The Sinister Mark

CHAPTER I. "mary Blake"

"MARY BLAKE"

"Tell me, Mary!"

The woman stirred slightly, and with her strong, fine hand pushed her coffee cup away. She hesitated and looked down at the heavily shaded light which threw a rosy gleam upon the white tablecloth. Then her troubled glance travelled swiftly about the room, scarcely noting, at the other tables, the eager or bored faces, dimly lit; here and there a splash of colour on a salient jaw and chin, a flush on a bare, powdered shoulder, the rest melting into carefully designed obscurity, in which soft-footed waiters passed back and forth, ubiquitous, silent, and attentive. Her eyes came to rest, at last, on the face of her companion, but her firm red lips remained closed.

"Something is troubling you, Mary. I can see it plainly," the man insisted. His voice was low and deep, thrilling with an emotion which was reflected in his strong bronzed face. "Tell me about it. Let me help you. I----"

She interrupted him with a motion of her hand.

"It's nothing that you can help, Donald," she said, slowly, bitterly. "'Fate stacks the cards,' my father used to say, 'and few of us have the courage to overturn the table.' I wonder----"

She paused. There was a strange light in her fathomless eyes. The man opposite her leaned intently forward and strove in vain to plumb their depths. They had fascinated him from the first--those strange gold-gray eyes--more than her beautiful, mobile face, more, even, than her wonderful voice. There had always been in them a veiled expression of mystery, a something unexplained and unexplainable, a hint of tragedy which consorted oddly with her amazing success on the stage, before the most critical audience, perhaps, in the world.

The fact that, in spite of her great achievements, in spite of her immense popularity, he alone, so far as he knew, had gained any degree of intimacy, thrilled Donald Van Loo Morris, cosmopolitan man of the world as he certainly was, more than, up to this time, he would have cared to admit even to himself. The long line of his stiff Dutch ancestry fought with the artistic temperament which he had inherited from a sporadic mésalliance, late in the last century, and so far had had the upper hand. Though he had realized for some time that all his senses were intrigued and all his mind filled with the fascination of her charm and the loveliness of her spirit, the thought of an alliance with a woman, world-famed, and yet in a sense unknown, had held his ardour in check. She was called Mary Blake by the world at large. He had surprised her into admitting that this was only her stage name, but when he eagerly sought to push this slight advantage, she had withdrawn, almost visibly, into that realm of silence which habitually enshrouded her.

That was months ago, and since then, though he had seen her as often as she would permit, he had learned nothing of her antecedents nor of her life preceding her first appearance on the stage. He was too conventional, too considerate, perhaps, to question openly, and though her manner was spontaneous and direct, so far as the present was concerned, there was no scaling the wall of her reserve, in which he had been able to find not the smallest loop-hole or crevice.

Always there had been a shadow in her eyes, and of late Donald Morris was sure that the shadow had strengthened and deepened. Always he had felt hers to be a sensitive, high-strung nature, overwrought. The demands of her profession and the emotional rôles which she played would account for much, but there was a tenseness about her always, and especially to-night, a note almost of hysteria, which in a person of her vitality was scarcely explainable even by the strain of a long season, culminating in the closing triumphs of the evening.

She had resolutely, and with fixed determination, refused the ovation which her manager had planned, and after the final fall of the curtain, before the last of the enthusiastic audience had left the theatre, she had slipped quietly away with him--a triumph for him which he felt more keenly than anything in his previous experience.

The blood ran hotly in his veins as he gazed across the narrow table into her eyes. The tragedy and appeal, suddenly and completely unmasked, which cried out to him from their depths swept every worldly consideration from his heart.

He leaned farther forward and laid his brown hand upon the white one which was clenched upon the table.

"What is it, Mary?" he questioned, almost fiercely. "There's something new--some anxiety. What is it, dear? You must tell me. You must let me protect----" He broke off suddenly and his voice dropped low. "I love you, Mary. I love you. I'd do anything in the world to serve you. You must----"

Abruptly Mary Blake drew back her hand and rose. With the same trembling hand she drew closer the filmy white scarf which floated about her throat, and before he could reach her side, she caught up the light cloak which lay upon the back of her chair and wrapped herself from head to foot in its soft folds.

"I must go," she whispered, trembling as with sudden cold. "It's late, Donald, and I'm very tired. Don't--oh, don't say any more to-night. I can't bear----"

They passed out through the crowded restaurant and automatically both faces slipped on the mask which must be worn before the indifferent herd. Many eyes followed them in their passage down the room. Though their faces were somewhat obscured by the bizarre lighting of the place, at least one of them had been recognized by more than a few.

"Mary Blake," whispered a heavy-featured man with a freshly scraped jowl like that of a very clean pig, as he leaned across to his vis-à-vis, whose bobbed hair shone like the evening primrose in the dusk. "Been to see her three times in 'Dark Roads.' Closed to-night, or I'd take you, girlie, though maybe you wouldn't like it anyway. Pretty high-brow, even for me," and he smoothed his slippery dark hair complacently. He felt, strenuously, that he knew what he knew. "Great artist, that," he ruminated, gazing after the retreating figures. "Poor old Quinn knew how to pick 'em out of the atmosphere, somehow. Pity he had to kick-in after her first season, but Mary Blake was a lucky girl to have him for a manager in the start-off. They say Fred Jones has made a pot of money out of 'Dark Roads' and, of course, she's the whole show. Quinn's training was worth everything to her, naturally, but the girl has talent, genius even----"

The primrose one was scarcely listening.

"Who's the man?" she interrupted, a trifle impatiently. Even in her not-too-discriminating eyes there was a sharp contrast between the man who had just passed and the perfumed self-complacency who had done her the honour of taking her to an after-theatre supper.

"That?" queried her companion. "Oh, that's Don Morris--Donald Van Loo Morris." He rolled the name on his tongue. "Real class he is, girlie, so don't get any little heart flutters about him. Belongs to all the old families in New York. His sister is Mrs. Francis Atterbury--see her pictures in all the society papers. Holds the record for being the only person who has ever had the honour of showing off the Blake in captivity. Yep! Mary gave a reading in Mrs. Atterbury's house in Gramercy Park early last fall, and nobody else has been able to get near the girl with a ten-foot pole before or since. Some exclusive, she is! Clever little devil," he chuckled. "Knows how to enhance her popularity. Bet Quinn shot it into her good and strong that a successful beginner ought to be seen off-stage as little as possible. Never have seen her myself except across the foot-lights, and once in a while at some quiet restaurant, or a place like this which maybe isn't any too quiet, but it's sort of dim and one doesn't attract too much attention, eh, girlie? Else would I be here, what?" and he laughed fatly.

The girl wrinkled up her baby nose.

"Oh, quit your kiddin'," she said, petulantly, "and tell me some more about the tall, good-lookin' guy. He's my idea of what a real gentleman ought to look like, he sure is. What does he do for a living, or don't he do anything or anybody?"

"Not any," grinned the other. "At least, I believe he's a sculptor or something on the side, but he has oodles of money--so he should worry! Mary Blake's a wise little gold-digger, all right, if she does pretend that Violet is her middle name. Now there's nothing of the shrinking flowerette about you, girlie, and that's what I could care for, believe me! You're the only----"

Unmindful of the attention they had attracted, Mary Blake and her escort passed out into the cool night air. The light rain which blew in through the open end of the gay awning was refreshing after the close atmosphere of the restaurant, and Donald Morris raised his head and let the rain drift in upon his upturned face. Mary Blake's head was bent and shadowed by her broad, drooping black hat, so that he could not see the expression of her face when she said:

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