Suddenly Sam became all attention, for he heard the voice of Mrs. Harris, who then reappeared with an open book in her hand.
“The work is entitled ‘Chesterfieldian Deportment,’ by Garrilus Gibbs, Ph.D. D. D., Now, Sam, I desire your strict attention to this paragraph,” and she read from the book.
“‘Nothing so militates against the first impression of a gentleman as ingratitude for a special service rendered; for example’”—and she looked at Sam very significantly, as she lowered the book, “His Grace was so solicitous about your hurt that, regardless of convenience and also of prior appointments, he hastened to make a personal call, rather than use the ’phone.”
“Particularly so,” Sam added, provoked to grin, “when a right pretty and wealthy maid is in the corral. Eh, aunty?”
“That is my lord’s prerogative, but I shall permit of no digression,” she severely remarked. “To continue—‘nothing to mind so convincingly proclaims the ignorance of an ill-bred commoner than vulgar liberty in the presence of a peer of England’s realm!’ You follow me?”
“I guess I do, aunty,” Sam replied, with his characteristic side movement of the head, and then, as he stood in an expectant attitude, carelessly fingered, with both hands, his watch chain.
“Sam, stop fidgeting with your watch chain. It is characteristic of a nervous gawk. The very reverse of good form and quite unbecoming a well-bred, polite gentleman.”
“All right, aunty, fire away.” And Sam’s eyes twinkled mischievously, as his hands fell by his side.
“In order that the house of Harris shall not be defamed through an act of discourtesy to one of its guests, I insist, first of all, that you give me an example of your expression of gratitude to his Lordship for his great humanitarian act and kindness to you in your hour of insensibility.”
“Ea—ah! Eh!” ejaculated Sam in laughing surprise, but much as he disliked to comply, he felt there was no use trying to dodge the issue.
His aunt was determined and experience had taught him that in order to retain the indulgence of the “best and fondest aunt on earth,” a discreet concurrence in her whims was imperative. So with an agreeable smile, he added, “All right, aunty, here goes.”
“For the purpose of approach, you may address me as ‘my lord,’” interjected Mrs. Harris.
“Ha! That’s easier, aunty,” and a smile of satisfaction spread over his face.
“Proceed!” exclaimed his aunt, sententiously.
“I beg to express to your lordship”—
“Sam!” said Mrs. Harris, interrupting him, “you have omitted the very pith and essence of initiatory greeting.”
“Ea—ha! How?” exclaimed Sam, surprised.
“By neglecting to make obeisance.”
“To you, aunty?”
“To me. Now, Sam, beware of shyness. Bow naturally and with unaffected ease.”
“All ready?” inquired Sam.
“Proceed!”
With that he bowed—bowed with a charm of grace that brought a look of pleased surprise from Mrs. Harris. It was evident she was already mollified.
“I beg your lordship will permit me the honor personally to express my appreciation, and to tender to you my heartfelt thanks for your kind services to me last night.”
The smile of unaffected pleasure that brightened his face, at the knowledge that his aunt was pleased, assisted him wonderfully through the ordeal, for such he considered it.
“My compliments, Sam!” exclaimed Mrs. Harris, who appeared immensely pleased.
“Aw—deuced well delivered, don’t che know!”
They turned and beheld Rutley and Hazel standing in the doorway.
Sam’s chagrin was very great, and conscious of his inability to conceal his disgusted facial expression, turned aside and muttered, “Wouldn’t that fizz you?”
Mrs. Harris was evidently much gratified, for she pointedly remarked, “Your lordship must now concede that our boy was not intentionally rude.”
As for Sam, his vexation was great, and though he discreetly kept silence, the hot blood reddened his face perceptibly. He had unwittingly humbled himself to a man, who, he felt instinctively, was his enemy.
Just what brought Rutley and Hazel to the doorway in time to hear Sam’s expression of thanks was never explained. But it may be presumed he had some announcement to make which the unexpected apology from Sam had made unnecessary.
Its effect on Rutley was instantaneous, for his frigidity melted as snow beneath a summer sun. The monocle came down from his eye and a gracious, condescending smile overspread his face.
“I am very sorry the accident happened, and I beg you to believe I have been deeply concerned about your hurt.”
“We are sure your lordship has suffered great mental anguish over the unfortunate affair,” responded Mrs. Harris, relieved by Rutley’s condescension.
“Late yesterday evening,” he went on, “I received information that a child resembling Dorothy, and accompanied by a lady whose face was veiled, were seen entering a certain residence out near the park,” explained Rutley, continuing. “I beg you to understand that I entertain a deep interest in the fate of the child, and since the river has not yielded up its secret, and the voice of scandal is rife in innuendoes, I immediately set out to investigate.
“Unsuccessful, I had passed along the road and was returning, no doubt at higher speed than justified by the darkness of the night. Absorbed in meditation, I must have temporarily been negligent of proper vigilance, when to my horror, the form of a man suddenly loomed up a few paces directly ahead.”
“Dear me, how unfortunate!” exclaimed Mrs. Harris, shivering.
“Impossible to stop the swift moving machine, in the short space that separated us, I swerved to the right.
“At that moment the man must have discovered me, for he, too, sprang to the right. The impact was inevitable. I hastened to the unfortunate one’s assistance, and you may appreciate my amazement when I recognized my friend, your own relative. Of course, I conveyed him home at once.”
“How very good of you,” said Hazel, with admiring eyes.
“We shall never be able sufficiently to thank your lordship,” added Mrs. Harris, “and we hope that our dear boy will not expose himself to so great a danger again.”
As to what Sam thought of the explanation, he kept silent; nevertheless he turned half around and would have whistled significantly had he not at that moment checked himself, for fear of again embarrassing his aunt.
It was at this moment Virginia entered the room, insistently ushered in by Mr. Harris, who, profuse in politeness, said:
“Please do me the honor to be seated, for I know you must be fatigued.”
But Virginia, on discovering Rutley, seemed to be suddenly overcome with a timidity quite foreign to her usual self-possession, and shrank away as if to leave the room. Observing her evident embarrassment and, of course, ignorant of the true cause, Mr. Harris concluded she had conceived him as declining her request, and he at once, in a confidential whisper, attempted to reassure her.
“I can accommodate you with a check for five thousand today, and more in a week.”
“Oh, I—I thank you very much,” she replied, and though her nervousness was apparent, she managed to control herself. Mr. Harris gently led her to a seat, remarking in a whisper, “I’ll write the check for you at once.”
She turned upon him very grateful eyes, but almost instantly a shadow crept across her face as she said, “The security I have to offer——”
Mr. Harris looked pained, and lifting his hand, he interrupted her with, “Don’t, please don’t let the security trouble you.”
Again Virginia’s eyes unconsciously fastened upon Rutley, who at the same time was regarding her with a keen inquiring gaze. It was the first time they had met since the night of Thorpe’s quarrel with Corway, and although Virginia had resolved to cast off all fear of his threat of incriminating disclosures, she nevertheless, while in his presence, felt a subtle influence change her rebellious disposition into a timorous apprehension. The sensation was so strange, so creepy, and at the same time so convincing, that she arose from the seat and muttered in broken accents, “I—I’ll await you outside, Mr. Harris. The air in this room is—is so close.”
