The Ivory Snuff Box by Frederic Arnold Kummer (online e reader .txt) 📕

After a long time the day broke, and she dressed and managed to choke down a little breakfast. She kept in her room until long after nine o'clock, not daring to leave the house before ten. Dr. Hartmann came in just as she was preparing to go. She saw him glance quickly toward her hat, as she put it on. "I'm going in to the city, this morning, doctor," she said, carelessly. "There are a few things I must get at one of the shops."

He nodded, as though the matter were quite unimportant. "You had another attack, last night, Miss Ellicott," he said. "I regret that the symptoms have recurred."

"Did I? What did I do?" she inquired, wide-eyed.

"Nothing, luckily. Walked down the corridor a short distance, the nurse tells me. She stopped you before you got very far." He regarded her with his keen professional look. "Strange—you do not appear abnormally nervous. I fear I shall have to begin the hypnotic treatment at once."

She paid but scant attention. If she could accomplish what she hoped, this morning, neither Dr. Hartmann nor his treatments would matter in the least to her. "I am sorry it will be necessary," she said, "but of course you know best."

When she left the grounds, she watched carefully to see if she was being followed, but there was nothing to indicate that such was the case. At the corner below, a small, youngish-looking man turned in behind her. He appeared to have been walking rapidly, but she had no particular reason to believe that he was following her.

She made at once for the center of the town, determined to walk the distance rather than wait to find a cab. On the way she passed several stores, and it occurred to her to stop in at one of them and buy a pair of gloves, to lend color to her excuses. She did so, and was just going out again when she suddenly came face to face with the young man she had thought was following her. "Miss Ellicott," he said, raising his hat, and as his hand was poised before her eyes, she saw on his finger a ring similar to the one which had been given her in Paris by Monsieur Lefevre, on the day of her departure. She colored, started to pass on, then stopped. "Good-morning," she gasped, faintly.

"I'm so glad to see you," he rattled on. "Don't you remember our being introduced, at dinner one night, in Paris. I'm delighted to meet you again. On your way down-town, I suppose?" His remark seemed a question. She answered it at once. "Yes, a little shopping to do, and then I thought of stopping at the house of some friends—the United States Minister," she added, by way of explanation.

The stranger bowed. "May I have the pleasure of accompanying you?" he asked. "I also am going in that direction."

Grace assented, and they went out together. At the door the man summoned a cab. "It is safer," he whispered. "We may be observed."

Once inside the cab, which was a closed one, the young man began to ply Grace with questions. "I am one of Monsieur Lefevre's men," he told her, noting her momentary hesitation. "Be quite frank, please, and tell me everything."

When she had finished her story, he sat in silence for a long time. Then he turned to her with a question which made her think he had suddenly lost his mind. "Has Dr. Hartmann a phonograph in the house?" he inquired.

"A phonograph?" she looked at him curiously.

"Yes—yes." His voice betrayed his excitement. "We must send a message to Mr. Duvall. Your windows overlook the room where he is confined. He may hear it. It is the only way."

"Yes," she said, after a moment's thought. "There is a phonograph in the library—a small one. It is seldom used. But Dr. Hartmann—"

"Listen to me," he interrupted, "and do exactly as I say. Pretend to be ill. Ask Dr. Hartmann's permission to have the instrument moved to your room. Then play the records which I am about to get for you."

She gazed at him, scarcely understanding. "But—" she began.

"Of course you will play other records, as well, but this one you must play often—as often as possible. I do not know that Mr. Duvall will understand what the message is—it is a chance, but we must take it. I myself do not understand it very clearly, but the suggestion comes from Monsieur Lefevre himself. You know him. He has your husband's safety at heart." He leaned out, giving a few rapid instructions to the cabman, and then once more turned to Grace.

"Do not visit the house of the United States Minister. It will be most unwise. As soon as he learns that Mr. Duvall and yourself are at Dr. Hartmann's house as spies, he will of necessity refuse to assist you further. Should he not do so, should he demand Mr. Duvall's release, nothing would be gained, since the snuff box would of necessity be left behind. Dr. Hartmann will not injure your husband—he is too anxious to get possession of the snuff box for that. We will try the phonograph, to-day, and if that means is unsuccessful, we must make an attempt to regain the box, and release your husband by force."

As he finished speaking, the cab drew up at a music store. The stranger sprang out, and in a few moments reappeared with a small package in his hand. He handed it to her, then removed his hat and bowed. "I would suggest, mademoiselle, that you return at once, and make use of this as I have directed. If anything further occurs, send word by the delivery boy to-night." He bowed, and walked rapidly down the street.

