Professor Augustus Van Dusen: 49 Detective Mysteries in One Edition. Jacques Futrelle
of relief which he could not have called by name, and toasted his wife silently by lifting his glass. Her eyes sparkled at the compliment. He drained the glass, snapped the slender stem in his fingers, laughed again and laid it aside. Mrs. van Safford dimpled with sheer delight.
“Oh, Van, you silly boy!” she reproved softly, and she stroked the hand which was prosaically reaching for the salt.
It was only a little while after dinner that Mr. van Safford excused himself and started for the club, as usual. His wife followed him demurely to the door and there, under the goggling eyes of Baxter, he caught her in his arms and kissed her impetuously, fiercely even. It was the sudden outbreak of an impulsive nature—the sort of thing that makes a woman know she is loved. She thrilled at his touch and reached two white hands forward pleadingly. Then the door closed, and she stood staring down at the tip of her tiny boot with lowered lids and a little, melancholy droop at the corners of her mouth.
It was after ten o’clock when Mr. van Safford awoke on the following morning. He had been at his club late—until after two—and now drowsily permitted himself to be overcome again by the languid listlessness which is the heritage of late hours. At ten minutes past eleven he appeared in the breakfast room.
“Mrs. van Safford has been down I suppose?” he inquired of a maid.
“Oh yes, sir,” she replied. “She’s gone out.”
Mr. van Safford lifted his brows inquiringly.
“She was down a few minutes after eight o’clock, sir,” the maid explained, “and hurried through her breakfast.”
“Did she leave any word?”
“No, sir.”
“Be back to luncheon?”
“She didn’t say, sir.”
Mr. van Safford finished his breakfast silently and thoughtfully. About noon he, too, went out. One of the first persons he met down town was Mrs. Blacklock, and she rushed toward him with outstretched hand.
“I’m so glad to see you,” she bubbled, for Mrs. Blacklock was of that rare type which can bubble becomingly. “But where, in the name of goodness, is your wife? I haven’t seen her for weeks and weeks?”
“Haven’t seen her for—” Mr. van Safford repeated, slowly.
“No,” Mrs. Blacklock assured him. “I can’t imagine where she is keeping herself.”
Mr. van Safford gazed at her in dumb bewilderment for a moment, and the lines about his mouth hardened a little despite his efforts to control himself.
“I had an impression,” he said deliberately, “that you saw her yesterday—that you went shopping together?”
“Goodness, no. It must be three weeks since I saw her.”
Mr. van Safford’s fingers closed slowly, fiercely, but his face relaxed a little, masking with a slight smile, a turbulent rush of mingled emotions.
“She mentioned your name,” he said at last, calmly. “Perhaps she said she was going to call on you. I misunderstood her.”
He didn’t remember the remainder of the conversation, but it was of no consequence at the moment. He had not misunderstood her, and he knew he had not. At last he found himself at his club, and there idle guesses and conjectures flowed through his brain in an unending stream. Finally he arose, grimly.
“I suppose I’m an ass,” he mused. “It doesn’t amount to anything, of course, but—”
And he sought to rid himself of distracting thoughts over a game of billiards; instead he only subjected himself to open derision for glaringly inaccurate play. Finally he flung down the cue in disgust, strode away to the ‘phone and called up his home.
“Is Mrs. van Safford there?” he inquired of Baxter.
“No, sir. She hasn’t returned yet.”
Mr. van Safford banged the telephone viciously as he hung up the receiver. At six o’clock he returned home. His wife was still out. At half past eight he sat down to dinner, alone. He didn’t enjoy it; indeed hardly tasted it. Then, just as he finished, she came in with a rush of skirts and a lilt of laughter. He drew a long breath, and set his teeth.
“You poor, deserted dear!” she sympathized, laughingly.
He started to say something, but two soft, clinging arms were about his neck, and a velvety cheek rested against his own, so—so he kissed her instead. And really he wasn’t at all to be blamed. She sighed happily, and laid aside her hat and gloves.
“I simply couldn’t get here any sooner,” she explained poutingly as she glanced into his accusing eyes. “I was out with Nell Blakesley in her big, new touring car, and it broke down and we had to send for a man to repair it, so—”
He didn’t hear the rest; he was staring into her eyes, steadily, inquiringly. Truth shone triumphant there; he could only believe her. Yet—yet—that other thing! She hadn’t told him the truth! In her face, at last, he read uneasiness as he continued to stare, and for a moment there was silence.
“What’s the matter, Van?” she inquired solicitously. “Don’t you feel well?”
He pulled himself together with a start and for a time they chatted of inconsequential things as she ate. He watched her until she pushed her dessert plate aside, then casually, quite casually:
“I believe you said you were going to call on Mrs. Blacklock tomorrow?”
She looked up quickly.
“Oh no,” she replied. “I was with her all day yesterday, shopping. I said I had called on her.”
Mr. van Safford arose suddenly, stood glaring down at her for an instant, then turning abruptly left the house. Involuntarily she had started up, then she sat down again and wept softly over her coffee. Mr. van Safford seemed to have a very definite purpose for when he reached the club he went straight to a telephone booth, and called Miss Blakesley over the wire.
“My wife said something about—something about—” he stammered lamely, “something about calling on you tomorrow. Will you be in?”
“Yes, and I’ll be so glad to see her,” came the reply. “I’m dreadfully tired of staying cooped up here in the house, and really I was beginning to think all my friends had deserted me.”
“Cooped up in the house?” Mr. van Safford repeated. “Are you ill?”
“I have been,” replied Miss Blakesley. “I’m better now, but I haven’t been out of the house for more than a week.”
“Indeed!” remarked Mr. van Safford, sympathetically. “I’m awfully sorry, I assure you. Then you haven’t had a chance to try your—your—‘big new touring car’?”
“Why, I haven’t any new touring car,” said Miss Blakesley. “I haven’t any sort of a car. Where did you get that idea?”
Mr. van Safford didn’t answer her; rudely enough he hung up the telephone and left the club with a face like marble. When finally he stopped walking he was opposite his own house. For a minute he stood looking at it much as if he had never seen it before, then he turned and went back to the club. There was something of fright, of horror even, in his white face when he entered.
As Mr. van Safford did not go to bed that night it was not surprising that his wife should find him in the breakfast room when she came down about eight o’clock. She smiled. He stared at her with a curt: “Good morning!” Then came an ominous silence. She finished her breakfast, arose and left the house without a word. He watched her from a window until she disappeared around the corner, just four doors below, then overcome by fears, suspicions, hideous possibilities, he ran out of the house after her.
She had not been out of his sight more than half a minute when he reached the corner, yet now—now she was gone. He looked on