"If you throw out that bag, I fire," a voice warned Clo--a new voice, not Churn's.

The girl glanced round involuntarily, and saw the small black object imbedded in the smashed door panel. Her nerves jerked, but she turned back to the window, with a sensation of ice in her spine.

"String these and get them to _her_, if you have to take them to Newport!" she cried.

There was a queer m.u.f.fled explosion, not unlike the breaking of wood, yet somehow different. Clo felt a blow on the shoulder, and then a strange, heart-rending pain. She staggered, fell forward on to her knees, hanging over the window sill. But she threw the bag. A red light flamed in her eyes, not like the light of the summer day. Through the redness she thought she saw a little woman in black catch the bag and stand still, looking up. Clo tried to wave her hand, motioning "Go on--hurry!" and her lips formed the words. She was not sure whether the woman went, or whether she had been stopped at the taxi door by some men getting out of that gray limousine; the cloud of red had grown so thick.

But there were noises behind her. The men in the hall had burst the door open. She could not look round again. Her head rested upon her arm, lying on the window sill. Then someone was dragging her away. It was all over for her in this world! But Beverley's pearls were saved.

x.x.xV

THE TIME LIMIT OF HOPE

A big, blond man had hustled Mrs. Mac and Violet downstairs before the shot was fired. It was bewildering to them that Mr. Cheffinsky should come home after his strange absence with his beautiful golden beard and moustache shaved off.

Cheffinsky was like an officer directing a defence. He took command instantly he entered the house, seeming to understand the situation without a question. "If any one rings, let Violet be a long time opening the door," he said. "But it must be opened. Don't act as if there was something to hide. Keep 'em talking, no matter who, or about what as long as you can. There's been a theft from a lady boarder, and a little excitement; you've only to tell the truth--see?"

All this in a second; but it got the two women out of the way. The spy must be muzzled at any cost, for Cheffinsky guessed at a word from Kit that this was the mysterious girl of the telephone.

"Pick her up," he said to Kit, when they had got the locked door open.

"If any eyes are on that window, it won't look too queer for one girl to pull another back into the room."

As the other two women had done, Kit obeyed. She was used to obeying Chuff in the past. She dragged Clo to the back of the room, out of sight from the window, and awaited further commands.

"Now," Chuff said, "if we're spotted, this is a suicide--see? She stole your pearls, and when she was caught she killed herself."

"But the shot's in her shoulder--and she ain't dead. She's opening her eyes," Kit objected.

"She's got to be dead," Chuff decreed. "I know how to fix the bullet business. It'll have to be done now, because if trouble comes it will come quick. Look here; this is the thing to do, if there's questions to answer. You caught her stealing. She ran down to this room from yours, threw the stuff out of the window to a pal, and then grabbed my Browning from the mantelpiece. She'd have shot you, but seeing the men, knew the game was up, and did for herself instead. Shut the window, Kit. I'm going to put another ball into her, in the chest, just opposite the spot of blood on her back. Carry her into the closet, to cover the sound. I mustn't touch her myself. There's spots on you already. Account for them by saying you picked her up to see if she was alive."

"But if she's in the closet----"

"She ran there, and shot at you from inside the door, after we'd all broken into the room to get at her. Is that clear to you both? We must stick to the same story. Into the closet with her, Kit."

Clo felt a strange sensation, as if her soul had left the body that hung limp in Kit's strong arms, and was gazing at it with impersonal pity.

"The worst will be ended for me in a minute," she thought. Then, suddenly, she remembered Justin O'Reilly. A great desolation of loneliness swept over her. He would be sorry. But he was far away.

When Clo telephoned, Ellen Blackburne did not even know that the Sands were out of New York. The message, however, instantly awoke her sleeping interest. She guessed that Clo had tracked the thief, and that what she called the "weird address" given was the "lair." Miss Blackburne was no coward, and the astonishing request that came over the telephone wires did not frighten her. She prepared to follow instructions at once, taking only one precaution. Before starting, she left word that if she did not 'phone or return within an hour, inquiries were to be made at the house and in the street whose number she wrote down.

The pearl-stringer did, therefore, precisely what she had been asked to do. She abandoned the work laid out for the morning, and dashed off in a taxi on a moment's notice. Clo's little face at the window of a tenth-rate boarding-house told her nothing new. Clo was always pale.

When the girl dropped to her knees it looked to Ellen as if that att.i.tude were more convenient for throwing down the bag. No sound of a pistol shot reached Ellen's ears over the noises of the street. She heard only the "teuf-teuf" of her own taxi, and the snort of a big gray car which had at that instant come to a stop close by. Miss Blackburne was used to odd adventures, and prided herself on "keeping cool," but she could not help giving an undignified jump as a man sprang out of the gray limousine and laid a hand on her arm.

"What is in that bag and where are you taking it? I've a right to know,"

he said sharply. "I'm a friend of Miss Riley."

Ellen grabbed at the door of her taxi. The man was about thirty or thirty-two, she thought, certainly a gentleman and rather handsome. "I'm acting for Miss Riley," she returned as sharply. "My name's Blackburne.

Clo's in a hurry for me to do an errand. If you're really her friend, you'd better let me get away while you look after her."