She had turned half around toward the door, when Mrs. Harris addressed her.
“Virginia, dear! Don’t go! Most interesting. My lord has just related how last night he accidentally knocked Sam down near the City Park.”
Virginia unconsciously repeated, “Last night, he accidentally knocked Sam down, near the City Park.”
The information was so startling and her curiosity so keen that she stared at Rutley and Sam alternately, while they in turn stared at each other and at her most significantly.
Mrs. Harris observed the wonderment her information had created, but without troubling her easy brains to penetrate the meaning, added, after due pause, “Yes, dear—a bandaged head, as you see, was the result.”
“It was very dark, near midnight, and his lordship was driving an automobile fast.”
Heedless of Mrs. Harris’ further remarks and so absorbed in an effort to solve the puzzle that Virginia thought:
“What business had he out there at that time of night? Did he know I was there? And Sam there, too! It must have been he who followed me,”—and she shot such a swift meaning glance at him that had he caught it the effect must have been disconcerting.
“Queer, how late at night young men carry on their larks nowadays,” broke in Mr. Harris with fine humor.
Mrs. Harris was quick to correct him. “Dear me! James, it was on urgent business, no less than a search for Dorothy, but unfortunately unsuccessful.”
“I myself am also inclined to the belief Dorothy was stolen. No doubt a demand will soon be made for her ransom,” said Mr. Harris.
“Such a notion seems to me as far-fetched, as it is unlikely, for I do not believe the family has an enemy in the world,” promptly rejoined Mrs. Harris.
“Vague insinuations of kidnapping find credence through the estrangement of the parents being given publicity,” suggested Rutley, in a soft, serious, yet bland manner, which brought from Hazel an explosive reply, “I am sure Constance had no knowledge of it.”
“Impossible for Constance to plot at an abduction of her own child, and as for John Thorpe, his grief is too great to permit the faintest suspicion to rest on him,” suavely admonished Mrs. Harris warmly.
“John!” gasped Virginia. She was the first to see Thorpe standing in the vestibule, the doors of which had been left open. John Thorpe had entered so quietly that none in the room saw him approach, and their conversation at the moment was so concentrated upon the mystery of Dorothy’s disappearance that none of them heard his weary footfalls draw near. He was careworn and haggard.
If John Thorpe felt any emotion on seeing Virginia and hearing her startled voice, he gave no sign. Unmoved, he coldly let his aching eyes rest on her, and then he lifted them to Mr. Harris. In that brief space of time, Rutley saw in Virginia’s abashed eagerness to address her brother, a shadow of peril threaten him. The situation called for immediate action. He had previously noted his magnetic power over her and at once brought into requisition the wonderful “nerve” distinctly his heritage, and which had so often befriended him in moments of danger. Under cover of the fresh interest manifested in Mr. Thorpe’s appearance, he coolly, quietly, and without the least hesitation, quickly placed himself beside her, and whispered in her ear: “Beware!”
His tone was so menacing, though concealed by an unctious personality, that Virginia shrank from him, yet with the low, rebellious exclamation: “Scoundrel!”
Nevertheless, she timidly deemed it discreet to arrange a meeting with John alone.
Mr. Harris silently grasped Mr. Thorpe by the hand. They had been close friends, socially and in business affairs for many years, and the hopeless, haggard, careless appearance of his long time friend touched Mr. Harris deeply.
“Poor fellow,” he said, sympathetically. “You look all in.”
“Sleepless nights and wearisome days have doubtless produced results,” languidly replied Mr. Thorpe. “Mr. Harris, I have come to beg your hospitality for an hour’s rest.”
“Welcome to ‘Rosemont,’ thrice welcome, my dear friend. I shall have a quiet room prepared at once. Make yourself comfortable for a few moments until I return,” and the energetic Mr. Harris immediately set out on his mission.
“Dear me!” commented Mrs. Harris, “If we could but unravel the mystery of Dorothy’s disappearance, what a relief it would be. Do you think it possible the child was abducted, Mr. Thorpe?”
“Would to God I could believe it true,” he gravely replied.
“I am loath to believe that the mother was aware of it,” interposed Rutley, in his soft, lazy, drawling voice, “but”——
Surprised, Mrs. Harris promptly interrupted him with: “Dear me, have you heard that Constance had intrigued for her child’s disappearance?”
Rutley fixed his gaze on Virginia, then transferred it to John Thorpe as he falteringly replied to Mrs. Harris’ question: “Circumstances of a—a suspicious character tend to—a—implicate her.”
A dead silence followed. So silent, that Sam suddenly cast an alarmed look at Virginia, as though he feared she had heard him hiss—“The contemptible sissy!”—and was surprised that no response met his silent thought, either by look or word.
Virginia was speechless. Yet she was bursting to tell them Dorothy was alive, but in captivity. She remembered the terrible threat made by the Italian in the park. It burned into her brain and made her tremble with anxiety lest the secret should get out and the child’s life jeopardized thereby.
But, how to deny the vile lie that Constance was a party to the kidnapping? It was a question that baffled completely all the ingenuity that had aided her in other situations.
While she was racking her brains for some guiding thought, to silence slanderous tongues, she heard John Thorpe very gravely say: “My lord must be mistaken.”
It was such sweet relief to know that he did not believe Constance was guilty of the crime that Virginia unconsciously exclaimed: “Thank Heaven!”
After John Thorpe had expressed his disbelief in his wife’s guilt, he slowly turned on his heel, intending to leave the room, for the conversation was painful to him and the company too closely associated with his unhappiness, for the quiet rest he so much needed. He had scarcely turned toward the door when he was halted by Mr. Harris, who had just entered from the hall, and announced a restful room in readiness for his immediate use.
To his surprise, John Thorpe turned and wearisomely said: “I thank you, Mr. Harris, but an important matter that I have neglected has just come to my mind. I beg to apologize for the needless trouble I have caused you.” And he turned slowly and went toward the door.
Virginia perceived that unless immediate steps were taken, her opportunity to arrange a meeting with John would be lost. It was, therefore, with a startled cry of disappointment that she addressed him: “John! I have something”—she hesitated.
Thorpe halted on the threshold and half turned around. Aghast, Virginia arose from her seat, when Rutley drawled out in his most suave accents:
“Miss Thorpe is manifestly fatigued from over-exertion,” and instantly taking her by the arm, led her reluctantly, and in timidity, to a seat on a divan, the end of which he wheeled forward, ostensibly to give her a better view of the lawn, then inundated with sunshine, but in reality to avert her eyes from the face of her brother.
John Thorpe gazed inquiringly for a second and then, with head bent, slowly and gravely left the house.
Mr. Harris started to accompany Thorpe, to press him to rest awhile, but on recalling his obligation to Virginia, checked himself and turned into the library.
