Miss Maitland Private Secretary Read online

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  MISS MAITLAND PRIVATE SECRETARY BY GERALDINE BONNER

  AUTHOR OF "THE EMIGRANT TRAIL," "THE GIRL AT CENTRAL," "TREASURE AND TROUBLE THEREWITH," ETC.

  ILLUSTRATED BY A. I. KELLER

  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY NEW YORK LONDON 1919

  COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

  COPYRIGHT 1918, 1919, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  _Rising into the white wash of moonlight came Suzanne_]

  CONTENTS

  - LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS - CHAPTER I--THE PARTING OF THE WAYS - CHAPTER II--MISS MAITLAND GETS A LETTER - CHAPTER III--ANOTHER LETTER AND WHAT FOLLOWED IT - CHAPTER IV--THE CIGAR BAND - CHAPTER V--ROBBERY IN HIGH PLACES - CHAPTER VI--POOR MR. JANNEY! - CHAPTER VII--CONCERNING DETECTIVES - CHAPTER VIII--MOLLY'S STORY - CHAPTER IX--GOOD HUNTING IN BERKELEY - CHAPTER X--MOLLY'S STORY - CHAPTER XI--FERGUSON'S IDEA - CHAPTER XII--THE MAN WHO WOULDN'T TELL - CHAPTER XIII--MOLLY'S STORY - CHAPTER XIV--A CHAPTER ABOUT BAD TEMPERS - CHAPTER XV--WHAT HAPPENED ON FRIDAY - CHAPTER XVI--MOLLY'S STORY - CHAPTER XVII--MISS MAITLAND IN A NEW LIGHT - CHAPTER XVIII--THE HOUSE IN GAYLE STREET - CHAPTER XIX--MOLLY'S STORY - CHAPTER XX--MOLLY'S STORY - CHAPTER XXI--SIGNED "CLANSMEN" - CHAPTER XXII--SUZANNE FINDS A FRIEND - CHAPTER XXIII--MOLLY'S STORY - CHAPTER XXIV--CARDS ON THE TABLE - CHAPTER XXV--MOLLY'S STORY - CHAPTER XXVI--THE COUNTER PLOT - CHAPTER XXVII--NIGHT ON THE CRESSON PIKE - CHAPTER XXVIII--THE MAN IN THE BOAT - CHAPTER XXIX--MISS MAITLAND EXPLAINS - CHAPTER XXX--MOLLY'S STORY

  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

  Rising into the white wash of moonlight came SuzanneYou've done one thing to me that you are going to regretHis face was ludicrous in its enraged enmityFerguson saw him in silhouette, a large, humped body with bent head

  MISS MAITLAND PRIVATE SECRETARY

  CHAPTER I--THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

  Chapman Price was leaving Grasslands. Events had been rapidly advancingto that point for the last three months, slowly advancing for the lastthree years. Everybody who knew the Prices and the Janneys said it wasinevitable, and people who didn't know them but read about them in the"society papers" could give quite glibly the reasons why Mrs. ChapmanPrice was going to separate from her husband.

  His friends said it was her fault; Suzanne Price was enough to drive anyman away from her--selfish, exacting, bad tempered, a spoiled child ofwealth. Chappie had been a first-rate fellow when he married her andshe'd nagged and tormented him past bearing. _Her_ friends had adifferent story; Chapman Price was no good, had neglected her, was anidler and a spendthrift. Hadn't the Janneys set him up in business overand over and found it hopeless? What he had wanted was her money, andpeople had told her so; her mother had begged her to give him up, butshe would have him and learned her lesson, poor girl! Those in theJanney circle said there would have been a divorce long before if ithadn't been for the child. _She_ had held them together, kept them in asort of hostile, embattled partnership for years. And then, finally,that link broke and Chapman Price had to go.

