CHAPTER XIX
Three days later, the Sheriff of the County served papers on Oliver October. The prosecuting attorney had refused to lay the matter before the grand jury, as requested by Horace Gooch, but had grudgingly acceded to his demand that an official investigation be instituted and carried to a definite conclusion by the authorities.
“I want you to understand, Oliver,” explained the Sheriff, “that this is none of my doing. Gooch has obtained an order from the court, calling for a search of the swamp and your premises, basing his affidavit on the suspicion that his brother-in-law came to his death by foul means and—er—so on. He doesn’t charge anybody with the crime, as you will see by reading a copy of the order. I guess it won’t amount to much. You will have to submit to an examination, answer a lot of questions, and refrain from any interference whatsoever with the search that is to be conducted. In plain English, the order means that you are to have no voice in the matter and that you are to take no part in the search. It’s in the hands of the law now. I am authorized to begin the investigation at once and not to stop until old Gooch is thoroughly satisfied that a crime has not been committed. As I was saying a few minutes ago, he agrees to pay all the costs arising from this investigation in case nothing comes of it. On the other hand, if your father’s body is found and there is any evidence of foul play, the county naturally is to assume all the costs. The court made him sign a bond to that effect—a regular indemnifying bond. The old man has hired two detectives from Chicago to come down here and take active charge of the work. I hope you won’t have any hard feelings toward me, Baxter. I am only doing my duty as ordered by the court.”
“Not the slightest feeling in the world, Sheriff,” said Oliver warmly. “I wish you would do me a favor, however. The next time you see my uncle, please remind him that my offer to give him five thousand dollars if he finds my poor father—dead or alive—still holds. You can start digging whenever you are ready, Sheriff. You are at liberty to ransack the house and outbuildings, dig up the cellars, pull up the floors, drain the cistern and well—do anything you like, sir; I sha’n’t interfere. If any damage is done to the property, however, I shall be obliged to compel my uncle to pay for it. Don’t forget to tell him that, will you?”
The sheriff grinned. “I wonder if this old bird knows how many votes he’s going to lose by this sort of thing.”
Oliver frowned. “His scheme is to throw suspicion on me, Sheriff. That’s what he is after. It is possible that a good many people will hesitate about voting for a man who is suspected of killing his own father.”
“Don’t you worry, Baxter,” cried the sheriff, slapping the young man on the back. “My wife was talking to a prominent county official this morning—a good Democrat and a candidate for reëlection—and she made him promise not to vote for old Horace Gooch next November. She made him swear on his sacred word of honor not to do it. He went even further and swore he would vote for you, and it will be the first time he has ever voted for a Republican. Well, so long. Here’s a reporter for theEvening Tribunewaiting to interview you. He came down with me. He’s a nice feller and he’ll give you a square deal in spite of the fact his paper is opposed to you politically. Of course, he’ll have to play this business up, so don’t get sore if you see your name in the headlines to-night.”
“I sha’n’t,” said Oliver, but more soberly than before. “I suppose there won’t be a day from now on that there isn’t something in the papers about the sensational Baxter case. I tell you, Sheriff, it hurts. I may act as if it doesn’t hurt—but it does.”
“I know it does, Baxter,” said the sheriff sympathetically. “I’m sorry—mighty sorry.”
Fully a week passed before a move was made by the authorities. The newspapers devoted considerable first page space to the new angle in the unsolved Baxter mystery, but not one of them took the matter up editorially. The principal Democratic organ,The Tribune, hinted at a possible disclosure, but went no farther; the Republican sheets withheld their fire until the time seemed ripe to open up on old man Gooch.
Notwithstanding the reticence of the press, the news spread like wildfire that Horace Gooch was actually charging his nephew with the murder of his father. The town of Rumley went wild with anger and indignation. A few hotheads talked of tar and feathers for old man Gooch.
And yet deep down in the soul of every one who cried out against Horace Gooch’s malevolence lurked a strange uneasiness that could not be shaken off. The excitement over the return of Mrs. Sage was short-lived on account of the new and startling turn in the Baxter mystery. Acute interest in the pastor’s wife dwindled into a mild, almost innocuous form of curiosity. At best, she was a three days’ wonder. If she had lived up to expectations by appearing on the streets in startling gowns and hats, or if she had behaved in public as actresses are supposed to behave, she might have held her own against the odds; but she did none of these. She wore what the women of the town called very unstylish clothes; she behaved with sickening propriety; she was a real disappointment. People began to wonder what on earth all those trunks contained that Joe O’Brien had hauled up to the parsonage. If they contained clothes, where was she keeping them and why didn’t she put them on once in a while?
Ladies of the congregation, after a dignified season of hesitation, called on her—that is to say, after forty-eight hours—and were told by the servant that Miss Judge was not at home. She would be at home only on Thursdays from three to six. Some little confusion was caused by the name, but this was satisfactorily straightened out by the servant who explained that Miss Judge and Mrs. Sage were one and the same person, and that she was married all right and proper except, as you might say, in name. Mrs. Serepta Grimes, being an old friend, was one of the first to call. And this is what she said to Oliver October that same evening:
“You ask me, did I see her? I did. I saw her sitting at a window upstairs as I came up the walk. She didn’t try to hide. She just sat there reading a book. I told the hired girl to say who it was and that I’d just as soon come upstairs as not if she didn’t feel like coming down. The girl said she wasn’t home—and wouldn’t be till Thursday. So I says, ‘You go up and tell her it’s me.’ In a minute or two she came back and told me the bare-facedest lie I ever heard. She knew she was lying, because I never saw a human being turn as red in the face as she did. She said Mrs. Sage wasn’t at home. She said Mrs. Sage asked her to say would I please come on Thursday next and have tea with her. She said Thursday was her day. Well, do you know what I did, Oliver? I just said ‘pooh’ and walked right up the stairs and into her room. She got right up and kissed me five or six times and—well, that’s about all, except I stayed so long I was afraid I’d be late for supper. She’s a caution, isn’t she? I declare I don’t know when I’ve had a better time. She didn’t talk of anything else but you, Oliver. She thinks you’re the finest—”
“Did you see Jane?” broke in Oliver.
“Certainly. Don’t you want to hear what Josephine said about you?”
“No, I can’t say that I do. By the way, Aunt Serepta, there is something I’ve been wanting to ask you for quite awhile. Do you think Jane is pretty?”
Mrs. Grimes pondered. “Well,” she said judicially, “it depends on what you mean by pretty. Do you mean, is she beautiful?”
“I suppose that’s what I mean.”
“What do you want to know for?”
“Eh?”
“I mean, what’s the sense of asking me that question? You wouldn’t believe me if I said she wasn’t pretty, would you?”
“Well, I’d just like to know whether you agree with me or not.”
