“No, Gwendolen-why?”
“How will you identify it?”
“I–well, you know it says none of them are recognizable. I’ll send his
father one of them–there’s probably no choice.”
Gwendolen knew it was not worth while to argue the matter further, since
her father’s mind was made up and there was a chance for him to appear
upon that sad scene down yonder in an authentic and official way. So she
said no more–till he asked for a basket.
“A basket, papa? What for?”
“It might be ashes.”
CHAPTER IX.
The earl and Washington started on the sorrowful errand, talking as they
walked.
“And as usual!”
“What, Colonel?”
“Seven of them in that hotel. Actresses. And all burnt out, of
course.”
“Any of them burnt up?”
“Oh, no they escaped; they always do; but there’s never a one of them
that knows enough to fetch out her jewelry with her.”
“That’s strange.”
“Strange–it’s the most unaccountable thing in the world. Experience
teaches them nothing; they can’t seem to learn anything except out of a
book. In some uses there’s manifestly a fatality about it. For
instance, take What’s-her-name, that plays those sensational thunder and
lightning parts. She’s got a perfectly immense reputation–draws like a
dog-fight–and it all came from getting burnt out in hotels.”
“Why, how could that give her a reputation as an actress?”
“It didn’t–it only made her name familiar. People want to see her play
because her name is familiar, but they don’t know what made it familiar,
because they don’t remember. First, she was at the bottom of the
ladder, and absolutely obscure wages thirteen dollars a week and find her
own pads.”
“Pads?”
“Yes-things to fat up her spindles with so as to be plump and attractive.
Well, she got burnt out in a hotel and lost $30,000 worth of diamonds.”
“She? Where’d she get them?”
“Goodness knows–given to her, no doubt, by spoony young flats and sappy
old bald-heads in the front row. All the papers were full of it. She
struck for higher pay and got it. Well, she got burnt out again and lost
all her diamonds, and it gave her such a lift that she went starring.”
“Well, if hotel fires are all she’s got to depend on to keep up her name,
it’s a pretty precarious kind of a reputation I should think.”
“Not with her. No, anything but that. Because she’s so lucky; born
lucky, I reckon. Every time there’s a hotel fire she’s in it. She’s
always there–and if she can’t be there herself, her diamonds are. Now
you can’t make anything out of that but just sheer luck.”
“I never heard of such a thing. She must have lost quarts of diamonds.”
“Quarts, she’s lost bushels of them. It’s got so that the hotels are
superstitious about her. They won’t let her in. They think there will
be a fire; and besides, if she’s there it cancels the insurance. She’s
been waning a little lately, but this fire will set her up. She lost
$60,000 worth last night.”
“I think she’s a fool. If I had $60,000 worth of diamonds I wouldn’t
trust them in a hotel.”
“I wouldn’t either; but you can’t teach an actress that. This one’s been
burnt out thirty-five times. And yet if there’s a hotel fire in San
Francisco to-night she’s got to bleed again, you mark my words. Perfect
ass; they say she’s got diamonds in every hotel in the country.”
When they arrived at the scene of the fire the poor old earl took one
glimpse at the melancholy morgue and turned away his face overcome by the
spectacle. He said:
“It is too true, Hawkins–recognition is impossible, not one of the five
could be identified by its nearest friend. You make the selection, I
can’t bear it.”
“Which one had I better–”
“Oh, take any of them. Pick out the best one.”
However, the officers assured the earl–for they knew him, everybody in
Washington knew him–that the position in which these bodies were found
made it impossible that any one of them could be that of his noble young
kinsman. They pointed out the spot where, if the newspaper account was
correct, he must have sunk down to destruction; and at a wide distance