I sat down again and examined my find more closely. I am no connoisseur of lace, yet even I could appreciate the handkerchief's exquisite beauty. But how came it here, crushed into a corner of this chair? Whose was it? Some instinct—or was it merely a delusive hope?—told me that it belonged to Marcia Lawrence—that it was she who had left it here—that the tears which dampened it were her tears, tears of bitter, bitter sorrow for dead hopes and a future which had changed from gold to grey. She had stolen into the library for a moment's peace, that she might face her sorrow and decide what she must do. She had left it——
But I shook myself together impatiently. All this was merely theorising; I must lay my foundation first, get my facts; then perhaps it might be possible to build a theory which would prove the right one. Thus far in the investigation, I felt that I had been met with evasion rather than with frankness; I suspected that an attempt was being made to puzzle and bewilder me; I could see that my presence in the house was unwelcome to Mrs. Lawrence. Well, my stay would be a short one; I dropped the handkerchief into my pocket, opened the door, and stepped out into the hall.
The front door was open and two men were tugging an immense palm through it. Another was engaged in taking down the wreaths of smilax. By the tenderness with which he handled them I recognised the decorator. He stopped and looked at me inquiringly as I went toward him.
"I've come down from New York," I explained, "at the request of Mr. Curtiss to assist him in finding Miss Lawrence. You, I believe, are the last person who is known to have seen her. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
"Go ahead," he said, beaming with self-importance. "I'll be glad to tell you anything I know, sir."
"Do you remember what time it was when you called Miss Lawrence down to have a last look at the decorations?"
"It must have been nearly half-past eleven, sir. I remember hearing a clock strike eleven and thinking it'd take me about half an hour to get through."
"Did you notice anything peculiar in her behaviour?"
"Peculiar? No, sir. She was very kind and said some nice things about my work."
"She did not seem sad nor depressed?"
"Oh, no, sir; quite the contrary."
"When she left you, did she return upstairs?"
"I think so, sir. At least, she started for the stairs. I stepped into the dining-room for a moment to make sure everything was all right, and when I came out again she was gone."
"Was there any one else in the hall?"
"No, sir; I think not; not just at that moment, though of course people were passing back and forth through it all the time."
"Did you notice a man loitering about—a stranger—middle-aged, dark-complexioned, with a dark beard or moustache—rather striking in appearance—perhaps a little dissolute?"
"No, sir," he answered, with a stare of surprise. "I didn't see any stranger about the whole morning—nobody I didn't know."
I confess I was rather disappointed; I had hoped that my shot would tell.
"And you heard no unusual noise—no scream, nor anything of that sort."
"No, sir; though I was so busy and worried I dare say I wouldn't have heard a cannon-shot."
"When did you learn that something was wrong?"
"I heard Mrs. Lawrence asking if any one had seen her daughter. Then she sent some of the servants to look for her."
"What time was that?"
"About ten minutes after I had spoken to her."
"Yes—what then?"
"Well, I didn't pay much attention, at first; but when the bridesmaids came, they raised such a hullabaloo that I couldn't help but take notice."
"What did Mrs. Lawrence do?"
"Why, she tried to quiet them—I must say she was the coolest one in the house—except one."
"Who was that?"
"Miss Lawrence's maid. She just sat there on the stairs and glowered and grinned and chewed her nails and never said a word. She gave me the creeps. I could swear she knew all about it and was glad of it."
I repressed a chuckle of satisfaction. Here was better luck than I had expected.
"How was Miss Lawrence dressed when you saw her?" I asked.
"All in rustly white. I judged it was her wedding-dress."
"And you say she seemed quite as usual?"
"Yes, sir; only, of course, excited, as any woman would be—though calm, too, and with a sort of deep glow in her eyes when she looked at you. I can't describe it, sir; but I remember thinking that the man who was to get her was a mighty lucky fellow. Did you know her, sir?"
"No," I said; "I've never seen her."
"Ah," he added, closing his eyes for an instant, "if you'd seen her then, you'd never forget it. I never will. I never saw another woman to touch her!" and he turned away to his work, with the vision he had conjured up evidently still before him.
As I started along the hall, I saw through the open front door a mail-carrier coming up the walk. I hastened to meet him—this was another fortunate chance.
"How many deliveries do you make a day out here?" I asked, as he came up the steps with a bundle of letters in his hand—I could guess the belated congratulations which were among them!
"Only two—morning and afternoon," he answered.
"What time in the morning?"
"About nine o'clock, usually."
"It was about that time this morning?"
"Yes, sir; maybe ten minutes after nine."
"Who took the mail?"
"I put it in the box here in the vestibule, as I always do," he said, and suited the action to the word.
I watched him as he walked away. So it had not been a letter which had caused Miss Lawrence's sudden panic. That reduced the possibilities to two. Either she had received a visitor or a telegram. I must endeavour to——
A voice at my elbow aroused me.
"Mrs. Lawrence wishes to see you, sir," it said.
I turned, to find standing beside me the woman who had brought the note to Mrs. Lawrence in the library—the woman whose attitude of malignant triumph had so startled me. I blessed the chance which made it possible for me to question her alone.
"Very well," I said. "Are you Mrs. Lawrence's maid?"
"No, sir; I'm Miss Marcia's maid."
"Ah!" I said, and permitted myself to look at her more closely. She was a woman apparently somewhat over thirty. She had very black hair and eyes, and her face, while not actually repellent, had in it a certain fierceness and hardness far from attractive. A fiery and emotional nature was evident in every line of it—a sinister nature, too, it seemed to me—and I remembered her as I had seen her standing in the library door, exulting in another's misery. I pictured her as the decorator had described her, sitting on the stair, grinning and biting her nails in a kind of infernal triumph. Why should Miss Lawrence have chosen such a woman to attend her? As I looked at her, I saw the folly of attempting to win her confidence—the whip was the only weapon that could touch her—and it must be wielded mercilessly.
"Mrs. Lawrence wishes to see you," she said again, and I fancied there was defiance in the eyes she turned upon me for the merest instant.
"In a moment. Was it you who found the note your mistress left for Mr. Curtiss?"
"Yes, sir," and she glanced at me again, this time with a quick suspicion.
"It was on her dressing-table, I believe?"
"Yes, sir."
"How did you happen to find it?"
"I just happened to see it, sir."
"It was lying in plain sight?"
"Yes, sir."
"Not concealed in any way—nothing lying over it?"
She hesitated an instant, and shot me another quick glance before she answered.
"I believe not, sir," she said at last.
"Of course it wouldn't be concealed," I said reassuringly. "Miss Lawrence probably left it where she thought it would be most quickly seen, don't you think so?"
"Yes, sir; I suppose so."
"And her dressing-table was a very conspicuous place?"
"Yes, sir; very conspicuous."
"In that case," I said slowly, "it seems most peculiar that the letter wasn't discovered at once."