Sam’s indignation at the vile, unkind thrust made on the character of a bereaved woman, spoke eloquently in his blazing eyes, nevertheless out of regard for his aunt’s wishes he closed his teeth tightly in silence, but on seeing the pseudo lord’s insistent familiarity with Virginia, and noting her strange hesitant submission as he rather more than familiarly escorted her to the divan, Sam’s rage burst through his discretion and his manly, straight-forwardness asserted itself, in utter disregard of his aunt’s warnings.
Rutley had evidently thrown out the base insinuation as a feeler, but the manner in which Sam met it—met it squarely in the “Wild West way,” quickly disabused his mind of any idea he may have had that Constance was friendless.
“Sir!” Sam said; “I know but one little word that fitly characterizes your insinuation concerning Mrs. Thorpe,” and unwilling to resist the natural gravity of his feet toward Rutley, sidled up close to him, and, with a quiver of contempt in his voice, finished: “And down in Texas they taught me to brand it ‘a damned lie’!”
Sam was rewarded in a manner he little anticipated, and by the woman who had heretofore despised him, for with eyes that sparkled with admiration and lips that parted in a smile of glad surprise, she involuntarily murmured: “Splendid, Sam!” His silly, boyish side had vanished, and in its place his true, strong, sterling character stood revealed. In that one moment he knew that he had won from her a tribute of esteem, but he did not at that time realize that it was a long step toward the consummation of his devout desire—to win her heart.
If an electric bolt had at that moment descended from the clear, ethereal blue, and wrecked the house, Mrs. Harris’ consternation could not have been greater.
“Oh!” she faintly gasped. “Dear me! Oh, Sam, how could you!” and then she staggered almost to collapse in his arms.
For a moment Rutley was astounded, then drawing himself up in a pose of statuesque haughtiness, again most studiously adjusted his monocle to his eye and directed at alert Sam a stony stare of ineffable disdain. Then he languidly drawled, without a muscle of his white, bloodless face moving:
“Aw, it’s deuced draughty, don’t-che know!”
A few minutes later Mr. Harris beckoned Virginia into the library. After delivering her the check he had promised, they together went out in search for John Thorpe, but he had disappeared.
Had they looked more closely and further up the hillside, they might have seen a haggard man sitting in the shadow of a fir, apparently weary of the world, and pondering on the vicissitudes of life.
In the meantime Virginia had been doing her utmost, in a quiet way, to obtain the necessary amount of Dorothy’s ransom.
Conscious of an imperative demand likely to be made upon her at any moment, she had partially prepared for it by secretly borrowing some five thousand dollars upon her jewelry and income, and she had obtained five thousand more from Mr. Harris, who was eager to favor her, because of the obligations it would place her under to his family, particularly Sam.
It was useless to approach Hazel for assistance, as John Thorpe was administrator of her estate. However, she was in a fair way to get more on a trust deed for some real estate that was in her name—when the summons came, peremptory and threatening.
She pondered over the situation long and profoundly, and having at length thoroughly made up her mind on a line of procedure, she prepared for the meeting.
Of delicate mould, carefully educated, and accustomed to vivacious and accomplished companions, Virginia was little intended for the desperate enterprise she had determined to undertake, in the dead hour of the coming night. More than once she shuddered at the thought, but that vision of Constance in the shadow of the “grim sickle,” nerved her on to the rescue, and it also afforded her a sense of relief from the distress her mind endured. Overwhelmed at the magnitude of the misfortune so suddenly overtaken Constance, she hesitated not for an instant to risk her life in its undoing.
Personality, social position, beauty, youth, refinement—all were cast aside, unconsidered and unthought of in the execution of the one perilous act that confronted her.
The intention to rescue Dorothy may be construed under the conditions surrounding her as commendable, but in one so young and fair, it would appear hair-brained, impracticable and, worst of all, dangerously indiscreet. Virginia had not been in any manner contributory to the disappearance of Dorothy, and yet be it remembered, only a heroine pure and simple would dare brave the act. Moreover, she had permitted Constance to accompany her, thus immensely increasing her hazard and responsibility.
That afternoon, thinking to cheer the mother, who was plunged in silent grief, Virginia had intimated a suspicion that Dorothy was a captive. Instantly an unnatural calm possessed Constance, and changed her sweet and tractable nature into a determined and obstinate resolution to accompany Virginia. It was useless for the girl to plead additional peril. No excuse, no matter how artfully conceived or ingeniously framed, could turn Constance from her purpose, to share in the danger. And what danger would not the mother brave to rescue her darling?
So insistent, yet so strangely calm, as to cause a fear that the fevered excitement that burned so fiercely beneath the forced tranquility, would in a measure break out and jeopardize all—that Virginia only at last reluctantly consented. But not before she had exacted a promise from Constance to maintain the strictest silence.
On their arrival at the foot of Ellsworth street, they made their way cautiously along to a little cove above Bundy’s boathouse, where they discovered a small skiff with oars in row-locks. Virginia had been informed that a boat would be provided for her at a certain spot, and therefore did not hesitate to avail herself of its use. Whether anybody was watching her mattered little in her suppressed, excited state of mind. Quietly she slipped the line and was in the act of drawing the skiff in position for Constance to get in, when from afar, across the water, seemingly from the depth of the island woods, the cry of a crow penetrated the silent air.
They stood still and listened—listened intently—with a vague, terrified notion that it was meant as a signal of danger.
Again she heard the cry, as distinct as before. Constance gripped Virginia’s arm for support.
“Virginia realized that in her own calmness and self-possession lay the surest support to her companion’s strength.”“Virginia realized that in her own calmness and self-possession lay the surest support to her companion’s strength.”
“Virginia realized that in her own calmness and self-possession lay the surest support to her companion’s strength.”
“What does it portend?” Virginia asked herself. “Why should it come from the woods if it was a signal of her starting to cross the water. It may have been an answer to a flash from some one concealed nearby.” She looked above, about, but the same darkness, the same quietness prevailed. Not a leaf stirred to disturb the deep repose of night. Afar off, down the river, a steamer whistled for the steel bridge draw.
It startled her out of her reverie, and finally she concluded the “caw,” which seemingly sounded from the opposite woods, was really at the shore, and resulted from the peculiar condition of the atmosphere. Without further pause, and quietly as possible, they stepped into the boat, and at once commenced the passage.
The water was calm and mirror-like, and Virginia, having had some experience in handling a skiff, dipped the muffled blades with scarcely a sound. Silently, slowly, cautiously, she propelled the boat along, ever and again turning her head to peer into the deep darkness shrouding the island.
She headed the boat diagonally across the water, so as to strike near the middle of the island. She adopted that course in order that the cabin, which was quite invisible under the deeper shadow of the woods, would come in line between her and the harbor lights. Her reckoning was correct. She had passed the object of her venture without discovering it, but as the island loomed denser and darker on drawing near, it enabled her to locate the craft with precision. She turned the boat, and keeping within the deep shadow that fringed the rim of the island, made straight for the cabin.
As they approached it, the strain on Constance became tense. Virginia watched her narrowly, fearful for the consequences of a disappointment, and she realized, too, that in her own calmness and self-possession, lay the surest support to her companion’s strength. The consciousness of that power nerved, steadied and aided her wonderfully.