“Yes, sir,” said she, fixing him with an accusing eye; “I do agree with you—absolutely.”
“The strange thing about it,” he pursued defensively, “is that I never thought of her as being especially good-looking until recently. Funny, isn’t it?”
“There are a lot of things we don’t notice,” said she, “until some one else pinches us. Then we open our eyes. I guess some one must have pinched you. It hurts more when a man pinches you—’specially a big strong fellow like Doc Lansing.”
A pained expression came into Oliver’s eyes. “The trouble is, I’ve always looked upon her as a—well, as a sort of sister or something like that. We grew up just like brother and sister. How was I to know that she was pretty? A fellow never thinks of his sister as being pretty, does he?”
“I suppose not. But, on the other hand, he never loses his appetite and mopes and has the blues if his sister happens to take a fancy to a man who isn’t her brother. That’s what you’ve been doing for two or three weeks. If you had the least bit of gumption you’d up and tell her you can’t stand being a brother to her any longer and you’d like to be something else—if it isn’t too late.”
“Gee!” exclaimed he, ruefully. “But suppose she was to say it is too late?”
“That’s a nice way for a soldier to talk,” said Mrs. Grimes scathingly.
He saw very little of Jane during the days that followed Mrs. Sage’s return. Her mother demanded much of her; she was constantly in attendance upon the pampered lady. Oliver chafed. He complained to Jane on one of the rare occasions when they were alone together.
“Why, you’re nothing but a lady’s maid, Jane. You’ve been home five days and I haven’t had a chance to say ten words to you. Now, don’t misunderstand me. I’m fond of Aunt Josephine. She’s great fun, but, hang it all, she’s right smack in the center of the stage all the time. It isn’t fair, Jane. You can’t go on being a slave to her. She—”
“She has always had some one to wait on her, Oliver,” said Jane. “I don’t mind. I am really very fond of her. And she is just beginning to care for me. At first, I think she was a little afraid of me. She couldn’t believe that I was real. The other day—in Chicago—she suddenly reached out and touched my arm and said: ‘It doesn’t seem possible that you ever squalled and made the night hideous for me and your poor father. I can’t believe that you are the same little baby I used to fondle and spank when I wasn’t any older than you are now.’ Besides, Oliver, I like doing things for her. It makes father happy.”
“But it doesn’t make me happy,” he grumbled. Then his face brightened. “Wasn’t she great last night when she got started on Uncle Horace and—and all this hullabaloo he’s stirring up?”
The fourth day after his wife’s return to Rumley, Mr. Sage blurted out the question that had lain captive in his mind for weeks.
“If it is a fair question, my dear, would you mind telling me just why you came back to me?”
She leaned back in her chair and studied the ceiling for a few minutes before answering.
“I may as well be honest about it, Herby,” she said, changing her position to meet his perplexed gaze with one that was absolutely free from guile. “I came back because they were through with me over there. I was getting passé—in fact, I was quite passé. They were beginning to cast me for old women and character parts. Two or three years ago they started my funeral services by seeing what I could do with Shakespeare. I played Rosalind and Viola with considerable success. The next season they had me do Lady Macbeth, and last season there was talk of reviving Camille with me in the title rôle. I was through. My musical comedy days were over. The stage was crowded with young women who could dance without wheezing like a horse with the heaves and whose voices didn’t crack in the middle register. People didn’t want to see me in musical comedy any longer and theywouldn’tsee me in anything else. I’m fifty-three, Herbert—between you and me, mind you—and just the right age to be a preacher’s wife. So I made up my mind to retire. I used to have a hundred pounds a week. Good pay over there. I was offered twenty pounds a week for this season to tour the provinces in a revival of Peter Pan—and that was the last straw. Peter Pan! When an actress gets so old that she can’t stand on one leg without expecting people to applaud her for a feat of daring, they send her out into the woods to revive poor Peter, the boy who isn’t allowed to grow old. You notice, Herby, I didn’t cable to ask if I could come home—I cabled that I was on the way. Now, you know the secret of my home-coming. The time has come when I must submit to being buried alive, and I’d sooner be buried alive in Rumley than in London. It’s greener here. Besides you are a human Rock of Ages, Herby. I’m going to cling to you like a barnacle. I haven’t forgotten what lovers and sweethearts we were in the old days. I’ve been faithful to you, old dear. If I hadn’t been faithful to you I would never have come back. By the way, I’ve put by a little money—quite a sum, in fact—so you mustn’t regard me as a charity patient. We’ll pool our resources. And when the time comes for you to step down and out of the pulpit for the same reason that I chucked the stage—you see, Herby, audiences and congregations are a good deal alike—why, we’ll have enough to live on for the rest of our days. You won’t have to write sermons and preach ’em, and I sha’n’t have to listen to them. It’s an awful thing to say, but we’ll both have to mend our ways if we want our grandchildren to love us.”
He laid his arm over her shoulder and gently caressed her cheek.
“You are still pretty much of a pagan, Jo,” was all that he said, but he was smiling.
“But you are jolly well pleased to have me back, aren’t you?”
“More overjoyed than I can tell you.”
“No doubts, no misgivings, no uneasiness over what I may do or say to shock the worshipers?”
“I have confidence in your ability as an actress, Josephine,” he said. “I am sure you can play the part of a lady as well as anything else.”
She flushed. “Score one,” she said. Then she sprang to her feet, the old light of mischief in her wonderful eyes. “But, my God, Herby, what’s going to happen when I spring all my spangles on the innocent public?”
“I shudder when I think of it,” said he, lifting his eyes heavenward.
“I saved every respectable costume I’ve worn in the last ten years—and some that are shocking. Twelve trunks full of them. I’ll knock their eyes out when I come on as the Princess Jalinka—last act glorification—and as for the gold and turquoise gown that caused old London to blink its weary eyes and catch its jaded breath—my word, Herby, old thing, they’ll have me up for wholesale murder. They’ll die all over the place.”
“I really ought to caution you, Josephine—”
“Never mind, old dear. I sha’n’t disgrace you. I’ve got a few costumes I will put on in private for you—and I wouldn’t feel safe in putting ’em on privately for any one except a preacher in whom I had the most unusual confidence. Bless your heart, Herby, don’t look so horrified. I’ve still got my marriage certificate—though God only knows where it is.”
He cleared his throat. “I’ve got it, my dear. You neglected to take it away with you when you left.”
She smiled. “Well, I daresay it was safer with you than it would have been with me.”
CHAPTER XX
It was the fourth week in September when the detectives arrived in Rumley; Oliver’s dredgers had completed their contract; the swamp was clear of men, machines and horses.
The city editor of theDespatchinterviewed Detective Malone, the chief operative in charge of what the newspaper man and others, including Oliver October, were jocosely inclined to classify as the “expedition.”