She flushed hotly under my gaze and opened her lips to reply, but thought better of it and started hastily up the stair. I followed her in silence; but I had much to think about. What connection had she with Miss Lawrence's disappearance? What connection could she have? Miss Lawrence would scarcely make a confidante of her maid, more especially of such a maid as this! At the stairhead I held her back for a final question.
"When did you see your mistress last?"
"When she left her room to go downstairs to look at the decorations," she answered, so docilely that I was inclined to believe her former defiance wholly my imagination.
"You remained behind in the room?"
"Yes, sir."
"And she did not return?"
"No, sir."
"Then how do you explain the presence of the letter on the dresser?"
She flushed again, more hotly than before; she realised that I had caught her in a lie.
"I—I can't explain it, sir," she stammered. "I didn't consider it any of my business," she added fiercely.
"I think you'll find it difficult to explain," I said, with irony; "even more difficult than how it came to lie there unperceived for nearly three hours. You'll pardon me if I find the story hard to believe."
"It's nothing to me whether or not you believe it!" she retorted and made a motion to go on again.
"No," I said; "wait a moment. Which is her room?"
"This one here," and she pointed to a half-open door just beside us.
Ignoring her gesture of protest, I pushed the door back and stepped inside.
The room was a large and pleasant one, well lighted and looking out upon the grove at the east side of the house. There was some little disorder apparent, and over a chair at the farther side of the room I saw a veil lying—no doubt the bridal veil. For the moment I did not seek to see more, but turned back into the hall.
"Nothing there," I said, as though my inspection of the room was ended. "I suppose you helped Miss Lawrence to dress?"
"Yes, sir."
"And she had on her wedding-gown when she went downstairs?"
"Yes, sir, all but the veil."
"What was the colour of the gown?"
"White, sir," she answered, with evident contempt. "White satin made very plain."
"With a train?"
"Yes, sir, with a train."
"Thank you," I said. Plainly, a woman garbed in that fashion must be a marked object, wherever she went. Then, seeing that the maid waited for further questions, I added, "That is all, I believe."
She opened a door just across the hall and motioned me to precede her. I found myself in a pleasant sitting-room, and looked about for Mrs. Lawrence, but she was not there. The maid went to an inner door which stood half-open, and knocked.
"In a moment," called a low voice, and I heard a rustle of draperies. Instinctively I knew that Mrs. Lawrence had been upon her knees.
But I was not prepared for the deep distress which I saw in her countenance the instant she appeared upon the threshold. So worn and drawn was it, so changed even in the brief time since I had seen her last, that I scarcely knew her. What had happened? Was her self-control giving way under the strain, or had there been some new shock, some more poignant blow which she had been unable to withstand?
She came straight to me where I stood staring, perhaps a little brutally, and lifted tear-dimmed eyes to mine.
"Mr. Lester," she said, in a choked voice, "I must ask that this search for Marcia cease."
I stared at her a moment without replying—so shewasguilty! So shedidknow! I heard the opening of the door as the maid left the room, and the sound somehow restored me a portion of my self-control.
"Cease? But why?" I asked. "Surely——"
"Marcia has said that the marriage is impossible," she interrupted. "Is not that enough?"
"Mr. Curtiss does not think so. And if it is impossible, he, at least, has a right to know why."
"Marcia has decided not; she has no wish to bring reproach to the memory of a respected man, who——"
She checked herself—but she had already said too much.
"Then you know why your daughter left so suddenly?" I questioned. "But an hour ago, you said you didn't know."
"I did not then," she murmured.
"I have no wish to know," I went on rapidly, noting her sudden pallor. "I have no right to know. But I'm here to find Miss Lawrence so that Mr. Curtiss can, at least, have a last talk with her. That seems a reasonable demand. Do you know where she is?"
"No!" she answered explosively.
"She is not in this house?"
"Assuredly not; I have already told you she is not here."
"I fancied perhaps she had returned."
"Such a suspicion is absurd."
"You've had no word from her?"
"Not a single word."
"Then it wasn't she who told you the cause of her disappearance?"
"She told me nothing."
I had no need to ask who it was; some instinct told me it was the maid.
"And you saw her last——"
"When she left me to dress, as I've already told you. I've been speaking the truth, Mr. Lester."
"Pardon me," I said; "I hadn't the least doubt of it; but I'm sure you can appreciate my position, can look at it from Mr. Curtiss's side. Perhaps you suspect where Miss Lawrence is, without being absolutely certain. If you would tell me——"
She stopped me with a sudden gesture; I saw that I had touched the truth.
"Or, at least," I persisted, pressing my advantage, "if you know why your daughter fled, you might yourself tell Mr. Curtiss——"
Again she stopped me.
"The secret is not mine," she said hoarsely.
"Whose is it? Who has the right to tell?"
"No one!"
"And you will let it wreck two lives?"
I saw the spasm of pain which crossed her face. She must yield; a moment more, and I should know the secret!
"To-morrow—give me till to-morrow!" she cried. "Perhaps you're right—I must think—I cannot decide now—instantly. There are so many things to consider—the dead as well as the living."
"Very well," I agreed. "I will call to-morrow morning——"
"At eleven—not before."
"To-morrow at eleven, then. And I hope you'll decide, Mrs. Lawrence, to help me all you can. The living come before the dead."
She bowed without replying, and seeing how deadly white she was, I checked the words which rose to my lips and let myself out into the hall.
The maid was standing just outside the door. I wondered how much she had heard of what had passed within.
"One moment," I said, as she started for the stairway, and I stepped again into Miss Lawrence's room.
It had grown too dark there to see anything distinctly, for this room was not flooded, as her mother's had been, by the last rays of the sun, but in a moment I switched on the light. The maid stared from the threshold, her face dark with anger, but not daring to interfere.
"This is the dressing-table, isn't it?" I asked, walking toward it.
"Yes, sir," she answered sullenly.
"It was here you found the letter?"
"Yes, sir."
"You persist in that farce?" I demanded, wheeling round upon her.
She did not answer, only stared back without flinching. I realised that here was a will not easily overcome.
"Very well," I said quietly at last, "I shall get along, then, in spite of you," and I returned to my inspection of the room.
There was a writing-desk in one corner, with pens, ink, and paper. I picked up a sheet of paper and looked at it; I dipped a pen in the ink and wrote a few words upon it; then I blotted it, folded it, and placed it in my pocket.
"Now we can go," I said, and switched off the light.
She led the way down the stairs without replying.
"My hat is in the library," I said, as we reached the foot, and I turned down the lower hall.
The library was even darker than the room upstairs had been, for the trees around the house seemed to shadow especially the windows of this wing. I noted how the windows extended to the floor and opened upon a little balcony. One of the windows was open, and I went to it and looked out. A flight of steps connected one end of the balcony with the ground, and I fancied from the steps I could discern a faint path running away among the trees.
