All night long bands of men scoured the woods and fields, with lanterns and dogs and guns. Courtney Thane, thrilled by that one glorious, overpowering moment of contact, sallied forth with the first of the searchers. He showed them where the masked man vaulted over the porch rail, and the course he took in crossing the terrace, below which Courtney's coat was found where he had cast it aside at the beginning of the chase. The first shot was fired as the man climbed over the fence separating the old-fashioned garden from the wooded district to the west, the second following almost immediately. Thane was over the fence and picking himself up from the ground after tripping when the last shot was fired. He ran forty or fifty yards farther on and then his knee gave out. Realizing that pursuit was useless under the circumstances, he hurried back to the house to give the alarm.
It appears that he first saw the man as he was nearing the top of the steps leading to the terrace. The fellow's figure, in a crouching position, was distinctly outlined against the lighted window.
"Kind of a funny time for a robber to be monkeyin' around a house," said Charlie Webster, after Courtney had concluded his brief story. "Eight o'clock is no time to figure on breaking into a house."
"He probably figured that the occupants would be at dinner," said Courtney. "Or maybe he was getting the lay of the land while there were lights to guide him. That is most likely the case. Lord, how I wish I had had a gun!"
"Maybe it's lucky you didn't," said Charlie. "Guns are pretty treacherous things to monkey with, Court. You might have shot yourself."
"Oh, I guess I know how to handle a gun, Charlie," retorted Thane, after a perceptible pause.
"Anyhow," remarked Constable Foss, "we now know why that dog of Alix's was killed. This robber had things purty well sized up. He knowed he had to fix that dog first of all,—and that goes to show another thing. He is purty well posted around these parts. He knowed all about that dog. He ain't no tramp or common stranger. The chances are he ain't even a perfessional burglar. Maybe some dago,—or, by gosh, somebody we all know."
A chosen group waited at the roadside above the Windom place for automobiles which were to be used in the attempt to head off the invader. This was Courtney's idea. He suggested a wide cordon of machines and men as the only means of cutting off the fellow's escape.
"You're not likely to get anywhere, Foss, by keeping up a stern chase," he argued. "He has got too big a lead. Our only chance is to rush a lot of men out ahead of him in cars, and then work back through the woods."
A boy came up with Courtney's fedora hat, which he had picked up in the brush near the fence.
"There's a bullet hole through it, Mr. Thane," he cried in great excitement. "Lookee here!"
Sure enough there was a hole in the crown of the hat.
"Whew!" whistled Courtney, staring at the hat blankly. "I never dreamed—Why, good Lord, a couple of inches lower and he'd have got me. I remember my hat blowing off as I got up, but I thought it was the wind. Where did you find it, kid?"
"Back there by the fence."
"We must have that hat for evidence," said the constable. "Shows the calibre of the bullet, and all that. Bring it down to the office in the morning, Mr. Thane. Better put it on now. You'll ketch cold out here bareheaded."
By this time the lane and grounds were alive with excited people,—men, women and children. Several automobiles approached, sounding their horns. Men were shouting directions, dogs were barking, small children were squalling lustily. Shadowy, indistinct figures scuttled through the darkness, here and there coming into bold relief as they passed before the lamps of automobiles or entered the radius of light shed by an occasional lantern. Half the town was already on the scene, and the belated remainder was either on the way or grimly guarding cash drawers in empty, deserted stores.
Courtney reluctantly announced that he did not feel up to accompanying the searchers, his leg was bothering him so. No, he didn't need a doctor. The confounded thing simply gave out on him whenever he got the least bit reckless, but it seldom if ever amounted to anything. Only made him realize that he couldn't "get gay" with it. He'd be all right in a day or two. Hobble a little, that's all,—like a lame dog. More scared than hurt, you know, etc., etc.
He picked his way through the ever-increasing crowd of agitated people, avoiding rampant automobiles and inquisitive citizens with equal skill, and approached Alix's gate. His blood was rioting. The memory of that triumphant moment when her warm body lay in his arms,—when her lips were his,—when his eager hand pressed the firm, round breast,—ah, the memory of it all set fire to his blood. She had come to him, she had clung to him, she had kissed him! He had won! She was his! He must see her again tonight, hold her once more in his arms, drink of the rapture that came through her lips, caress the throbbing heart she had surrendered to him. Anticipation sent the blood rushing to his head. He grew strangely dizzy. He narrowly escaped being struck by a car.
"The darned fools!" he muttered, as he leaped aside into the shallow ditch.
A figure separated itself from a group near the gate and approached him. There were no lights near and the lane was dark. He could not see the face of the woman who halted directly in front of him, barring the path.
"It is I, Courtney,—Rosabel," came in low, tremulous tones.
He stood stockstill, peering intently.
"Rosabel!" he repeated vacantly.
"I—I saw you. The auto lamp shone on your face."
Her teeth were chattering. Her voice was little more than a whisper.
"You—you poor child!" he cried. "What are you doing here? How do you happen to be—"
"I came over to spend the night with Annie Jordan. I—I do that quite often, Courtney. Aren't—aren't you ever coming to see me again?"
"I was planning to come over tomorrow, Rosie,—tomorrow sure. I've been meaning to run over to your house—"
"I—I thought you had forgotten all about us," she broke in, pathetically. "You wouldn't do that, would you? Didn't you get my letters? I wrote four or five times and you never answered. You—you haven't forgotten, have you?"
"Bless your heart, no! I should say not. I've been so busy. Working like a dog on my book. The one we talked about, Rosie. The story of my experiences over in France, you know."
