The Unsuspected

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Mathilda got up. She was furious. 'So that's why, is it? You've wormed your way into Grandy's house! Are you trying to cheat him, some way? What was it you said? Something about dirty work? What are you trying to do to Grandy?'

'My dear—'

'Using my name! Using me!' she stormed. 'You probably thought I was dead. Didn't you?'

'Perhaps I did,' he murmured. He was sitting still, watching her anger almost as if it couldn't hurt him personally, but he was curious about it, examining it, studying it.

'You'd better tell me right away what you meant in the taxicab. About Grandy.'

'I was being facetious,' he said in a monotone.

'Oh, nonsense! Who's Jane?'

'Jane is Grandy's secretary.'

'Where's Rosaleen?'

'Why, she's . . . not there any more,' he said. 'If you'll try to listen, I'll tell you what I meant in the taxicab.' And she caught again that faint hint of antagonism as he looked up at her.

'If you please,' said Mathilda grandly in her coldest voice, and she sat down stiffly.

'I was simply making small talk,' said Francis. 'I was going on to tell you how Grandy hijacked those strawberries.'

'I don't believe you. Why did you all of a sudden act so collapsed? You crawled into the corner—'

'What you said,' he murmured wearily.

'What?'

He made an effort. 'You said, I don't know you.'' Mathilda was silent. 'If you will try to accept this weird business that you and I remember the same period of time, the same place, entirely differently. If you will just for one brief second imagine me sitting there,

with my wife, my lost girl, found again. Trying like the very devil not to break down and bawl. Trunking in my innocence that you understood, that we were putting off the real—greeting, shall I say?—until we could be alone. And then, without any warning whatso-

ever, you say—what you said. I don't know you. I haven't the faintest idea who you are.''

Mathilda swallowed hard. 'Have you been hurt or ill lately, Mr. Howard?'

He got up and went back to looking out the window with his back to her.

Mathilda said with malice, 'My father left me a great deal of money.'

He swung around. She controlled an impulse to cringe. But he was smiling. 'Why, so did mine,' he said pleasantly. 'I'm nearly as rich as you are, sweetie pie.' Astonishment crossed her face and he laughed. Then he came nearer and spoke very gently. 'It was just

love,' he said. 'I'm sorry you don't remember.'

The bell rang. It was the porter, come to get the bags. He touched his cap. 'How do, Mrs. Howard.'

Shock sent Mathilda out of her chair. She crowded back against the desk. She was frightened now.

'Just a minute,' said Francis. 'Jimmy, will you do us a favor? Just tell Mrs. Howard when you last saw her.'

'Why, lemme see, back in January. Last I saw her was Wednesday morning, right after the wedding. You gave me—'

'But I'm not married!'

The man looked distressed. 'Honest, I never said anything. I never— I'd like to say I'm glad you got back safe, Mrs. Howard,' the man stammered.

Mathilda turned away. Behind her, she knew Francis was giving him money. She heard him say, 'Forget about this, Jimmy. Mrs. Howard's been ill.'

She clenched her fists. So that would be his story. And she couldn't make a scene here, in front of a hotel servant. Or anywhere. She couldn't run to strangers or cry out that he bed. Not Mathilda Frazier. Not the long-lost heiress. No, never.

She must get home. Get to Grandy, who would know what to do. Just hold on to what she knew to be so, remember that he was lying, trying for some unknown reason to—to do what? Never mind now. Keep controlled. Get to Grandy as soon as she could.

But, she thought, it's not the truth. That porter is lying too.

She said, quite calmly, when the man had gone, 'He was bribed.'

Francis made no answer. She said, with more anger than she wished to show, 'I dare say you forged a marriage certificate. Why don't you show me that?'

'Because the bride keeps the marriage certificate,' he said slowly, 'and I imagine you . . . lost it'

'No papers?' she sneered.

'Some,' he said. 'Look here, Tyl. Don't—hate me. Don't. I'm not trying— Please, can't we try to be a little bit friendly about this?'

He really did look upset and distressed, but she said coldly, 'I think we'd better go to the station.'