A convulsive sob at the door brought me around. It was the maid, who had entered and was glaring at me with a face to which the growing darkness gave an added repulsiveness. The sob, which had more of anger than of sorrow in it, had burst from her involuntarily, called forth, no doubt, by her inability to hinder me in my investigations, to show me the door, to kick me out. I could see her growing hatred of me in her eyes, in the grip of the hands she pressed against her bosom; and a certain reciprocal anger arose within me.
"Here is a handkerchief of your mistress," I said, plunging my hand into my pocket and drawing forth the square of lace. "Please return it to her wardrobe. It's valuable," I added, with a sudden burst of inspiration; "especially so, since it's her bridal handkerchief."
The shot told. She took the handkerchief with a hand that shook convulsively, and I determined to risk a second guess.
"She left it here," I said. "She left it here when she went out by yonder window and ran through the grove. Shall I tell you where she went? But you know!"
"I do not!" burst from her. "It's a lie!"
"You know," I repeated remorselessly. "You followed her there. It was there she wrote that note which you brought back with you and which youfoundon her dresser."
"No, no!" The words were two sobs rather than two articulate sounds.
"Don't lie to me! If the note was written here, why did she use a writing-paper different from her own? You're playing with fire! Take care that it doesn't burn you!"
But I had touched the wrong note.
"Burn me!" she cried. "You think you can frighten me! Well, you can't! I'm not that kind."
And, indeed, as I looked at her, I saw that she spoke the truth.
"Very well," I said; "do as you think best. I've warned you," and without waiting for her to answer, I passed before her down the hall, not without the thought that she might plunge a knife into my back—she was certainly that kind! I opened the door myself and closed it behind me, then started down the walk. But in a moment, I dodged aside among the trees and hastened around the house. I was determined to follow that path which started from the library balcony—I must see whither it led.
I had no trouble in finding the path and in following it through the grove, noting how the trees screened it from the street. I reached a hedge enclosing a garden which the path skirted, and finally a second hedge, which seemed to be the one bounding the estate. The path led to a gate which opened upon the grounds of a cottage just beyond. I could see that there was a garden and that the cottage was covered with vines, but no further details were discernible.
Suddenly a light flashed out from one of the windows, and I saw a woman moving about within, no doubt preparing supper. But at that moment, I caught the sound of hurried footsteps along the path behind me and shrank aside into the shadow of the trees just in time to avoid another woman whom, as she dashed past, I recognised as the dark-faced maid. She crossed the garden without slackening her pace and entered the house. I saw her approach the other woman, pause apparently to speak a word to her, and then the two disappeared together.
What was happening within this house? Was it here that Miss Lawrence had found refuge? And as I turned this question over and over in my mind, staring reflectively at the lighted window before me, it seemed to me more and more probable that I had already reached the end of my search. The fugitive must have escaped by some avenue screened from the public gaze, else she would surely have been noticed. She must have known a place of refuge before she started; a woman of her self-poise would not rush wildly forth with no goal in view. And, lastly, that goal must have been close at hand, or she could not have escaped discovery.
The house before me answered all of these conditions; but how could I make certain that Miss Lawrence was really there? Suppose I burst in upon her, what could I say? I could not ask her to tellmethe story—indeed, I would not even know her if I met her face to face. I must see the photograph, first, which Curtiss had promised to leave for me at the hotel.
Besides, I asked myself—and in this matter, I confess, I was very willing to be convinced—would it not be wiser, more merciful, to wait till morning, till the first shock was past, till she had time to rally a little, to get her calmness back? Then, I could dare to approach her, to show her how she had wronged Burr Curtiss, to persuade her to see him. It were better for both her and Curtiss that they should not meet for a day or two; they would have need of all their courage; all their self-control, for that meeting must reveal a secret which it chilled me to think of. At least, I would try to force no entrance to the cottage now. I shrank from any show of violence. Curtiss would countenance nothing of that sort.
To approach the cottage now, while the maid was within, would be a tactical error—would be to court failure. She could easily prevent my seeing her mistress—she would, no doubt, shut the door in my face. Why should I show her that I suspected Miss Lawrence's place of refuge? Why put her on her guard and urge the fugitive to farther flight? How much wiser to wait until the maid was absent, till I could make sure of seeing Miss Lawrence, and then calmly and clearly lay the case before her. Yes, decidedly, I would wait. I even found it in my heart to regret that I had already showed the maid so much of my suspicions. I would better have kept them to myself.
Convinced by this last argument, I made my way back to the street; and as I passed the Lawrence grounds I was impressed again by their extent and excellent order. At the front gate a curious crowd still lingered, staring at the silent, darkened house, whose drawn blinds gave no hint of life within, or listening to the knowing gossip of three or four alert young fellows whom I recognised as reporters. There was still a policeman there, and he was quite willing to be drawn into talk—to tell all he knew, and much that he did not know.
"Who lives in that cottage back yonder?" I asked, after an unimportant question or two.
"The Kingdon sisters," he answered. "The youngest one works in the Lawrence house—a maid or something."
The crowd had collected about us and was listening with ears intent; I caught a quick glitter of interest in the eyes of the reporters; so I ended the talk abruptly by asking the way to the Sheridan House.
"Right down this street, sir," he said. "You can't miss it—a big square building on the corner."
As I thanked him and turned away, I caught the cry of newsboys down the street, and in a moment they were among the crowd and were selling their papers right and left. Both theLeaderand theJournal, stirred to unusual enterprise by the day's events, had evidently made use of the largest and blackest type at their command to add emphasis to their headlines. I bought copies of both papers, and hurried on to the Sheridan, for I was becoming disagreeably conscious that I had eaten no lunch that day. I found the hotel without difficulty, and after registering, sat down in the office and opened the papers. The reporters, no doubt, would save me a lot of trouble.
The scene at the church had been even more sensational than I had pictured it, for evidently the Lawrences were a more important family socially than I had imagined, and the list of guests had been correspondingly large. They had gathered, had gossiped, had admired the decorations and criticised each other's gowns; a murmur of satisfaction had greeted the whispered announcement that the groom and his best man were waiting in the study; the organist played a selection or two and then stopped, expectant, ready to begin the wedding march. The ringing of bells and blowing of whistles announced the noon hour, but the bride had not arrived. Then, from somewhere, came the sudden whisper that something was wrong. A shiver ran through the crowd as two carriages drew up at the church door. Heads were craned and a sigh of relief ran around as the bridesmaids were seen to alight. But where was the bride? There was no bride! The bride had disappeared!