"Oh, Courtney, are you really, truly writing it?" she cried eagerly.
"Sure," he replied. "It's a tough job, believe me. I've been so busy I haven't even had time to write letters. Mother complains that I never write to her. Dear old mater,—I ought to be kicked for neglecting her. Stacks of unanswered letters. Really, it's appalling. But I've just got to finish this work. The publisher wants it before Christmas."
"You promised to read it to me as you wrote it, Courtney," she murmured wistfully. "Don't you remember?"
"Just as soon as I've got it in little better shape, Rosie. You see, it's an awful mess now. I'm trying so hard to concentrate. It would be different if I were an experienced writer. But I'm a terrible duffer, you know. The least little thing throws me off. I—"
"I wouldn't interfere for the world, Courtney. I will wait. I don't want to bother you. Please don't think about reading it to me now. But,—oh, Courtney, I have wanted to see you so much. You WILL come over, won't you. Or would you rather have me come—"
"I'll be over, Rosie,—tomorrow," he said hastily. "Or the day after, sure. I'm all done up. I can hardly stand on this leg. Did they tell you? I chased the robber up through the woods. Had a bad fall. Bunged up this rotten old knee again."
"You poor boy," she cried. "Yes, I heard them talking about how brave you were. And he shot at you, too. I saw the plaster on your face when the light shone on it a while ago. I was frightened. I forgot to ask you how bad it is. I forgot everything but—but just speaking to you. Is it dangerous? Is it a bad wound?"
"I don't know. The doctor is waiting for me up at Miss Crown's. They sent me back, the other fellows did. I wanted to go with the gang,—but I was weak and—Oh, I'll be all right. Don't you worry, little girl. Dr. Smith may slap me into bed,—"
"You must not be foolish, Courtney. Do what the doctor says. You must get well—oh, you MUST get well!"
She had come quite close to him and was peering at his face. Even in the darkness he could see her big, dark eyes. Her teeth no longer chattered, but there was a perilous quaver in her low, tense voice. She put out a hand to touch him. He drew back.
"I'll be as fit as a fiddle in no time at all," he said hurriedly. "See you tomorrow, Rosie,—or as soon as the blamed old doctor turns me loose. I've got to be on my way now. He's waiting for me up there. May have to put a stitch in my mug,—and yank my leg like the devil, but—"
She still blocked his path.
"Courtney, I'm—I'm terribly unhappy. I want to see you,—very soon."
"I hear you have been ill, Rosie. Some one was telling me you were looking thin and—and all that sort of thing. I hope you're feeling better."
She waited a moment. When she spoke it was with difficulty.
"I'm awfully worried, Courtney," she cried, her voice little more than a whisper. He was silent, so after a little while she went on: "I wish I could die,—I wish I could die!"
"Come, come!" he said reassuringly. "You must not talk like that, Rosie. Cheer up! You're too young to talk about dying. Think what I've been through,—and I'm still alive! I'll run over tomorrow,—or next day,—and try to cheer you up a bit, little girl. So long. I've got to see the doctor. I'm—I'm suffering like the dickens."
"I mustn't keep you, Courtney," she murmured, stepping aside to let him pass. "Good night! You—you WILL come, won't you? Sure?"
"Sure!" he replied, and limped painfully away.
A little later Annie Jordan found her standing beside the road, where he had left her. She was looking up at the brightly lighted house at the top of the lane.
"Goodness!" cried Annie. "I thought you were lost, Rosie. Where on earth have you been?"
"Maybe I AM lost," replied the girl, and Annie, failing to see anything cryptic in the words, laughed gaily at the quaintness of them.
"Come on," she said, thrusting her arm through Rosabel's, "let's go back home. There's nothing doing here. And that wind cuts through one like a knife. Gee, it's fierce, isn't it?"
"I don't want to go in yet," protested Rosabel, hanging back. "Let's wait awhile. Let's wait till Dr. Smith comes out. He's up there with—with Alix Crown. Maybe he can tell us how—"
"Doc Smith isn't up there. He's gone up the road in his car with Dick Hurdle and—why, Rosie, you're shivering like a leaf. Have you got a chill? Come on home. We'll have Dr. Smith in as soon as he gets back to—"
"I don't want the doctor," cried Rosabel fiercely. "I won't have one, I tell you. I won't have one!"
Greatly to Courtney's chagrin, his triumphal progress was summarily checked when he presented himself at the door. He could hardly believe his ears. Miss Crown was in her room and would not be able to see any one that night. She was very nervous and "upset," explained the maid, and had given orders to admit no one. Of course, Hilda went on to say, if Mr. Thane wanted to come in and rest himself, or if there was anything she or the cook could do for him,—but Courtney brusquely interrupted her to say that he was sure Miss Crown did not mean to exclude him, and directed Hilda to take word up to her that he was downstairs.
"It won't do any good," said Hilda, who was direct to say the least. "She's gone to bed. My orders is not to disturb her."
"Are they her orders or Mrs. Strong's orders?" demanded Courtney, driven to exasperation.
"All I can say, sir, is they're MY orders, sir," replied Hilda, quite succinctly.
"All right," said he curtly. Then, as an afterthought: "Please say that I stopped in to see if I could be of any further service to Miss Crown, will you, Hilda?"
He was very much crestfallen as he made his way down the steps to the lane. This wasn't at all what he had expected.