Grace sadly ordered the cabman to return to Dr. Hartmann's, and then sat back, her mind torn by conflicting emotions. The whole thing seemed inexplicably mysterious and confusing. Here was Richard, her husband, suffering she knew not what agonies at Dr. Hartmann's hands, and these people, who ought to be attempting to liberate him, asked her to play upon the phonograph. She tore open the package which the young man had handed her, and glanced at it eagerly. Its title told her no more than the stranger himself had done. She read it over and over, aimlessly. It was The Rosary.

The dull, heavy sleep into which Richard Duvall had fallen, after Dr. Hartmann had left him, was suddenly disturbed by the realization that someone had seized him roughly by the arms. He attempted to rise, struggling instinctively against the two men who, he dimly saw, were bending over him, but his resistance was useless. In a moment the leather straps which encircled his wrists and ankles had been drawn tight, and he felt himself being lifted bodily and deposited on the floor in the center of the room. At first he cried out, cursing his captors loudly, but an instant's reflection showed him how profitless his remonstrances were, and he allowed himself to be bound to the floor in silence. In a moment, Dr. Hartmann—the detective saw that it was he, with Mayer—had switched on the violet light, and he once more felt its blinding radiance upon his face.

Hartmann opened the door. "I shall be back again in a few hours," he said, as he left the room. "I hope that by that time you will have quite recovered your senses."

The detective made no reply. He had definitely made up his mind upon one point: he was not going to purchase his freedom at the expense of his duty. The unfortunate situation in which he now found himself was, he knew very well, entirely his own fault, and his desire to atone for his momentary carelessness made him determined not to accede to Dr. Hartmann's demands. He hoped that his friends outside—Lablanche, Dufrenne, even Grace—might be able to come to his assistance. If he could only know that the snuff box was safe in Monsieur Lefevre's hands, the rest did not matter much.

These thoughts passed through his mind as he lay with closed eyes, his face quivering under the dazzling light which fell upon it. Its intensity was, he thought, greater, if anything, than it had been before, and the irritating effect upon his eyes more pronounced. He did not open his eyes at all, on this occasion, for fear even a momentary exposure would increase their sensitiveness.

Slowly the day passed. He concluded that it was afternoon, when he heard far off a bell striking the hour of two, although it might equally well have been two o'clock in the morning, for all he could tell. There was a faint hum of conversation in the laboratory above him, which convinced him that it was still day.

Presently his ear, acutely sensitive to the slightest noise which might disturb the stillness about him, became aware of a faint sound of music, which seemed to come to him from a long distance off. It was a popular French march, and from a certain quality of the notes he concluded that it was being played upon a phonograph. The strains of the music distracted him, took his mind from the things about him, and as he listened to it, it seemed that the effort of keeping his eyes tightly closed grew sensibly less, the blinding pressure of the unwavering light cone upon his face appreciably easier to bear. He knew that this was but a momentary relief, but he welcomed it eagerly. Lying in this terrifying silence, under the cruel glare of light, had become frightful—he wondered if, after all, his nerves, his mind, could long stand the strain.

The music stopped suddenly. He found himself eagerly hoping that there would be more. In a few moments it began again, and he was listening to the familiar strains of The Rosary. He had always liked the song—Grace, too, had been fond of it. He wondered if she could be playing to him, trying to soothe his fast-shattering nerves with music. It pleased him to think that it might be so, although he had no reason to suppose that Grace knew of the torture to which Dr. Hartmann was subjecting him.

After a time, the final strains of The Rosary died away, to be followed by a German march, played by some military band. This, too, he was glad to hear, although he found himself thinking that he preferred The Rosary. As if in answer to his thoughts, it began again—he found himself repeating the words to himself mechanically, and thinking of Grace.

The music continued for long over an hour. Duvall noted with surprise that while there were many other selections, The Rosary was played almost every other time. So often, in fact, did its strains break the stillness, that he became annoyed—in his nervous state this constant repetition of the song worried him. After a time he shuddered when he heard it, hoping that each time would be the last. No one but an imbecile, he muttered to himself, could enjoy playing a piece over and over in that aimless fashion. When at last the impromptu concert had ceased, and the silence about him was once more unbroken, he found himself puzzling in vain over the matter, as though it had become of vast importance to him.

After the music ceased, he realized how much it had helped him to endure the two or more hours which had elapsed since Hartmann left him. His real tortures were only just beginning. The constant blaze of light on his face, the ceaseless effort to keep his eyes closed, to turn his head away, in spite of the bonds which prevented it, once more almost frenzied him. He fell to wondering whether Hartmann had been in earnest,