“Where do you intend to begin excavating, Mr. Malone?” inquired the editor, notebook in hand. They were in the lobby of the Hubbard House. “And when?” he added.
Mr. Malone was very frank about it. “In China,” said he. “We’re going to work from the bottom up. If you’ll go out to the swamp to-morrow or next day and put your ear to the ground—and hold it there long enough—you’ll hear men’s voices but you won’t understand a word they say. They’ll be speakin’ Chinese. We’ve got thirty-five thousand coolies digging their way up from Shanghai, and according to schedule they ought to be here by to-morrow morning unless they’ve had a cave-in or stopped off in hell for breakfast.”
The editor eyed him in a cold, inimical manner. “Umph!” he grunted, flopping his notebook shut. “It’s a good thing you’ve got your Chinese army, because you won’t be able to get anybody to work for you in this town. That’s how we feel about this business, Mr. Malone—rich and poor, high and low. There isn’t a dago here who will lift a spade to help you.”
“I guess that’s up to the authorities,” said the detective coolly. “I’m here to boss the job, that’s all.”
“You won’t find anything.”
Mr. Malone grinned. “Exactly what those two old codgers out there on the sidewalk said to me not ten minutes ago.”
That afternoon the sheriff and the prosecuting attorney stopped electioneering long enough to pay a hasty visit to Rumley. They found Oliver waiting for them at his home.
“Of course, Mr. Baxter,” said the prosecutor, “you have a right to refuse to answer every question I put to you. So far as I am concerned, I merely intend to examine you as I would examine any disinterested witness. As I say, you may decline to answer.”
“I will answer any question you may choose to put to me, Mr. Johnson.”
The sheriff interposed. “Better have your lawyer here, Baxter. I am obliged to warn you that anything you say may be used against you in case—er—in case—”
“I understand. In case I am charged with crime.”
“Exactly,” said the sheriff.
“You can refuse to answer on the ground that it may tend to incriminate you,” explained the prosecutor.
“I have consulted a lawyer,” said Oliver. “He advises me to help you in every way possible, Mr. Johnson. He wanted to be here this afternoon, but I told him I knew of no surer way to incriminate myself than to hire a lawyer to see that I didn’t. Go ahead; ask all the questions you like. No one wants to see this mystery cleared up more than I do.”
Half an hour later, the sheriff looked at his watch and reminded his companion that they would be late for the meeting at Monrovia if they didn’t start at once—and off they sped in haste. Detective Malone and his partner, who had joined the county officials at the Baxter house, remained behind. They were smoking Oliver’s cigars.
“How long do you figure it will take you, Mr. Malone, to finish up the job?” inquired the young man.
Malone squinted at the tree-tops. “Our instructions are to work slowly and surely. We are not to leave a stone unturned. It may take six or eight weeks.”
“In other words, you are not expected to be through before election day.”
“Unless we find what we are after before that time, Mr. Baxter,” said the other. He had been out at the back of the house, surveying with his eye the stretch of swamp land. “It is a big job, as you can see for yourself. Like looking for a needle in a haystack, eh, Charlie?”
His partner nodded his head in silent assent.
“We’ll go out and take a walk around the swamp to-morrow,” said Malone. “If you’ve got the time to spare, Mr. Baxter, you might stroll out with us now to the place where you last saw your father. That will have to be our starting point. Then I’ll want to question your servants. It seems that he is supposed to have come home to change his clothes after he said good-by to you.”
“He did not say good-by to me,” corrected Oliver. “He didn’t even say good night. Please get that straight, Mr. Malone. He was angry with me—and I do not deny that I was angry myself. We parted in anger.”
“Do you know a man named Peter Hines, Mr. Baxter?” asked Malone abruptly.
“Pete Hines? Certainly. He is a tenant of my father’s. Lives in a shack up at the other end of the swamp. He has done odd jobs for us ever since I can remember. Wood-chopping, rail-splitting and all that. He also does most of the drinking for the estate,” he concluded dryly.
“A souse, eh?”
“I’ve never known him to be completely sober—and I’ve never heard of him being completely drunk. He’s that kind.”
“Do you remember seeing him the night your father disappeared?”
“No. I did not see him.”
“By the way, have you ever seen me before to-day?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Well,” said Malone, with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ve been hanging around this burg since last Monday—five days, in all. I’ve done quite a bit of sleuthing, as they say in the dime novels. I’m the fellow that sold your housekeeper, Mrs. Grimes, the beautifully illustrated set of Jane Austen’s works day before yesterday. I also sold an unexpurgated set of the Arabian Nights to Mr. Samuel Parr, the insurance agent. He tells me your father carried a fifteen thousand dollar life policy. I tried to sell a set of Dickens to the Reverend Mr. Sage, and succeeded in having a long talk with his daughter about the book entitled ‘The Mystery of Edwin Drood.’ That led up, quite naturally, to the mystery of Oliver Baxter. I’ve had dealings with Mr. Sikes and Mr. Link, Banker Lansing, John Phillips and a number of other citizens, male and female.” He laughed quietly. “Of course, the books will never be delivered, Mr. Baxter—but as it is understood that no payments are to be made until the first two volumes are delivered, I can’t be charged with swindling. I can face my victims with perfect equanimity—but I don’t believe they’ll recognize me. I was in your store last Tuesday, but you were off on political business. Shall we stroll down to the swamp, Mr. Baxter, or would you rather wait a day or two? Suit your own convenience. We’re in no hurry, you see.”
“That is obvious,” said Oliver curtly. “I must notify you, Mr. Malone, that if you or any of your workmen slip into one of those pits of mire out there and never come up again, I am not to be held accountable. If you venture out beyond the safety zone you do so at your own risk.”
“Right-o!” said Malone cheerily. They were well around the corner of the house on their way to the swamp road before he spoke again. “How many people have lost their lives out there?” he inquired.
“None, so far as I know.”
“But there must have been any number of men who have ventured out there.”
“What makes you think so? I don’t know of a single soul who has had the courage—or the folly—to go anywhere near those sink-holes.”
“Then, how do you know that those so-called bottomless holes exist?”
“I suppose it’s tradition,” said Oliver. “I have heard of animals—such as horses and cattle—sinking out of sight. My father has often told me of such things.”
“Maybe he was just scaring you, so’s you’d keep out of the swamp.”
“Well, he scared me all right.”
“You are a trained civil engineer, I understand.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve never gone out there to satisfy yourself whether those pits are real or just something people like to talk about?”
“I’ve never been out beyond that row of posts you see over there,” said Oliver, pointing. “I had a wire fence stretched along those posts last spring, Mr. Malone. You are at liberty to go as far out as you please, however.”
“I shall,” said Malone crisply. “I am an old hand at this business. I don’t believe such a thing exists as a bottomless pit. Before I get through with this job, you will find, Mr. Baxter, that there isn’t a spot in that slough out there that is more than six or eight feet deep. Of course, that is deep enough to bury a man, or a horse or a cow. So, you needn’t expect me to step into every mud puddle I come across out there, just to see if it’s over my shoe tops. Now, just where was it that you and your father parted company that night? As I understand it, you and he sat for some time on that log over there. It was a clear night and the road was very dusty. There had been no rain in over three weeks. Am I right?”
Oliver stared at him in amazement. The other detective had turned down the slope and was striding off toward the nearest ditch.
“You seem to be pretty well posted,” said he, his eyes narrowing.
“Well, I am an inquisitive sort of cuss,” drawled Malone. “And I’m not what you’d call an idle person.”
“Who told you we were sitting on that log? I don’t remember ever having mentioned it. As a matter of fact, I’d forgotten it completely. We did sit there for ten or fifteen minutes. That was before we began to quarrel. Then we got up and walked on a little farther down the road. To the bend on ahead about fifty yards. We stood there arguing for nearly half an hour. I left him standing there. I went on to Mr. Sage’s. But who told you we sat on that log?”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll not answer that question,” said Malone.
“You asked me a while ago if I had seen Pete Hines that night. Was it Pete Hines?”
Malone hesitated. “Well, it was Pete Hines who is supposed to have seen you, Mr. Baxter, but it was not he who told me about it. I went out to see him yesterday, but his shack was boarded up and there was no sign of him anywhere. Now this may interest you. There was—and still is, as far as I know—a piece of pasteboard tacked on his front door, with these words printed on it in lead pencil: ‘Beware. This house is full of snakes.’ That bears out your statement that he is never completely sober, Mr. Baxter. Now, you say this is the place where you parted that night—here at the turn. You left him standing here, you say. In the middle of the road?”
“Yes.”
“And you walked off in this direction. Did you look back?”
“I did not.”
“Just kept right on—in the middle of the road, eh?”
“That’s right.”
Malone changed the subject abruptly. “That’s a great fish story they tell about the gypsy prophesying you’d be hung before you were thirty. Of all the bunk I ever heard, that’s the worst. Mr. Gooch says he was present when she told your fortune that night.”
“If you will excuse me, Mr. Malone, I must be getting back to the house. It’s nearly seven o’clock and I am expecting people to dine with me,” said Oliver a little coldly.
“I’m sorry I’ve detained you,” said the detective apologetically. “I wish you had mentioned it, Mr. Baxter. This could have waited till another day. I’ll stroll back with you, if you don’t mind.”
“Where is your partner?” inquired Oliver, looking out over the swamp.
“Charlie? Oh, he’ll be along directly. There he is, over near the wire fence. He is seeing about how long it would take a man to walk out to the edge of the mire and back,” said Malone coolly.
Oliver looked at him sharply. “So that’s the idea, eh?” he remarked, after a moment.
“We intend to conduct this investigation in an open and above-board manner, Mr. Baxter. Cards on the table, sir, all the way through. We’re looking for a dead man, not a live one, if you see what I mean.”
“And I shall be open and above-board with you, Mr. Malone,” said Oliver, a trace of irony in his voice. “I hope, therefore, that you won’t take it amiss if I suggest that the sensible thing for your man to do would be to make his calculations at night, when progress would naturally be a great deal slower and infinitely more hazardous. Besides, you ought to take into account the fact that this part of the swamp was not drained at the time my father disappeared. There were a lot of chuck-holes and mud flats between here and that wire fence.”
“I’ve taken that into account—mud and everything,” announced the detective, looking straight ahead. “I was about to say that it’s going to take a good deal of tight squeezing, Mr. Baxter, to get you indicted, tried and executed inside of the next thirty days. The time is pretty short, eh?” He laughed jovially.
Oliver turned on him. “I’ll knock your damned head off, Malone, if you make any more cracks like that. Remember that, will you?” he cried hotly.
Malone was genuinely surprised. He went very red in the face.
“Yes,” he said thickly, “I’ll be sure to remember it.”
Oliver apologized to Malone as they were on the point of separating in front of the house. They had traversed the hundred yards or more in silence.
“I am sorry I spoke to you as I did, Mr. Malone. I hope you will overlook it.”
Malone held out his hand. “I’ve been spoken to a good bit rougher than that in my time, Mr. Baxter, and never turned a hair,” he said good-naturedly. “I don’t blame you for calling me down. I guess I was fresh. But I assure you I didn’t mean to be.”
“It’s my infernal temper,” explained Oliver, taking the man’s hand. “You would think that after twenty years’ training of the most drastic character I might be able to control it, wouldn’t you? But every once in a while it slips.”
“Well, there’s no hard feelings on my part. Still I hope you don’t mind my saying that a lot of men have tried to knock my block off without success.”
“All the more reason why I should apologize,” said Oliver, with his old, disarming smile.
“Forget it,” said Mr. Malone magnanimously.
A little later on Oliver sat on his front porch waiting for his guests to arrive. Mrs. Grimes, in her snug-fitting black silk dress, rocked impatiently in a chair nearby. The guests were late.
“It’s Josephine Sage,” she observed crossly, breaking a long silence. Oliver was startled out of his reflections. “She’s the one that’s making ’em late. Mr. Sage was telling me the other day that actresses are always late to a party. He’s just got onto it, he says. He says it’s what they call an entrance, though what that means I don’t know.”
He looked at his watch. “It’s only half-past seven, Aunt Serepta. They’re only fifteen minutes late. I’ve been losing my temper again,” he said gloomily. “Probably made an enemy of that detective, Malone.”
“What difference does that make? He’s not a voter in this county,” said the old lady composedly.
“Did you know that Pete Hines has gone away?”
“I didn’t even know he’d come back,” said she.
“Come back? What do you mean?”
“He was away all last week. They say he’s making corn whisky somewhere up in the hills back of Crow Center. At any rate, he’s been peddling it around town for a couple of months.”
“I thought it was gasolene he’s been selling.”
“Maybe that’s why Abel Conroy calls it fire-water. Here they come. Goodness! The way that Parr boy drives! He ought to be locked up for—”
But Oliver was at the bottom of the steps waiting for the automobile. It swung around the curve in the drive and came to an unbelievably gentle stop—almost what might be called a tender stop—in precisely the right spot. Oliver reached out his hand and opened the front door of the car without changing his position so much as an inch.
“Perfect!” said Mrs. Sage, who sat beside the driver.
“The best trained automobile in America,” said Sammy, with his customary modesty. “Kindness is what does it.”
“So sorry to be late,” said she, as Oliver ceremoniously handed her out of the car. “Good evening, Mrs. Grimes. Is the soup cold?”
“It was all Sammy’s fault,” cried Sammy’s wife. “He poked along at only forty miles an hour.”
“Bless my soul,” said Mr. Sage, drawing his first full, free breath; “we were exactly three minutes coming from my house to—”
“Had to slow down a bit on Clay Street,” explained Sammy. “Evening, Mrs. Grimes. Step lively, Muriel! You’re holding up the procession.” He gave two short, imperative honks. “That means full speed ahead.”
“What is this I hear, Oliver?” said the minister as he stepped out of the car. Jane and Mrs. Sammy had preceded him. “Is it true the detectives are here and expect to start this ridiculous search to-morrow?”
“They’re here all right,” replied Oliver. “One of them tried to sell you a set of Dickens the other day.”
“What!” cried Jane, gripping Oliver’s arm. “Was that man a detective?” She was startled.
“No less a person than Mr. Sherlock Hawkshaw Malone, the renowned sleuth,” said Oliver, smiling.
“The—the beast!” she cried hotly. “Good heavens! That accounts for the interest he took in your father’s disappearance. Oh, dear me, I—I wonder what I said to him! He was so pleasant and so interested.”
“You’re not the only one he fooled, Jane. He got Sammy for a set of books and Aunt Serepta and Mr. Lansing—and I daresay he talked about the case with every one of them. I haven’t had the nerve to spring it on Aunt Serepta. She’s so happy over the prospect of getting Jane Austen with illustrations, that she’ll die when she hears she’s been tricked.”
“At any rate,” said Mr. Sage, complacently, “he did not succeed in selling us a set of Dickens.”
Jane started to say something, but, instead, abruptly turned away and joined the other women on the porch. A queer little chill as of misgiving stole over her.
“Hey, Oliver!” called out Sammy from down the drive where he was parking the car. “Come here a minute, will you? Say,” he went on, lowering his voice as Oliver came up, “I’ve just picked up something rich. Fellow came in day before yesterday and showed me a volume of the Arabian Nights, absolutely unexpurgated, with some of the gosh-darnedest illustrations you ever—”
“I know. And you fell for it, didn’t you?”
“Sh! Not so loud. My wife doesn’t know a thing about it. I’ll have to keep ’em at the office. In the safe. But say, who told you about it?”
“It’s all over town,” said Oliver mendaciously.
“Gee whiz!” gulped Sammy. “Impossible! It’s a dead secret. He said he could be arrested for selling ’em—”
“Aha!” broke in Oliver. “That explains everything. The man who told me is a detective.”
“Oh, for the Lord’s sake!” whispered Sammy in great agitation. Then in a tone of relief: “Oh, but I’m all right. All I’ve got to do is to cancel the order. I wasn’t to pay anything until—What’s the joke?”
Then Oliver told him. Sammy leaned against the mudguard and swore softly.
“Say, I wish I could remember what I said to that guy about—about your father. Lord, he had me talking a blue streak. Darn my fool eyes! You’d think I’d have sense enough to—Oh, well, go ahead and kick me, Ollie. Right here. Just as hard as you like.”
“Come on. They’re waiting for us. You needn’t worry about the books, old boy. You’ll never get them. I say, have you ever seen anything as gorgeous as Mrs. Sage is to-night?”
“Knocked me cold when she came down the parsonage steps,” said Sammy. “The Queen of Sheba never had anything on her, Ollie. I was standing at the bottom of the steps with Jane. Mr. Sage was out on the sidewalk chinning with Muriel. Jane and I joshed along for ten or twelve minutes, waiting for Mrs. Sage—I mean, Miss Judge. Suddenly the servant popped out and held the screen door open. She was carrying that blue opera wrap you saw on Mrs. Sage just now. Half a minute later, out strolled Mrs. Sage, walking as slowly as if she were following a coffin filled with royalty. I lost consciousness—honest to God I did. Wait till you see her! She’s dressed in pure silver from head to foot. When I came to she was standing right under the porch light, holding out her arms for the girl to slip on the opera coat, and she was bowing to Jane and me all over the place besides. ‘Good evening, Samuel,’ she said in a voice such as I’ve never heard before—it was so deep and musical. And say, boy! She’s got a figure! I don’t know how old she is, but all the same she’s got Venus backed off the boards. I’ll bet my last dollar if you was to put a dress on Venus she’d look like a cripple alongside of Mrs. S. Wait a second. There’s no rush, and I want to prepare you. Well, sir, she starts down the steps—me standing there with my mouth open and batting my eyes. She reaches down and lifts her skirt up to her knees and wraps it around them, and, by gosh, Ollie, she’s got on silver slippers and light blue stockings with diamond garters—”
“Sammy!” piped a shrill, commanding voice from the doorway above. “Hustle along! Don’t be all night. You can talk politics with Oliver after dinner.”
“Politics!” muttered Sammy, rolling his eyes. “And to see her in her street clothes you’d swear she hadn’t as much shape or style as—all right, Muriel! Coming!”
CHAPTER XXI
The young men entered the sitting-room. Mrs. Sage was standing almost directly under the chandelier, talking to dumpy little Mrs. Grimes; the light from above fell upon her auburn crown, flooded her magnificent shoulders and arms, and then wavered timidly, almost helplessly, as it first came in contact with resplendent opposition. The actress was a head taller than Mrs. Grimes, who nevertheless bravely stood her ground and faced comparison with all the hardihood of the righteous. Oliver’s housekeeper succeeded in disguising the astonishment occasioned by the gown of silver spangles, but she could not master the wonder and the admiration that filled her eyes as she gazed upon the smooth, alabaster arms and neck and bosom of the magnificent Josephine. Nor could she understand the soft, warm cheeks, or the dusky shadows under the sparkling eyes, or the moist black lashes that sometimes veiled them.
Mr. Sage, with a distinctly bewildered and somewhat embarrassed expression keeping company with the proud and doting smile that seemed to be stamped upon his lean visage, stood across the room with his daughter and Mrs. Sammy, his hands behind his back, his feet spread slightly apart the better to allow him the unctuous relaxation of frequently rising on his toes and then slowly settling back upon his heels again—another and simple means of indicating partnership in pulchritude.
“I can remember when there wasn’t a dinner jacket or a dress suit in Rumley,” said Josephine as the two tall young men approached. “And the only men who parted their hair in the middle were the ones who didn’t have any hair in the middle at all, at all. Most of the male member’s of Herbert’s congregation left the price tags on their Sunday suits for a whole winter so that people could tell when they were dressed up. Do you mean to tell me, Oliver, that those blighters intend to begin digging up your place to-morrow?”
The mere thought of it caused her to waft her handkerchief in front of her nose, stirring the air with the rare, pungent odor ofnuit de chine.
Oliver laughed. “I think we’ll all rather enjoy the excitement, Aunt Josephine,” he said. “Besides, now that I am in politics, I want to keep as much in the limelight as possible. I suppose they’ll begin prying up the kitchen floor to-morrow, or digging trenches in the cellar, or tearing up the flower-beds. It will be worth coming miles to see.”
She looked at him narrowly. “What utter rot! Do they expect to find your father buried in the cellar or under the kitchen floor?”
“They don’t expect to find him at all,” replied Oliver, with unintentional shortness.
“There will be trouble,” said Mrs. Grimes, the light of battle in her eye, “if they make a mess around this house.”
“Aunt Serepta will fix ’em,” said Oliver, putting his arm around the little woman’s shoulders. “Won’t you, Auntie?”
“She’ll boil ’em in oil,” said Sammy, very gravely.
Oliver glanced over his shoulder at Jane. Their eyes met and their gaze held for some seconds. He detected the clouded, troubled look in hers and was suddenly conscious of what must have seemed to her a serious intensity in his own. Without a word, he left Mrs. Sage and went to Jane.
“Don’t worry,” he said to her in a low tone. “You couldn’t have said anything to Malone that—”
“It isn’t that,” she interrupted nervously. “It is the feeling that we are all being spied upon.” She hesitated a moment. “I remember one thing. He asked me what kind of a night it was.”
“Well, there wasn’t any harm in telling him, was there?” he chided. “That is, if you remembered.”
“I do remember. He said that some one had told him it was a rainy, stormy night. I assured him he had been misinformed—that it hadn’t rained for weeks. He—he seemed surprised.”
“Well, what of that?”
Her wide-set gray eyes wavered. They steadied instantly, however, and she smiled—a confident, disarming smile.
“I suppose it’s the finding out that he was a detective and that he was pumping me,” she explained.
“Anyhow, you are smiling again,” he half whispered, “and that makes me want to sing and dance for joy.” He was once more aware that his voice was throaty and unsteady.
A faint wave of color spread to her cheek and brow, but she did not look away. When she spoke again it was at the conclusion of a long, deep exhalation; the sentence ended in a fluttering, breathless murmur.
“Don’t you think mother is perfectly wonderful, Oliver?”
He nodded. He felt that he could not trust his voice. He knew now that he was in love—that he always had been in love with Jane, that he always would be in love with her. He compressed his lips and fought against the strange, mad impulse to shout that he was in love with her, that she was his—all his—and that no man should take her away from him.
And she? She was thinking of that dry, hot night when he came to see her after leaving his father, out of breath, his shoes covered with fresh black mud. There had been no rain for weeks. The roads were thick with dust. And Lansing too had noticed that his shoes were muddy. He had spoken to her about them, he had wondered where Oliver had been to get into mud up to his shoe tops! And she, herself, had never ceased to wonder.
Mr. Sage was speaking to Mrs. Sammy. “Yes, my dear Muriel, I can’t quite believe I am awake. It all seems like a dream.”
His wife not only overheard this remark but obviously the one that led up to it.
“Oh, I say, old dear,” she exclaimed, “you must get over the notion that you are asleep. It’s not complimentary to me to have you going about everywhere pinching yourself to see whether you’re awake or not. And the worst of it is, he pinches me every now and then to see whether I am flesh and blood or merely a hallucination.”
Sammy cleared his throat gallantly. “Permit me to say, Miss Judge, that youarea dream, and if I was Mr. Sage I’dneverwake up.”
She lifted her lorgnon and regarded him with languid interest. “After that, my dear Sammy, I am sure your wife will like me much better if you call me Aunt Josephine. Even though I am old enough to be your mother, I—Why, when I look at Jane I doubt my own eyes. That I, Josephine Judge, should have a daughter as big as Jane is more than I can grasp. I am filled with wonder. I—”
“It’s more of a wonder, Josephine Sage,” broke in Mrs. Grimes tartly, “that you haven’t got any grandchildren.”
“My dear Mrs. Grimes, don’t blame me for that,” said Josephine.
“Supper’s ready,” shouted Lizzie Meggs, the “help” from the center of the dining-room. Lizzie had a strong voice and she believed in using it. It saved her many a needless step. She was nearly thirty and thought she was good enough for Oliver, or any other young man in Rumley. Her parents brought her up in just that way—with the aid of the movies.
At table the conversation quite naturally dealt with the advent of the detectives and the task that had been set for them by the universally despised Mr. Gooch.
“It’s all bally nonsense,” said Mrs. Sage, at Oliver’s right. “Your father will turn up one day and—Why, look at me. Didn’t I turn up? Didn’t I come back? Here am I as big as life, after twenty-three years, and dear old Herbert goes about the house all day long saying that nothing—absolutely nothing is impossible.”
“Well, you see, Aunt Josephine,” began Oliver, in his good-humored drawl, “Uncle Herbert did an awful lot of praying.”
“Morning and night I prayed,” said Mr. Sage earnestly. “I prayed, and then I prayed that my prayers might be answered. God saw fit to—”
“My dear Herbert, when a woman reaches my age she begins to appreciate the advantages of a husband. If she hasn’t got one, she begins desperately to look for one. I could have had a dozen or more if I’d been of a mind, but those were in the days when husbands were looking for me. I mean other women’s husbands. When it so happens, as in my case, that a perfectly good and reliable husband has been mislaid in the haste and confusion of youth, why, Fortune smiles, that’s all. It wasn’t your praying. I should have come back if you hadn’t prayed a lick.”
“Do not say that, Josephine. I have already begun to pray that you will never go away again.”
“Don’t let me catch you at it, old dear,” she warned. “I dare say I shall get jolly well fed up with Rumley, especially after Jane is married. Besides, I am living in the hope that you may get a call to Chicago or New York.”
“I shall never leave Rumley, Josephine.”
“That’s what I said about London.”
“What was that you said about Jane?” demanded Oliver.
“Jane? Oh, yes; about her getting married? She absolutely refuses to tell me who she is going to marry. I fancy I can make a fairly good guess, however.”
“So can I,” cried Mrs. Sammy. “Oh, you Jane!”
Oliver swallowed hard. “How about it, Jane? Come on! ’Fess up. You’re among friends.”
Jane smiled mischievously. “I promise, Oliver, to tell you first of all. I sha’n’t keep you in suspense any longer than I can help.”
“Before you tell your own mother,” cried Josephine.
“Much as I love you, Mother dear, I feel that I must tell Oliver first. He is my oldest and best friend.”
“I have just been thinking, Josephine,” began Mr. Sage, guiltily and irrelevantly, “that I quite forgot to take Henry the Eighth out for his walk this evening. And even worse, I fear I left him hanging by his lead from the top peg of the hatrack.”
“I really shouldn’t mind, my dear, if he were to expire before we get home,” said she. “He is a traitor. Would you believe it, Oliver, the little beast has taken such a fancy to your Uncle Herbert that he has completely turned against me. Snaps at me, growls at me, barks at me every time I try to pat him. Hanging is too good for him.”
“Speaking of hanging,” said Sammy, “old Joe Sikes says he’s got a perfect alibi for you, Ollie, in connection with that murder up in Grand Rapids. I mean the chap who was found in a hotel room last night with his throat cut. Joe says he can prove by thirty reputable witnesses that you were not within four hundred miles of Grand Rapids last night.”
Oliver grinned. “That’s all he and Silas Link think about these days—fixing up alibis for me. They grab up the morning paper to see where the latest murder has occurred and then they hustle out and establish an alibi for me.”
“How perfectly delicious,” cried little Mrs. Sammy. “Don’t you think it is really perfectly delicious, Mr. Sage?”
“I beg your pardon?” stammered the pastor apologetically. “I am afraid I was thinking about Henry the Eighth.”
“Oh, you aresoliterary, Mr. Sage,” shrieked Mrs. Sammy admiringly.
Oliver was strangely restless during dinner, and immediately after the company arose from the table at its conclusion he asked Jane to come with him for a little stroll in the open air.
“I want to speak to you about something,” he urged. “Better throw something over your shoulders. The night air—”
“Ought you to go off and leave the others, Oliver?” she began, a queer little catch, as of alarm, in her voice. “Muriel and Sammy—”
“Come along,” he pleaded. “They won’t mind. I must see you alone for a few minutes, Jane.”
“I will get my wrap,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “It may be chilly outside.”
“Why, you’re shivering now, Janie,” he whispered anxiously, as he threw her wrap over her shoulders. “Are you cold?”
She did not reply. He followed her out upon the porch and down the steps. No word passed between them until they had turned the bend in the drive and were outside the radius of light shed from the windows. He was the first to speak.
“See here, Jane,” he blurted out, “I’m—I’m terribly troubled and upset.” That was as far as he got, speech seeming to fail him.
She laid her hand on his arm.
“Is it about—about the detective, Oliver?” she asked tremulously.
“No,” he answered, almost roughly. “It’s about you, Jane. You’ve just got to answer me. Are you going to be married?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice so low he could scarcely hear the monosyllable.
They walked on in silence for twenty paces or more, turning down the path that led to the swamp road.
“I—I was afraid so,” he muttered. Then fiercely: “Who are you going to marry?”
She sighed. “I am going to marry the first man who asks me,” she replied, and, having cast the die, was instantly mistress of herself. “Have you any objections?” she asked, almost mockingly.
If he heard the question he paid no heed to it. She felt the muscles of his strong forearm grow taut, and she heard the quick intake of his breath. She waited. She began to hum a vagrant little air. It seemed an age to her before he spoke.
“Jane,” he said gently and steadily, “if you were a man and in my place—I mean in my predicament—would you go so far as to ask the girl you love better than anything in all the world to marry you?”
“I don’t know just what you mean.”
“I mean, supposing they find my father out there in the swamp and there are indications that he met with foul play, and I stand the chance of being accused—”
“Don’t be silly,” she cried.
“Well—would you ask her?”
“There couldn’t be any harm in asking her. She could refuse you, you know.”
“That’s so. She could, couldn’t she. I—I hadn’t thought of that. Still you said you were going to marry the first man who asks you.”
“Yes, Oliver, I am—but, of course, I am expecting the man I love to ask me.”
“There’s the gypsy’s prophecy,” he murmured thickly. “It—it may come true, Jane.”
“It—it cannot come true,” she cried. “It cannot, Oliver.”
“Still it is something to be considered,” he said heavily and judicially. His hand closed over hers and gripped it tightly. “If you were in my place wouldn’t you hesitate about inviting her to—to become a widow?”
“Oh, I love you, Oliver, when your voice sounds as if it had a laugh in it,” she whispered.
“In a month I will be thirty,” he went on, his heart as light as air. “I might ask her to give me a thirty day option, or something like that.”
“You goose!”
He pressed her arm to his side, and was serious when he spoke again, after a moment’s pause.
“I have never asked a girl to marry me, Jane. Never in all my life. Do you know why?”
She buried her face against his shoulder. A vast, overwhelming thrill raced through him. Her warm, supple body suddenly and mysteriously became that of another woman—a strange woman so unlike Jane that his senses swam with wonder. What magic was this? This was not Jane—not the Jane he had known forever! Something incredibly feminine, sensuous, intoxicating—His arms went about her and drew her close.
“God! Is—is this you, Jane?” he whispered. “Is it really you?”
She lifted her head. A little sob of joy broke on her lips. Gazing up into his eyes, bright even in the darkness, she murmured a bewildered question.
“Yes—you are some other girl,” he replied, dazed by ecstasy. “You can’t be Jane Sage. You don’t feel like Jane Sage. You don’t—”
She laughed softly. “Do you think you ought to be holding a strange girl in your arms—and do you think I could possibly allow you to do it if I were not Jane Sage?” A pause, then, faintly: “Oh, Oliver—dear Oliver!”
“You—you are sure there isn’t any one else, Janie? I—I am not too late? Tell me.”
“There never has been any one else, Oliver. It has always been you.”
“I never realized it, Jane—I never even thought of it till just a little while ago—but now I know that I have always loved you. That’s why I’ve never asked any one else to—to marry me. I understand now why I couldn’t possibly have asked any one else. All these years it has been you—and I never knew. It was settled long ago—ages ago, without my knowing it, that there was but one girl I could ever ask to be my wife—only one girl that I could ever really love.” He drew in a deep, long, quivering breath.
Her arm stole up about his neck, she raised her chin.
“I began calling myself your wife, Oliver, when I was a very little girl—when we first began playing house together, and you were my husband and the dolls were our children. That was twenty years ago. I have been true to you ever since—all these years I have been a true and faithful wife.” Their lips met—their first kiss of passion, of love exalted. Then, a little later on, breathlessly: “Do you realize that this is the first time you have kissed your wife since she was ten years old?”
He kissed her again, rapturously. “It—it wasn’t like this when you were ten, Janie darling—nothing like this! Oh, my God!” he burst out. “You’ll never know how miserable I have been these last few weeks—how horribly jealous I’ve been.”
She stroked his cheek—possessively. “I haven’t been very happy myself,” she sighed. “I—I wasn’t quite sure you would ever give me the chance to say I loved you, Oliver—I wasn’t sure you would ever ask me to be your wife.”
“That reminds me,” he cried boyishly. “Will you marry me, Miss Sage?”
“Of course I will. Didn’t I say I would marry the first—What was that?”
As she uttered the exclamation under her breath, she drew away from him quickly, looking over her shoulder at the thick, shadowy underbrush that lined the road below them.
“I didn’t hear anything,” said he, turning with her. “It must have been my heart trying to burst out of its—”
“I heard some one—or some thing,” she said, in a voice of dismay. “Oh, Oliver, some one saw you kiss me, some one heard what we—”
“Suppose he did,” cried he jubilantly. “Why should we care? I’d like the whole world to know how happy—how absolutely happy—I am, Jane. I’ve half a notion to start out right now and run through the streets shouting that I’m in love with you and am going to marry you. When will you marry me, Jane?When?”
The woman in her replied. “I must have time to get some clothes and—”
“You don’t need any,” he broke in. “I mean any more than you have now. I’m not marrying your clothes, dear—I’m marryingyou. Sh! Listen! Thereissome one over there in the brush. Damn his sneaking eyes! I’ll—”
“Don’t! Don’t go down there!” she cried, clutching his arm. “You must not leave me alone. I’m—I’m afraid, Ollie. I am always afraid when I am near that awful swamp. No matter if some one did see us. Let him go. Besides, it may have been a dog or some other animal—”
“Let’s walk down the road a little way, Jane,” said he stubbornly. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll stick close beside you.”
“You won’t go down into the swamp?” she cried anxiously.
“No. Just along the road.”
They ran down the little embankment into the road. She clung tightly to his arm, feeling strangely secure in the rigid strength of it—and proud of it, as well. The night was dark, the road among the trees darker still. After fifteen or twenty paces, Oliver pressed her arm warningly and stopped to listen. Ahead of them, some distance away, they heard footfalls—the slow, regular tread of a man walking in the road.
“I will not go a step farther,” she whispered, holding back as he started to go forward.
He submitted. They stood still, listening. Suddenly the footfalls ceased.
“He knows we have stopped,” said Oliver. “He’s listening to see if we are following.”
She was silent for a moment. “You remember what I said about being spied upon, Oliver. I feel it, I feel it all about me. You are being watched all the time, Oliver. Oh, how hateful, how unfair!”
He put his arm around her. “Jane dear, I am just beginning to understand. They really suspect me. They really think I may have had a hand in—Why, curse them, they—”
“Hush, Oliver!” she cried softly. “The very worst thing you can do is to fly into a rage over this silly—”
“Oh, my Lord!” he gasped, drawing back in sheer astonishment. “Youtoo, Jane? I’ve heard nothing for twenty years but—Hang it all, dear, Iwantto get mad! I want to rage like a lion and tear things to pieces. Every time I frown the whole blamed town smooths my back and says ‘Now-now!’ And Joe Sikes and Silas Link—”
“I know, I know,” she interrupted gently. “But you mustn’t, just the same. You must treat this thing as a—a sort of joke.”
Many seconds passed before he spoke. “It’s pretty difficult to see anything humorous in being suspected of—Oh, I can’t even say it! It’s too awful—too unspeakable!”
“We’d better be going back to the house, Oliver,” she began.
“See here, Jane, I’ve been thinking. It’s wrong for me to ask you to marry me till all this mess is over. It’s wrong for me to even ask you to consider yourself engaged to me. We must wait. I mean it, dear. I’m under a cloud. There’s no getting around that fact. The—”
“Nobody believes you had anything to do with—”
“My dear girl, nobody knowswhatto believe,” said he seriously. “That’s the worst of it. My father is gone. I was, so far as any one knows, the last to see him. As you say, no one may believe that I had anything to do with it, but—where is he?That’s the question they are all asking—and no one answers. He is somewhere, living or dead. That’s sure. He may be out there in that swamp. And, Jane, here’s the horrible part of it. If he is out there, no one will believe he committed suicide. No one will believe that he made way with himself deliberately. He may have wandered into the swamp while out of his head—but he was not contemplating suicide. If that had been his intention, why did he draw all that money out of the bank? A queer thing has just happened. You know Peter Hines—that queer old bird who has always lived in the cabin at the lower end of the swamp? You can see it from the road in the daytime. He has skipped out. Boarded up the door and windows and—”
He started violently, the words dying on his lips. Off to the south, beyond the almost impenetrable wall of night, gleamed far-off lights in the windows of Peter Hines’s shack.
“He must have returned,” he said, in an odd voice. “Those lights—”
“Let us go in, dear,” she pleaded. “I—I hear something moving among the weeds down there. It’s grisly, Oliver—creepy.”
They were at the foot of the porch steps when he kissed her tenderly. “We must wait a little while, Janie, before telling them about—us. Till all this is cleared up and I am—”
She faced him, her hands on his shoulders.
“I shall tell them to-night,” she said resolutely. “To-morrow I shall tell everybody I know. What do you think I am? A fraidy-cat?”
He laughed quietly. “Have your own way, dear. You always have had it where I am concerned. But,” and here he dropped into his dry, whimsical drawl, “if I were you I wouldn’t begin getting a trousseau together until after my birthday next month. You might be wasting a lot of time and money.”
“Oh, Oliver, don’t say such things!” she cried hotly. “I wish that old gypsy were here. I’d wring her neck!”
Mrs. Sage was holding forth in her most effective English as they entered the sitting-room. She may have eyed them narrowly for a second or two, but that was all. She had an attentive audience; the division of interest due to the return of absentees was of extremely short duration; she knew how to hold the center of the stage once she got it.
“As a matter of fact, they’re shorter in Rumley than they are in London. I’ve seen more knees since I got back to Rumley than I saw all the time I was in London. And that, my dear Mrs. Grimes, despite the fact that London has more knees than any other city in the world. My daughter has provided me with a hundred surprises since—I don’t mean that she has a hundred knees, of course—what I mean to say is that Jane merely yawns when I begin in a hushed voice to tell her of the very latest crazes and vices of London. She yawns, I say, and proceeds to inform me that they are all old in Rumley—old, mind you. It really seems that just about the time poor old London is struggling to learn a new dance, Rumley is completely fed up with it. I go about in a sort of daze. I wish—I devoutly wish—I could remember all the things I’ve learned since I got back to Rumley. Poor Herbert maintains that—”
At this juncture Sammy Parr, who had been observing Oliver very closely, got up from his chair and marched across the room, his hand extended.
“Congratulations, old man!” he shouted joyously.
And little old Mrs. Grimes, from her place on the sofa, remarked as she leaned back with a sigh of content:
“Well, goodness knows it’s about time.”
Proving that since the entrance of the lovers the great Josephine had failed signally to hold her audience spellbound.