  There had been a last conclave in the library that morning, Mrs. Janneypresiding. Then they separated, silent and gloomy--a household of eightyears, even an uncongenial one, isn't broken up without the sense offinality weighing on its members. Chapman had gone to his rooms andflung orders at his valet to pack up, and Suzanne had gone to hers,thrown herself on the sofa, and sniffed salts with her eyes shut. Mr.and Mrs. Janney repaired to the wide shaded balcony and there talked itover in low tones. They were immensely relieved that it was at lastsettled, though of course there would be the unpleasantness of a divorceand the attending gossip. Mr. Janney hated gossip, but his wife, who hadrisen from a Pittsburg suburb to her present proud eminence, was toobattle-scarred a veteran to mind a little thing like that.

  As they talked, their eyes wandered over a delightful prospect. First astrip of velvet lawn, then a terrace and balustraded walk, and beyondthat the enameled brilliance of long gardens where flowers grew inmasses, thick borders, and delicate spatterings, bright against thegreen. Back of the gardens were more lawns, shaven close and dappledwith tree shadows, then woods--Mrs. Janney's far acres--on this finemorning all shimmering and astir with a light, salt-tinged breeze.Grasslands was on the northern side of Long Island, only half a milefrom the Sound through the seclusion of its own woods.

  It was quite a show place, the house a great, rambling, brown buildingwith slanting, shingled roofs and a flanking rim of balconies. Behind itthe sun struck fire from the glass of long greenhouses, and the tops ofgarages, stables and out-buildings rose above concealing shrubberies andtrellises draped with the pink mantle of the rambler. Mrs. Janney hadbought it after her position was assured, paying a price that made allLong Island real estate men glad at heart.

  Sitting in a wicker chair, a bag of knitting hanging from its arm, shelooked the proper head for such an establishment. She was fifty-four,large--increasing stoutness was one of her minor trials--and was still ahandsome woman who "took care of herself." Her morning dress of whiteembroidered muslin had been made by an artist. Her gray hair, creased bya "permanent wave," was artfully disposed to show the fine shape of herhead and conceal the necessary switch. She was too naturally endowedwith good taste to indicate her wealth by vulgar display, and her handsshowed few rings; the modest brooch of amethysts fastening the neck ofher bodice was her sole ornament. And this was all the more commendable,as Mrs. Janney had wonderful jewels of which she was very proud.

  Five years before, she had married Samuel Van Zile Janney, who now satopposite her clothed in white flannels and looking distressed. He was asmall, thin, elderly man, with a pointed gray beard and a general air ofcool, dry finish. No one had ever thought old Sam Janney would marryagain. He had lost his wife ages ago and had been a sort of historiclandmark for the last twenty years, living desolately at his club andknowing everybody who was worth while. Of course he had family, endlessfamily, and thought a lot of it and all that sort of thing. So hismarriage to the Pittsburg widow came as a shock, and then his worldsaid: "Oh, well, the old chap wants a home and he's going to get it--achoice of homes--the house on upper Fifth Avenue, the place at PalmBeach and Grasslands."

  It had been a very happy marriage, for Sam Janney with his traditionsand his conventions was a person of infinite tact, and he loved andadmired his wife. The one matter upon which they ever disagreed wasSuzanne. She had been foolishly indulged, her caprices and extravaganceswere maddening, her manners on occasions extremely bad. Mr. Janney, whohad beautiful manners of his own, deplored it, also the amount of moneyher mother allowed her; for the fortune was all Mrs. Janney's, Suzannehaving been left dependent on her bounty.

  His wife, who had managed everything else so well, resented thesecriticisms on what should have been the completest example of hercompetence. She also resented them because she knew they were true. Withall her cleverness and all her capability she had not succeeded with herdaughter. The girl had got beyond her; the unfortunate marriage withChapman Price had been the climax of a youth of willfulness andinsubordination. Suzanne's affairs, Suzanne's future, Suzanne herselfwere subjects that husband and wife avoided, except, as in the presentinstance, when they were the only subjects i
n both their minds.

  Presently their low-toned murmurings were interrupted by the appearanceof Dixon, the butler, announcing lunch.

  "Mrs. Price," he said, "will not be down--she has a headache."

  Mrs. Janney rose, looking at the man. He had been in her service foryears, was one of the first outward and visible signs of her growth inaffluence. She was sure that he knew what had happened, but her face wasunrevealing as a mask, as she said:

  "See that she gets something. Will Mr. Price take his lunch upstairs?"