There were a number of people near the gate. Instead of going directly down the walk, he turned to the right at the bottom of the terrace and cut diagonally across the lawn. Coming to one of the big oaks he sat down for a moment on the rustic seat that encircled its base. Sheltered from the wind he managed to strike a match and light a cigarette. Assured that no one was near, he leaned over and felt with his hand under the bench. His fingers closed upon an object wedged between the seat and one of the slanting supports. Quickly withdrawing it, he dropped it into his overcoat pocket, and, after a moment, resumed his progress, making for the carriage gate in the left lower corner of the grounds.
He had a sharp eye out for Rosabel Vick. He heard Annie Jordan's high-pitched voice in the road ahead of him and slackened his pace. In due time he limped up the steps of Dowd's Tavern.
Several women were in the "lounge," chattering like magpies in front of the fire. There were no men about. He went in and for ten minutes listened to the singing of his praises. Then, requesting a pitcher of hot water, he hobbled upstairs, politely declining not only the Misses Dowd's offer to bathe and bandage his heroic knee, but Miss Grady's bottle of witchhazel, Miss Miller's tube of Baume Analgesique and old Mrs. Nichols' infallible remedy for every ailment under the sun,—a flaxseed poultice.
The first thing he did on entering his room was to open his trunk and deposit therein the shiny object he had recovered from its hiding-place under the tree-seat. Before hanging his hat on the clothes-tree in the corner of the room, he thoughtfully examined the bullet hole in the crown.
"Thirty-eight calibre, all right," he reflected. Poking his forefinger through the hole, he enlarged it to some extent. "More like a forty-four now," he said in a satisfied tone.
Margaret Slattery brought up the hot water and some fresh firewood for his stove, in which the fire burned low.
"Would you be liking a drink of whiskey, Mr. Thane?" she inquired, with a stealthy look over her shoulder. "You're all done up,—and half-frozen, I guess."
"Whiskey?" he exclaimed. "There ain't no sitch animal," he lamented dolefully.
"Miss Jennie's got some cooking brandy stuck away in the cellar," whispered Margaret. "We use it at Christmas time,—for the plum pudding, you know. I guess it's the same thing as whiskey, ain't it?"
"Well, hardly. Still, I think I could do with a nip of it, Maggie."
"I'll see what I can do," said Margaret, and departed.
She did not return, for the very good reason that Miss Jennie apprehended her in the act of pouring something from a dark brown bottle into a brand new fruit jar.
"What are you doing there, Maggie?" demanded Miss Dowd from the foot of the cellar stairs.
Miss Slattery's back was toward her at the time. She was startled into hunching it slightly, as if expecting the lash of a whip,—an attitude of rigidity maintained during the brief period in which her heart suspended action altogether.
"I'm—I'm getting some vinegar for Mr. Thane to gargle with, Miss Jennie," she mumbled. "He's—he's got a sore throat."
"Let me smell that stuff, Maggie," said Miss Jennie sternly. One sniff was sufficient. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Margaret Slattery, leading a young man into temptation like this. You may be starting him on the road to perdition. It is just such things as this that—"
"Oh, gosh!" exclaimed Margaret, recovering herself. "Don't you go thinking he's as good as all that. From what he was telling me at breakfast the other day, he used to make the round trip to purgatory every night or so,—only he said it was paradise. Keep your old brandy. He wouldn't like it anyway. Not him! He says he's swallered enough champagne to float the whole American Navy."
"The very idea!" exclaimed Miss Jennie. "Go to your room, Maggie. It's bad enough for you to be stealing but when you make it worse by lying, I—"
"I'm quitting you in the morning," said Margaret, her Irish up.
"It won't be the first time," said Miss Jennie, imperturbably.
Courtney sat for a long time before the booming little stove. He forgot Margaret Slattery and her mission.
"I guess it took her off her feet," he reflected aloud. "That's the way with some of them. They get panicky. Go all to pieces when they find out what it really means to let go of themselves. God! She's wonderful!" He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes; a smile settled on his lips. For a long time he sat there, fondling the memory of that blissful moment. A slight frown made its appearance after a while. He opened his eyes. His thoughts had veered. "What rotten luck! If it could only have been Alix instead of that—" He arose abruptly and began pacing the floor. After a long time he sighed resignedly. "I mustn't forget to telephone her tomorrow." Then he began to undress for bed.
He looked at his knee. There was a deep, irregular scar on the outside of the leg, while on the inside a knuckle-like protuberance of considerable size provided ample evidence of a badly shattered joint, long since healed. Along the thigh there was another wicked looking scar, with several smaller streaks and blemishes of a less pronounced character. He placed some hot compresses on the joint, gave it a vigorous massage, and, before getting into bed, worked it up and down for several minutes.
"Clumsy ass!" he muttered. "Next time you'll watch your step. Don't go jumping over fences in the dark. Gad, for a couple of minutes I thought I'd put it on the blink for keeps."
The next morning, up in the woods above Alix's house, the crude black mask was found, and some distance farther on an old grey cap, from which the lining and sweatband had been ripped. The search for the man, however, was fruitless. Constable Foss visited the camp of a gang of Italian railroad labourers near Hawkins and was reported to be bringing several indignant "dagoes" over to Windomville to see if Courtney or the two ladies could identify them. He was very careful to choose men with thick black moustaches.
Bright and early, Courtney repaired to the house on the hill. His progress was slow. Aside from the effort it cost him to walk, he was delayed all along the route by anxious, perturbed citizens who either complimented him on his bravery or advised him to "look out for that cut" on his cheek, or he'd have "a tough time if blood-poisoning set in."
Mrs. Strong admitted him.
"Well, when will she be able to see me?" he demanded on being informed that Alix was in no condition to see any one.
"I can't say," said Mrs. Strong shortly.
"Have you had the doctor in to see her?"
"No."
