It was, as Severance told himself, the damnedest scrape! And he could see no present way out of it. Turn as he would, he was merely running round and round in a "vicious circle."
He couldn't murder Garth, or otherwise eliminate him, without setting fire to his dearest hopes, and seeing his fortune go up in a blaze. Garth mustn't be allowed to walk away from Marise, leaving her in the position of a deserted bride, after a sensational wedding. Nor could Severance bear to think of the man's remaining near her, now that he proclaimed the bargain "off," and himself free and independent.
If only the fellow might be knocked over by a taxi and killed, there would be the perfect solution! But even that ought not to happen just yet. It wouldn't do for Marise to be known as a widow before he, Severance, could bring ?none to America as a bride. The celebrated Miss Sorel might as well never have been married at all, so far as old Constantine Ionides was concerned.
There were two faintly glimmering spots in the general blackness of things. Bright spots they hardly deserved to be called! Such as they were, one was the fact that Garth—despite his bluff—was unlikely to sacrifice all hope of the million by making forbidden love to Marise. The other gleam was: even if Garth did play the fool as well as the cad, Marise had asserted up to the last moment that she could take care of herself.
Severance had reason to believe that she could. If she'd not had a cool little head, and a high opinion of her own value, the favourite actress would not have attained the position she held. "Lots of chaps had been after her," including Tony Severance: men of title, men with money, men of genius, men of charm, and she had held her own with them all, forcing their respect. Well, there wasn't much chance for a bullying brute of Garth's stamp, to get the best of a girl like that!
So Severance consoled himself, after his decision at the theatre that nothing would be gained by attempting to "rescue" Marise from Garth. After leaving her—bidding her good-bye for long and anxious weeks—he could not resist 'phoning Mrs. Sorel at the Plaza, though Marise had told him that Mums was bowled over by a sick headache. He rang the poor lady up—literally up!—and discussed the situation with her, not daring to call for fear of detectives set upon him by cable from London. The poor lady, dragged out of bed, was sympathetic and soothing. Everything was "perfectly all right," she assured him. She would watch over Marise for his sake as well as her own. Marise would watch over herself, too! And she—Mary Sorel—would write or cable Tony to his club twice or three times a week.
"I'd go down to the docks and see you off to-morrow morning, dear boy, no matter at what ghastly hour you sail," Mums said, "only I don't think it would be wise, do you?"
No, Tony didn't. But she might send him a note by messenger to the ship, with all the latest news.
She would do that without fail, Mary promised; and so at last hung up the receiver with a sigh which would have frightened Severance had it reached him on the wire. Mums was not as calm about the future as she had tried to make her "dear boy" think!
Though she had been lying down, she crawled off the bed again, and put on a smart tea-gown before it was time for her daughter to come home. She had little doubt that the Beast would be with Marise; and her own attempt at "frightfulness" having failed against his armour of brutality, she intended to try diplomacy in the next encounter.
Already she had learned that the suite engaged by Major Garth for himself and his bride did not adjoin the one occupied by herself and Marise since their arrival in New York. It appeared that the manager had offered a suite of two rooms and a bath next to the Sorel suite, but Major Garth had refused this as being too small. Nothing "large enough for his requirements" had been available near Mrs. Sorel; but fortunately it was on the same floor.
This, the manager seemed to think, ought to content the lady; and indeed, she was obliged to pretend satisfaction. She would like to see the suite, she had said; but to her dismay the privilege was refused with regret. Major Garth, the manager explained, had given a "rush order" for some special decorations to surprise Mrs. Garth; and he had requested that no one—no one at all except the decorators—should be allowed to enter until the bridal pair arrived.
"But," Mrs. Sorel had argued, "he couldn't have meant me. Besides, if no one goes in, my daughter won't have any of her toilet things ready. There will be a scramble and confusion when she comes home tired from the theatre."
The manager, however, was reluctantly firm. He "mustn't tell tales out of school," but he thought he might just relieve Mrs. Sorel's fears by saying that there would be no trouble at all of that sort. The Major's "surprise" would—he hoped—be as pleasing to her as to the bride. And whatever had to be done in addition could be accomplished in a few minutes by Mrs. Garth's maid.
Naturally, Mrs. Sorel was on tenterhooks after this information, which she had obtained by telephone, lying on her bed, soon after Marise and Céline left for the theatre. It determined her to be prepared for battle, no matter how ill she might feel: for it was impossible that Marise should ever cross the threshold of that mysteriously decorated suite. Therefore the neat coiffure of the aching head, and the dignified tea-gown of satin and jet.
On the few occasions when Mums had been unable to go with Marise to the theatre, the girl had either returned early, or telephoned that she would be late in reaching home. Mrs. Sorel expected her to start for the hotel to-night the instant she was dressed and had her make-up off. She would doubtless be thankful to escape questions, and get back to her mother—which really meant, ridding herself of Garth.
But time crept on. Marise was half an hour late: then three-quarters. What could have happened? Had that monster kidnapped the poor child?
At the thought, Mums experienced the sensation of cold water slowly trickling through her spine. "What shall I do?" she wondered. And her mind turned to the thought—the terrible thought—of applying to the police. If she took this extreme step, what would be the result? Could a man be arrested for abducting his own wife?
As she writhed and sighed helplessly on a sofa in sight of the mant............