The two eyed each other for an instant. "You are Miss Ellen Blackburne, the pearl-stringer?" the man inquired.

"The same," she answered.

"Then go on her errand!" he exclaimed. And while Ellen stared, he ran up the steps of the house where a companion had already rung the bell.

Neither of the men looked again at her. Ellen waited for no more. To save delay and further suspense for Mrs. Sands she drove straight to the Park Avenue house, in order to string the pearls there: for she had hastily collected her materials before starting. It was a blow to hear from the hall porter that the Sands had already left New York; she decided on going up to get further information. She even thought of sending a long-distance message to Beverley from her own flat; but the grim personality of Anna Schultz banished this idea at a glance. Ellen realized that if she asked to enter the apartment she would be regarded as a suspicious character. Important business with Mrs. Sands would take her to Newport immediately, she told Miss Schultz. If there were any letter or parcel to be sent she would carry it.

Anna's reply to this offer was a stiff refusal, but Miss Blackburne had not reached the lift when the woman came after her. "I've just remembered, there's a telegram for Mrs. Sands' French maid, you might give her by hand, if you're going to Newport to-day," she said, with a grudging air. "It will be quicker than posting." Anna Schultz slipped the envelope into Ellen's hand, and turned away without waiting for an answer.

Having telephoned to the jewellers where she was employed, Ellen decided to string the pearls at home. She dared not dash off to Newport without seeing her mother, and arranging with a neighbour to stop in the house while she was gone. On second thoughts, she told herself that, for Mrs.

Sands' own sake, it might be best not to risk a rea.s.suring message of any sort in advance. Someone else might happen to receive it! She determined simply to work as fast as possible, and take the first train she could catch for Newport, with the restrung rope of pearls.

Beverley dreaded the night of the dance more even than she had dreaded her mission, nearly a year ago, in Albuquerque.

It seemed very long since she had been radiantly happy in the thought of this glorified cottage at Newport--"Gulls' Rest"--Roger's present to her. She hated it now, and everything a.s.sociated with it; the fuss of settling into the place, in a foolish hurry, though the Newport season had not yet begun: Roger's determination to begin with a house-party and a dance; his civil, quiet coldness to her; the strange look she caught in his eyes at times; the mystery of Clo's silence, which deepened day by day; fear of reprisals for loss of the papers; these things seemed harder to bear in Newport than at home in New York. Often Beverley wondered how long she would be sane.

The Sands had brought with them a couple of friends: two others had joined them the day after, and half a dozen more had come since. Roger had engaged all the rooms in a small but delightful hotel for extra guests who would arrive for the dance and stay the night; and, in advance of the season as the house-warming was, word had gone out that the entertainment would be worth a long journey. The favours for the cotillon were said to have cost ten thousand dollars; and there was to be a "surprise" of some sort. Perhaps this was the reason why Mrs. Heron changed her mind, and John Heron wired to Roger that he and his wife would be pleased to come on from Narragansett, where they were spending a weekend for Heron's health.

The invitation had been sent to the Herons by Roger's firmly expressed wish, but Beverley had not dreamed that it would be accepted. And, after all, they were both coming to the dance! This seemed ominous. It gave her one more fear for the dreaded night.

Through the morning she still wildly hoped for news from Clo. Even as the afternoon wore on she did not utterly despair; but at six o'clock, when Roger advised her and the other women staying in the house to rest till dressing-time, she definitely gave up. For the first time since that Sunday night which marked the end of happiness, Roger slipped his hand under her arm in a friendly, familiar way.

"Come along," he said. "I'll trot you up to your room and see that you lie down. I want you to look your best to-night; and you know dinner's at eight. You won't have more than an hour's nap. I suppose it'll take you at least an hour to dress?"

"Just about," Beverley answered, dully. She knew that she could not sleep, but she was worn out with the effort of "keeping up" before her guests. She expected Roger to leave her at the door of her room, which he had entered only when the house was being shown to friends; but to her surprise, almost alarm, he followed her in. She said that she would not ring yet for Leontine. She would unfasten her own frock and find her own dressing-gown.

"I'll draw the curtains for you," Roger suggested, in the coolly kind manner to which she had grown accustomed during the black fortnight.

"One rests one's brain best in twilight, I think. I'm sure you need rest. I never saw you so pale. I hope you're not worried about to-night?"

"Worried? Why should I be worried?" she echoed. "I'm sure everything will go well, aren't you?"

"I hope so," he said, gravely. "You haven't shown me your new dress. I suppose it's come?"

"Oh, yes," Beverley replied, convinced that it was not about the dress he thought or cared. "It came the day after we arrived."

"Good! Then you'll be able to do full justice to the pearls!"

Beverley had the impulse to throw herself into her husband's arms and upon his mercy; but she would not, or could not--she hardly knew which.

It seemed to her that he was being purposely cruel, and was deliberately testing, torturing her, to see how much she could bear and not break.

"Let him find out when the time comes," she thought, in sullen despair.

Instead of confessing her trouble she asked if he would like to see her new gown.

"No," Roger said. "I'll wait till you're ready and I can see you in your glory--pearls and all."