“Caw! Caw!” sounded with startling distinctness in the still, dark wooded depths of Ross island. For a moment the silence was intense; then it was broken again by the familiar, long-drawn out, guttural cry, “Caw! caw!” of the black scavenger bird. And silence once more settled down upon the scene, and seemed deeper, thicker and more profound than before.
It may have been a half a minute after the second cry when an answer, faint, though clearly audible, was echoed from a neighboring part of the woods.
“Come on!” quietly exclaimed Sam Harris, who, with John Thorpe, stood beside the trunk of a fir that grew midway on the island near its north end.
“An uncanny signal!” remarked Mr. Thorpe, in the same low tones.
“Yes, somehow I feel as though it betokens serious business,” softly replied Sam. “Be careful. A thick vine here. Step clear,” he whispered, as they moved cautiously along.
They had proceeded in silence some distance, part of the time groping their way by the aid of a match, lighted now and again, but artfully concealed, for the darkness was very deep, when through a rift in the wild growth of underbrush a man’s form was seen to move.
“Wait!” suddenly whispered Sam, in a warning tone. “There is a man ahead of us.”
There was no mistaking it, for as they stood stock-still in their tracks, they saw a man’s form occasionally obtruding between them and an electric light that shed its rays from afar off, across the water.
“Do you think he is the detective?” asked Thorpe, in a low voice.
“Wait!” and Sam placed his two hands over his mouth so as to form a hollow, and called out in moderate tones: “Caw! caw!”
It was answered by a single “caw,” low, but seemingly so near that they were startled, and for a moment felt that they were being deceived.
They remained motionless and silent—Sam with his hand grasping the butt of a revolver.
The “caw” was repeated low, but with reassuring effect, for they now discovered that while the sound was apparently near, due to atmospheric conditions, it was in reality fully two hundred feet away.
“Detective Simms,” whispered Sam. “He is waiting for us.”
“Then let’s hurry,” urged his companion.
The words had scarcely left his lips when Thorpe’s boot caught in a vine and down he went, making considerable noise as he stumbled and fell on his hip.
“You must be more careful,” enjoined Sam, in a low tone, as he helped Thorpe to his feet.
“Much haste, less speed, and then a little noise may endanger our success, I fear. Are you hurt?”
“No, thanks. Let’s go on,” impatiently replied Thorpe.
As they drew near the detective, in order to make doubly sure of avoiding a trap, Sam uttered in a low voice the word “Hope!” It was a watchword previously arranged and provided as an additional precaution against a possible contingency of deep darkness rendering prompt recognition difficult.
It was answered by the word “Good,” uttered in equally low and cautious tones, and which at once put them at their ease.
Almost immediately they met the detective at the edge of the clearing. Before them, a little to the left, dimly but clearly outlined against the harbor lights, was a typical Willamette River cabin, commonly known on the waterfront as a “scow dwelling,” moored about fifty feet from the shore, broadside on. It was the object of their venture.
So intent were they on sizing it up, and the problem of boarding it, that they were quite insensible to the magnificent panorama spread out beyond, and further to the left of Portland by night. At their feet the dark, shimmering Willamette silently glided along its course to the mighty Columbia; the great bridges on which the street cars, in a blaze of light, swiftly crossed and recrossed the gloomy river; the darkly-outlined towering masts of the ocean shipping in the lower harbor, the great industrial landmarks that reared their lofty shadows in different parts of the city. The myriad of bluish electric lights, that shone out like diamonds in the clear, balmy night, spread out over the city and up and up, in terraces and by gradual stages, to the hills, and along the heights that stretched away north-westerly. For miles on either side of the river the lights spread out, till at length, in diminishing brilliancy, they were lost in the shadow of the distant rugged hills, whose irregular dark-wooded crests were sharply defined against the rare splendor of the firmament, then aglow with glittering stars.
In fact, all the grandeur of the far-stretching panorama was neglected and lost to them in the intensity of their gaze upon the humble dwelling before them, built on a raft of logs.
(Booms of saw-logs are now moored abreast the cabin anchorage.)
Sam left Thorpe and the detective and wormed his way nearer the shore, to a position where he could obtain a better view of the cabin. Lying flat on his stomach, and concealed as much as possible, behind some driftwood and low, dead brush, he listened intently, and studied the situation with the practical eye of the frontiersman. He made out the cabin to be about twenty-four feet long, seven or eight feet high, with two small windows on the side which was nearest him. There being a light in one of the windows, he concluded the cabin was divided into at least two parts. The logs upon which the cabin was built projected some four feet at either end, on which was a platform, but no protecting railing. Proof that the occupant was not a family man, as “scow-dwellers” with children are careful to have railings about their craft.
He judged that the logs were large and water-soaked, and securely fastened together, and by their combined weight effected a certain stability and steadiness to the cabin resting thereon, during bad weather.
There appeared no means of reaching the cabin except by boat or swimming, and the mud of the river bottom at that point was evidently deep. Now and again he heard voices in the cabin, seemingly in altercation. But the distance was too great for him to distinguish the words. The quietness was profound except for the gentle lapping of the water, and disturbed occasionally by ripping sounds from a sawmill some distance down the river, which, if anything, added to the stillness instead of diminishing it.
Once he started at what sounded like a moan very near him, but it was so indistinct, so much like a faint whispering whistle, and it was immediately succeeded by the buzzing whirr of a bat as it darted about, and deep silence again environing him, that he dismissed the sound as a fantasy.
He was mentally calculating upon the chances of a surprise and rescue, and in an attempt to drag himself a few feet nearer the water-line to catch, if possible, some words of the conversation going on in the cabin. He stretched out his right hand to grasp what appeared to be a piece of driftwood, to aid in pulling himself along. His hand fell upon the dry, warm body of some animal.
He almost yelled aloud, so great was his fright. For a moment his heart beat madly. But the same strength of will that rushed to his aid in smothering the yell also quieted his agitation and restored his confidence.
The incident had almost jeopardized the favorable prospect of their enterprise. But nothing untoward happening, he again put out his hand and touched the body. It was warm and did not stir. The animal was lying on its side, and he plainly felt a faint throbbing of its heart. He ran his hand down its legs, then along its spine to a large limb of a tree that lay across its neck. He concluded that it was a little dog when his hand felt a small rope wound tightly about the limb.
His curiosity being fully aroused, he determined upon further investigation. Not daring to light a match he did the next best thing that occurred to him. Still retaining his prone position, Sam passed his hand along the dog’s spine to the fore shoulder, and under the piece of wood, to its neck. Then he discovered the poor thing was in the last throes of strangulation. Its breathing was scarcely perceptible. Its tongue, swollen thick, protruded from its mouth.
Instantly his sympathy for the little sufferer became acute, and, without thinking of possible results should the dog recover quickly, whipped out his knife and severed the coils of rope about the limb. Using his left hand as a lever, his elbow being a pivot, he pried up the weighty limb and with his right hand drew the dog from under it and to him. He quickly unwound the few remaining coils from around its neck, and as he did so, smiled with pleasurable emotion—for he was sure that he felt a feeble lick of the dog’s tongue on his hand.