'Very well,' he said.

She started toward the door. She stopped. 'What papers?' she demanded. He shook his head. 'I want to know how you managed to deceive Grandy!' she cried.

His face went black with emotion, suddenly. 'Look here' he said roughly, 'you hurt. You don't seem to know it, but I'll be damned if I see why I have to ... be hurt. Either you listen to my entire story, let me tell you the whole thing, all that happened, all you've forgotten—which seems to me the fair thing for you to do, by the way—or well say no more about it m see you to the train. And good-by. You can divorce me, get an annulment, do whatever you like. Ignore the whole thing. I'm not likely,' he stated bitterly, 'to want to marry anyone else for a while.'

Mathilda hesitated. She thought, I don't understand. Her mind rebelled at its own confusion. It seemed to her that this man had been forcing her into confusion, and she wanted to fight back. She wanted to feel clear, to understand better. It was a way of fighting. She went back and sat down in her chair.

'Very well. Tell me,' she said.

Chapter Six

'You were, as I said, standing near the grillroom. I saw you. I made up my mind to have a try at picking you up.' He was speaking bitterly, bluntly and fast. 'It worked. You were lonely and upset. You needed to talk to someone. We went into a corner of the bar and you did talk. You told me all about Oliver and Althea and what had happened to you. You were hurt, then; so hurt, my dear, so heartsore.' His voice warmed, 'I don't suppose you

realized at all what was happening to me. I don't suppose you really saw me that Sunday night.

'I was someone to listen. A stranger, who wouldn't care, you thought, who wouldn't tell. Who'd listen and be sympathetic, and go away taking some of your trouble with him just by virtue of having listened. It didn't work out that way, because I fell in love, and I am a very persistent fellow and I would not go away. I'm afraid I hung around. We were together Monday. Had lunch. Roamed around. In the evening, we went back to our corner in the bar. This time, I talked. I told you I was in the Air Force, but I was being let out. I told you quite a bit. You listened. I wonder if you heard.'

Mathilda closed her eyes, squeezed them tight. But when she opened them, he was still there, still talking.

Tuesday,' he said, 'well, on Tuesday, in the morning, you said you'd marry me.'

'Why?'

He took her up quickly. 'Why you said you'd marry me, I . . .don't know. You never said you felt anything for me but just . . .comfortable in my presence. It was one of those half-cold-blooded things. I knew I was getting you on a rebound. And, Tyl, darling, I knew perfectly well that there was a little bit of a nasty human wish for revenge in your heart.'

She frowned, but her heart had jumped in surprise.

'Oh, yes, that was obvious,' he went on. 'But I was going to get you on any terms at all. So I was pretty unscrupulous. Who am I to take a high moral tone? And you—honey, it was babyish, but I understood, still understand. It wasn't so much revenge on Oliver, the

poor sap, but on Althea, the louse.' He grinned.

'I—I see ' said Mathilda dazedly. He leaned forward. His eyes searched her face. 'No, no,' she said. 'No, I don't mean that I remember. It just sounds— It didn't happen, but you make it sound as if— I can see it might have.'

He said, with an unfathomable expression in his dark eyes, 'Thank you, Tyl.' He went on, 'At ten in the morning, Wednesday, we were married.'

'It can't be done!' she gasped.

'It was done,' he said calmly. 'Are you thinking of all the red tape? It wasn't so bad. You already had your blood test. You had been all set to marry somebody else.'

She winced.

'I had only to get a certificate from the medical officer. And they waive the waiting period, you know, for men in the service.' He took something out of his pocket. 'We got the license Tuesday. I do have a copy.'

Tyl looked and saw 'WHITE PLAINS, NEW YORK. MARY FRAZIER. JOHN FRANCIS HOWARD.'

'That's not my name.'

'It's your second name,' he said gently. 'Or so you told them. It was understood that you didn't want publicity. The newspapers would have had fun with all our haste.'

She thought, But why White Plains? Why not New York City? She would have asked, but he was talking.

'Even now, it's been kept quiet, Tyl. Grandy and I agreed to that. Nobody knows