"Well, that's rather strange, isn't it?"
"Not at all, Mr. Thane. She isn't ill. She has had a shock,—same as I have had,—and she'll get over it in good time."
"You seem to have survived the shock remarkably well, Mrs. Strong," he said with unmistakable irony.
"How is the scratch on your face?" she asked, ignoring the remark.
"Amounts to nothing," he replied, almost gruffly. "I'll write a little note to Alix, if you'll be so good as to take it up to her."
"Very well. I'll see that she gets it. Will you write it here?"
"If you don't mind. I'll wait in case she wants to send down an answer."
"I'll get you some paper and pen and ink," said she.
"Some paper, that's all. I have a fountain pen."
He dashed off a few lines, folded the sheet of note paper and handed it to Mrs. Strong. He had written nothing he was unwilling for her to read. In fact, he expected her to read it as soon as she was safely out of his sight.
"She thinks she may feel up to seeing you tomorrow—or next day," reported the housekeeper on her return from Alix's room.
His rankling brain seized upon the words—" tomorrow—next day." He had used them himself only the night before. "Tomorrow,—or next day!" He frowned. Hang it all, was she putting him off? He experienced a slight chill.
"I will run in again in the morning," he said, managing to produce a sympathetic smile. "And I'll telephone this evening to see how she is."
All the way down the walk to the gate, he kept repeating the words "tomorrow,—or next day." In some inexplicable way they had fastened themselves upon him. At the gate he turned and looked up at Alix's bedroom windows. The lace curtains hung straight and immovable. It pleased him to think that she was peering out at him from behind one of those screens of lace, soft-eyed and longingly. Moved by a sudden impulse, he waved his hand and smiled.
His guess was right. She WAS looking down through the narrow slit between the curtains. Her eyes were dark and brooding and slightly contracted by the perplexity that filled them. She started back in confusion, her hand going swiftly to her breast. Was it possible that he could see through the curtains? A warm flush mantled her face. She felt it steal down over her body. Incontinently she fled from the window and hopped back into the warm bed she had left on hearing the front door close.
"How silly!" she cried irritably. She sat bolt upright and looked at her reflection in the mirror of her dressing-table across the room. Her night-dress had slipped down from one shapely shoulder; her dark, glossy hair hung in two long braids down her back; her warm, red lips were parted in a shy, embarrassed smile.
"I wonder—But of course he couldn't. Unless,—" and here the smile faded away,—"unless he possesses some strange power to see through walls and—Sometimes I feel that he has that power. If he could not see me, why did he wave his hand at me?"
There came a knock at her door. She was seized by a sudden panic. For a moment she was unable to speak.
"Alix! Are you awake?"
It was Mrs. Strong's voice. A vast wave of relief swept through her.
"Goodness!" she gasped, and then: "Come in, Aunt Nancy?"
"Courtney Thane has just been here," said the housekeeper as she approached the bed.
"Has he?" inquired Alix innocently.
"He left a note for you."
"Read it to me," said the girl.
"'Dearest: I am grieved beyond words to hear that you are so awfully done up. I am not surprised. It was enough to bowl anybody over. I did not sleep a wink last night, thinking about it. I have been living in a daze ever since. I cannot begin to tell you how disappointed I am in not being able to see you this morning. Perhaps by tonight you will feel like letting me come. Ever yours, Courtney.'"
"Well?" said Mrs. Strong, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
A fine line appeared between Alix's eyes. She was deep in thought.
"Have they caught the man?" she asked, after a moment.
"Not that I know of. What's more, they'll never catch him. Bill Foss sent word up he was bringing several Italians here to see if we could identify one of them as the man."
"How can we be expected to identify a man whose face was covered by a mask?"
"Well, Bill is doing his best," replied Mrs. Strong patiently. "We've got to say that much for him. Charlie Webster was here early this morning to say that the police up in town have been notified, and they're sending a detective out. But he won't be any better than Bill Foss, so it's a waste of time. What we ought to have is a Pinkerton man from Chicago."
Despite the calm, deliberate manner in which she spoke, there was an odd, eager light in Mrs. Strong's eyes.
"I wish you would go down to the warehouse, Aunt Nancy, and ask Charlie to take the car and go up to the city. Tell him to call up the Pinkerton offices in Chicago and ask them to send the best man they have. No one must know about it, however. Impress that very firmly upon Charlie. Not even the police—or Bill Foss. Have him arrange to meet the man in town and give him directions and all the information possible. Please do it at once,—and tell Ed to have the car ready."
"That's the way I like to hear you talk," cried Mrs. Strong.
Half an hour later, Charlie Webster was on his way to the city. He had an additional commission to perform. Mrs. Strong was sending a telegram to her son David.
II — The next day a well-dressed, breezy-looking young man walked into Charlie's office and exclaimed:
"Hello, Uncle Charlie!"
"Good Lord!" gasped Charlie Webster. "It can't be—why, by gosh, if it ain't Harry! Holy smoke!" He jumped up and grasped the stranger's hand. Pumping it vigorously, he cried: "I'd know that Conkling nose if I saw it in Ethiopia. God bless my soul, you're—you're a MAN! It beats all how you kids grow up. How's your mother? And what in thunder are you doing here?"
"I guess I've changed a lot, Uncle Charlie," said the young man, "but you ain't? You look just the same as you did fifteen years ago."
"How old are you? My gosh, I can't believe my eyes."
"I was twenty-four last birthday. You—"
"If ever a feller grew up to look like his father, you have, Harry. You're the living image of George Conkling,—and you don't look any more like your mother than you look like me."