  "No, Madam," returned the man quietly, "Mr. Price is coming down."

  It was a ghastly meal--three of them eating sumptuous food, waited on bytwo men hardly less silent than they were. It wouldn't have been sounbearable if Bebita, Suzanne's daughter, had been there to lift thecurse off it with her artless chatter, or Esther Maitland, the socialsecretary, who had acquired a habit of talking with Mr. Janney when therest of the family were held in the dumbness of wrath. But Bebita wasspending the morning with a little chum and Miss Maitland was lunchingwith a friend in the village.

  Chapman Price, as if anxious to show how little he cared, ate everythingthat was passed, and prolonged the misery by second helpings. Mrs.Janney could have beaten him, she was so angry. Once she glanced at himand met his eyes, insolently defiant, and as full of hostility as herown. They were vital eyes, dark and bold, and were set in a handsomeface. At the time of his marriage he had been known as "Beauty Price"and it was his good looks which had caught the capricious fancy ofSuzanne. In the eight years since then they had suffered, the firmlymodeled contours had grown thin and hard, the mouth had set in an uglyline, the brows had creased by a frown of sulky resentment. But he wasstill a noticeable figure, six feet, lean and agile, with a skin asbrown as a nut and a crown of black hair brushed to a glossy smoothness.Many women continued to describe Chapman Price as "a perfect Adonis."

  When they rose from the table he stood aside to let his parents-in-lawpass out before him. They brushed by, feeling exceedingly uncomfortableand wanting to get away as quickly as their dignity would permit. Theydreaded a last flare-up of his temper, notoriously violent anduncontrolled, one of the attributes that had made him so unacceptable.In the hall at the stair foot they half turned to him, swept him withcold looks and were mumbling vague sounds that might have been dismissalor farewell, when he suddenly raised his voice in a loud, combativenote:

  "Oh, don't bother to be polite. There's no love between us and thereneedn't be any hypocrisies. You want to get rid of me and I want to go.But before I do, I'd like to say something." He drew a step nearer, hisface suddenly suffused with a dark flush, his eyes set and narrowed."You've done one thing to me that you're going to regret--stolen mychild. Yes," in answer to a protesting sound from Mr. Janney, "_stolen_her--that's what I said. You think you can hide behind your money bagsand do what you like. Maybe you can nine times, but there's a tenth whenthings don't work the way you've expected. Watch out for it--it's duenow."

  _You've done one thing to me that you are going toregret_]

  His voice was raised, loud, furious, threatening. The dining room doorflew open and Dixon appeared on the threshold in alarmed consternation.Mr. Janney stepped forward belligerently:

  "Chapman, now look here--"

  Mrs. Janney laid a hand on her husband's arm:

  "Don't answer him, Sam," then to Chapman, her face stony in itscontrolled passion, "I want no more words with you. Our affairs arefinished. Kindly leave the house as soon as possible." She turned to thebutler who was staring at them with dropped jaw: "Shut that door, Dixon,and stay where you belong." The sound of footsteps at the stair-headcaught her ear. "The other servants are coming: we'll have an audiencefor this pleasant scene. We'd better go, Sam, as Chapman doesn't seem tohave heard my request for him to leave, the only thing for us is toleave ourselves."

  She swept her husband off across the hall toward the balcony. Behindthem the young man's voice rose:

  "Oh don't have any fears. I'm going. But I may come back--that's whatyou want to remember--I may come back to settle the score."

  Then they heard his footsteps mounting the stairs in a long, leapingrun.

  In his own room he found his valet, Willitts, a small, fair-haired youngEnglishman, closing the trunks. The door was open and he had a suspicionthat the footsteps Mrs. Janney had heard were probably Willitts'. Hedidn't care, he didn't care what Willitts had heard. The man knewanyhow; they _all_ knew. There wasn't a servant in the house or a soulin the village who wouldn't by to-morrow be telling how the Janneys hadthrown him out and were planning to get possession of his child.