A dog’s life is an inconsequential thing, according to some people’s way of thinking, but here was proof that under Sam’s rough and unpolished exterior there throbbed a heart full of gentleness and sympathy for suffering animals. He took the dog, which he then recognized as a small, shaggy Scotch terrier, under his arm and stole back to the detective and Mr. Thorpe.
In discussing the affair afterward, it was deemed probable that the detective, finding his long vigil at the edge of the woods tiresome, had unconsciously fallen asleep; though he indignantly denied it, and during that time the dog had been taken on shore and tied to a heavy piece of driftwood to give warning of the approach of strangers by night, but the poor thing had become tangled in the brush, and in its efforts to extricate itself had tightly twisted the rope about its neck, and the heavy limb had rolled over and pinioned it to the ground.
In the meantime Mr. Thorpe and the detective were engaged in low, earnest conversation.
“Are you satisfied the child is my little Dorothy?” asked Mr. Thorpe.
“I am not positive, but I believe so. I have watched all the afternoon in hopes of catching a glimpse of her. Once I heard a child cry.”
“Yet the child may not be Dorothy!”
“True!” replied the detective, “but whether the child be yours or not, I am satisfied the little thing in that cabin is there against its will.”
“Did you note any visitors to the cabin this evening?”
“Yes; a man rowed over from the direction of ‘Bundy’s’ about half an hour ago. He is in there now.”
“Do you think the Italian, his visitor and the child are the only ones there?”
“I am positive they are the only ones in that cabin at this moment.”
“Then let’s wade out there,” urged Mr. Thorpe.
“Careful!” cautioned Sam, who had just come up. “I know the Dago to be a cunning and dangerous man. We could not wade out that far any way, in the soft mud and tangled roots of that bottom. We must have the small boat.”
“What have you there?” It was the detective who spoke.
“Our first rescue. A mascot!” and then Sam related the incident.
“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Thorpe. “Its bark would have betrayed us.”
The three then held a brief consultation. Shortly afterward Sam retraced his steps along the trail, back to the steam launch, with the “mascot” steadily recovering, but still under his arm.
Within the cabin, so zealously watched by the detective prior to the journey of Thorpe and Sam across the island, were the occupants—Jack Shore and his little captive, Dorothy Thorpe. The child was carefully and secretly guarded, and at the same time made as comfortable as the limited quarters of her captor would permit.
Jack Shore was kind to the child, and though fully conscious of the severe penalty of his desperate undertaking should he be discovered, he nevertheless allowed her a certain freedom of the abode in which he had placed her, of course always providing for securely bolted outer doors.
During the preceding night she had been secretly and quietly removed from her first hiding place to the cabin. Her silence was obtained by the promise of being taken home should she be a good little girl, and not make a disturbance. But as a precaution she had been wrapped up in a manner so as completely to blindfold her, and in her childish confidence was conveyed without any trouble, in the dead hour of night, to the cabin.
The interior of the cabin was divided into two rooms. The small one was used as a sleeping apartment, having two roughly-constructed bunks, one above the other. On one wall was a small four-paned window that gave light to the room. A small mirror, and a man’s clothing hung on the wall, and a short, well-worn strip of carpet covered the floor. The large room served the purpose of a kitchen, dining room, pantry, laundry and general utility combined. There was a small cook stove in the corner near the dividing partition. One dishcloth and a couple of towels hung on a line across the corner of the room over the stove. A shallow box about three feet square, and nailed to the wall beside the window, served as a cupboard for provisions. A table, an old chair, a three-legged stool and a box constituted the remaining furniture.
At night a lighted lamp rested on a bracket above the table, and on this particular night Jack’s coat hung beside the lamp.
The main entrance door of the cabin was at the kitchen end, and opened inward. There was also a door at the bedroom end of the cabin, securely locked and bolted. The door in the partition between the two rooms was in line with the other doors, and had a small pane of glass, six by six inches, in the upper panel.
On this eventful night Dorothy was seated on the chair, her head resting on her arms on the end of the table, indifferently watching Jack. He, with a cigar in his mouth and in his gray shirtsleeves, was standing in front of the table wiping a dishpan, the last of the evening cleanup. Putting the pan away under the shelf, he hung the dishcloth beside its mate on the line, and carefully stretched it out to dry. Then, as he sat down on the stool at the end of the table opposite Dorothy, a smile of satisfaction stole over his dark, swarthy face when he surveyed the result of his work—a clean and tidy appearing room.
“Eesa be so nice-a da clean. So bute-a da corner. Eesa like-a da fine-a house. Tar-rah-rah! Tink-a eesa get-a da fote-da-graph of eet a made. Put eem in-a Sunny da paper. Eh-a da Daize! What a use-a da tink? Eh!”
Dorothy raised her head and looked at him in offended, childish dignity.
“My name is not A da Daize; it is Dorothy!”
“Eesa like-a da Daize a bet! What youse-a tink? Eesa nicey da room, eh Daize?”
Then the child indifferently looked at the corner with its stove and adjuncts. She had been detained in his company now—for four days, and, childlike, was intuitively quick in interpreting the broken, stumbling Dago utterances of Jack.
“It is not so nice as our kitchen,” she naively replied. “But maybe the photo will make people think you are a good cook!”
“A da cook-a!—naw, eesa be damn! Turnoppsis! Carrotsis! Cababbages! Black-a da boots”—
“Well, then,” interrupted the child, pouting, “a rich man if you like; I don’t care.”
“Eesa mores-a da bet,” and he smiled approvingly. “And a Sunny-a da paper print under da fote-da-graph some-a ting like-a deeze—A da corner ova-a da dining room—maybees-a da den wud look-a da bet,” he muttered reflectively. “In deeze-a home ova-a a Signor George-a da Golda—house-a dat, eh, a Daize?”
“Is that your name?” she inquired.
“Eesa good-a da name? A Daize.”
“May I stay in here when the photo man comes?”
“Sure-a Daize!”
“Oh, good!” and the child clapped her little hands and laughed gleefully.
Jack looked at her quizzically, and then, seating himself on the stool, took the child between his knees.
“Tell-a me, da Daize, what-a da for youse-a like-a da picture take-a here, eh?”
“Cause!” she answered shyly.
“Cause-a da what? Speak-a Daize.”
“I don’t like to.”
“A Daize! Youse a know I bees-a da friend, speak-a.”
“Well, then my papa would know where to find me.”
“I deez-a thought so. Daize, youse-a tink I beez a da bad-a man. Eh, why?”
“’Cause you promised to take me home and you have not.”
“Well-a Daize, your-a good-a da girl, and—eef-a da papa donn-a da come bees-a da morn, we’ll-a go for-a da fine him, eh! Now youse-a da like-a me now? Eh, a Daize?”
“Oh, I like you ever so much for that, and we’ll go home tomorrow?
“Sure-a Daize! Now tell-a me some-a ting about a da Virginia.”
“If I do you’ll sure take me home tomorrow?”
“Sure-a Daize! Eesa beez a da good a da woman, eh? Much a da like a you. Eh, a da Daize?”
“Oh, yes; she would do anything for me, and I love my aunt, too.”