"Well, you and Mother look a lot alike, Uncle Charlie. She's thinner than you are but—"
"Well, I should hope so," exploded Charlie. "Take a chair, Harry,—and tell us all about yourself. Wait a minute. Sam, shake hands with my nephew, Harry Conkling,—Mr. Slutterback, Mr. Conkling. Harry lives up in Laporte. His mother—"
"Guess again, Uncle Charlie. No more Laporte for me. I've been living in Chicago ever since I got married. Working for—"
"Married? You married? A kid like you? Well, I'll—be—darned!"
"Sure. And I'm not Harry, Uncle Charlie. I'm Wilbur. Harry's two years older than I am. He's married and got a kid three years old. Lives in Gary."
"You don't mean to say you're little Wilbur? Little freckle-faced Wilbur with the pipe-stem legs?"
Mr. Webster's nephew took a chair near the stove, unbuttoned his overcoat, and held his hands to the fire. He was a tall, rather awkward young man, with large ears, a turned-up nose and a prominent "Adam's Apple."
"I'm working for one of the biggest oil companies in the world. We've got six hundred thousand acres of the finest oil-producing territory in the United States, and we control most of the big concessions in Honduras, Ecuador, Peru, Colombia and—thirty million dollar concern, that's all it is. Oh, you needn't look worried. I'm not going to try to sell you any stock, Uncle Charlie. That is, not unless you've got fifty thousand to invest. I'll tell you what I'm here for. My company wants to interest Miss Crown in—"
"Hold on a minute, Wilbur," interrupted Charlie firmly. "You might just as well hop on a train and go back to Chicago. If you're expecting me to help you unload a lot of bum oil stock on Miss Alix Crown you're barking up the wrong tree,—I don't give a cuss if you are my own sister's son. Miss Crown is my—"
The young man held up his hand, and favoured his uncle with a tolerant smile.
"I'm not asking your help, old chap. I've got a letter to her from Mr. Addison Blythe, one of our biggest stockholders. All I'm asking you to do is to put me up at your house for a day or two while I lay the whole matter before Miss Crown."
"I haven't got any house," said Charlie, rather helplessly. "Wait a second! Let me think. How long do you expect to be here, Wilbur?"
"I wouldn't be here more than half an hour if I could get Miss Crown to say she'd take—"
"Well, she's sick and can't see anybody for a couple of days,—'specially book agents or oil promoters. I was just thinking I might fix something up for you over at the Tavern where I'm staying. It won't cost you a cent, my boy. I'd be a darned cheap sort of an uncle if I couldn't entertain my nephew when he comes to our town,—out of a clear sky, you might say. I'll be mighty glad to have you, Wilbur, but you've got to understand I won't have Miss Crown bothered while she's sick."
"Permit me to remind you, Uncle Charlie, that I am a gentleman. I don't go butting in where I'm not wanted. My instructions from the General Manager are very explicit. I am to see Miss Crown when convenient, and give her all the dope on our gigantic enterprise,—that's all."
"By the way,—er,—is that your automobile out there?"
"It's one I hired in the city."
"You—er—didn't happen to bring your wife with you, did you? Because it would be darned awkward if you did. She'd have to sleep with Angie Miller or Flora—"
"She's not with me, Uncle Charlie,—so don't worry. Of course, if it isn't convenient for you to have me for a day or two, I can motor in and out from the city. Money's no object, you know. I've got a roll of expense money here that would choke a hippopotamus."
"Come on over to the Tavern, Wilbur. We'll see Miss Molly Dowd and fix things up. Sam, if anybody asks for me, just say I'll be back in fifteen minutes."
And that is how "Mortie" Gilfillan, one of the ablest operatives in the Pinkerton service, made his entry into the village of Windomville. Inasmuch as he comes to act in a strictly confidential capacity, we will leave him to his own devices, content with the simple statement that he remained two full days at Dowd's Tavern as the guest of his "Uncle Charlie"; that he succeeded in obtaining an interview with the rich Miss Crown, that he "talked" oil to everybody with whom he came in contact, including Courtney Thane; that he declined to consider the appeals of at least a score of citizens to be "let in on the ground floor" owing to the company's irrevocable decision to sell only in blocks of ten thousand shares at five dollars per share; that he said good-bye to Mr. Webster at the end of his second day and departed—not for Chicago but, very cleverly disguised, to accept a job as an ordinary labourer with Jim Bagley, manager of the Crown farms.
Three days passed. The village had recovered from its excitement. The Weekly Sun appeared with a long and harrowing account of the "vile attempt to rifle the home of our esteemed and patriotic citizeness," and sang the praises of Courtney Thane, whose "well-known valour, acquired by heroic services during the Great War," prevented what might have been "a most lamentable tragedy."
Those three days were singularly unprofitable to the "hero." He was unable to see Alix crown. He made daily visits to her home but always with the same result. Miss Crown was in no condition to see any one.
"But she saw this fellow Conkling," he expostulated on the third day. "He sold her a lot of phony oil stock. If she could see him, I—"
"He came all the way from Chicago to see her,—with a letter from Mr. Blythe," explained Mrs. Strong. "She had to see him. I guess you can wait, can't you, Mr. Thane?"
"Certainly. That isn't the point. If I had seen her in time I should have warned her against buying that stock. She's been let in for a whale of a loss, that's all I can say,—and it's too late to do anything about it. Good Lord, if ever a woman needed a man around the house, she does. She—"
"I will tell her what you say," said Mrs. Strong calmly.