  He strode about the room, tumbled the neat piles of cravats andhandkerchiefs on the bureau, yanked up the blinds. In his still seethingpassion he muttered curses at everything, the clothes that lay acrosschair backs, the boots that he kicked as he walked, finally the valetwho once got in his way. The man made no answer, did not appear tonotice it, but went on with his work, silent, unobtrusive, competent.Presently Chapman became quieter; the storm was receding. He fell into achair, sat sunk in moody reflection, and, after studying the shiningtoes of his shoes for some minutes, looked at the man and said, "Forgetit, Willitts. I was mad straight through."

  It may have been a capacity to make such amends that caused all servantsto like Chapman Price. Willitts, who had been in his service for nearlya year, was known to be devoted to him.

  An hour later, when they left, the house had an air of desertion. Thelarge lower hall, with vistas of stately rooms through arched doorways,was as silent as the Sleeping Beauty's palace. Chapman's glance swept itall--rich and still, gleams of parquette showing beyond the Persianrugs, curtains too heavily splendid for the breeze to stir, flowers inglowing masses, the big motor, visible through the wide-flung hall door,a finishing touch in the picture. It was the perfect expression of acarefully devised luxury, a luxury which for the last eight years hadlapped him in slothful ease.

  As he came out on the verandah steps a voice hailed him and he stopped,the sullen ill humor of his face breaking into a smile. Across the lawn,running with fleet steps, came his daughter Bebita. Laughing and gaywith welcome, she was as fresh as a morning rose. Her hat, slipped toher neck, showed the glistening gold of her hair back-blown in ruffledcurls; her rapid passage threw her dress up over her bare, sunburnedknees, and her little feet in black-strapped slippers sped over thegrass. Healthy, happy, surrounded by love which she returned with achild's sweet democracy, she was enchanting and Chapman adored her.

  "Where are you going, Popsy?" she cried and, dodging round the back ofthe motor, came panting up the steps. Chapman sat down on the top, anddrew her between his knees. Otto, the chauffeur, and Willitts with thebags, watched them with covert interest, ready to avert their eyes ifChapman should look their way. The nurse, an elderly woman, came slowlyacross the grass, also watching.

  "To town," said the young man, scrutinizing the lovely, rosy face, withits deep blue eyes raised to his.

  "For how long?" She was used to her father going to town and notreappearing for several days.

  "Oh, I don't know; longer than usual, though, I guess. Going to missme?"

  "Um, I always miss you, Popsy. Will you bring me something when you comeback?"

  "Yes, or maybe I'll send it. What do you want?"

  "A 'lectric torch--one that shines. Polly's got one"--Polly was thelittle friend she had been visiting--"I want one like Polly's."

  "All right. A 'lectric torch."

  "I'm going to get one, Annie," she cried triumphantly to the nurse;"Popsy's going to send me one." Then turning back to her father, "Takeme to the station with you?"

  Willitts and the chauffeur exchanged a glance. The nurse made a quickforward movement, suddenly gently authoritative:

  "No, no, darling. You can't drive now. It's time to go in and take jourrest."

  Bebita looked mutinous, but her father, drawing her to him and kissingher, rose:

  "I can't honey-bun. I'm in a hurry and ther
e wouldn't be any fun justdriving down to the village and back. You run along with Annie now andas soon as I get to town I'll buy you the torch and send it."

  The nurse mounted the steps, took the child's hand, and together theystood watching Chapman as he got in. Willitts took the seat beside thechauffeur, adroitly disposing his legs among a pile of suitcases, golfbags, umbrellas and walking sticks. As the car started Chapman lookedback at his daughter. She was regarding him with the intent, graveinterest, a little wistful, with which children watch a departure. Atthe sight of his face, she smiled, pranced a little, and called:

  "Good-by, Popsy dear. Don't forget the torch. Come back soon," and wavedher free hand.

  Chapman gave an answering wave and the big car rolled off with a coolcrackle of gravel.

  The village--the spotless, prosperous village of Berkeley enriched bythe great estates about it--was a half mile from Grasslands'wrought-iron gates. The road passed through woods, opening here andthere to afford glimpses of emerald lawns backed by large houses, withthe slope of awnings above their balconies. On either side of thishighway ran a shady path, worn hard by the feet of pedestrians and thewheels of bicycles.

