to the railway station, where she was to dismiss him, wait until he departed, step quietly into another coupe and drive to her home as though nothing had happened, further than that the Rochester train was late.
When I returned to my room the only evidence that the entire affair had not been the outgrowth of my *romantic imagination was the counterfeit die lying on my table and staring up at me like an evil eye.
I tossed it into my trunk, and a week later, while crossing the Niagara Gorge en route from Buffalo to Detroit, I silently lifted the window in my berth and flung it into the river, where many another secret lies buried from the world.
Gradually the whole De Lisle affair subsided. The detectives worked night and day, but it is needless to say they never found John Robinson. The De Lisle brothers evidently made up their minds to profit by their narrow escape and adopt the motto of virtue being its own reward even in dollars and cents. Their reformation must have prospered, for last Christmas I received by registered mail an oblong package, apparently the exact size and measurement of the die I had dropped into the Niagara River. Upon opening it, however, I was surprised to find it a morocco case bearing the words “No counterfeit.” A second and inside cover revealed the inscription:
“From William, Henry and Howard De Lisle,
With affectionate Gratitude
For services rendered their sister Eleanor and themselves.”
Its contents fairly dazzled me. I have some exceedingly beautiful jewels, but none that can begin to equal the splendor of that diamond crescent.