Nothing But the Truth

“Eh?”

“I told all,” she repeated.

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“Hum!” said Bob. “That makes it a little worse, that is all.”

“I was mad,” she said, “at the way you – you – ”

“I think I understand.”

“Why – why don’t you get angry and – ”

“And curse you the way they do in plays?” He laughed a little mirthlessly. “What’s the use? It wouldn’t do any good if I dragged you around by the hair.”

“It’s just that attitude of yours,” she said, breathing hard, “that has made me perfectly furious.”

“Who’d you tell?” Bob eyed her contemplatively.

“Lord Stan – The monocle-man, as you call him.”

“Whew!” Bob whistled. “You went straight to headquarters, didn’t you?”

“He came up to me on the porch just after you had left, and – and – ”

“It’s quite plain,” said Bob gently. “You couldn’t hold in. Don’t know as I ought to blame you much.”

“I wish you wouldn’t act like that,” she returned passionately. “Don’t you hate me?”

He looked at her from his superior height. “No. Now that I think of it, you only did the right and moral thing. After all” – he seemed to be speaking from the hammer-thrower’s high judicial plane – “it was your duty to tell.”

“Duty!” she shot back at him. “I didn’t do it for that, or” – with sudden scorn – “because it was the moral thing. I did it because – because you – you had hurt me and – and I wanted to hurt you the worst way – the very worst way I could – ”

“Well, that sounds very human,” replied Bob soothingly. “It’s the old law. Eye for an eye! Tit for tat! Quid pro quo!” That hammer-thrower was getting him into the Latin habit.

“You must not speak like that. You must hate me – despise me – I betrayed you – betrayed – ”

Bob looked at her sympathetically. She really was suffering. “Oh, no, you didn’t. You only thought you did,” he said.

“I did! I did! And afterward I felt like Salome with the head of John the Baptist.”

Bob twisted his handsome head and lifted a hand to his neck. “Well, it’s really not so bad as that,” he returned in a tone intended to be consoling. “Anyhow, it’s very brave of you to come and tell me about it.”

“Brave!” she scoffed, the temperamental breast rising. “Why, I just blurted it all right out – how I discovered you in my room – how I turned on the light and how you dropped the brooch to the floor!”

For a few moments both were silent. Then Bob spoke: “How’d it be, if we called bygones, bygones, and just be friends?” he said gravely. “Honestly, I believe I could like you an awful lot as a friend.”

“Don’t!” she said hoarsely. “Or – or I can’t hold in. My! but you are good.”

“Isn’t that the sound of music?” said Bob suddenly.

“I – I believe it is.”

“A tango, by jove! Think of tangoing right after breakfast! Some one is beginning early. What are we coming to in these degenerate days?” Bob wanted to take her thoughts off that other disagreeable subject. His own sudden and unexpected appearance had, no doubt, been quite upsetting to those other guests. That tango music had a wild irresponsible sound, as if the some one who was banging the concert-grand in the big music salon was endeavoring to turn the general trend of fancy into more symphonious channels. He, or she, was a musical good Samaritan. Bob held out a ceremonious arm to the temperamental young thing. “Shall we?” he said. “Why not?”

“You mean – ?”

“Tango with me? That is, if you are not above tangoing with a – ”

She slipped an uncertain little hand on his arm.

“It may be my last, for a long time,” he said gaily. “While we live, let us live.”

But when they entered they saw it was the man with the monocle who sat at the big, wonderfully carved piano. His fingers were fairly flying; his face was a bit more twisted up to keep the monocle from falling off, while he was flinging his hands about over the keys. At sight of him, the temperamental little thing breathed quickly and would have drawn back, but Bob drew her forward. The monocle-man’s face did not change as he glanced over his shoulder to regard them; he had a faculty for hitting the right keys without looking. Bob put a big reassuring arm about a slim waist. He tangoed only to show the temperamental little thing that he forgave her. But her feet were not so light as ordinarily and the dance rather dragged. Once Bob looked down; why, she wasn’t much bigger than a child.

“Friends?” he asked.

Her little hand clutched tighter for answer, and the monocle-man played more madly. It was as if he were making the puppets fly around while he pulled the strings. He seemed having the best kind of a time. There was now a whimsical look in his eyes as they followed Bob.

That was one of the longest days Bob ever knew. The temperamental thing had told him they were coming to arrest him. Well, why didn’t they? His appearing unexpectedly on the spot like that may have caused them to change their minds. He included in the “them” Mrs. Ralston and her niece and he could only conclude they all meant to “dally” with him, in Miss Dolly’s phraseology, a little longer. But surely they had enough evidence to go right ahead and let justice (?) take its course. What the temperamental little thing had confessed would be quite sufficient in itself, for their purpose.

Bob began to get impatient; he didn’t like being “dallied” with. In his desperate mood, he desired to meet the issue at once and since “it” was bound to happen, he wanted it to happen right off. Then he would robustly proclaim his innocence – aye, and fight for it with all his might. He was in a fighting mood.

Mrs. Ralston’s demeanor toward him – when in the natural order of events he was obliged to meet that lady – added to his feeling of utter helplessness. She, like the monocle-man, acted as if nothing had happened, seeming to see nothing extraordinary or surprising in his being there. She treated him just as if he hadn’t been away and talked in the most natural manner about the weather or other commonplace topics. She was graciousness itself, even demanding playfully if he hadn’t thought of any more French compliments?

Bob stammered he had not. The fact that Miss Gerald was near and overheard all they said didn’t add to his mental composure. Gwendoline’s violet eyes had such a peculiar look. Bob hoped and prayed she would preserve that manner of cold and haughty aloofness. He wouldn’t have exchanged a word with her now for all the world, if he had had any choice in the matter. Did she divine his inward shrinking from any further talk with her? Did she realize she was the one especial person Bob didn’t want to converse with, under the circumstances? It may be she did so realize; also, that she deliberately sought to add to his discomfiture. Possibly, she felt no punishment could be too great for one who had sunk so low as he had.

At any rate, the day was yet young when, like a proud princess, she stood suddenly before him. Bob had taken refuge in that summer-house where she had proposed (ha! ha!) to him. He had been noting that Mrs. Ralston seemed to have several new gardeners working for her and it had flashed across his mind that these gardeners were of the monocle-man type. They were imitation gardeners. One kept a furtive eye on Bob. He was under surveillance. Now he could understand why the monocle-man let him flutter this way and that, with seeming unconcern. Oh, he was being dallied with, sure enough! That monocle-man was argus-eyed. Bob had had a sample of his cleverness at the breakfast-table.

Miss Gerald’s shadow fell abruptly at Bob’s feet. He saw it before he saw her – a radiant, accusing patrician presence. The girl carried a golf stick, but there was no caddy in sight.

“Mr. Bennett,” said Miss Gerald, with customary directness, “do you know who poisoned my aunt’s dog?”

Bob scrambled to his feet awkwardly. Her loveliness alone was enough to embarrass him. “No,” he said.

“He was poisoned that night you left,” she said, and went on studying him.

Bob pondered heavily. If the dog had been killed with a golf stick for example, he might have been to blame. “You are sure he was poisoned?” he asked with an effort.

“Certainly.” In surprise.

“Well, I didn’t do it,” said Bob.