"Don't you do anything of the kind," he exclaimed hastily. "I was speaking to you as a friend, Mrs. Strong. She means a great deal to both of us. You understand how it stands with Alix and me, don't you? I—I would cheerfully lay down my life for her. More than that, I cannot say or do."
"She will be up by tomorrow," said Mrs. Strong, impressed in spite of herself by this simple, direct appeal. (All that day she caught herself wondering if he had cast his spell over her!)
"Please give her my love,—and say that I am thinking about her every second of the day," said he gravely, and went away.
Alix had received another letter from Addison Blythe. Enclosed with it was a communication from an official formerly connected with the American Ambulance. It was brief and to the point:
Courtney Thane volunteered for service in the American Ambulance in Paris in November, 1915. He was accepted and ordered to appear at the hospital at Neuilly-sur-Seine for instructions. His conduct was such that he was dismissed from the service before the expiration of a week, his uniform taken away from him, and a request made to the French Military authorities to see that he was ordered to leave the country at once. Our records show that he left hurriedly for Spain. He was a bad influence to our boys in Paris, and there was but one course left open to us. We have no account of his subsequent movements. With his dismissal from the service, he ceased to be an object of concern to us.
Alix did not destroy this letter. She locked it away in a drawer of her desk. She had made up her mind to confront Thane with this official communication. It was an ordeal she dreaded. Her true reason for refusing to see him was clear to her if to no one else: she hated the thought of hurting him! Moreover, she was strangely oppressed by the fear that she would falter at the crucial moment and that her half-guarded defences would go down before the assault. She knew his strength far better than she knew his weakness. She had had an illuminating example of his power. Was she any stronger now than on that never-to-be-forgotten night?...She put off the evil hour.
And on the same third day of renunciation, she had a letter from David Strong. She wept a little over it, and driven finally by a restlessness such as she had never known before, feverishly dressed herself, and set forth late in the afternoon for a long walk in the open air. She took to the leaf-strewn woodland roads, and there was a definite goal in mind.
II — Courtney remembered Rosabel Vick.
"I guess I'd better call her up," he said to himself. "I ought to have done it several days ago. Beastly rotten of me to have neglected it. She's probably been sitting over there waiting ever since—Gad, she may; have some good news. Maybe she is mistaken."
He went over to the telephone exchange and called up the Vick house. Rosabel answered.
"That you, Rosie?...Well, I couldn't. I've been laid up, completely out of commission ever since I saw you....What?...I—I didn't get that, Rosie. Speak louder,—closer to the telephone."
Very distinctly now came the words, almost in a wail:
"Oh, Courtney, why—why do you lie to me?"
"Lie to you? My dear girl, do you know what you are—"
A low moan, and a harsh, choking sob smote his ear, and then the click of the receiver on the hook.
"Well, I'll be hanged!" he muttered angrily. "That's the last time I'll call you up, take it from me."
And it was the last time he ever called her up.
Then he, too, ravaged by uneasy thoughts, struck off into the country lanes, the better to commune with himself. In due course, he came to the gate leading up to the top of Quill's Window. Here he lagged. His gaze went across the strip of pasture-land to the deserted house above the main-travelled road. He started. His gaze grew more intense. A lone figure traversed the highway. It turned in at the gate, and, as he watched, strode swiftly up the path to the front door....He saw her bend over, evidently to insert a key in the lock. Then the door opened and closed behind her.
III — Every word of David's letter was impressed on Alix's brain. Over and over again she repeated to herself certain passages as she strode rapidly through the winding lanes. She spoke them tenderly, wonderingly, and her eyes were shining.
I have always loved you. I want you to know it. There has never been an hour in all these years that I have not thought of you, that your dear face has not been before me. In France, here, everywhere,—always I am looking into your eyes, always I am hearing your voice, always I am feeling the gentle touch of your hand. Now you know. I could not have told you before. I am the blacksmith's son. God knows I am not ashamed of that. But I cannot forget, nor can you, that a blacksmith's son lies buried at the top of that grim old hill, and that he was not good enough for the daughter of a Windom. I hear that you have given your heart to some one else. You will marry him. But to the end of your days,—and I hope they may be many,—I want you to know that there is one man who will love you with all his heart and all his soul to the end of HIS days. I hope you will be happy. It is my greatest, my only wish. Once upon a time, we stole away, you and I, to write romances of love and adventure. Even then, you were my heroine. I was putting you into my poor story, but you were putting your dreams into yours, and I was not your dream hero. Then we would read to each, other what we had written. Do you remember how guardedly we read and how stealthy we were so as not to arouse suspicion or attract attention to our lair? I shall never forget those happy hours. Every line I wrote and read to you, Alix dear, was of you and FOR you. You were my heroine. My hero, feeble creature, told you how much I loved you, and you never suspected.
I am telling you all this now, when my hope is dead, so that you may know that my love for you began when you were little more than a baby, and has endured to this day and will endure forever. I pray God you may always be happy. And now, in closing, I can only add the trite sentence,—which I recall reading in more than one novel and which I was imitative enough to put into my own unfinished masterpiece: If ever you are in trouble and despair and need me, I will come to you from the ends of the earth. I mean it, Alix. With all the best wishes in the world, I am and will remain
Yours devotedly,
P.S.—I have just looked up from this letter to catch sight of myself in a mirror across the office. I have to smile. That beastly but honourable glass reveals the true secret of my failure to captivate you. How could any self-respecting heroine fall in love with a chap with a nose like mine, and a mouth that was intended for old Goliath himself, and cheek bones that were handed down by Tecumseh, and eyes that squint a little—but I daresay that's because they are somewhat blurred at this particular instant. I am reminded of the "Yank" who had his nose shot off at Chateau Thierry. He said that now that the Germans didn't have anything visible to train their artillery on, the war would soon be over. He had lost his nose but not his sense of the ridiculous. I have managed to retain both.
