It was a relief when the meal was over. We got
our hats and were about to leave the room, when a
waiter touched me on the arm.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but
the lady at the table near the window, the lady in
black, sir, would like to speak to you.”
I looked down between the rows of tables to where
the woman sat alone, her chin still resting on her
hand, her black eyes still insolently staring, this
time at me.
“I’ll have to go,” I said to McKnight
hurriedly. “She knows all about that affair
and she’d be a bad enemy.”
“I don’t like her lamps,” McKnight
observed, after a glance at her. “Better
jolly her a little. Good-by.”
THE NOTES AND A BARGAIN
I went back slowly to where the woman sat alone.
She smiled rather oddly as I drew near, and pointed
to the chair Bronson had vacated.
“Sit down, Mr. Blakeley,” she said, “I
am going to take a few minutes of your valuable time.”
“Certainly.” I sat down opposite
her and glanced at a cuckoo clock on the wall.
“I am sorry, but I have only a few minutes.
If you—” She laughed a little, not
very pleasantly, and opening a small black fan covered
with spangles, waved it slowly.
“The fact is,” she said, “I think
we are about to make a bargain.”
“A bargain?” I asked incredulously.
“You have a second advantage of me. You
know my name”—I paused suggestively
and she took the cue.
“I am Mrs. Conway,” she said, and flicked
a crumb off the table with an over-manicured finger.
The name was scarcely a surprise. I had already
surmised that this might be the woman whom rumor credited
as being Bronson’s common-law wife. Rumor,
I remembered, had said other things even less pleasant,
things which had been brought out at Bronson’s
arrest for forgery.
“We met last under less fortunate circumstances,”
she was saying. “I have been fit for nothing
since that terrible day. And you—you
had a broken arm, I think.”
“I still have it,” I said, with a lame
attempt at jocularity; “but to have escaped
at all was a miracle. We have much, indeed, to
be thankful for.”
“I suppose we have,” she said carelessly,
“although sometimes I doubt it.”
She was looking somberly toward the door through which
her late companion had made his exit.
“You sent for me—” I said.
“Yes, I sent for you.” She roused
herself and sat erect. “Now, Mr. Blakeley,
have you found those papers?”
“The papers? What papers?” I parried.
I needed time to think.
“Mr. Blakeley,” she said quietly, “I
think we can lay aside all subterfuge. In the
first place let me refresh your mind about a few things.
The Pittsburg police are looking for the survivors
of the car Ontario; there are three that I know of—yourself,
the young woman with whom you left the scene of the
wreck, and myself. The wreck, you will admit,
was a fortunate one for you.”