Uneasiness changed to wonder, wonder to astonishment, as the details were gradually gleaned from the exclamations of the excited young women; tongues began to wag, innocently at first, then, inevitably, with a touch of malice, for the bride's action had been a direct affront to all these people. Many of them, usually well-bred, waited in the hope of catching a glimpse of the groom's face as he hurried away. Both he and Mrs. Lawrence had been protected from the reporters, but the decorator and some of the Lawrence servants had evidently made the most of their opportunities, for the papers had the details of the disappearance substantially as I had learned them. And nobody had been found who had seen the bride leave the house, or had caught a glimpse of her during her flight.
That was the gist of the information contained in the papers. Both of them gave space to much speculation as to the reason for this remarkable event, but plainly both were wholly at sea and had no theory to fit the facts. So, finally, I folded them up, put them in my pocket, made a hasty toilet, and went in to dinner. That over, I again sought the reading-room and lighted a reflective cigar.
I had said to Mrs. Lawrence that the cause of her daughter's disappearance—the mystery underlying it—did not concern me; yet that was by far the most interesting feature of the case. To trace the girl must prove an easy task—indeed, I fancied it already as good as accomplished. But to probe the secret—ah, that would not prove so easy! There was no reason why I should attempt it, and yet I could not keep my mind from dwelling on it with a sort of fascination. For I knew it was no ordinary secret—it was something dark and terrifying—something beside which a woman's happiness and reputation had seemed a little thing.
Before I could hope to make any further progress in that direction, I realised that I needed to know more of the family—of its history and social standing. Besides, I must be armed cap-à-pie before I went to that interview which I had determined to seek, in the morning, with Marcia Lawrence.
"Beg pardon, sir," said a voice at my elbow, and looking up, I saw the hotel clerk standing there. "This is Mr. Lester, isn't it?"
"Yes," I answered.
"I have a package here for you," he went on, and handed me a square envelope. "It was left here for you this afternoon."
"Oh, yes," I said; "thank you," and I slipped the envelope into my pocket. "You've had rather an exciting time here to-day," I added.
"You mean the wedding that didn't come off?" he asked, smiling. "Ithastorn the town wide open, and no mistake."
"So I judged from the papers. The Lawrences are pretty prominent, aren't they?"
"Yes; top-notchers; especially in church circles. I'll bet Dr. Schuyler is all broken up."
"Dr. Schuyler?"
"Pastor of their church—First Presbyterian—that big church just down the street yonder. They've been great pets of his."
"He was to have performed the ceremony?"
"Sure. They wouldn't have had anybody else. Nice old fellow, too. Besides, he's been their pastor for years."
Here was the source I had been looking for—the source from which I might draw detailed and accurate information, if I could only reach it.
"I suppose that house next to the church is the parsonage," I ventured. I had never seen the church, but it seemed a safe shot.
"Yes; the one this side of it."
I nodded.
"I thought so. Thank you for giving me the package," I added, and glanced at my watch and rose.
"Oh, that's all right, sir," he answered, and turned away to his desk.
As for me, I lost no time in starting out upon my errand. I would see Dr. Schuyler—I would put the case before him, and ask his help. It was nearly eight o'clock, doubtless well past his dinner hour, and I resolved to seek the interview at once.
Lights had sprung up along the street, casting long shadows under the trees which edged either side. The windows of the houses gleamed through the darkness, and here and there, where the blinds had not been drawn, I caught glimpses of families gathered together about a paper, with heads eagerly bent. From the dim verandas, I heard the murmur of excited gossip—and I knew too well what it was all about. To-night, this city, from end to end, could have but a single all-absorbing subject to discuss—to wonder at and chatter over with that insatiable curiosity which we inherit from the monkeys.
But I had not far to go. The tall, straight spire of a church told me that I had reached my destination, and I turned in at the gate of a house which was unmistakably the parsonage. The maid who took my card at the door returned in a moment to say that Dr. Schuyler was in his study and would see me. I followed her and found the clergyman seated beside a table upon which were lying the evening papers. A glance at them showed me what he had been reading, and his perturbed face bespoke great inward agitation. He was a small man of perhaps sixty years, with snow-white hair and beard and a delicate, intellectual face. He arose to greet me, my card still in his fingers, and then motioned me to a chair.
"Candidly, Mr. Lester," he said, "I was half-inclined to excuse myself. This has been a trying day for me. But I saw that you had come from New York."
"Yes, and on an errand which, I fear, may not be very welcome to you, Dr. Schuyler."
"Not connected with the deplorable affair of to-day, I hope?"
"Yes, sir; connected with that."
"But," and he glanced again at my card apprehensively, "you are not a—reporter?"
"Oh, no," I laughed. "I can easily guess how they've been harassing you. I'm acting for Mr. Curtiss," I added, resolving quickly that the best thing I could do was to tell him the whole story so far as I knew it, which I did, as briefly as possible. He heard me to the end with intent, interested face. "I think you'll agree with me, Dr. Schuyler," I concluded, "that my client is quite right in deciding to demand an explanation."
"Yes," he answered, after a moment's thought, "I suppose he is—I'm sure he is. It's the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of—and the most deplorable. Until this moment, I had hoped that they had gone away to be married elsewhere."
"Hoped?" I asked.
"Yes, hoped. I've seen them together, Mr. Lester, and it seemed to me an ideal attachment. I can conceive of nothing which could keep them apart. Has any explanation of it occurred to you?"
"Only one," I said, "that Miss Lawrence has been married before, but thought her husband dead, and discovered that he was still alive only at the last moment."
But the clergyman shook his head.
"You don't know Miss Lawrence?" he asked.
"No," I answered.
"You would see the absurdity of such a theory if you did."
"I fancied it might have happened when she was very young," I explained; "when she was abroad, perhaps. I've even pictured the man to myself as an adventurer, French or Italian, a man of the world, polished, without heart, perhaps even base at bottom—a man who would not hesitate to take advantage of her girlish innocence."
My companion smiled faintly.
"I see you have a lively imagination, Mr. Lester," he said. "Don't let it run away with you."
"She would not be the first to succumb to such a one," I retorted.
"No, nor the last, I fear. Have you worked out the rest of the story?"
"Granting the premises, the rest is easy enough. She soon found him out and took refuge with her mother. The scoundrel was bought off and disappeared. She supposed him dead; but at the last moment, he appeared again."
Dr. Schuyler had listened with half-closed eyes. Now he opened them and looked at me amusedly.
"It sounds like some of the yellow-backs I used to read in my unregenerate youth," he commented. "I fancy you must have read them too, Mr. Lester. Now I want you to dismiss that theory," he went on, more earnestly. "I tell you, once for all, it's ridiculous and untrue. Rest assured that whatever the secret is, it does not in any way reflect upon her."
"Then that leaves us all at sea," I pointed out. "There can be no question of her love for Curtiss."