“Eesa look a da nicey. Mose a beez a da rich, eh-a Daize?”
“My aunt does oil paintings, too.”
“Eesa got a much a da mon, eh a Daize?”
“Oh, yes; a pocket full,” replied the unsuspecting child.
“Everybody says that she is rich, and I guess that it must be true,” muttered Jack, and he could not suppress a smile of satisfaction the child’s information gave him.
“Eesa time to go a da bed, a Daize. Kiss a me good a da night.”
“If I do, you won’t forget your promise?”
“What a da promise?”
“To take me home tomorrow.”
“Sure a Daize. I donna forget.”
Then the child kissed him, and at the contact of her soft, warm lips with his—like a stream of sunshine, the child innocence of purest lips, pierced his heart with a shaft of kindly sympathy.
“Good a da night, a Daize,” he said in a voice soft and gentle. Then he released the child and arose to his feet. It drew from her a look of steady admiration, and then she replied:
“Good night!” On the threshold of the sleeping apartment she turned and said:
“I shall pray for you tonight, Mister Golda. I shall pray for you not to forget tomorrow.” And she softly closed the door.
As Jack mildly stared at the child, the light in his eyes changed to a look far off, and there gradually stole over his face an aspect of infinite sadness, reminiscent of the days of his childhood.
On resuming his presence of mind, he went to the cupboard and took from there a bottle. After removing the stopper he took a straight draught of liquor, turned low the light and tip-toed to the bedroom door, listened, and heard Dorothy say:
“Oh, dear Jesus, make George Golda good; help him remember his promise to take me home tomorrow.”
Jack was deeply moved by the child’s sweet disposition, and he turned away disgusted at the despicable role he was enacting, and muttered reflectively: “Good God, that I should come to this! From secretary-treasurer of the Securities Investment Association to be a kidnapper of babes!
“Jack Shore, the kidnapper! What a fall is here! Yes, I have sunk so low as to abduct from a fond, suffering mother one of the purest gems of flesh and blood that ever blest a home. And for what? The almighty dollar! Only that, and nothing more! Curse the damned dollar that drives men to crime!
“Curse it for cramming hell with lost souls. I’ll wash my hands of this whole business; I’ll have no more of it; I’ll take the child home!”
The resolution was so cheering, so fruitful of kindly intent, and urged on by the “still, small voice” within him to do right, that he decided to fortify himself with a second drink of liquor. Then a contra train of reflection seized him, and he whispered, as one suddenly confronted with an appalling calamity:
“Ah, ah! What am I saying? And I have scarcely a dollar in the world! Have gone hungry for the want of it—and here is twenty thousand of the beautiful golden things actually in sight—almost at my finger tips!” and with the thought blank concern spread over his face, and the kindly purpose, the human compassion for his fellow being in its transient passage to his heart, again took flight and the “still, small voice” within him shrank abashed to silence.
“Out with this sentimental nonsense! The Thorpes can stand the loss of a few thousand without a twitch of an eyelash.”
The sound of a couple of gentle taps on the starboard side of the cabin broke his train of audible thoughts and claimed his quick attention.
The taps were repeated distinctly. He answered them with three light taps on the wall, given by the joint of his finger. Then he quietly opened the door, and Philip Rutley, with the collar of his coat turned up closely about his face, stood in the opening.
“All skookum, Jack?” he questioned, in low tones, on entering.
“All skookum, Phil,” answered Jack, as he locked and bolted the door.
“Good! I love to look at the little darling. Jack, she is a gold mine.” And, so saying, Rutley took the lamp from over the shelf and cautiously opening the door, peered within.
“Isn’t she pretty?” Then he quietly closed the door, replaced the lamp on the shelf, turned down his coat collar and said in a low, pleased voice: “Well, old boy, our troubles are nearly over. Virginia will come tonight.”
“Alone?” queried Jack, in low tones, and he looked significantly at his colleague.
“Yes, and with the ducats! I caused her to be secretly informed that she must meet you here by twelve o’clock this night, and prepared to pay the ransom. Any liquor handy, Jack? I’m feeling a bit nervous after that pull. The boat sogged along as heavy as though a bunch of weeds trailed across her prow.”
Jack smiled, but proceeded to the cupboard and produced a bottle, together with a glass. Removing the cork, he offered both bottle and glass to Rutley with the remark: “Old Kaintuck—dead shot! The best ever. Help yourself!”
“That’s an affectionate beauty spot about your right eye, Jack,” remarked Rutley, taking the bottle and tumbler from him.
“You haven’t told me how it happened.”
“I was out on Corbett street when that damned Irish coachman of Thorpe’s sauntered along as though he had a chip on his shoulder, and he had the nerve to ask me if I had seen the child.”
“Do you think he suspected you?” queried Rutley, pausing with the glass and bottle in his hands.
“No; it was a random shot. But it made me hot, and—well, the long and the short of it was the doctor worked over me an hour before I was able to walk.”
“I see,” commented Rutley, pouring some liquor into the glass and setting the bottle on the table. “A sudden and unexpected attack, eh! May the fickle jade smile on us tonight,” and so saying, he drank the liquor with evident relish, and handed the glass to Jack.
Jack, misunderstanding his quotation of the “fickle jade,” interpreting it as meant for Virginia, at once replied:
“The jade may smile and smile, and be a villain, but she must ‘pungle’ up the ‘dough.’” And pouring some liquor in the glass he drained it.
Jack’s misapplication of the popular quotation caused Phil to smile, then to chuckle. “Ha, ha, ha, ha, the jade!”
Then he produced a couple of cigars from his vest pocket, and offering one to Jack, continued: “She deserves no mercy.”
“None whatever,” replied Jack, as he took the cigar.
“If she had not weakened, we should never have selected her to pay the ransom,” resumed Rutley.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughed Jack, as he put a match to the cigar. “Her penitent mood makes her an easy mark. The price of her atonement’ll be twenty thousand dollars.”
Again Rutley chuckled, chuckled convivially, for evidently the softening influence of the liquor relaxed his tensely attuned nerves. “Ha, my boy, she shall not enjoy the bliss of restoring the child to her mother. I shall be the hero in this case,” and he lowered his voice. “After Virginia has paid the ransom, I shall take the child to her father.” Then he looked at Jack significantly and laughed—laughed in a singularly sinister, yet highly pitched suppressed key.
Jack penetrated Rutley’s purpose at once and the prodigious nerve of the fellow caused him likewise to laugh. But Jack’s laugh was different from Rutley’s, in so much that it conveyed, though suppressed and soft, an air of rollicking abandon.
“And get the reward of ten thousand dollars offered for the child’s recovery.”
“Precisely,” laughed Rutley.
His laugh seemed infectious, for Jack joined him with a “Ha, ha, ha, ha. And borrow ten thousand more from old Harris for being a Good Samaritan to his nephew, Sam, eh! Have another, Phil,” and again he laughed as he offered the glass.