  As the Janney motor turned out into the road a young woman was walkingalong one of these paths, returning to Grasslands. She appeared to beengrossed in thought, her step loitering, her eyes down-cast, a slightline showing between her brows. Out of range of the sun she had let herparasol droop over her shoulder and its green disk made a charmingbackground for her head. She wore no hat and against the taut silk herhair showed a glossy, burnished brown. It was beautiful hair, growinglow on her forehead and waving backward in loose undulations to thethick knot at the nape of her neck. Her skin was pale, her eyes, underlong brows that lifted slightly at the outer ends, deep-set, narrow anddark. She was hardly handsome, but people noticed her, wondered why theydid, and then said she was "artistic-looking," or maybe it was justpersonality; anyway, say what you like, there was something about herthat caught your eye. Dressed entirely in white, a slim, sunburned handcoiled round the parasol handle, her throat left bare by a sailorcollar, she was as trim, as flecklessly dainty, graceful and comely as apicture-girl painted on the green canvas of the trees.

  At the sight of her Chapman, who had been lounging in the tonneau,started and his morose eye brightened. As the motor ran toward her, shelooked up, saw who it was, and in the moment of passing, inclined herhead in a grave salutation. Chapman leaned forward and touched thechauffeur on the shoulder.

  "Just stop for a minute, Otto, I want to speak to Miss Maitland."

  She did not see that the car had stopped or hear the footstep on thegrass behind her. Chapman's voice was low:

  "Hullo, Esther. Don't be in such a hurry. I'm going."

  She wheeled, evidently startled, her face disturbed and unsmiling.

  "Oh! Do you mean _really_ going?"

  "Yes. Parting of the ways--all that sort of thing."

  He eyed her with a curious, watching interest and she returned the look,her own uneasily intent.

  "Why do you stop to tell me that," was what she said. "Everybody knew itwas coming."

  He shrugged and then smiled, a smile full of meaning:

  "I thought you'd like to hear it--from _me_, first hand. I'll be a freeman in a year."

  She stood for a moment looking at the ground, then lifting the parasolover her head, said:

  "If you're going to catch the three forty-five you'd better hurry."

  His smile deepened, showed a roguish malice, and as he turned from her,raising his hat, he murmured just loud enough for her to hear:

  "Thanks for reminding me. I wouldn't miss that train for a farm--I'mdevilish keen to get to the city."

  He ran back to the waiting motor and the girl resumed her walk, her stepeven slower than before, her face down-drooped in frowning reverie.

  There was no chair car on the three forty-five and Chapman had to travelin the common coach, Willitts and the luggage crowded into the seatbehind him. It was an hour and a half run to the Pennsylvania Stationand he spent the time thinking over the situation and arranging hisfuture. His business--Long Island real estate--had been allowed to go tothe dogs. He would have to get busy in earnest, and, with his friendsand large acquaintance to throw things in his way, he could put it on apaying basis. His expenses would have to be cut down to the bone. He'dgive up his chambers, a suite in a bachelor apartment--Willitts couldfind him a cheap room somewhere--and of course he'd give up Willitts.That had been already arranged and the faithful soul had asked leave tohelp him in the move and stay with him till a new job was found. Hewould keep his car--it would be necessary in his business--and could bestored in the garage at Cedar Brook where he'd spend his week-ends withthe Hartleys. Joe Hartley was one of his best friends, knew all abouthis marriage and had counseled a separation more than a year ago. He'dprobably spend a good deal of his time at Cedar Brook, it was a growingplace; unfortunate that it should be the next station after Berkeley,but it could not be helped. He was bound to run into the Janney outfitand he'd have to get used to it.

  The train was entering the tunnel when he gave Willitts hisinstructions--go to the apartment and pack up, then see about a room. Hehimself would look up some places he knew of, and if he found anythingsuitable he'd come back to the apartment and the things could be movedto-morrow. They separated in the depot, Willitts and the luggage in ataxi, Chapman on foot. But that part of the city to which he took hisway, dingy, unkempt, remote from the section where his kind dwelt, wasnot a place where Chapman Price, fallen from his high estate as he was,would have chosen to house himself.