The Mask Part 44

Instead of obeying the hint to withdraw, Kenneth strode further into the house, the protesting and indignant butler at his heels.

"You must really go," said the servant.

Kenneth turned around.

"Roberts--don't be a fool. Don't you know me? I know why you don't recognize me. You all think me dead, but I'm very much alive. I did not go down on the _Abyssinia_. I was picked up and taken to San Francisco and have been in a hospital there ever since. I have just come home. Where's my wife?"

The butler stared and stood motionless, as if not knowing what to make of it.

"But you came home long ago."

"Who came home?"

"You did."

"No, I didn't. I've been in San Francisco all the time. How could I be here if I was sick in a San Francisco hospital?"

"Then who is the other Mr. Traynor?"

Now it was Kenneth's turn to be surprised.

"The other Mr. Traynor?" he echoed stupefied.

"Yes--the gentleman who looks more like you than you do yourself. He arrived here a month ago. We all took him for you."

For the first time a light broke in on the darkness. Who was the person who looked so like him that he could successfully impersonate him? Who could it be but the man who left him for dead on the _Abyssinia_ after murderously a.s.saulting him? Suddenly a horrible thought came to him. Grasping the butler's arm he exclaimed:

"My wife? Is she well?"

"Yes, sir. Mrs. Traynor's quite well."

"And Dorothy?"

"Quite well, sir."

"Thank G.o.d!"

The servant hesitated.

"That is--sir--Miss Dorothy----"

"Out with it, man. Out with it."

"Mrs. Traynor's being greatly worried sir, lately. Miss Dorothy was at her aunt's in Philadelphia----"

"Yes, yes----"

"Someone's run away with Miss Dorothy. She's been kidnapped."

"My G.o.d!"

"But Mrs. Traynor has a clue. She got a letter yesterday, saying where the child was. She wouldn't confide in any of us and she left here only half an hour ago to go to the place."

Again Kenneth was seized by panic.

"Gone to a kidnapper's den. Great G.o.d! She's running a terrible risk.

Where has she gone? I'll go to her."

"I don't know, sir, but Mr. Steell may know----"

"Ah, that's right. I'll go and see Steell."

Not waiting to say more he rushed down the steps, and, hailing another taxi, went off at full speed in the direction of Wilbur Steell's office.

CHAPTER XX

The startling news from Philadelphia that Dorothy had suddenly disappeared and was believed to have been kidnapped, fell upon the Traynor home with the crushing force of a bombsh.e.l.l. At first Helen refused to credit the report. It seemed impossible that any new suffering was to be inflicted upon her after what she had already endured. White faced, her whole being shaken by emotion, she read and re-read her aunt's letter, telling of the child's mysterious disappearance, and when at last she could read it no more because of the tears that blinded her, she threw herself limp and broken hearted into Ray's arms. Hysterically she cried:

"What have I done that I should be made to suffer in this way? My G.o.d!

Where is my child? This maddening suspense will kill me."

Ray tried to soothe her. Rea.s.suringly, she said:

"Don't worry, dear. Everything will be all right. A general alarm has been sent out. The police all over the country are searching high and low. It's only a question of a few hours and you'll have good news."

But the hours pa.s.sed and no news came to cheer the distracted, broken-hearted mother. Dorothy had disappeared completely, leaving no trace, no clue behind.

There was neither rest nor peace for the Traynor household that day.

Helen, almost out of her mind from grief and worry, refused to eat or sleep until news of the missing child was received. In her agony she went down on her knees and prayed as she had never prayed before that her child be restored to her.

Her little daughter was, she felt, the one link that still bound her to life. To her husband she felt she could not turn for sympathy. The romance of their early married life had been shattered forever by the extraordinary change that had come over him. He had long since ceased to be to her any more than a name. In her heart, she had come to despise and detest him as much as before she had worshiped the very ground he trod. It was an astonishing revulsion of feeling which she was powerless to explain; she only knew that the old love, the old pa.s.sion he had awakened was now quite dead. He inspired in her no more affection or feeling than the merest stranger. Ever since his return from South Africa they had lived apart. Ever since that first night of his return when their tete-a-tete in the library was interrupted by the bogus telegram, he had quite ceased his amorous advances. He seemed anxious to avoid her. Only on rare occasions, and then it was by accident, did they find themselves in each other's company.

In fact, he was practically never home, living almost exclusively at the club, where he went the pace with a.s.sociates of his choosing, mostly gamblers and men about town. He had begun to drink hard and when not in pool rooms or at the races, betting recklessly on the horses, squandering such huge sums, and overdrawing his check account so often that the bank was compelled to ask him to desist, he sat in the barrooms with his cronies till all hours of the morning when he would be brought home in a condition of shocking intoxication. Happily Helen was spared the spectacle of the degradation of a man she once had loved with all the force of her virgin soul. Roberts, the butler, aided by the other servants, smuggled their intoxicated master up to his room, where he remained until sober, when he went back to his club only to repeat the same performance.

To such a man she could not turn for aid or consolation in the hour of this new misfortune. Indeed, ever since his return, he had been strangely indifferent to the welfare of the child, never asking after her or expressing a desire to see her. At times it seemed as if he had forgotten that he had a child. By some strange metamorphosis he had developed into an unnatural father as well as a brutal, indifferent husband.

But to Helen, alone save for the devoted companionship of her sister, this was anxiety and suffering enough. Only twenty-four hours had pa.s.sed since the child disappeared, but to the unhappy mother it seemed as many years. Constantly at the telephone, expecting each moment to hear that the police had been successful in finding the child, she was gradually wearing herself away to a shadow. Breakfast she left untouched. Lunch she refused to eat. In vain Ray remonstrated with her. If she went on like that she would fall ill. But still Helen refused. Tears choked her, and morning wore into afternoon and still no news.

After lunch Ray went out to see if Mr. Steell could help them, promising to return as soon as possible. Helen sat and waited alone.

The clock was just striking two o'clock when the front doorbell rang and a letter was brought to her. She did not recognize the writing, but eagerly she tore it open. Instinctively, she felt it concerned her missing darling. The letter read as follows:

No. -- Lasalle Street, Bronx.

Friday.

Madame: