Courtney delayed. A certain aloofness on Alix's part caused him to hesitate. Something in her manner following upon the visit of the Blythes invited speculation. She was as pleasant as ever, yet he sensed a subtle change that warned him of defeat if he attempted to storm the citadel. His confidence was slightly shaken,—but not his resolve.
"She's been different ever since those infernal Blythes were here," he reflected aloud, scowling as he watched her pass in the car several days after the departure of her guests.
She went to the city nearly every day now, and seldom returned before dark. Somehow he felt that his grip was slipping. He was standing in front of the Tavern. She had waved her hand to him, and had smiled gaily, but it was not the first time that week she had failed to stop and repeat her usual invitation for him to accompany her, even though she knew he would politely decline. He resented this oversight. How could she know that he hadn't changed his mind about going to the city? As a matter of fact, he had changed it. He would have gone like a shot. Indeed, he had dressed with that very object in view,—and she had gone by with a casual wave of her hand. His annoyance was increased by the remark of Mr. Nichols, who was standing at the top of the steps at the time.
"Thought you said you was going up to town, Courtney," said the old man, with a detestable grin on his wrinkled visage.
"I didn't say anything of the kind," snapped Courtney, and strode off angrily.
His stroll,—and his reflections,—took him up the old Indian trail along the bank of the river. He wanted solitude. He wanted to be where he could talk without fear of being overheard. There was much that he had to say to himself.
The rarely used path through the willows and underbrush ran along the steep bank, sometimes within a few feet of water. Once before he had walked a couple of hundred yards over this ancient, hard-packed trail of Tecumseh's people, but had been turned back by the sight of a small snake wriggling off into the long grass ahead of him. That was in the warm days of early September. There was no likelihood of serpents being abroad on this chill October morning.
Leaving the road at the cut above the ferry landing, he turned into the trail. A half hour's walk brought him to the gradually rising, rock-covered slope that led to the base of Quill's Window. On all sides were great, flat slabs of stone, some of them almost buried in the earth, others sticking their jagged points up above the brush and weeds. Back in ages dim these drab, moss-covered rocks had been sliced from the side of the towering mound by the forces that shaped the earth, to be hurled hither and thither with the calm disdain of the mighty. No human agency had blasted them from their insecure hold on the shoulders of the cliff. Uncounted centuries ago they had come bounding, crashing down from the heights, shaken loose by the convulsions of Mother Earth, tearing their way through the feeble barrier of trees to a henceforth place of security.
The trail wound in and out among these boulders, dividing at a point several hundred feet south of the steep ascent to the top of the great black mound. The main-travelled path turned in from the river at this point, to skirt the hill at its rear. A more tortuous way, traversed presumably by the fishers and hunters of the tribes, or perhaps by war parties in swift pursuit or retreat, held directly to the bank of the stream and passed along the front of the cliff.
Courtney took the latter branch. Presently he was picking his way carefully along the base of the cliff, scrambling over and between the rocks that formed a narrow ledge between the river and the sheer face of Quill's Window. He was now some fifty or sixty feet above the cold, grey water. Below him grew a line of stunted, ragged underbrush, springing from the earth-filled fissures among the boulders. Across the river stretched far away the farms and fields of the far-famed grain-belt.
He sat down upon a rock and gazed out over these fertile lands, now crowded with shocks of corn or rusty with the dead glories of summer. There were great square fields of stubble, fenced-in patches of pasture-land, small oases of woodland, houses and barns and silos as far as the eye could reach,—and always the huge red barns dwarfed the houses in which the farmers dwelt. Cattle and sheep and horses, wagons and men, all made small and insignificant in the sweep of this great and solemn panorama.
The home of Amos Vick was visible, standing half-a-mile back from the river. He looked hard and long at the house in which he had spent the first three weeks of his stay in the country. So young Cale had gone off to join the Navy, eh? Good! And Rosabel,—what of her? What was she doing over at the old Windom house that day? Could it have been she who was watching him? Looking badly, too, they said. Such a strong, pretty, wind-tanned young thing she was! How long ago was it? Not two months....He lit a cigarette and resumed his way, the shadow of a fond smile lingering in his eyes.
Rounding the curve, he came to that side of the stone hill which faced up the river. He had passed many small, shallow niches along the base of the eminence, miniature caves from which oozed what might well have been described as sweat. There were, besides, deep upright slashes in the side of the rock, higher than his head, suggesting to the imagination the vain effort of some unhappy giant to burst through the walls of his rocky prison,—some monster of a man who now lay dead in the heart of the hill. The turn took him farther away from the river.
He was looking now into the tops of several tall sycamores that rose from the low ground at the foot of the hill. Extending far to the north along the river was a fringe of these much be-sung trees. The space between the straight face of the cliff and the edge of the ledge on which he stood was not more than seven or eight feet. It was possible, he perceived, for one to continue along and down this natural path to the bottom of the hill, coming out among the trees in the low ground. The descent, however, was a great deal more precipitous than the ascent from the other direction.
Now that he was immediately below the cave known as Quill's Window, he was surprised to find that the cliff was not absolutely perpendicular. There was quite a pronounced slant; the top of the wall was, at a guess, ten feet farther back than the foot. His gaze first sought the strange opening three-fourths of the way to the top,—a matter of eighty or ninety feet above the spot on which he stood. There it was,—a deep, black gash in the solid rock, rendered narrow by fore-shortening and a slightly protruding brow. He could think of nothing more analogous than an open mouth with a thick upper lip and the nether lip drawn in.
Then he saw what surprised him even more,—something that none of the chroniclers had mentioned: a series of hand-cut niches up the face of the cliff, leading directly to the mouth of the cave. He had been given to understand that there was no other means of reaching Quill's Window save from the top of the rock. These niches or "hand-holds" were about two feet apart. He examined the lower ones. They were deeply chiselled, affording a substantial foothold as well as a grip for a strong, resolute climber. Most of them were packed with dirty, wind blown leaves from the trees nearby,—so tightly packed by the furious rains that beat against the rock that he had difficulty in removing the substance. Higher up they appeared to be quite clean and free from obstruction.
He scraped the leaves out of five or six of the slits, one after the other, as he climbed a short distance up the wall. Further progress was checked, not so much by lack of desire to go to the top, but by an involuntary glance over his shoulder. He was not more than ten feet above the trail, but the trail was shockingly narrow and uneven. So down he came, quite thrilled by his discovery, to lean against the rock and laugh scornfully over the silly tales about Quill's Window and its eerie impregnability. Anybody could climb up there! All that one needed was a stout heart and a good pair of arms. Closer inspection convinced him that these niches were of comparatively recent origin,—certainly they were not of Quill's time. David Windom? Had that adventurous lad hewn this ladder to the cave long before the beautiful Alix the First came to complete the romance of his dreams?
No matter who cut them, they were still there to prove that Quill's Window was accessible. According to tradition, no one had put foot inside the cave since David Windom, in his youth, had ventured to explore its grisly interior. Courtney promised himself that one day he would enter that unhallowed hole in the wall!
Retracing his steps over the trail, he soon found himself in the village. He was more cheerful now. He had talked himself into a better frame of mind....She was shy. She had reached the turning point,—the inevitable point where women tremble with a strange mixture of alarm and rapture, and are as timid as the questioning deer. What a fool he was not to have thought of that!
There was a small package in his lockbox at the postoffice—and two or three letters. The package was from New York, addressed in his mother's hand.
He stopped at the general delivery window for a chat with Mrs. Pollock.
"I had forgotten all about my birthday," he said, "but here's mother reminding me of it as usual. She never forgets,—and, hang it all, she won't let ME forget." He fingered the unopened package lovingly.
"Goodness me, Mr. Thane,—is this your birthday?" she cried excitedly. "We must have a celebration. We can't allow—"
"Alas, it is too late. Your super-efficient postal service has brought this to me just forty-eight hours behind time. Day before yesterday was the day, now that I think of it."
Mrs. Pollock mentally resolved to indite a short poem to him, notwithstanding. She could feel it coming, even as she stood there talking to him. The first line was already written, so to speak. It went:
"The flight of Time has brought once more—"
He continued, oblivious to the workings of the Muse: "Twenty-nine! By Jove, I begin to feel that I'm getting on in life." He ripped open one of the envelopes.
Maude Baggs Pollock looked intently at the ceiling of the outer office, and thought of line number two:
"The busy Reaper to his door,"
She hastily snatched a pencil from her hair and began jotting down these precious lines. Fumbling for a bit of paper her fingers encountered an envelope addressed to Alaska Spigg. The Muse worked swiftly. Before she had dashed off the first two lines, the second pair were crowding down upon them, to wit:
"But while he whets his fatal scythe, Gaze ye upon his victim lithe."
At this juncture George Rice's son came in for a half dozen postal cards, and while she was making change for a dime the Muse forsook her. Bent on preserving the lines already shaped, she stuffed Alaska's letter into the pocket of her apron, intending to copy them at the first leisure moment. Unfortunately for Alaska, there was a rush of business at the window, including an acrimonious dispute with Mrs. Ryan over the non-arrival of a letter she was expecting from her son, and a lengthy conversation with Miss Flora Grady who dropped in to say that her chilblains always began to bother her in October. In the meantime, Courtney departed.
Two days later, Alaska Spigg received her letter, considerably crumpled and smelling of licorice root,—(a favourite remedy of Mrs. Pollock's)—but rendered precious by the presence of a mysterious "quatrain" done in violet hues by some poetic wielder of an indelible pencil. Guilt denied Maude Baggs Pollock the right to claim authorship of these imperishable lines, and to this day they remain unidentified in the archives of the Windomville Public Library, displayed upon request by Alaska Spigg, their proud and unselfish donor.
Courtney read two of his letters. The third he consigned, unopened, to the fireplace at Dowd's Tavern. The little package, minus the wrapping paper, was locked away in his trunk.
Charlie Webster, emerging from his office at the dinner hour,—twelve noon,—espied Miss Angie Miller hurrying toward the Tavern. He hailed her,—not ceremoniously or even gallantly,—but in the manner of Windomville.
"Hey!" he called, and Angie promptly responded, not with the dignity for which she was famous but with an entirely human spontaneity:
"Hey yourself!"
She waited till he caught up with her.
"Have you had an answer to that letter, Angie?" he inquired, glancing at a small bunch of letters she held in her hand.
"No, I haven't." she replied, somewhat guardedly. "I can't understand why he hasn't answered, Charlie,—unless he's away or something."
"Must be that," said he, frowning slightly. "You wrote nearly two weeks ago, didn't you?"
"Two weeks ago yesterday."
"Sure you had the right address?"
"Absolutely. Thirty-three Cedar Street. He's had an office there for ever so long. I ought to know where my uncle's office is, oughtn't I?"
"I thought maybe you might have got the wrong tree," explained Charlie.
"It's Cedar," said Miss Angie flatly.
"Cedar and pine are a good deal alike, except in—" began Charlie, doubtfully,
"Goodness!" cried Miss Angie, stopping short. "It IS Pine! How perfectly stupid of me! How utterly reprehensible!"
Charlie stared at her a moment in sheer disdain.
"Well, by gosh, if that ain't like a woman," he exclaimed disgustedly. "I'd hate to send you for a half dozen oranges if there were any lemons in the market."
"He is such a well-known lawyer," began Angie humbly, "that you would think the mail carrier would—"
"What did you say his name was?"
"Joseph Smith. He is my mother's brother."
"East or West?"
"East or west what?"
"Pine Street. Same as North Fourth Street and South Fourth Street up in the city. It runs both ways, Angie,—you poor simp."
"I shall write to him again this evening," said Angie stiffly. "And I'll thank you, Charlie Webster, to remember that I am a lady and not a—"
"I apologize, Angie," cried Charlie.
"You'd better!"
They walked along in silence for a few rods. Then Charlie spoke.
"You say your uncle was mixed up in a lawsuit of some kind concerning the Thane family?"
"I remember it distinctly. It was five or six years ago, before my mother died. He wrote her a letter about it when he found out that the Thanes originally came from this neighbourhood. I don't remember what it was all about, but I think it was some kind of a rumpus over money."
"Well, you write tonight, Angie," ordered Mr. Webster; "and remember it ain't Cedar, or Oak, or Mahogany. It's Pine,—the stuff you make boxes of."
Much to Courtney's dismay, Alix remained in town over night. He went up to the house that evening, only to receive this disconcerting bit of information. Halfway home, he stopped short in the road, confronted by a most astonishing doubt. Had she really stayed in town? Could it be possible that she was at home and did not care to see him? Was it an excuse? He compressed his lips. With lightning rapidity certain bits of circumstantial evidence raced through his mind. In the first place, there was Sergeant, the police dog. He wished he could remember whether he had seen the animal in the car with her that morning. It was her custom to take the dog with her when she went up for the day. One thing was certain: Sergeant was now at home. Did that mean she had returned from the city?
And then there was another extraordinary thing,—something to which he had not given a thought till now. The dog was on the terrace when he strode up the walk. Not only was he there, but he interposed his lean, bristling body between him and the porch-steps, growling ominously and showing his teeth. He did not bark. He merely stood there, daring him to approach. Courtney remembered saying to himself:
"There's one thing sure, you and I can't live in the same house, you filthy brute. You'd better learn how to say your prayers, my amiable friend."
It was not so much the presence of the dog or his inimical attitude that troubled him now as the fact that Mrs. Strong opened the front door without having been summoned by the bell. What did that signify? But one thing: either she or some one else had been waiting and watching for his arrival,—waiting behind the window curtains of a darkened room!
"Well,—I'm damned!" he swore to himself, as the blood rushed furiously to his head. For an instant he saw red. "Good Lord, what have I done to deserve such a slap in the face as this? What can be—But, what the devil's the matter with me? Of course, she's in town! I must be going batty. Certainly she's in town. She—but, even so, why should she have gone off like this without saying a word to me about it? She didn't mention it last night. Not a word. And she must have known then she was planning to spend the night,—why, by gad, I wonder if she calls that being fair with me? Letting me trail up here tonight, expecting—Any way you want to look at it, it's rotten,—just plain rotten!"
Early the next morning she called him up from the city. She explained everything. The little daughter of her best friend had fallen downstairs, injuring herself badly,—perhaps fatally. She felt it her duty to remain with the distracted mother,—she hoped he would understand. And she was in such a hurry to reach the city after the child's father had called her on the telephone that she really did not have the time to stop and explain. He would understand that, too, wouldn't he? And she thought perhaps she would stay over another night. She couldn't leave Marjorie,—at least, not until something definite was known.
He was vastly relieved. All his worry for nothing! He wished now that he had remained in his room instead of going out a second time last night to tramp about the dark, lonely village, driven forth by an ugly fit of temper.
"But Mrs. Strong didn't say anything about the accident," he said over the wire. "She simply said you were in town for the night."
"I can't understand that," replied Alix. "She knew why I came up to town, and I telephoned her during the afternoon that I would stay overnight.
"She might have told me," he complained. "It would have relieved my mind enormously. I—I was horribly unhappy. Never closed my eyes. I thought you,—that is, I wondered if I had done anything to offend you. My Lord, you'll never know how happy I am this minute. My heart is singing—And to think it was like a lump of lead all last night. Do try to come out this evening."
She did not answer at once, but he could plainly hear her breathing. Then she said softly:
"If—if the child is better. I can't leave Marjorie until—until—"
"I understand," he cried heartily. "What a selfish beast I am. Don't give me another thought. Your place is there. Because you are an angel!"
Later on he sauntered over to the postoffice. A number of men and women were congregated in front of the drug store, among them Charlie Webster and A. Lincoln Pollock. The latter had his "pad" in hand and was writing industriously.
"What's the excitement?" Courtney inquired, coming up to Charlie.
"Somebody poisoned Henry Brickler's collie last night," replied Charlie. There was a dark scowl on his chubby face.
"You don't mean that corking dog up at the white house on the—"
"Yep. That's the one," replied Charlie harshly. "Anybody that would poison a dog ought to be tarred and feathered."
"Who did it?"
"You don't suppose a man mean enough to give an unsuspectin' dog a dose of poison would be kind enough to pin his card on the gatepost, do you? I should say not!"
"But why on earth should any one want to poison that big beautiful dog?" cried Courtney indignantly. "Had he bitten anybody?"
"Not as anybody knows of. Henry says he never harmed a living soul. That dog—"
"By George!" exclaimed Courtney suddenly. "This reminds me of something. I passed a couple of men last night down at the corner where you turn up to Miss Crown's. They were leaning against the fence on the opposite side of the road, and I had the queerest sort of feeling about them. I felt that they were watching me. I remember turning my head to look back at them. They were still standing there. It was too dark to see what they looked like—"
"Wait a second," broke in Charlie. "Here's Bill Foss, the constable. Tell it to him, Court."
The town constable, vastly excited, came up the street, accompanied by two or three stern-visaged citizens.
"Well, by thunder!" growled the officer, wiping his forehead. "Somebody's been making a wholesale job of it. Dick Hurdle's 'Jackie' and Bert Little's 'Prince' are dead as doornails. That makes three. Now, who the hell,—"
"Just a second,—just a second," cried A. Lincoln Pollock, elbowing his way into the thick of the new group. "Let me get the facts. You first, Dick. Where did you find your dog's remains? Now, take it calm, Dick. Don't cuss like that. I can't print a word of it, you know,—not a word. Remember there are ladies present, Dick. You've got to—"
Mr. Hurdle said he didn't give a cuss if all the women in town were present, he was going to say what he thought of any blankety-blank,—and so on at great length, despite the fact that the ladies crowded even a little closer, evidently reluctant to miss a word of his just and unbridled blasphemy.
The occasion demanded the sonorous efficiency of Mr. Richard Hurdle. In all Windomville there was no one so well qualified to do justice to the situation as he. (Later on, Charlie Webster was heard to remark that "as long as these dogs had to be killed, it's a great relief that Dick's was one of 'em, because he's got the best pair of lungs in town. He can expand his chest nearly seven inches, and when he fills all that extra space up with words nobody ever even heard of before, people clear over in Illinois have to rush out and shoo their children into the house and keep 'em there till it blows over.")
Doctor Smith came rattling up in his Ford, hopped out, and started to enter the drug store. Catching sight of the druggist in the crowd, he stopped to bawl out:
"Who's been buying prussic acid of you, Sam Foster? What do you mean by selling—"
"I ain't sold a grain of prussic acid in ten years," roared Mr. Foster. "Or any other kind of poison. Don't you accuse ME of—"
"Anything new, Doc? Anything new?" cried the editor of the Sun, rushing up to the doctor.
"They got that dog of Alix Crown's. I tried to save him,—but he was as good as dead when I got there. Of all the damnable outrages—"
"Miss Crown's dog?" cried Courtney, aghast, "Good God! Why,—why, it will break her heart! She LOVED that dog! Men! We've got to find the scoundrel. We've got to FIX him. He ought to be strung up. Has any one called Miss Crown up, Doctor? She is in the city. She—"
"Mrs. Strong called her up. The automobile started for town fifteen or twenty minutes ago to bring her home."
"Keep your shirt on, Court," warned Charlie Webster. "You'll bust a blood vessel. Cool off! There's no use talkin' about GETTING him. Whoever it was that planted these dog-buttons around town was slick enough to cover up his tracks. We'll never find out who did it. It's happened before, and the result is always the same. Dead dogs tell no tales."
"But those two fellows I saw down at the corner last night—"
"Would you be able to identify them?"
"No,—hang it all! It was too dark. It was about half-past nine. Why, earlier in the evening I was at Miss Crown's. I saw the dog. He was on the terrace. He growled at me,—he always growled at me. He didn't like me. Mrs. Strong came to the door and called him into the house. I am sure he was all right then. When is he supposed to have got the poison, Doctor?"
"This morning. She let him out of the house about seven o'clock. Paid no attention to him till he came crawling around to the kitchen door some time afterward. He just laid down and kicked a few times,—that's what makes me think it was prussic acid. It knocks 'em quick."
"Come on, Charlie," cried Courtney, clutching the other's arm. "We must go up to the house. There may be some trace,—something that will give us a clue."
He was at the house when the car returned without Alix. She had sent the chauffeur back with instructions to bury the dog. She could not bear looking at him. She wanted it to be all over with before she came home.
"I don't blame her," said Charlie soberly. "Shows how much she thought of Sergeant when she's willing to pay five hundred dollars reward for the capture of the man or men who poisoned him."
"Where did you hear that?" demanded Courtney, surprised.
"Ed Stevens says she told him to authorize Bill Foss to have reward notices struck off over at the Sun office, offering five hundred cash. She always said that dog was the best friend she had on earth."
"But five hundred dollars! Why, good Lord, you can buy a dozen police dogs for that amount of—"
"You couldn't have bought Sergeant for ten times five hundred," interrupted Charlie. "You see, as a matter of fact, he didn't actually belong to Alix."
"You must be crazy. She has had him since he was a puppy three months old."
"Sure, But, all the same, he didn't belong to her. He belonged to David Strong. Davy got him in France in the spring of 1918 and sent him clear over here for his mother to take care of for him."
Courtney was silent for a moment. "It's strange Miss Crown never told me this," he said, biting his lip.
"Well," said Charlie quaintly, "far as that goes, I don't suppose it ever occurred to her to tell Sergeant he belonged to somebody else, but even if she had I don't reckon it would have made a darn' bit of difference to him. He would have gone on loving her, just the same,—and workin' twenty-four hours a day for her, Sundays and holidays included. A dog don't care who he belongs to, Court, but he's mighty darned particular about who belongs to him."
"I can't understand why he never seemed to like me," mused Courtney.
"Well, maybe," began Charlie soberly, "—maybe, after all, he DID sort of know that he was Davy Strong's dog."
II — For three days Windomville talked of nothing but the "dog murders." The Sun came out on Thursday with a long and graphic account of the mysterious affairs of Monday night, including the views and theories of well-known citizens. It also took occasion to "lambast" Constable Foss with great severity. The Constable, being a Republican, (and not a subscriber to the Sun), was described as about the most incompetent official Windomville had ever known, and that it would have been quite possible for the miscreant or miscreants to have poisoned every dog in town, in broad daylight, accompanied by a brass band, without Bill ever "getting onto it."
It goes without saying that everybody in town was stimulated to prodigious activity by the reward offered by Miss Crown. Notices were stuck up in the postoffice and on all the telephone poles. A great many embarrassing incidents resulted, and three fist-fights of considerable violence occurred,—for the gentlemen accused of the crimes took drastic and specific means of establishing complete and satisfactory alibis.
Courtney Thane chafed under the prolonged absence of Alix Crown. Valuable time was being wasted. He had assisted at the burial of Sergeant, and had shed tears with Mrs. Strong while Ed Stevens, the chauffeur, was filling in the grave up back of the orchard; and he had done further homage to the dead by planting a small American flag at the head of the mound and,—as an afterthought,—the flag of Belgium at the foot.
He felt that he had done very well by a dog that would have torn him to pieces if encouraged by the merest whisper of the words "sic 'im!"
Alix returned late on Friday afternoon. He had a box of roses, ordered from the city for him by Miss Flora Grady, awaiting her, and with them a tender little note of sympathy.
She sat for a long time with Mrs. Strong. Her dark eyes softened and filled with tears as David's mother gently stroked her hair and sought by words to convince her that David would understand.
"It wasn't your fault, Alix darling," she protested. "David won't mind,—not in the least. Sergeant didn't really mean anything to him. He was yours more than he was David's. Don't you worry about David's feelings, dear. He—"
"You don't understand, Aunt Nancy,—you don't understand at all," Alix repeated over and over again in her distress.
"You're just worrying yourself sick over it," said the older woman. "Why, you look all tuckered out, child,—I was shocked when you first came in. Now, don't be foolish, dear. I tell you it will be all right with David. I wrote him all about it, and—what's that you are saying?"
"You don't suppose he will think I—think I did it, Aunt Nancy?" Alix whispered bleakly.
"Think you—for the land's sake, Alix, what on earth are you saying? Are you stark, staring crazy? You come right upstairs and get into bed this minute. My land, I—I believe you're going to be sick. You've got the queerest look in your eyes. Come on, now, deary, and—"
"I am sick,—just sick with unhappiness, Aunt Nancy," sobbed the girl. "You don't know,—you don't understand. Oh, he couldn't believe I would do such a thing as THAT! He couldn't think me so cruel, and wicked and—and spiteful."
"Now, listen to me," said Mrs. Strong sternly. "What is the meaning of all this? What has happened between you and David that makes you talk like this? Tell me,—tell me this minute, Alix Crown."
"Hasn't he told you—written you about ANYTHING?" cried the girl.
"I don't know what you are driving at, Alix, but whatever it is I KNOW David hasn't got anything against you that would make you say such things as you've just been saying." She hesitated a moment and then laid her hand on Alix's head. "I've been wondering a whole lot of late, Alix. Have you and David had a—a misunderstanding?"
"We—we don't like each other as—as we used to, Aunt Nancy," said the girl, lifting her head almost defiantly to look David's mother full in the eyes.
"Is it David's fault?" asked Mrs. Strong after a moment.
"I—I wish you wouldn't ask me anything more about it. At least, not now."
"Is it David's fault?" demanded the other once more, insistently.
"I will say this much; it isn't my fault," replied Alix stiffly.
Mrs. Strong smiled,—a tender, loving smile.
"I think I could straighten everything out if David were only here," she said. "I would take you both across my knee and give you a good sound spanking. It used to work beautifully when you were children,—and I think it would work now. I—I wonder if it would help matters any if I were to spank—No, I'm sure it wouldn't. To do any good at all David would have to be here to see me spanking you and to beg me to let you off and give it to him just twice as hard."
"Oh, Aunt Nancy," cried Alix eagerly, "if you only WOULD! How I wish I were a little girl again! And David a little boy!"
Then she fled from the room. Nancy Strong put her hand over her eyes and sighed.
"I wish David were here," she said to herself. "If he were only here today."
During dinner that evening Alix was strangely repressed. It was plain to Mrs. Strong that she was inwardly agitated. After they left the table she became visibly nervous. She was "fidgety," to speak the thought of her perplexed companion. Time and again she started and appeared to be listening intently, and always there was a queer little expression in her eyes as of expectancy. Once or twice Mrs. Strong surprised a flash of anxiety,—aye, even fear,—in them.
"You haven't read your letters yet, Alix," she said at last, seeking for some means to divert the girl's thoughts. "There is quite a pile of them there on the table."
"I don't feel like reading letters tonight," said Alix. "They can wait till tomorrow." She arose, however, and hurriedly ran through the pile. "I wrote to David before dinner, Aunt Nancy," she said suddenly. "A long letter about Sergeant's death. I wanted him to know how miserably I feel about it."
"Bless your heart, he'll know that without your telling him, child. I am glad you wrote to him, however."
Alix came to a letter addressed in an unfamiliar hand,—a bold, masculine scrawl. The postmark was Chicago. She tore it open. It began with "Dear Alix." She quickly turned to the last page. It was signed "Addison Blythe." A "thank you" letter, of course.
Her back was to Mrs. Strong as she stood beside the table, bending slightly forward to get the full light from the library lamp. She read the letter through to the end; then she walked over to the fireplace and threw it into the flames. Her face had lost every vestige of colour:
DEAR ALIX: [it began] You will no doubt throw this letter into the fire the instant you have finished reading it, and you will hate me for having written it. Nevertheless, I am doing so because I think it is my duty. I offer no apology. I only ask you to believe that my intentions are good. It is best to come straight to the point. I have talked it all over with Mary and she approves of this letter. What I am about to say still requires official confirmation. I do not speak with authority, you must understand. I am merely giving you certain bits of information I have obtained from men who were in France in 1915 and 1916. It rests with you to believe or disbelieve. In any case, if you are wise, you will at least take the trouble to investigate. I am at your service. If I can help you in any way, please call upon me. If you desire it, I will provide you with the names of at least three men who were in Ambulance, all of whom have answered my letters of inquiry. One of these men met Courtney Thane in Paris in November, 1915. He was living at the Hotel Chatham with his mother. She had a husband up at the front, fighting with the French. This husband was a count or something of the sort and a good many years her junior. My informant writes me that young Thane, who drank a great deal and talked quite freely of family affairs, told him that his mother had married this young Frenchman a few months before the war broke out and went to Paris to live with him. He went so far as to say that the Frenchman married her for her money and he hoped the Germans would make a widow of her again before it was too late. According to this chap, Thane had also been in Paris since the beginning of the war. He spent money like a drunken sailor and touched nothing but the high spots. The second or third time he met him, Thane said he would like to get into the Ambulance. His mother, however, was bitterly opposed to his joining up. The last time he saw him, he had on an Ambulance uniform and was as drunk as a lord in one of the cafes. My friend had it straight from fellows out at Neuilly that Thane hadn't worn the uniform a week before it was taken away from him and he was kicked out of the service in disgrace.
One of the other chaps has written me, saying that he was at the base hospital when Thane was stripped of his uniform. He was not a witness to this, but he heard other fellows and the nurses talking about it. Not only was his uniform taken away, but he was ordered to get out of Paris at once. They heard afterward that he went to Madrid with his mother. He was never at Pont-a-Mousson. It is obvious that he was not in the Vosges sector, in view of the fact that he lasted less than a week in the Ambulance, and did a vast amount of carousing in a uniform that I revere.
It is up to you, Alix. The records of the American Ambulance are available. You can obtain all the information you desire, and I beg of you to get into communication with Mr. Hereford or Mr. Andrew or some other official at once. I append below the addresses of several persons to whom you may write. They were high in authority. They will give you facts.
I was convinced that Thane was not on the level when I met him that day. His stories did not jibe. I said nothing to you at the time, because I could not be sure of my ground. I think I am reasonably sure now.
I may add that I have written to Col. Andrew and others on my own hook. If you care to see their replies, when I get them, I shall send them to you. All you have to do is to say the word. In any case, I ask you to believe that my devotion and Mary's deep and honest love are the excuse for this letter, which you may show to Mr. Thane if you see fit. I have no right to question his statement that he served in the Royal Air Force. I know nothing to the contrary. I speak only of the Ambulance. I am, dear Alix,
Yours devotedly,
Mrs. Strong, observing her pallor, arose quickly and went to Alix's side, "What is it, dear?" she cried. "What was in that letter? You are as white as a ghost." Receiving for answer a pitiful little smile that was not so much a smile as a grimace of pain, she placed her hand on the girl's shoulder. "Why did you destroy it?"
"I—I don't know," murmured Alix through set, rigid lips.
"Yes, you DO know," said the other firmly.
Alix looked dumbly into her old friend's eyes for a moment, and then her honest heart spoke: "I destroyed it, Aunt Nancy, because I was afraid to read it again. It was from Addison Blythe. He has been making inquiries concerning Courtney Thane. In that letter he said things which, if true, make Courtney out to be a most—a most unworthy person."
She turned to look into the fire, her eyes narrowing. The black, flaky remnants of the letter were still fluttering on the hearth. As she watched, the draft caught them and sent them swirling up the chimney.
A high wind was blowing outside. It whistled mournfully around the corners of the house. Somewhere on the floor above a door, buffeted by the wind from an open window, beat a slow and muffled measure against its frame.
David's mother saw the colour slowly return to her companion's face. She waited. Something akin to joy possessed her. She was afraid to speak for fear that her voice would betray her. At last she said:
"We know nothing about Mr. Thane except what he has told us, Alix."
The girl looked searchingly into her eyes.
"You do not like him, Aunt Nancy. I have felt it from the beginning. Is it because you are David's mother?"
Mrs. Strong started. The direct question had struck home. She was confused.
"Why,—Alix,—I—what a silly thing to ask. What has David to do with it?"
Alix was still looking at her, broodingly. "Why don't you like him, Aunt Nancy?"
"Have I ever said I didn't like him?"
"No. But I know. I know that Charlie Webster does not like him. I knew that Addison did not like him."
Mrs. Strong could not resist the impulse to add: "And Sergeant did not like him."
"And you think THAT convicts him?" said the girl, half ironically.
"I have a good deal of faith in dogs," muttered Mrs. Strong, flushing.
Alix's gaze went to the huge vase of roses on the table. Then she turned quickly to look once more into her companion's eyes.
"You believe that Courtney poisoned him, don't you?"
"I have no more reason for believing it than you have, Alix," returned Mrs. Strong calmly.
"Why,—why do you say that?" cried the girl, startled.
"Because you would not have asked the question if you hadn't been—well, wondering a little yourself, Alix."
"Oh,—I don't want to think it," cried Alix miserably. "I don't want to think of it!"
"No more do I want to think it. Listen to me, Alix. I confess that I do not like this man. I have no way of explaining my feeling toward him. He has always been polite and agreeable to me. He has never done a thing that I can call to mind that would set me against him. Maybe it's because he is not of my world, because he comes from a big city, because deep in his heart he probably looks down on us Hoosiers. I will go farther, Alix, and say that I do not trust him. That is a nasty thing to say. It is none of my business, but I—I wish you did not like him so well, Alix."
"It would appear that my friends are taking more than an ordinary interest in my welfare," said Alix slowly, and with some bitterness. "Is it possible that you all believe me incapable of taking care of myself?"
"Smarter women than you, Alix Crown, have been fooled by men," said the other sententiously. "Oh, I don't mean the way you think, my child,—so don't glare at me like that. I know you can take care of yourself THAT way,—but how about falling in love? And getting married? And finding out afterward that roses don't grow on cactus plants? That's how women are fooled,—and you're no different from the rest of us."
"I think,—I am quite sure that he is in love with me, Aunt Nancy," said Alix, somewhat irrelevantly. There was no sign of gladness, however, nor of triumph, in her dark, brooding eyes.
"That's easy to understand. The point is, Alix,—are you in love with him?"
Alix did not answer at once. The little frown in her eyes deepened.
"I don't think so, Aunt Nancy," she said at last. "I don't believe it is love. That is what troubles me so. It is something I cannot understand. I don't know what has come over me. I will be honest with you,—and with myself. I do not really trust him. I don't believe he is all that he claims to be. And yet,—and yet, Aunt Nancy, I,—I—"
"Don't try to tell me," broke in the older woman gently. "My only sister thought she was in love with Terry Moore, a fellow who had been in the penitentiary once for stealing, and was a drunkard, a gambler, and a bad man with women, and all that. She was crazy about him. She ran off with him and got married. She never was in love with him, Alix. She hated him after a few weeks. He just cast some kind of a spell over her—not a mental spell, you may be sure. It was something physical. He was slick and smart and good looking, and he just made up his mind to get her. A man can be awful nice when he has once set his heart on getting a girl,—and that's what fools 'em, great and small. All the mistakes are not made by ignorant, scatter-brained girls, my dear. My father used to say that the more sense a woman has, the more likely she is to do something foolish. Now, Alix dear, I know just how it is with you. Courtney Thane has cast a spell over you. I believe in spells, same as the old New Englander used to believe in witchcraft. You don't love him, you don't actually believe in him. You—you are sort of like a bird that is being charmed by a snake. It knows it ought to fly away and yet it can't, because it's so interested in what the snake is going to do next. Thane is attractive. He is, far as I know, a gentleman. At any rate, he would pass for one, and that's about all you can expect in these days. The thought has entered both our minds that he put Sergeant out of the way. Well, my dear, I don't believe either of us would ever dream of connecting him with it if there wasn't something back in our minds that has been asking questions of us ever since he came here. You say you were afraid to read Mr. Blythe's letter again. Does that mean you are afraid everything he says is true?"
"Oh, I can't believe it,—I must not allow myself to even THINK it," cried the girl. "Why, if what Addison says is true, Courtney Thane is not fit to—There must be some mistake, Aunt Nancy. There were two men of the same name.IWILL NOT BELIEVE IT!"
The two tall women stood tense and rigid, side by side, their backs to the fire, gazing straight before them down the lamp-lit room.
"Has Addison Blythe any reason for lying to you, Alix?" asked the elder quietly.
"Of course not," Alix answered impatiently. "There is some mistake, that's all."
"Do you mind telling me what he says?"
"Mr. Thane is coming to see me tonight," said the girl, uneasily. "He may come at any moment now. What time is it?"
"Ten minutes of eight. He never comes before half-past." She waited a moment, and then went on deliberately: "I always had an idea it was because he wanted to be sure Sergeant was in the house and not out in the yard."
Alix closed her eyes for a second or two, as if by doing so it were possible to shut out the same thought that had floated through Mrs. Strong's mind.
"But he need not be afraid of Sergeant now," she said, with a little tremor in her voice. "He will come earlier tonight." The unintentional sarcasm did not escape Mrs. Strong. "Wait till tomorrow, Aunt Nancy. Then I may tell you."
"You are trembling, dear. I wish you would let me make your excuses to him when he comes. Don't see him tonight. Let me tell him—"
Alix turned squarely and faced her. There was a harassed, haunted expression in her eyes,—and yet there was defiance.
"I stayed away five days," she said huskily. "For five days I kept away from him. Then I—I gave up. I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to come home. Now, you have the truth. I just simply HAD to see him, Aunt Nancy,—I just HAD to."
"Then,—then it IS a spell," cried the other, dismay in her voice. "You are not yourself, Alix. This is not you who say these things."
"Oh, yes, it is!" cried the girl recklessly. "I wanted to come home. I wanted to see him. I don't love him, but I wanted to be with him. I don't trust him, but here I am. Now you have it all! I want to see him!"
Mrs. Strong was looking past her. She stared hard at the window in the far end of the room, her eyes narrowed, her chin thrust slightly forward. Then suddenly she clutched the girl's arm, her eyes now widespread with alarm.
"Look!" she whispered shrilly, pointing.
The flush faded from Alix's face; the reckless, defiant light left her eyes, and in its place came fear.
II — Plainly outlined in the window was the face of a masked man. A narrow black mask, through which a pair of eyes gleamed brightly.
The exposed lower portion of the face, save for the heavily bearded upper lip, was ghastly white. Brief as this glimpse was, they were able to see that he wore a cap, pulled well down over his forehead.
For a few seconds the two women stood as if petrified, their eyes wide and staring, their hearts cold, their tongues paralyzed. They were gazing straight into his shining eyes. Suddenly he turned his head for a quick, startled glance over his shoulder. The next instant he was gone, vanishing in the blackness that hung behind him like the magician's curtain in a theatre. They heard rapid footsteps on the veranda, the crash of a chair overturned, then a loud shout, and again the sound of flying footsteps across the brick-paved terrace. Another shout, and still another, farther away.
"Quick!" screamed Alix, the first to recover her voice. "The telephone! Call the drug store. Bill Foss is there."
She ran swiftly out into the hall.
"Come back!" cried Mrs. Strong. "What are you doing? Don't open that door! He's got a pistol, Alix!"
Even as she spoke, the report of a pistol shot came to their ears. As Alix stopped short, her hand outstretched to clutch the door knob, a second report came.
"Oh, my God!" she cried. "He has killed Courtney! He has shot Courtney!"
By this time, her companion had reached her side. She dragged her back from the door.
"Killed Courtney? What's the matter with you? Why do you say he has killed—"
"Don't you see—can't you understand? It was Courtney who surprised him. That's why he ran. He shot,—oh, let go of me! Let go of me, I say!"
"I'll do nothing of the sort," cried Mrs. Strong. "Do you want to get shot? Come away from this door!"
A door slammed against the wall at the back of the house. Some one came running through the dining-room. First the cook, then the little waitress, dashed into the hall.
"Wha-what is it? What's the matter?" shouted the former. "What was that shootin'—"
"Where is Stevens?" demanded Mrs. Strong, as she fairly pushed Alix into the living-room. "Call him! Isn't he out there in—"
"He went out,—half hour ago,—out," stuttered the waitress. "Who's been—what's happened to Miss Alix?"
"Nothing! Go and yell for Ed! Thieves! On the porch. Don't stand there, Hilda. Go out back and scream!"
"Oh, my God! Ed's killed! He's been shot! My husband's been shot!" It was the cook who sent this lamentation to the very roof of the house.
Mrs. Strong whispered fiercely in Alix's ear: "That's it! Ed is the one who surprised him. Courtney nothing! Now, you stay here! I'll telephone. Don't you dare go outside, Alix Crown. A stray bullet—"
Far away sounded the third shot, muffled by distance and the shriek of the wind....
Mrs. Strong was off somewhere trying to telephone. Shrill voices, out back, were screaming. Alix stood alone in the middle of the long room, staring at the window in which the sinister face had appeared. She had not moved in what seemed to be an age. A strange, incredible thing was creeping through her mind,—a thought that was not a part of her, something that seemed to shape itself outside of her brain and force its way in to crowd out the fear and anxiety that had gripped her but a few short moments before.
What would it mean to her if Courtney Thane were dead out there in the night?
It was not the question but the answer that fixed itself in her mind. She was unconscious of the one, but vividly aware of the other. His death would mean—emancipation! For one brief instant she actually LONGED for the word that he was dead! The reaction was swift, overwhelming.
"God!" she gasped, shutting her eyes and clenching her hands in an ecstasy of revulsion. "What a beast,—what a horrible beast I am! What a coward!"
Her knees trembled; an icy perspiration seemed to start out all over her body. She had wished him dead! She had grasped at THAT as the solution! Her heart had leaped joyously! It was as if some great weight suddenly had been lifted from it. Now she was numb with horror. What devilish power had taken possession of her in that brief, soul-destroying instant? She shuddered. She was afraid to open her eyes. She reached out with her hand for the support of the table. She had longed for some one to come and tell her that he was dead!
Some one was pounding on the outer door. She had a dim, vague impression that this pounding had been going on for some time. A sort of paralysis benumbed her sensibilities. Her eyes were now wide open, staring. Had her wish come true? Was some, one come to tell her that her horrible wish had come true? Suddenly the fetters fell away. She rushed frantically to the door and turned the knob. The driving wind flung it open with a force that almost swept her off her feet.
Thane stood on the threshold, hatless, panting. The light from the hall, falling upon his face, revealed a long red stain that ran from temple to chin. As she drew back, alarmed, he staggered into the hall, limping painfully, and pushed the door shut behind him.
"Oh!" she gasped.
He shot a swift, searching glance down the hall and into the living-room. Then he held out his arms to her. She was gazing spell-bound into his eager, shining eyes. He waited. She came to him as if drawn by some overpowering magnet. His arms closed about her....She was crushed against his body, she seemed a part of him. His arms were like smothering coils that pressed the life out of her; his hungry lips were fastened upon hers, hot and lustful.
Presently she began to struggle. Shame,—a vast, sickening shame,—possessed her. She was conscious of the wild, increasing lust that mastered him. She tried to tear herself from contact with his body, as from something base, unclean, revolting. His kisses held her. She was powerless to resist the passion that swept over her. Once more she surrendered,—and then came the shame, the overwhelming shame. She was debased, defiled! She put her hand to his face and pushed frantically to release herself from those consuming, unholy lips.
Suddenly he freed her, and sprang back, panting but triumphant. She heard him whisper, hoarsely, rapturously:
"God!"
Some one was coming. He had caught the sound of footsteps,—somewhere. Alix sank breathless, rigid, almost fainting, upon the hall-seat.