Up in that bare, dust-laden room, with the two candles burning at her elbows, sat Alix. There were tears in her eyes, a wistful little smile on her lips. She was reading again the clumsy lines David had written in those long-ago days of adolescence. Now they meant something to her. They were stilted, commonplace expressions; she would have laughed at them had they been written by any one else, and she still would have been vastly amused, even now, were it not for the revelations contained in his letter. And the postscript,—how like him to have added that whimsical twist! He wanted her to smile, even though his heart was hurt.
Ten years! Ten years ago they had sat opposite each other at this dusty table, their heads bent to the task, their brows furrowed, their hands reaching out to the same bottle of ink, their souls athrill with romance. And she was writing of a handsome, incredibly valiant hero, whilst he—he was writing of her! Time and again his hand, in seeking the ink, had touched the hand of his heroine,—she remembered once jabbing her pen into his less nimble finger as she went impatiently to the fount of romance, and he had exclaimed with a grimace: "Gee, you must have struck a snag, Alix!" She recalled the words as of yesterday, almost as of this very moment, and her arrogant rejoinder, "Well, why can't you keep your hand out of the way?"
She was always hurting him, and he was always patient. She was always sorry, and he was always forgiving. She was superior in her weakness, he was gentle in his strength.
And his heroine? She read through the mist that filled her eyes and saw herself. The lofty heroine wooed by the poor and humble musician who crept up from unutterable depths to worship unseen at her feet! "The Phantom Singer!" The lover she could not see because her starry eyes were fixed upon the peak! And yet he stood beneath her casement window and sang her to sleep, lulled her into sweet dreams,—and went his lonely way in the chill of the morning hours, only to return again at nightfall.
She looked up from the sheet she held. She stared, not into space, but at the face of David Strong, sitting opposite,—the phantom singer. It was as plain to her as if he were actually there. She looked into his deep grey eyes, honest and true and smiling.
What was it he said in his letter? About his nose and mouth and eyes? They were before her now. That keen, boyish face with its coat of tan,—its broad, whimsical mouth and the white, even teeth that once on a dare had cracked a walnut for her; its rugged jaw and the long, straight nose; its wide forehead and the straight eyebrows; and the thick hair as black as the raven's wing, rumpled by fingers that strove desperately to encourage a recalcitrant brain; and those big, bony hands, so large that her little brown paws were lost in them; and the broad shoulders hunched over the table, supported by widespread elbows that encroached upon her allotted space so often that she had to remind him: "I do wish you'd watch what you're doing," and he would get up and meekly recover the scattered sheets of paper from the floor. Ugly? David ugly? Why, he was BEAUTIFUL!
Suddenly her head dropped upon her arms, now resting on David's manuscript; she sobbed.
"Oh, Davy,—Davy, I wish you were here! I wish you were here now!"
The creaking of the stairs startled her. She half arose and stared at the open door, expecting to see—the ghost! Goose-flesh crept out all over her. The ghost that people said came to—
The very corporeal presence of Courtney Thane appeared in the doorway.
For many seconds she was stupefied. She could see his lips moving, she knew he was speaking, she could see his smile as he approached, and yet only an unintelligible mumble came to her ears.
"—and so I cut across the field and ventured in where angels do not fear to tread," were the first words that possessed any degree of coherency for her.
She hastily thrust the precious manuscript into the drawer. He stopped several feet away and looked about the room curiously, his gaze coming back to her after a moment. The light of the candles was full on her face.
"Well, of all the queer places," he said. "What in the world brings you here? I thought no one ever entered this house, Alix."
"I have not been inside this house in ten years," she said, struggling for control of herself. "I came today to—to look for some papers that were left here. I was on the point of leaving when you came up." She picked up her gloves from the table.
"It's cold here. Do you think it was wise for you to sit here in this chilly—Gad, it's like an ice-house or a tomb. Better let me give you my coat." He started to remove his overcoat. There was an anxious, solicitous expression in his eyes.
"No,—no, thank you. I am quite warm,—and I shall be as warm as toast after I've walked a little way. I must be going now, Mr. Thane." She took a few steps toward the door.
"Are you going away without blowing the candles out?" he inquired.
She halted. She felt herself trapped. She did not want to be alone in the dark with him.
"If you will go ahead while there is light, I will follow—" The solution came suddenly. "How stupid! There is nothing to prevent us carrying the candles downstairs with us, is there? Will you take one, please?"
She returned to the table and took up one of the candlesticks.
"I've been terribly worried about you, Alix," he said, without moving. "How wonderful it is to see you again,—to see what is really you and not the girl I've seen in dreams for the past few endless nights. You in the flesh, you with your beautiful eyes, you whose lips—oh, God, I—I have been nearly mad, Alix. A thousand times I have felt you in my arms,—you've never been out of them in my thoughts. I—"
"Please—please!" she cried, shrinking back and putting her hands to her temples.
Still he did not move. There was a gentleness in his voice, a softness that disarmed her. It was not the voice of a conqueror, rather it was that of a suppliant.
"I am not worthy to touch the hem of your garment," he went on, an expression of pain leaping swiftly to his eyes. "I am most unworthy. My life has not been perfect. I have done many things that I am ashamed of, things I would give my soul to recall. But my love for you, Alix Crown, is perfect. All the good that God ever put into me is in this feeling I have for you. You are the very soul of me. If you tell me to go away, I will go. That is how I love you. You DO believe I love you with all my heart and soul, don't you, Alix? You DO believe that I would die for you?"