"None whatever. As I said, I've seen them together, and I'm sure she loved him devotedly. Of his feeling for her you have, of course, been able to judge for yourself. I've looked forward to the wedding with much pleasure, for it seemed to me the least worldly one that I had ever been asked to consecrate. It is a singular coincidence, though——" He stopped suddenly and glanced about the room. "Of course, this conversation is between ourselves, Mr. Lester?"
"Certainly," I assented. "I would wish to have it so."
"With that understanding, I shall be glad to help you, if I can. I was about to say that it is a very singular coincidence that something of the same sort happened many years ago to Mrs. Lawrence."
"To Mrs. Lawrence?" I repeated. Here was a coincidence, indeed! Could it be, I asked myself again, that this thing had been deliberately arranged? But I dismissed the thought as ridiculous.
"I will tell you the story so far I know it," said the clergyman. "It is no breach of trust to do so, for it was public property at the time, though long since forgotten. I should not recall it now but for the fact that it may shed some light upon to-day's occurrence."
"Perhaps it will," I agreed.
"Mrs. Lawrence," began my companion, "was born at Scotch Plains about fifty years ago. Her father's name was Hiram Jarvis. He had made a comfortable fortune in the dry-goods business in New York, and had built himself a country-house at Scotch Plains, going in to New York every morning and returning every evening. Scotch Plains is a very small place—a mere village—but has a number of handsome country homes. It is not on the railroad, but lies about a mile back of Fanwood, which is its station. It has a little Presbyterian church, and when I graduated in '65 from Princeton seminary, I received a call to it, which I accepted. Mr. Jarvis and his daughter were members of my congregation—the former, indeed, being the president of the board of trustees."
I nodded my interest. Plainly I had done well in coming to Dr. Schuyler.
"Jarvis was a tall, straight, austere Scotchman of the old school," continued the clergyman, "with a belief in predestination and eternal punishment, which was—well—rather fanatical, even for those days. His daughter was a beautiful girl of seventeen or eighteen. Her mother had died some years before and she was left solely in her father's care, without brothers or sisters. There was an aunt in New York City, a younger sister of her father, and married to a banker named Heminway, but she seemingly took little interest in the girl. Her character—or so I judged the few times I saw her—was much like her brother's, tempered, perhaps, with a little more worldliness. I think she's still living; at least, I've never heard of her death. She has been a widow for many years.
"So the girl grew up in the lonely house, with only her father to care for. I sometimes thought his treatment of her a little severe—he would rarely permit her to take part in even the most innocent merry-making—and I often found myself pitying her. But I concluded it was none of my business—a conclusion which was cowardly, perhaps; but that was my first charge, and Jarvis was quite a terrifying man."
I could well believe it, and said so.
"There was another member of my congregation," went on Dr. Schuyler, "concerning whom I had doubts of quite an opposite character—that was young Boyd Endicott. The Endicott place lay just beyond the Jarvis house, which it quite overshadowed, for the Endicotts were very wealthy. The father did not belong to my church—nor, indeed, to any church—and I seldom met him. He had been associated with Jim Fisk in some operations which seemed to me of questionable honesty—though Fisk's reputation may have prejudiced me unduly. But his wife was a lovely Christian woman, and devoted to her children."
"Her children?" I repeated. The story interested me so intensely that I wanted every detail.
"There were two, a girl of seventeen or eighteen, named Ruth; and Boyd, who was about nineteen, and a junior at Princeton. I had heard something of his college escapades while I was at the seminary, but the first time I saw him was when he came home for the holidays. He was a handsome boy, dark, with a face that showed his breeding; but he was the wildest, most untamable I ever knew. When he came walking into church with his mother, it used to amuse me to see how Mr. Jarvis would glare at him; he considered him a firebrand of hell, and didn't scruple to say so. And young Endicott would stare back—at Jarvis, as I thought, but I saw my mistake afterwards.
"There was more or less trouble of a personal kind between the two. Endicott's dog killed some of the Jarvis chickens, and Jarvis shot the dog. Endicott rode over the Jarvis land, and Jarvis swore out a warrant against him for trespass—mere persecution, the villagers thought it,—and there were other differences of a similar nature, which were ended only when the boy went back to school.
"Of course, Mr. Lester, I don't know all the steps in the affair; but on Christmas Eve, just a year later, there came a great knocking at my door, and when I opened it, there on the step stood Jarvis, with such a face as I had never seen on a man before. He stamped in and flung a sheet of paper down on the table.
"'Read that!' he said, in a stifled voice. 'Read that, man! Oh, that I should have bred a harlot!'
"I was too astonished to reply, but I picked up the paper and read it. It was a note from his daughter—I forget the exact words—but she told him that she had secretly married Boyd Endicott, knowing that she could never win his consent, and prayed for his forgiveness. They were going far away, she said; she would not see him again for a long time, and hoped he would think kindly of her. It was a touching note, Mr. Lester."
The good man's voice choked and he paused to regain control of it. As for me, I thought of that other note I had read a few hours since.
"He was like a man crazed," continued Dr. Schuyler, at last. "He wouldn't listen to reason; he demanded only that I accompany him, while he sought his daughter out and made sure that she and young Endicott were really married. He swore that he would follow them to the ends of the earth that he might see them wedded with his own eyes. A heavy storm was raging, but I could not deny him; he had his buggy at the door, and we drove away to the Fanwood station. There the agent told us that Miss Jarvis had taken the afternoon train for New York. There was no other train for an hour, so we waited. Jarvis tramped up and down the station like a wild thing. And then, just before the train was due, there came a telegram for him. It was from his sister and stated that Mary had reached her home unattended and was very ill.
"That settled the matter, so far as I was concerned. I drove back home again and Jarvis went on to New York. Unfortunately, in the first rage of his discovery of his daughter's flight, he had given the servants some hint of the affair, and it leaked out, but was gradually forgotten. Mary Jarvis, after a long illness, went with her father for a visit to Scotland, and did not return to her home at Scotch Plains for nearly three years. She was greatly changed—older and with an air of sadness which never quite left her.
"Her father was changed, too. He had left his daughter at his old home in Scotland and hurried back—why I didn't guess till afterwards. He became more crabbed and irritable than ever; he seemed to be withering away, and his face grew to haunt me, it was so harried and anxious. I suspected that he had become involved in business troubles of some sort, for the country was on the verge of a panic, and once I tried to approach the subject to offer him any help I could, but he stopped me with such ferocity that I never tried again. Then, suddenly, came the news that Endicott had been caught with Fisk in the ruin of Black Friday; but while Fisk saved himself by repudiating his obligations, Endicott had been bound in such a way that he could not repudiate—and the man who had bound him was Hiram Jarvis."
The speaker paused and leaned back for a moment in his chair, his face very stern.
"That was his revenge," he added. "But I doubt if he foresaw how bitter it was to be. For Endicott shot himself; the place was sold, and the widow and her daughter came to live here in Elizabeth, where they had relatives."
"But the boy," I asked; "where was he?"