"Darling!" he whispered passionately. She half arose, caught once more by the irresistible spell that had first swept her into his embrace. He shook his head. Then she heard him speak. He was looking past her.
"I'm all right, Mrs. Strong. Don't mind me. Telephone for help."
"I have telephoned," cried Mrs. Strong, coming toward them quickly. "Help is coming. Good heavens! You are bleeding! Were you hit?"
III — The question aroused Alix. She was aware of something wet and sticky on the palm of her hand. She looked. It was covered with blood. Then she remembered putting her hand against his cheek. As if fascinated she stared for a second or two before her wits returned. Mrs. Strong must not see that bloody hand. She would know! Guiltily she clenched her fingers again and thrust her hand behind her back. She shuddered at the feel of the moist, sticky substance, and turned suddenly sick. Her one thought was to get to her room where she could wash away the tell-tale evidence. Again she heard him speaking, and hung on his words.
"Nothing but a scratch. I fell while chasing him. He got the start of me. My overcoat bothered me. I got it off, but not in time. It's out there somewhere. My rotten old leg is the worst. I twisted it when I jumped over the fence. That's when I fell. Tripped over some bushes or something. I was gaining on him. Up in the woods, you see. He was making for the road above. Oh, if this leg of mine was any good, I would have—" He broke off short to grip his knee with both hands, his face twitching with pain. The sentences came jerkily, breathlessly.
"Send for Dr. Smith!" Alix cried out suddenly. "Be quick! He has been shot,—I know he has been shot. Go—"
"It's a scratch, I tell you, Alix," he protested. "He didn't get me. He fired at me, but it was dark. I'm all right. There is no time to lose. If they get after him at once they'll catch him. I can show them which way he went. Where the devil are they? We ought to have every man in town out there in the woods. Did you tell 'em to bring guns? He's armed. He—"
"You ARE hurt," cried Alix. "You MUST have the doctor. Oh, for heaven's sake, DO SOMETHING!" The last was directed impatiently to Mrs. Strong.
"I'll give him a basin of water,—and some court plaster," said the older woman, who had looked closely at the scratch on the young man's cheek. "It doesn't amount to anything,—if that's all, Mr. Thane?"
"That's all,—except my knee, and that will be all right in a few minutes. Let me sit down here a minute. Not in there,—I'm covered with dirt and burrs and,—I might get some of this filthy blood on,—that's all right, Mrs. Strong, thank you. I'll be able to go out with the gang as soon as they come. Gad! It's going to be great sport. Man-hunting!"
Alix was leaning against the end of the hall-seat, watching him as if fascinated. He bent an ardent, significant look upon her, and her eyes widened slightly under the contact.
"I'll get some water ready for you in the kitchen, and a—" began Mrs. Strong, but Alix, suddenly alive, intercepted her with a cry.
"No! I will go, Aunt Nancy,—I insist!" And before Mrs. Strong could offer a word of protest, she flashed past her and was running up the stairs.
A look of chagrin leaped into Courtney's eyes. He had counted on another minute or two alone with her. Under his breath he muttered an oath.
Alix's bedroom door opened and closed. Mrs. Strong was still looking in astonishment up the staircase.
"I—she's pretty badly upset, Mr. Thane," she said at last. "That face in the window,—and everything."
"Good Lord,—you don't mean to say you saw him?"
"Yes,—looking in that window over there. Only for a second. You must have scared him away."
"Then, by George, you can identify him!"
"He had a mask on. Didn't you see his face?"
"No. It was dark. Masked, you say. That's bad. It will be hard to swear—Still, I saw his figure. Short, heavy fellow. Wore a cap."
She continued to look anxiously up the stairs.
"Wait here," she said shortly. "I must go up to her. Go to the kitchen if you like, and wash the blood off. I'll be back in a jiffy."
He waited till she was out of sight, and then limped into the living-room,—but with a swiftness incredible in one with a twisted knee. Going direct to the fireplace, he took something out of his coat pocket and, after a glance at door and window, quickly consigned it to the flames. A small black object it was, that crumpled softly in his palm and was consumed in a flash by the flames. A moment later he entered the kitchen, bringing consternation to the two excited domestics, both of whom sent up cries of alarm at the sight of his bloody face.
Meanwhile Mrs. Strong had surprised Alix in her bathroom, frantically washing her hands. She looked up and saw the housekeeper standing in the door behind her. The bowl was half full of reddish water. The expression of disgust in her eyes remained for a moment and then gave way to confusion. Neither spoke for some time.
"What are you doing?" asked Mrs. Strong.
"Oh, Aunt Nancy!" came in a choked voice from the girl's lips.
"Is that blood?"
"Yes," replied Alix, looking away.
"I—I understand. Oh, Alix,—Alix!"
"I don't know what made me do it,—I couldn't help myself. I—Oh, it was terrible! I don't love him,—I don't love him! As long as I live,—as long as I live, I shall never forget it. I shall never know anything like it again. I could feel my soul being dragged out of my body,—Oh, Aunt Nancy! What am I to do? What is to become of me?"
"There's only one thing for you to do now," said the other, slowly, levelly. "Stay in this room. Lock the door. Don't see him again. Keep away from him. He's—he's bad, Alix!"
"But he is not a coward!" cried the girl eagerly. "He followed that man, he chased him, he was shot at,—that is not what a coward would do. Addison Blythe is mistaken. Those men are mistaken. He—"
"I hear people downstairs,—and out in the yard. You must obey me, Alix. You must not see him again tonight. God in heaven, what kind of a spell has he cast upon you? The spell of the devil! Child, child,—don't you understand? That's what it is. The spell that makes women helpless! Stay here! I will send Hilda up to you."
"Why do you blame him for everything?" cried the girl hotly. "Doesn't a woman ever cast this spell you speak of? What defence has a man against—"
"Do you call yourself an evil woman? Nonsense! Don't talk like that. I am not blaming him. He can't help himself. He loves you. That's not his fault. But you do not love him. You are afraid of him. You would run from him if you could. He must go away. You must send him away. Tell him of Blythe's letter. Face him with it. Tomorrow,—not tonight. You are not yourself tonight. Trust me, dearest Alix. Do as I tell you. Promise."
"I will not come down," said Alix slowly, and Mrs. Strong went out. She heard the key turn in the door.