Now she was looking into his eyes across the candle flames. David's features had vanished. She saw nothing save the white, drawn face of the man whose voice, sweet with passion, fell upon her ears like the murmur of far-off music. She felt the warm thrill of blood rushing back into her icy veins, surging up to her throat, to her trembling lips, to her eyes.
"I—I don't know what to think—I don't know what to believe," she heard herself saying.
He came a step or two nearer. Her eyes never left his. She tried to look away.
"I want you to me mine forever, Alix. I want you to be my wife. I want you to be with me to the end of my life. I cannot live without you. Do not send me away now. It is too late."
Her knees gave way. She sank slowly to the bench,—and still she looked into his gleaming eyes.
He came to her. She was in his arms. His face was close to hers, his breath was on her cheek....
"No! No!" she almost shrieked, and wrenched herself free. "Not now! Not here! Give me time—give me time to think!"
She had sprung to her feet and was glaring at him with the eyes of an animal at bay. He fell back in astonishment.
"You—you had no right to follow me here," she was crying. "You had no right! This place is sacred. It is sanctuary." Her voice broke. "My mother was born in this room. She died in this room. And I was born here. Go! Please go!"
He controlled himself. He held back those words that were on his tongue, ready to be flung out at her: "Yes, and in this room you behaved like hell with David Strong!" But he checked them in time. He lowered his head.
"Forgive me, Alix," he said abjectly. "I—I did not know. I was wrong to follow you here. I could not help myself. I was mad to see you. Nothing could have stopped me." He looked up, struck by a sudden thought. "You call this sanctuary. It is a sacred place to you. Will you make it sacred to me? Promise here and now, in this sanctuary of yours, to be my wife, and all my life it shall be the most sacred spot on earth."
She turned her head quickly to look at David Strong. A startled, incredulous expression leaped into her eyes. He was not there. By what magic had he vanished? She had felt his presence. He was sitting there a moment ago, his tousled head bent down over the pad of paper,—she was sure of it! Then she realized. A wave of relief surged over her. He was not there to hear this man making love to her in the room where he had poured out his soul to her. She experienced a curious thrill of exultation. David could never take back those unspoken words of love. She had them safely stored away in that blessed drawer!
A flush of shame leaped to her cheeks. She could not banish the notion that he,—honest, devoted David,—had seen her in this man's arms, clinging to him, giving back his passionate kisses with all the horrid rapture of a—She stiffened. Her head went up. She faced the man who had robbed David.
"I cannot marry you," she said quietly. The spell was gone. She was herself again. "I do not love you."
He stared, speechless, uncomprehending.
"You—you do not love me?" he gasped.
"I do not love you," she repeated deliberately.
"But, good God, you—you couldn't have kissed me as you—"
"Please!"
"—as you did just now," he went on, honestly bewildered. "You put your arms around my neck,—you kissed me—"
"Stop! Yes, I know I did,—I know I did. But it was not love,—it was not love! I don't know what it was. You have some dreadful, appalling power to—Oh, you need not look at me like that! I don't care THAT for your scorn. Call me a fool, if you like,—call me ANYTHING you like. It is all one to me now. What's done, is done. But it can never happen again. I will not even say that I am ashamed, for in saying so I would be confessing that I was responsible for my actions. I was not responsible. That is all, Mr. Thane. No doubt you are sincere in asking me to be your wife. No doubt your love for me is sincere. I should like to think so—always. It would help me to forget my own weakness. I am going. I want you to leave this house before I go, Mr. Thane."
She spoke calmly, evenly, with the utmost self-possession.
"I can't let you go like this, Alix! I can't take this as final. You—you MUST care for me. How can I think otherwise? In God's name, what has happened to turn you against me? You owe me more of an explanation than—"
"You are right," she interrupted. "I do owe you an explanation. This is not the time or the place to give it. If you will come to see me tomorrow, I will tell you everything. It is only fair that you should know. But not now."
"Has some one been lying about me?" he demanded, his eyes narrowing.
She waited an instant before replying.
"No, Mr. Thane," she said; "no one has been lying about you."
He took up his hat from the table.
"I will come tomorrow," he said. At the door he paused to say: "But I am not going to give you up, Alix. You mean too much to me. I think I understand. You are frightened. I—I should not have come here."
"Yes, I WAS frightened," she cried out shrilly. "I was frightened,—but I am not afraid now."
She had moved to Thane's side of the table, and there she stood until she heard his footsteps on the little porch outside.
She was in an exalted frame of mind as she hurried from the house. The short October day had turned to night. For a moment she paused, peering ahead. A queer little thrill of alarm ran through her. She had never been afraid of the dark before. But now she shivered. A great uneasiness assailed her. She listened intently. Far up the hard gravel road she heard the sound of footsteps, gradually diminishing. He was far ahead of her and walking rapidly.
At the gate she stopped again. Then she struck out resolutely for home,—the Phantom Singer was beside her. She was not afraid.
A farm-hand, leaning on the fence at the lower corner of the yard, scratched his head in perplexity.
"Well, here's a new angle to the case," he mused sourly. "I'm up a tree for sure. Why the devil should Miss Crown be meeting him out there in this old deserted house. My word, it begins to look a trifle spicy. It also begins to look like a case that ought to be dropped before it gets too hot. I guess it's up to me to see my dear old Uncle Charlie What's-His-Name."
Whereupon Mr. Gilfillan set off in the wake of the girl who had employed him to catch the masked invader.