"He was killed two days after that Christmas Eve in a railroad wreck somewhere in the West—I have forgotten exactly where. His body was brought home to Scotch Plains and buried there."
"In the West?" I repeated. "What was he doing in the West?"
"I don't know," answered Dr. Schuyler. "I've never been able to understand it."
"Were he and Miss Jarvis already married? Or did they expect to be married afterwards?"
"Well," said Dr. Schuyler slowly, "I inferred from the note that they were already married. But I may have been mistaken in thinking so. I know that her father did not believe it."
"And you say that you've never been able to understand why, after all, they did not go away together—why Miss Jarvis went to New York and Endicott to the West?"
Dr. Schuyler hesitated.
"Of course," he said, after a moment, "the most obvious explanation is that Endicott deserted her; and yet that would have been so unlike him, for he was not a vicious or selfish fellow, Mr. Lester, but generous, honourable, warm-hearted, despite his other faults, which were merely, I think, faults of youth. I've never believed that he deserted her. Perhaps, at the last moment, her courage failed; or perhaps there was a mistake of some sort, a misunderstanding which kept them apart."
I pondered it for a moment, then put it aside. That was not the mystery I had set myself to solve.
"Well, Miss Jarvis evidently got over it," I remarked, "since she afterwards became Mrs. Lawrence."
"That is one way of looking at it," he assented; "but I've always thought that she was so far from getting over it that she never greatly cared what became of her afterwards."
"Was it so bad as that?"
"It was as bad as it could possibly be. She did not return from Scotland for two years and more. It was about a year later that she married Lawrence, who was a business associate of her father, and lived here at Elizabeth. I had been called to the pastorate of the church here and performed the ceremony."
"Lawrence must have been considerably older than she, then," I suggested.
"Oh, much older. He was a widower, without children. I always fancied that her father had arranged the match. He had completely broken down, and knew he hadn't long to live."
"And there was only one child of this marriage?"
"Only one—Marcia."
"How long has Mrs. Lawrence been a widow?"
"Oh, for twenty years and more."
"She has lived here ever since?"
"She has kept her home here, but she was abroad with her daughter for a long time—six or seven years, at least. She was very fond of France—and so was Marcia, perhaps because she was born there."
"Born there?" I repeated, in some surprise.
"Yes. Mr. Lawrence had a very severe illness a few months after his marriage—I don't remember just what it was—and his doctor ordered him to the south of France for a long rest. His wife, of course, accompanied him, and Marcia was born there. I think that is all the story, Mr. Lester."
"Not quite all," I said. "There is still a loose end. What became of Mrs. Endicott and her daughter—I think you said there was a daughter?"
"Yes—Ruth. One of the loveliest girls I ever knew. They came here from Scotch Plains, as I've said, to make their home with Mrs. Endicott's sister, Mrs. Kingdon."
He noticed my start of astonishment, and paused to look at me inquiringly.
"I beg your pardon," I said, "but the name struck me. Miss Lawrence's maid is named Kingdon."
"Yes; she's a niece of Mrs. Endicott. I've sometimes thought that it was because of this relationship that Mrs. Lawrence was so kind to her and to her sister."
"Kind to them?" I repeated. "In what way?"
"She gave them the cottage they live in," he explained, "and has helped them in many other ways. The younger girl, Lucy, has a place in her household, where her duties, I fancy, are purely nominal. Her sister is supposed to take in sewing, but she really does very little."
"And they are Mrs. Endicott's nieces?"
"Yes—her sister's children."
"And Boyd Endicott's cousins?"
"Precisely."
I felt a little glow of excitement, for here was a clue which might lead me out of the labyrinth—a loose end, which, grasped firmly, might serve to unravel this tangled skein.
"Please go on," I said. "You have not yet told me what became of Mrs. Endicott and her daughter."
"They made their home with Mrs. Kingdon, who was also a widow. Mrs. Kingdon had had much trouble—her husband had died in an asylum for the insane—and they had a hard time to get along. But Mrs. Endicott died within a year."
"And Ruth?" I questioned.
"Ruth was a lovely girl—I shall never forget her—with the same dark, passionate beauty her brother had. She possessed artistic talent which seemed to me of an unusual order, and she fancied that she could make a living by painting portraits. But she soon found that there was no market for her work here in Elizabeth, and that she needed years of training before she could hope to be successful elsewhere. So she was forced to give it up."
"And then?" I prompted, for I saw by his hesitation that there was still something coming, and I was determined to have the whole story.
"I have already told you that Mr. Lawrence was a widower. His first wife was an invalid for a long time before her death, and when Ruth Endicott found she could not make a living with her brush, she accepted the position of companion to Mrs. Lawrence. I do not fancy the place was a pleasant one, but she kept it until Mrs. Lawrence's death."
I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes for an instant in the effort to straighten out this story, which was always turning back upon itself. What mystery was there—what mystery could there be—in the lives of the Kingdons and the Lawrences and the Endicotts, which had led up to the tragedy for which I was seeking an explanation?
"Well, and after that?" I asked, giving it up with a sigh of despair and turning back to the clergyman.
"There isn't much more to tell. After Mrs. Lawrence's death, Ruth Endicott remained for a time as Lawrence's housekeeper. But she had overworked herself—she seemed the very embodiment of health, and taxed her strength too heavily. She broke down very suddenly, and died, if I remember rightly, in Florida, where the elder Kingdon girl had taken her. She was the last of the Endicotts."
"The last of the Endicotts. The last of the Endicotts." I repeated the words over and over to myself. It may have been a presentiment, or merely an idle fancy, but something whispered in my ear—some impalpable presence warned me—that I had not yet heard the last of her. "Ruth Endicott." There was a something in the name—a melody, the vision it evoked of a dark and brilliantly beautiful woman—which haunted me.
And yet, what possible connection could she have with the mystery which I had started to investigate? Thirty years dead—how could any fact connected with her drive Marcia Lawrence forth into hiding at the hour of her wedding? The utter absurdity of the thought was so apparent that I put it impatiently from me.
"You knew Mr. Lawrence, of course?" I asked, at last.
"Oh, yes," and he hitched uneasily in his chair, as though approaching an unwelcome topic. "But I did not know him well. He was what the world calls a hard man—somewhat harsh and cold, though perfectly free from positive vice. He was thoroughly respected."
"He seems to have left a large property."
"Yes; one of the largest in Elizabeth. Mrs. Lawrence, of course, inherited her father's, also."
"Both she and her daughter are members of your church?"
"Two of the most faithful. They give largely to charity; they are really Christian women."
We sat silent for a moment. To me, at least, the mystery seemed deeper than ever.
