Acting on Impulse Read online

  “Jolly good show, wasn’t it?” said Malcolm. “I do hope you enjoyed it!”

  “Ever and ever so much!” she answered mendaciously.

  V.

  IT was the third time the advertisement had been in the newspaper. It headed the Agony Column, and was imperative:

  “Mary N. Communicate your address at once, dear. Bill C.”

  Mary N. was to write to Box No. 3175.

  Mary’s eyes were wet as she read the advertisement.

  “Dear quixotic Bill,” she murmured. “He’ll—get over it—and be glad of his—escape.”

  “What did you say?” inquired Janet, looking up from her correspondence. She was wearing a sapphire ring on her third finger, which had been placed there three days ago by an adoring, many-times-repulsed young man. Mary felt unreasonably jealous of her happiness.

  “I didn't say anything,” she replied with dignity. “I’ve got a half-holiday tomorrow, and I’m going to take the Chinese shawl to a shop I know of and sell it.”

  Janet let fall her letters.

  “You’re not?”

  “Yes, I am. I'm sick of it; and I want some money badly.”

  “I don’t know how you can bear to part with it! I’ve got a sort of feeling about it—I don’t know, almost as though it would bring you luck.”

  “Luck!” ejaculated Mary. “You’re wrong. Anyway, I’m going to sell it.”

  Accordingly she set off next afternoon with the shawl tied up in a brown-paper parcel in search of a possible buyer.

  It was a long time before she could make up her mind to enter a shop, and when at last she summoned up enough courage to do so, she was met with a chilly refusal to buy. Yes, the shawl was undoubtedly lovely, but Simpkins and Jones did not buy second-hand goods.

  The same answer was waiting for her everywhere. Dispirited, Mary went home. The impossible crimson birds embroidered on the shawl seemed to regard her with derisive eyes.

  “I shall advertise it,” said Mary. “Horrid thing.”

  She spent her shillings in advertisements, and still the shawl remained unsold. The only people who answered her advertisements wanted to buy the shawl at half the price she asked for it. Mary threw their letters into the fire. It seemed as though fate were willing her to keep her aunt’s gift.

  But at last a belated offer to buy arrived, accompanied by a request that Mary would send the shawl first on approval.

  “Aha!” said Mary. “It is going to be sold after all!”

  Mary sent the shawl to the prospective buyer, and in due course received a wad of notes in return. Mrs. Mellowe was delighted with her purchase.

  “Well—well—I’ve sold it,” said Mary.

  “You’re sorry now, I reckon,” Janet told her.

  “I am not. Only—no, I’m not sorry. I’m glad.”

  VI.

  MEANWHILE Corkran, in despair, had enlisted a detective on his side. After what Netta Chalmer had told him of Mary's misfortune, and realising that she had slipped through his fingers, he felt that, whatever happened, and no matter what the cost might be, Mary was to be run to earth.

  Her father’s old lawyers knew nothing of her whereabouts; they were rather averse to discussing the Nugent family with anyone. Mr. Nugent had not proved himself to be a distinguished client.

  Corkran advertised in more papers, with the same discouraging result. He set his lips tighter, and vowed that Mary was the most obstinate, trying little wretch a man could possibly wish to marry. In the hope of meeting her again by chance he visited dance halls and theatres, naturally with no success.

  On one of these hunts Netta Chalmer accompanied him. They went to a first night (Mary had made a hobby of first-nights in the old days), and sat in a box so that Corkran might rake the house with his opera glasses.

  “I don’t see how one could expect her to be here,” complained Netta. “I have told you her father’s death left her practically penniless. In fact, I don’t understand how it was that she came to be at the Corinthian. Unless, of course, she was taken.”

  “My dear Netta,” answered Bill irritably, “I tell you that Mary was in a most ex-pensive rig.”

  “I’d like to know what sort of a judge you are,” said Netta superbly. “She was probably in a black three-year-old hack frock, but, of course, you’d think it a Paris model.”

  “It was nothing of the kind. It was a priceless-looking dress, sort of swathed about her, Spanish fashion, with a fringe and quaint-looking red birds over it, like that shawl thing that woman in the fourth row’s wearing. See!”

  “Oh, yes, I know the sort of thing you mean. It couldn't have been one of those, though.”

  “I tell you it was!” indignantly reiterated Corkran. “And—hallo!”

  “What?” Netta followed the direction of his opera-glasses, straining to see what had caught his attention. “What is it? Tell me!”

  “I thought it was Mary,” explained Corkran disappointedly. “It isn’t, but—I’ll swear it’s her dress! Here, you take a look! The woman getting into her seat in the sixth—no, the seventh row. Quick!”

  Obediently Netta focused the glasses on to Mrs. Mellowe.

  “No, it’s not Mary, but what a beautiful shawl! I've never seen one quite like that before. Are you sure it’s Mary’s?”

  “Dead sure! I remember the way those red birds were flying about all over it. Hang the curtain going up! I’ll have to wait till the interval.”

  “You can’t very well go and ask her where she got the shawl,” whispered Netta, giggling.

  “Can’t I!” he retorted.

  As soon as the interval came Corkran left the box. With a beating heart Netta watched him appear downstairs and make his way towards Mrs. Mellowe. Netta saw him smile and bow to Mrs. Mellowe. Through the glasses she observed Mrs. Mellowe’s startled and puzzled frown. The man who was with her seemed to be amused; he gave up his seat to Bill and went outside, presumably to smoke. Bill entered deep into conversation with Mrs. Mellowe. To her relief Netta saw that lady laugh and nod. Evidently the two were hatching some plot, for Bill did not return to his box until the curtain was rising on the second act.

  “What happened? Who was it? Does she know?” demanded Netta.

  “Sh! I’ll tell you after this act,” said Bill. He was smiling, and his eyes were shining.

  VII.

  “HOW very queer!” said Mary. “Whatever can she mean?”

  “Who?” asked Janet.

  “The lady I sold the Chinese shawl to. I have just received this letter from her. She says she has ‘discovered something rather strange about the shawl, and should be so very grateful if you could make it convenient to call here one day, when I will explain to you what I mean.’ Did you ever hear of anything so mysterious?”

  “I always said it was no ordinary shawl!” exclaimed Janet. “What on earth’s it been doing? Sounds rather uncanny. Are you going to do as she asks you?”

  “I suppose I must. She writes very politely and nicely, and she asks me to choose my own day. It’ll have to be Saturday. Hand me my writing-case, will you, Janet?”

  On Saturday afternoon Mary dressed herself with unusual care. At three o’clock she let herself out of the house, intending to go to Mrs. Mellowe’s house by omnibus. To her surprise a large saloon car was standing by the kerb, evidently awaiting someone. She descended the steps, staring, and as she did so the man in the driver’s seat turned to look at her. Mary fell back a pace, wondering whether she could escape, and what Bill was doing here.

  Corkran slid out of the car.

  “Ah!” he said sternly. “At last! Get in, please.”

  Mary began to stammer. Corkran gave a great sigh.

  “Get—in!” he repeated, and took her firmly by the arm.

  “B-but I c-c-can’t! I don’t know how you f-found me, but I d-don’t want to see you, and I won’t go with you, and I wish you’d go away!” She found that she was being forced relentlessly into the front seat. “No, Bill, I can’t poss