Rutley took the glass and filled it. “A forty thousand cleanup, Jack, just for a bit of judicious nerve! He, he, he, he,” and then his laughter ceased, for the simple reason that his lips could not perform the act of drinking and laughing at the same time.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughed Jack, in response. “A damned good thing, eh, Phil?” and he took the glass, filled it, and drank. “Has anybody heard from Corway?”
“Shanghaied,” laconically replied Rutley.
“He’s off on the British bark Lochlobin. No fear of any trouble from him for several months.”
“How, in the name of God, did you do it?” asked Jack, fairly enthralled with Rutley’s nerve.
“Oh, it was easy. Fixed it up with some sailor boarding-house toughs, but I only got $50 out of it all told, including his watch. But, my dear boy, that is not all I have planned in this plunge. You know I am desperately in love with the orphan?”
“Hazel!” exclaimed Jack. “Ho, that was plain long ago,” and he laughed again.
“She’s the sweetest little girl in the world, Jack, and the best part of it is, she has a cool hundred thousand in her own right.”
“Marry her,” promptly advised Jack.
“That is my intention, Jack, and the day after tomorrow I visit Rosemont to persuade her to elope with me. Quite a society thrill—don’t you know?”
“Thrill!” replied Jack, astonished. “You mean sensation. Hazel eloped with me Lord Beauchamp, Knight of the Garter. Have one on that, Phil.”
“Oh, she’s a darling, Jack, and now that Corway is out of the way—I think she’d like—to wear the garter,” and he grinned jovially.
“A garter is fetching, Phil.”
“Success to the garter! May Lady Hazel never let it fall; ha, ha,” and Jack laughed merrily as he filled the glass.
“Evil be to him who evil thinks. My garter, Jack! He, he, he, he.” There was no mistaking the fact that the two men were verging on the hilarious, and though fully aware of the importance of conversing in low tones, they continued, because they felt satisfied the critical period of their operations had passed and success was assured.
Again Rutley laughed. “Jack, I’ve had an itching palm today.”
“So have I. See how red it is with scratching, and the sole of my left foot has been tickled to fits.”
“The signs are right, Jack. I congratulate you on your luck, and if it is as good as your judgment of liquor—it is a damned good thing.” He laughed as he seized the glass. “This is the proof,” and he forthwith tossed it off, and handed the glass to Jack.
Jack’s convivial spirits were quite willing. He took the glass, filled it, and laughingly said: “What is good for the devil, applies to his imp.” Then he drained the glass and again laughed.
Rutley joined in. “You make me blush! Did you say your left foot tickled?”
“Yes!”
“You will change domiciles. What do you say to secretary-treasurer of the Securities Investment Association?”
“What? Resurrect the old S. I. A.?” Jack replied, and he stared at Rutley with amazement.
“Yes! Thorpe and Harris put us out of business. Why not use their ‘simoleons’ to start up again?” And he chuckled with evident satisfaction.
“Agreed, Phil! Start her up with a full page ad in a Sunday paper, eh? Ha, ha, ha, ha—a damned good thing.”
“Precisely! Ahem,” coughed Rutley. “We are pleased to announce that our former fellow townsmen, Mr. Philip Rutley and Mr. Jack Shore have returned very wealthy.”
“And were received with open arms,” added Jack, and he laughed. “Damned good joke, Phil; damned good joke. Have one on that!” And he turned and picked up bottle and glass from the table and offered them to his colleague.
Rutley always maintained a dignified bearing, yet his manners were quite unconventional, and suave, and easy, and it must be understood that neither of them on this occasion became boisterous. He took the proffered bottle and glass, poured liquor in the glass, and after setting the bottle on the table, said: “Thirty days later, a-hem! We congratulate the stockholders of the reorganized Securities Investment Association on the able and efficient management of your officers, Manager Philip Rutley and Secretary-Treasurer Jack Shore.” He then drained the glass and handed it to Jack.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughed Jack, as he took the glass and poured the liquor in it, and pointedly added: “Addenda! It affords us much pleasure to apologize for our former charge of wilful dishonesty against the gentlemen above mentioned. Signed: John Thorpe, James Harris, committee.” And Jack drained the glass.
“He, he, he, he,” softly laughed Rutley. “Very proper, my boy; quite so!”
“It only needs the measly ‘yellow goods’ to make it practical,” suggested Jack.
“My dear, ahem, Mr. Secretary, don’t let that trifle worry you. The ‘yellow goods’ are coming as sure as day follows night.”
“I hope the day will not again plunge us into night,” laughed Jack.
“Oh, don’t put it that way,” testily rejoined Rutley. “Disagreeably suggestive, you know—damned bad taste.”
Rutley’s supersensitiveness, in their present situation, was greeted by Jack with a burst of suppressed laughter. “When Eve tempted and Adam bit, he took his medicine without a fit. Have another, Phil.”
Without accepting the bottle, and seemingly without heeding the remark, Rutley inquired, a bit seriously: “Is the dog on guard?”
“Yes,” replied Jack, standing stock still, with the bottle in one hand and the tumbler in the other. “Tied to a stick of driftwood on shore. No interlopers while Snooks is on watch. Why?” The question was asked rather soberly.
“I received a tip that you are shadowed and trouble may come before dawn. When it comes the little one must not be here.”
“I agree with you,” responded Jack. “I’ve lost that medal somewhere, too.”
“Ye Gods!” gravely replied Rutley, with an alarmed look. “If it falls into the hands of a detective, it may serve as a clue. Curious, too. I recall now that the dog didn’t bark or growl when I approached the cabin.”
“I wonder!” exclaimed Jack. “Maybe Snooks has got loose and is wandering about the island. We had better make sure.”
Setting the bottle and tumbler on the table, he opened the cabin door and stepped somewhat unsteadily on the platform. Closing the door, he peered shoreward, then softly whistled. After listening intently, and hearing nothing, he called, in a low voice:
“Snooks! Snooks!” Receiving no response, and being unable to identify shapeless objects on the shore, through the darkness, he re-entered the cabin, quietly as possible, and with a concerned look on his face.
“I believe the dog has got away. I’ll go ashore and investigate.”
“I’ll go with you,” assured Rutley. “Jack, better see that the child’s asleep.”
Jack took the lamp from the bracket, opened the partition door, looked in at the sleeping child, and closed the door as gently as he had opened it. “Sound asleep,” he whispered. Then he replaced the lamp, blew out the light, and made his way out onto the platform, accompanied by Rutley.
Quietly they stepped into a small boat, fastened to the logs, and pushed off towards the shore.
It was then Jack remembered that he had not locked the door, and wanted to return for that purpose, but Rutley demurred.
“Time is precious,” he murmured, rather thickly. “Besides we shall be gone only a few minutes, and it is unlikely that the child will stir in the darkness.”
They had scarcely reached the shore when another small boat came gliding noiselessly along down toward the cabin. The boat contained Virginia and Constance. As they approached near, propulsion ceased, and the boat drifted along. Virginia turned half around on her seat, listened intently, and looked at the dark cabin, with eyes that fairly sparkled, in her effort to penetrate its interior. Slowly the boat drew along the platform. Quietly and cautiously they stepped out, and after fastening the line which held the boat to an iron ring which had been driven into one of the logs for that purpose, Virginia took Constance by the hand, which she felt tremble, and caused her to whisper: “Courage, dear.” Then she tapped gently on the door.