"Has it occurred to you, Mr. Lester," asked the clergyman hesitatingly, "that perhaps Miss Lawrence discovered something in Mr. Curtiss's past——"
"Yes," I interrupted. "I put that before Curtiss squarely, and he assured me there was nothing she could discover. I'm sure he spoke the truth. Besides, in that case, why should Miss Lawrence flee? Why not merely dismiss him? Her flight seems to argue some guilt on her part."
"Yes," nodded my companion; "yes."
"Some guilt, too," I added, "of a very remarkable kind, which she was not conscious of until this morning, and which then appeared suddenly before her in such hideous shape that flight was her only resource. That seems inconceivable, doesn't it?"
Dr. Schuyler dropped his head back against his chair with a little sigh which bespoke utter fatigue.
"Yes," he said, "inconceivable—the whole thing is inconceivable. It's a kind of horrible nightmare. I can't make anything of it. My brain is in a whirl."
"I'm taxing your patience too long," I protested, rising instantly. "You need rest. Only let me thank you for your kindness."
He held out his hand with a smile.
"I seem only to have made dark places darker," he said. "If you succeed in untangling the snarl, I should like to hear about it."
"You shall," I promised and took myself back to the hotel. I felt that there was nothing more to be done that night, and so mounted to my room.
As I started to undress, I remembered suddenly the envelope Curtiss had sent me. I got it out and opened it, and my heart leaped with a sudden suffocating sympathy as I looked at the photograph within. A Madonna, indeed! Mr. Royce had chosen the right word, had paid a fitting tribute not only to her beauty but to the spotless soul behind it. For the face was essentially girlish, virginal—there was no shameful secret back of that clear, direct gaze. It was sweet, frank, winning—a strong face, too, showing intellect and training; no ordinary woman, I told myself; not one, certainly, to be swayed by momentary passion, to yield to an unreasoning impulse. No, nor one to fall victim to an adventurer; for this was a woman with ideals and high ones—a woman whose clear eyes could detect any specious imposture at a glance. A fitting mate for Burr Curtiss—the appointed mate—and yet not his! Not his! Snatched from him by a desperate act. Desperate! If I, a man hardened by contact with the world, could feel that, how much more poignantly must she have felt it—with what horror must she have shrunk from it—with what agony yielded!
As I gazed at her, it seemed to me that there was something familiar in the face—in the set of the eyes, the shape of the forehead—something familiar in the expression, in the poise of the head, which puzzled and eluded me. A resemblance to her mother, I decided at last, and so put the photograph away and went to bed.
But sleep did not come easily. Ever before my eyes there danced a vision of that vine-embowered cottage opening from the Lawrence grounds. There, I felt, lay the key to the mystery; it was to it I must turn for the clue which would lead me out of this labyrinth. There was some secret about these Kingdon sisters which defied and worried me. Dr. Schuyler's explanation of their connection with Mrs. Lawrence did not in the least satisfy me. That she should keep them near her, shower them with gifts, merely because of an old fondness for a cousin of theirs, seemed to me exceedingly improbable. There must be some other reason, some more compelling one than that.
It was much more likely, I told myself, remembering the passionate fierceness of the younger sister, that the gifts were intended to placate, not to reward; that they were the outgrowth of fear, not of affection. Fear of what? I could not even guess. Fear of the exposure of some secret, perhaps—and the thought stung me to a sudden attention.
Had the gifts been in vain? Had the secret been exposed? Was it they who had whispered in Marcia Lawrence's ear the story which had broken the marriage, caused her flight, ruined her future? Was that their revenge for some old injury? Had they waited till the last moment to make it more complete, more crushing? But if they, indeed, had so avenged themselves, would she have fled to them for refuge? Would she not rather have fled from them with loathing?
I felt that I was entangling myself in a web of my own weaving. I put the problem from me, but it pursued me even past sleep's portals. I dreamed that I was staring over the hedge at the Kingdon cottage, at a lighted window. Three women were in the room, as I could see from the shadows thrown upon the blind. They were walking up and down, seemingly in great excitement. I fancied that I could hear the sound of voices, but I could distinguish no words. Then suddenly, two of the women sprang upon the third. She struggled desperately, but their hands were at her throat, choking her life away. She turned toward me, the curtain seemed to lift, and I beheld the agonised face of Marcia Lawrence.
I tried to leap the hedge, but could not stir. Some power beyond me seemed to hold me fast; some mighty weight bound me to the spot. A moment longer the struggle lasted, while I stood staring; I felt her eyes on mine, I knew that she had seen me. She held out an imploring hand; then, when I made no sign in answer, despair swept across her face, she seemed to realise her helplessness, and collapsed into the arms of her assailants with a scream so shrill, so terrible that it startled me awake.
It was some moments before I could think clearly, so real and vivid had that vision been. I threw out my arms to assure myself that I was still in bed; I could scarcely believe that I was not really shivering behind the hedge, staring across at that lighted window and the dreadful drama it revealed. I was bathed in perspiration and yet felt chilled to the very marrow.
Indeed, my teeth were chattering as I groped my way to the light, turned it on, and looked at my watch. It was nearly one o'clock. The night was clear and pleasant, with a faint breeze stirring. There was no moon, but the stars were shining so brightly that one looked for it instinctively.
I knew it was no use to return to bed until my nerves were quieter; and, indeed, that vision had banished all desire for sleep; so I filled my pipe, lighted it, drew up a chair and sat down by the open window. The street below was deserted; and for an instant I found myself wondering that it was not thronged with people, roused by the scream which had awakened me. Then I remembered that there had been no scream, that I had simply dreamed it.
But I had only to close my eyes to see again that lighted window and the shadows on the blind. It seemed even clearer to me than it had been in the dream. I could see every detail of the struggle, and I opened my eyes abruptly so that I might escape the end. There was something supernatural about it; I had never dreamed a dream like that before—a dream which, waking, I could rehearse at pleasure. Perhaps it was not wholly a vision; perhaps it had some foundation in reality, some telepathic origin. I had read of such things, sceptically; but some of the phenomena of thought transference had, I knew, been accepted, reluctantly enough, even by the scientific world.
Was it not possible that Marcia Lawrence had been lured to the Kingdon cottage or taken there against her will? Who could say how that old injury done the Endicotts would flower and fruit? Who could say what hatred, what desire for vengeance, rankled in the hearts of the Kingdons? I remembered how the face of the maid had darkened with malice, how her eyes had blazed with infernal joy, as she stood there in the door of the library, thinking herself unseen. Her sister I knew nothing of, but if they resembled each other as sisters usually do, I could well believe them capable of any cruelty. Was it not possible that Marcia Lawrence was in their hands? Was it not possible that my dream possessed a basis of reality? I had been thinking of her all the evening; I had gone to sleep with the problem of her disappearance still on my mind; I had been studying her photograph—I was, in a word, in spiritual touch with her, responsive to any suggestion emanating from her—we were tuned to the same pitch. Such, I fancied, was the explanation of the phenomena which a telepathist would give. She had sent that cry into the night, and I, being en rapport with her, had heard it—had witnessed the tragedy which called it forth. Perhaps the struggle was not yet ended; perhaps, even at this moment——
I sprang to my feet, hurried into my clothes, caught up my hat, opened my door and ran noiselessly down the stair. I would solve this problem to-night, if it could be solved. I had been wrong in turning away from the Kingdon cottage the evening before; I should, at least, have made an effort to discover if Marcia Lawrence were really there. But it had not occurred to me then that she could be in any danger. I had thought too much of what Curtiss would wish me to do; too little of what the necessities of the case required. Well, I would not make that mistake a second time.
