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Updated: June 4, 2025
The first afternoon papers would contain all the details, and perhaps the ticker would have the news before. He realized that all the haggard night he had been fearing that the morning would bring him knowledge of Mrs. Marteen's death drowned, asphyxiated, poisoned the many shapes of the one terrible deed had presented themselves to his subconscious mind, to be thrust away by his stubborn will.
Marteen's private number and waited. A moment later the sweet familiar voice thrilled him. "It's I Marcus," he said. "I am coming for you this morning. Yes, I'm taking a holiday, and I'm going to bring you back to the library to see a new acquisition of mine that will interest you. Then you and Dorothy will lunch with Polly. Dorothy can join us at one o'clock.
Marteen's criminal genius cheap at the price. How long had this been going on? Whom had she victimized? And how in the world had she been able to obtain the whole correspondence? That his lawyers should have been deceived by copies was not so surprising they never dreamed of a substitution; the matter, not the letter, was proof enough to them of genuineness. But he thumped his forehead.
The morning of the fifth day since Mrs. Marteen's departure found Gard in early consultation in the directors' room of his Wall Street office, facing a board of directors with but one opinion he must go at once to Washington. Strangely enough, the plan met with stubborn resistance from his inner self. There was every reason for his going, but he did not want to go.
I was thinking what precautions had best be taken at Mrs. Marteen's home. I'll plan that you do the rest. Good-by." Brencherly sidled to the door, bowed and disappeared. The telephone bell on the table rang sharply. Gard took down the receiver absently, but the voice that trembled over the wire startled him like an electric shock.
Marteen's body stiffened; the color receded from her face, leaving it ashen. Her great eyes dilated. "Do you know why it is there?" he asked at length in a whisper. "Yes," she murmured. "We have traveled the same road you and I. I understand." He took her hand and raised it to his lips.
Right and left he told the tale of his having desired to advise the widow of his old friend, of his successful operations, of Mrs. Marteen's refusal to accept her just gains as "too great," and his determination that the account, transferred to the daughter, should reach its proper destination.
He turned to where the limp figure showed huddled in the depths of red upholstery. There was a question and a threat in the measured words. "Of course, tell him Miss Marteen's address," and in that answer there was a prayer. "Then here." Gard wrote a few words on his card and gave it into the boy's eager hand. "Run up and see her. She's with her aunt. I can bring her home any time now, however.
"I'll see that nobody else gets the credit, believe me!" With Dorothy clinging to his hand, Marcus Gard watched the door of Mrs. Marteen's library with an ever-growing anxiety. Only the presence of the child, who clasped his hand in such fear and grief, kept him from giving way.
Marteen's departure. Then why this fibril anxiety never to be long beyond call? Surely, and the demon in his brain laughed with amusement, he did not expect her to send him a cryptic wireless "Everything arranged; operation a success; appendix removed without opposition," or "Patient unmanageable; must use anesthetic."
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