In The Bishop's Carriage [47]
other people."
I laughed, and he grinned back at me.
"Now that's mean of you," I said; "I never had but one. It was all I needed."
It flashed through me then what a thing like this might do to a name. You know, Mag, every bit of recognition an actress steals from the world is so much capital. It isn't like the old graft when you had to begin new every time you took up a piece of work. And your name--the name the world knows--and its knowing it makes it worth having like everything--that name is the sum of every scheme you've planned, of every time you've got away with the goods, of every laugh you've lifted, of every bit of cleverness you've thought out and embodied, of everything that's in you, of everything you are.
But I didn't dare think long of this. I turned to him.
"Tell me about this charge," I said. "Where was the purse? Whose was it? And why haven't they missed it till after a week?"
"They missed it all right that night, but Mrs. Gates wanted it kept quiet till the servants had been shadowed and it was positively proved that they hadn't got away with it."
"And then she thought of me?"
"And then she thought of you."
"I wonder why?"
"Because you were the only person in that room except Mrs. Gates, the lady who lost the purse, Mrs. Ramsay, and--eh?" "N--nothing. Mrs. Ramsay, you said?"
"Yes."
"Not Mrs. Edward Ramsay, of Philadelphia?"
"Oh, you know the name?"
"Oh, yes, I know it."
"It was printed, you know, in gold lettering on the inside flap and--"
"I don't know."
"Well, it was, and it contained three hundred dollars, Mrs. Ramsay says. She had slipped it under the fold of the spread at the top of the bed in the room where you took off your things in Mrs. Gates' presence, and put them on again when no one else was there."
"And you mean to tell me that this is all?" I raged at him; "that every bit of evidence you have to warrant your treating an innocent girl like--"
"You didn't behave like a very innocent girl, if you'll remember," he said dryly, "when I first came into the box. In fact, if that fellow hadn't just come in then I believe you'd 'a' confessed the whole job. . . . 'Tain't too late," he added.
I didn't answer. I put my head back against the cushions and closed my eyes. I could feel the scrutiny of his blue eyes on my naked face--your face is so unprotected with the eyes closed; like a fort whose battery is withdrawn. But I was tired--it tires you when you care. A year ago, Mag, this sort of thing--the risk, the nearness to danger, the chances one way or the other--would have intoxicated me. I used to feel as though I was dancing on a volcano and daring it to explode. The more twistings and turnings there were to the labyrinth, the greater glory it was to get out. Maggie darlin', you have before you a mournful spectacle--the degeneration of Nancy Olden. It isn't that she's lost courage. It's only that she used to be able to think of only one thing, and now--What do you suppose it is, Mag? If you know, don't you dare to tell me.
When we got to the flat Obermuller was already there. At the door I pulled out my key and opened it with a flourish.
"Won't you come in, gentlemen, and spend the evening?" I asked.
They followed me in. First to the parlor. The two fellows threw off their coats and searched that through and through--not a drawer did they miss, not a bit of furniture did they fail to move. Obermuller and I sat there guying them as they pried about in their shirt-sleeves. That Trust business has taken the life out of him of late. All their tricks, all their squeezings, their cheatings, their bossing and bragging and bullying have got on to his nerves till he looks like a chained bear getting a drubbing. And he swears that they're in a conspiracy to freeze him and a few others like him out; he believes there's actually a paper in existence that would prove it. But this affair of the purse seemed to excite him till he behaved like a bad school-boy.
And I? Well, Nance Olden was never far behind at the
I laughed, and he grinned back at me.
"Now that's mean of you," I said; "I never had but one. It was all I needed."
It flashed through me then what a thing like this might do to a name. You know, Mag, every bit of recognition an actress steals from the world is so much capital. It isn't like the old graft when you had to begin new every time you took up a piece of work. And your name--the name the world knows--and its knowing it makes it worth having like everything--that name is the sum of every scheme you've planned, of every time you've got away with the goods, of every laugh you've lifted, of every bit of cleverness you've thought out and embodied, of everything that's in you, of everything you are.
But I didn't dare think long of this. I turned to him.
"Tell me about this charge," I said. "Where was the purse? Whose was it? And why haven't they missed it till after a week?"
"They missed it all right that night, but Mrs. Gates wanted it kept quiet till the servants had been shadowed and it was positively proved that they hadn't got away with it."
"And then she thought of me?"
"And then she thought of you."
"I wonder why?"
"Because you were the only person in that room except Mrs. Gates, the lady who lost the purse, Mrs. Ramsay, and--eh?" "N--nothing. Mrs. Ramsay, you said?"
"Yes."
"Not Mrs. Edward Ramsay, of Philadelphia?"
"Oh, you know the name?"
"Oh, yes, I know it."
"It was printed, you know, in gold lettering on the inside flap and--"
"I don't know."
"Well, it was, and it contained three hundred dollars, Mrs. Ramsay says. She had slipped it under the fold of the spread at the top of the bed in the room where you took off your things in Mrs. Gates' presence, and put them on again when no one else was there."
"And you mean to tell me that this is all?" I raged at him; "that every bit of evidence you have to warrant your treating an innocent girl like--"
"You didn't behave like a very innocent girl, if you'll remember," he said dryly, "when I first came into the box. In fact, if that fellow hadn't just come in then I believe you'd 'a' confessed the whole job. . . . 'Tain't too late," he added.
I didn't answer. I put my head back against the cushions and closed my eyes. I could feel the scrutiny of his blue eyes on my naked face--your face is so unprotected with the eyes closed; like a fort whose battery is withdrawn. But I was tired--it tires you when you care. A year ago, Mag, this sort of thing--the risk, the nearness to danger, the chances one way or the other--would have intoxicated me. I used to feel as though I was dancing on a volcano and daring it to explode. The more twistings and turnings there were to the labyrinth, the greater glory it was to get out. Maggie darlin', you have before you a mournful spectacle--the degeneration of Nancy Olden. It isn't that she's lost courage. It's only that she used to be able to think of only one thing, and now--What do you suppose it is, Mag? If you know, don't you dare to tell me.
When we got to the flat Obermuller was already there. At the door I pulled out my key and opened it with a flourish.
"Won't you come in, gentlemen, and spend the evening?" I asked.
They followed me in. First to the parlor. The two fellows threw off their coats and searched that through and through--not a drawer did they miss, not a bit of furniture did they fail to move. Obermuller and I sat there guying them as they pried about in their shirt-sleeves. That Trust business has taken the life out of him of late. All their tricks, all their squeezings, their cheatings, their bossing and bragging and bullying have got on to his nerves till he looks like a chained bear getting a drubbing. And he swears that they're in a conspiracy to freeze him and a few others like him out; he believes there's actually a paper in existence that would prove it. But this affair of the purse seemed to excite him till he behaved like a bad school-boy.
And I? Well, Nance Olden was never far behind at the