As I look back upon my frame of mind at that moment and consider the impulse which sent me forth from my room at that hour of the night, I realise how overwrought I was. At a distance, in cold blood, it seems an absurd thing to have done; yet, under the same conditions, I should no doubt behave again in much the same way. And even admitting its absurdity, I am not prepared to say, in view of the event, that there was not back of it some instinct worth following. There are forces in nature not yet explained or recognised, and I am still inclined to think that it was one of these which drew me forth upon that midnight errand.
In a very fever of impatience, I hurried along the street, under the trees, meeting no one except a patrolman. I heard him stop, as I passed him, and knew that he was looking back after me, but I kept on without pausing, and heard him finally start on again. In a minute more I reached the Lawrence place, and stopped in the shadow of a tree for a look around. The house loomed through the darkness grim and gloomy, with no light showing anywhere. I leaped the fence, assured that I was unseen, and pushed my way forward through the grove toward the path which led to the cottage.
Beneath the trees, the darkness was absolute and I could go forward but slowly; yet, starting from the library steps, I found the path without difficulty, and felt my way cautiously along it, until I came to the hedge which marked the limits of the Kingdon place. I examined the house with care, but there was fronting me no lighted window upon which a tragedy could be pictured. Indeed, I saw no vestige of a light and was about to conclude that my midnight pilgrimage had been in vain, when my eye was caught by a faint glimmer near the ground. At first, I was not sure it was a light at all; then I decided that it was a reflection of some sort, or perhaps a phosphorescent glow. But as I stared at it, with eyes contracted, it suddenly took shape in the darkness, and I saw that the light proceeded from a small ventilator set in the foundation of the house.
Trembling with excitement, I softly opened the gate and entered the grounds. Here, with nothing between me and the stars, I suddenly found myself in what seemed a veritable blaze of light. I was seized with panic lest I be seen and scurried into the shadow of the house, then dropped beside the ventilator and examined it.
It was of the ordinary type—a plate of iron some six or eight inches square, perforated with holes perhaps half an inch in diameter, and set in the foundation about six inches from the ground.
I applied an eye to one of the holes and endeavoured to see what lay beyond. For a moment, I saw absolutely nothing; then I perceived in front of me a stretch of clay, which ended abruptly at a distance of six or eight feet. A few inches above the level of my eye were the beams supporting the floor of the cottage. But it was only a glance I gave to these details, though I found them afterwards photographed upon my brain; it was the space beyond which fixed my attention—the space where the clay bank before me dropped abruptly to what was no doubt the cellar of the cottage.
It was from this space that the light proceeded, but of what lay within it I could see almost nothing—only enough, indeed, to fire my curiosity. For from time to time a shadow moved between me and the light—a shadow which showed that the cellar was not empty. The light, I judged, had been placed on a stool or table on the opposite side of the cellar. From the way it varied, now bright, now dim, I decided it was a candle, and that the motions of the person working near it caused the flame to flicker. These motions would continue for a time with considerable regularity; then they would cease while the worker evidently stopped to rest, and then begin again.
Who was this person and what was this work which must be done at such an hour? In vain I sought an answer. I pressed my ear to the ventilator, but could hear nothing; nothing, at least, beyond the faintest of faint sounds, which gave me no clue to what was happening within. I peered through the little orifice moment after moment, until the shadows grew confused and blurred and my eyes ached under the strain.
I rose to rest myself. Then it suddenly occurred to me that the cellar must have a window. Skirting the house cautiously, I at last came to it. But it was closed and curtained so effectually that only a faint glimmer here and there betrayed the light within. I listened, but could hear no sound.
Fairly nonplussed, I returned to the hedge and sat down against it to consider. The shadow had given me no indication of whether the worker was man or woman; yet to the first question I had asked myself there could be only one answer. It was one or both of the Kingdon women who were working in the cellar—both, I finally decided, since it was improbable that one could spend the night there without the knowledge of the other. But what were they doing?
To this I could find no answer. It was not merely an errand, because the light remained. Minute after minute I sat there, until I heard a clock somewhere strike two, and still the light remained. I crept forward to the ventilator and peered through again. The shadows were moving backward and forward, just as they had been an hour before. There was something uncanny about them, and I shivered as I watched. It seemed to me that they were made by some person alternately rising and stooping, but why should any one do that for hours at a time? Some subtle association of ideas brought before my eyes the vision which had confronted Jean Valjean on that night when he had peered through the grated window into the Convent of Little Picpus—the dim light, the vast hall, the motionless figure on the floor before the cross. Was some such explanation to be sought here? Were these long-continued risings and stoopings a series of genuflexions before some shrine—a penance, perhaps, imposed for some transgression? The thought seemed absurd. But I could think of no other explanation of these singular motions.
At last, weary with long staring, I went back to my seat beside the hedge and waited. Half an hour passed, then I saw the glimmer at the ventilator suddenly disappear, and a moment later, a light gleamed through the kitchen window. It went on toward the front of the house, and I saw the shadow of a woman's figure on the blind as it passed the window in front of me. Only one shadow—there was only one woman in the house, or, at least, only one awake and moving about. There had been only one in the cellar.
My resolution was taken. I went straight forward to the door at the side of the house and knocked sharply. At the same instant, the light vanished. I waited a moment, then knocked again, more loudly.
"Who's there?" called a voice, so harsh, so fierce, that it fairly startled me.
"Open the door," I said. "I wish to see Miss Lawrence."
"This is not Miss Lawrence's home," cried the voice.
"I know it; but she's here."
"She's not here!" and the voice rose to a scream. "Be off, or I'll fire through the door!"
What sort of fury was this, I asked myself, and I stepped to one side to be out of range of a possible bullet.
"Be off!" screamed the voice again. "I'll fire, I swear it! The law will justify me."
There could be no question of that; it would be worse than folly to attempt to force an entrance with this fury opposing me, so I retreated again to the hedge and sat down to see what would happen. But nothing happened, and deciding at last that Miss Kingdon, or whoever it was had answered me, had gone to bed, I turned my steps toward the hotel just as the dawn was tingeing the east with grey.
And one thing I determined on—I would purchase a revolver. Only a fool ventures unarmed into the tiger's den.