Receiving no response, she tapped again, then tried the knob, and, to her amazement, the door opened.
For a moment they stood on the threshold, irresolute. A whiff of tobacco smoke brushed their nostrils.
Virginia timidly stepped within, followed closely by Constance. The darkness was intense, the stillness profound. “Whew!” Virginia ejaculated, in a whisper. “The den reeks with tobacco smoke. He must be asleep.”
She softly closed the door and lighted one of the matches which she had been careful to provide herself with.
“There is no one here,” whispered Constance, in tones of terrifying disappointment.
Up to that time she had religiously kept her promise to observe the strictest silence, but when in the dim light produced by the match, her eyes swiftly took in the untenanted room, her heart sank in chilly numbness.
Virginia noted the famished, haunted look that had crept into her eyes, and as she turned away with a fresh pang in her heart, discovered the bottle and tumbler on the table.
It suggested a clue, and she replied, in low tones, and in the most matter-of-fact manner, that, surprised herself, “He must be intoxicated, the beast.”
The coolness of the utterance had the effect, in a measure, of reassuring Constance, who then, discovering a closed door directly in front, breathlessly exclaimed: “That door must open to another room.”
It was at that moment that the light died out. Virginia stood stock still and listened. She pressed her left hand tight against her heart to still the terrible throbbing.
She heard Constance grope her way to the partition door. She heard the nervous fingers on the framework. She heard the latch click.
“Be careful, dear. Oh, be careful, dear!” admonished Virginia, in a whisper of frenzied anxiety—and then she heard the door pushed open.
A moment of profound silence and then followed the sound of a step within. Constance stood beside Dorothy—with only the deep darkness and two feet of empty space separating them.
Who shall say that the subtle power which impelled the mother on in the dense darkness, first to the door, then to open it, and then to step within beside her child, was not magnetic intuition?
Virginia softly followed her to the door, produced a match and rubbed it against the casing.
At that moment Constance was standing inside the threshold, her right hand still on the open door latch; her back to Virginia. She was looking straight ahead into the darkness.
The scraping of the match caused her to turn her head.
“Oh, Dorothy, darling!” was all that the poor heart-broken mother could utter.
So sudden and great was the transport called forth by the discovery of Dorothy quietly sleeping near her elbow, that her senses grew dizzy, and as she sank to the floor on her trembling knees, convulsively outstretched her hands to clasp the face of her child.
It was a favor of fate that placed them at that moment alone with the child, for whom Virginia was prepared to sacrifice her life to rescue. A decree that paid homage to the act of a heroine.
True, the unhappy cause that impelled her to act was indirectly of her own making, and a sense of justice and remorse urged her to remedy it. Nevertheless the act itself, for daring the rescue, was most heroic.
When Constance threw her hands out to clasp Dorothy, the child awakened with a start, and at the same time the match light became extinguished.
After her prayer, Dorothy laid down on the bunk without undressing, as had been her custom, since in the custody of Jack, and almost immediately fell asleep.
Her guileless little heart, cherishing confidence in his promise, provoked a smile of spiritual beauty that settled on her sweet young face—unflect by earthly misgivings. As she slept there came into her dream a vision of terraces, grown over with lovely flowers, and there were green, grassy plots and gorgeous colored butterflies darting in and out among the flowers and golden sunshine. And out from somewhere, in the serene hazy distance, came the silvery song of her own canary bird. Where? And as she looked and listened, a butterfly, oh, so large and beautiful, with semi-transparent rose, pearl wings dotted and fringed with emerald gems, hovered tantalizingly near her. She was tempted to catch it, but each time, though perilously near, it evaded her tiny clutch, and so drew her on over velvety lawns and grassy slopes to a babbling brook.
The prismatic winged thing fluttered over some pebbles and alighted on a slender willow twig. She stood on a stone, reached out to clutch the beauty, and just as her little fingers were about to close on it, the voice of her mother rang out in frantic warning—“Dorothy! Dorothy!”
And then her foot slipped, and as she was falling she felt herself suddenly clasped in strong arms, and borne upward, to awake with the cry of “Dorothy” ringing in her ears.
For a moment or two the child lay perfectly still, then gradually to her returning senses, the room smelled of tobacco smoke, and supposing that it was her captor’s hand that clasped her face, said: “Oh, Mr. Golda, the room is full of smoke!”
“Hush, dear,” cautioned Virginia. “Your mother and Aunt Virginia are here.”
“Oh, Mamma and Aunty!” joyfully exclaimed Dorothy, for she recognized Virginia’s well-known voice, and sitting up, said:
“You’ve come to take me home, haven’t you?”
Again the match light faded out.
The voice of Dorothy seemed to thrill Constance with new energy, for, with a frantic effort, she partially recovered her composure. She struggled to her feet, and in a rapture of thanksgiving, folded the child to her heart.
“Oh, my darling, my darling, please God, they shall never take you from me again. No, never again.” And she kissed her with a passionate joy, such as only a fond mother can feel for her helpless infant.
“Oh, mamma, I am so glad,” responded Dorothy, clasping her little arms about her mother’s neck.
“Dorothy, dear, where is he?” questioned Virginia, in a whisper.
“He was in the room when I came to bed, Auntie.”
“He is not there now. He must be away.” And a prospect of getting the child away without a struggle nerved her to instant action.
“Come,” she exclaimed, “we must go at once. Don’t speak, sweetheart. Silence; come, Constance, quick!”
“Yes, yes; go on,” was Constance’s almost hysterical reply.
And so, with the child in her arms and Virginia pulling at her sleeves to guide and hasten her, they groped as cautiously as possible in the darkness, towards the cabin door.
They had proceeded a few paces when Virginia, in her eagerness, rubbed against the table; she stepped aside to clear it, and in doing so, jolted Constance.
It was then, under the strain of the stiffled emotions of the past few days, and the great excitement attendant on the present enterprise, together with the sudden reactionary joy of again clasping her child, that the first symptom of the mother’s mental breakdown occurred.
“Oh,” she faintly screamed, “the boat rocks,” and she would have fallen to the floor had not a chair, the only one in the cabin, luckily stood nearby. She stumbled against it and sank upon the seat, with Dorothy tightly clasped in her arms.
Unable in the darkness to comprehend the pause, Virginia tugged urgently at Constance’s sleeve.
“Come along, dear, we must be quick.”
“Very well! Why don’t you use the paddles?” replied Constance, in an altered tone, a strange metallic ring in her voice, and with less agitation than she had recently displayed.
Still unable, or rather refusing herself to think anything was wrong, and with a panicky impatience to be gone from the den, Virginia again urged Constance to hasten.
“Don’t sit there, dear! Come along! We have not a moment to lose. Shall I carry Dorothy?”
The answer startled her; a new terror had appeared.
“Don’t you see that I am holding my heart tight. I cannot let go to help you. Make the boat go faster. Why don’t you paddle.”
Virginia’s heart leaped to her throat. “Her mind is giving away,” she exclaimed, with a gasp.