CHAPTER VIIIBLACKMAIL

CHAPTER VIIIBLACKMAIL

Betty Carterwatched Miriam disappear up the staircase before she moved. Crossing the living room she stopped in front of the fire and warmed her hands, then sitting down she toyed idly with a string of pearls about her neck.

“Still conscious of your pearls?” asked Guy Trenholm. He had followed her across the room and paused in front of her.

Betty crimsoned from neck to brow and her eyes flamed with wrath.

“If you can’t refrain from insults, don’t address me,” she said.

It was Trenholm’s turn to color. “You misunderstood me,” he exclaimed. “Seeing you playing with your pearls reminded me of your inordinate fondness for jewelry when in Paris.”

“Inordinate fondness,” echoed Betty, and her delicately arched eyebrows rose in displeasure. “Your explanation is in as questionable taste as your first remark.”

Trenholm shrugged his shoulders. “If you takeoffense so easily, we’ll change the subject,” he said. “Where were you off to so early this morning?”

She looked at him without speaking and Trenholm occupied the time in lighting a cigarette, after first asking her permission, which was given with a nod of her head.

When she finally spoke it was to ask a question and not to answer his.

“I cannot understand,” she began, “why a man of your capabilities accepted the office of sheriff. Have you no ambition to make good in the future?”

“The future?” his smile was bitter. “The future can take care of itself. What concerns me is the present. Where did Pierre take you in your aunt’s car before breakfast this morning?”

Her lips curled in a disdainful smile. “If you wish to know, why not question Pierre?”

“Because I prefer to come to you rather than ask a servant,” he stated quietly. “Take your time, I’ll wait for an answer,” and he dropped into a chair by the side of the big sofa on which she was sitting.

“I see, patience is a virtue with you,” she remarked. “Is it, by chance, your only virtue?”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Time will tell.” A glint of humor lit his deep-set eyes. She met his look for a second, then glanced away.

Through the drifting smoke of his cigarette Trenholmstudied her intently; her beauty was undeniable and of an unusual type. He sighed. Was the droop at the corners of her mouth indicative of deceit? Was it in her to play straight?

Betty moved restlessly, suddenly conscious of his prolonged scrutiny. “Suppose I tell you that I went to early church in Upper Marlboro,” she said suddenly.

“On Wednesday?”

“Certainly. One can pray on any day.”

“And not necessarily in a church.”

Betty snuggled down more comfortably among the cushions, but one hand, tucked carefully out of sight, was tightly clenched. “So you still sneer at religion,” she commented softly.

Trenholm shook his head. “I would never scoff did I for one instant believe that true religion has a part in your life.” At his answer her eyes sparkled with anger, but she masked her feelings under an ingratiating smile.

“You have changed, Guy Trenholm, since the old days in France,” she remarked, and her voice held an undertone of feeling he failed to understand.

“For the worse?” he asked quickly.

“Perhaps.” She lapsed into silence, which he did not care to break. His air of strength, of self-sufficiency, irritated her and she watched him covertlywhile pretending to be absorbed in thought. Even her fastidious taste could find no fault with his well-tailored riding suit and leather boots. She grudgingly admitted to herself that the years had brought improvement in raiment if not in manners. Whatever else he became, he would never be metamorphosed into a society man. No social badinage would cover his thoughts; he would say what he had to say with sledge-hammer effect whatever the occasion. Betty’s heavy sigh was audible and he glanced at her inquiringly.

“Strange, is it not,” he began, as she remained silent, “that you and Alan and I should be thrown together as we were in France during the War, and that we should meet under Paul’s roof.”

“Not so very remarkable,” she objected. “We have seen each other frequently during the past five years.”

Trenholm threw his cigarette into the fire and leaned forward.

“What motive inspired Paul’s murder?” he asked.

His question robbed her cheeks of color. “Why ask me that?” she demanded. “Why should I know more than another?”

“Because Paul loved you.”

Her lips twitched and her eyes grew dim. She put up her hand as if to ward off a blow. “Don’t!”She recovered her poise, shaken for a fraction of a second. “I refuse to discuss Paul’s death with you, of all men.”

Trenholm considered her, slowly, carefully, as he leaned back in his chair. “Other men loved you,” he said softly. “I, for one.”

“In Paris?”

“Yes,” quietly. He pressed his lips together. “Calf love—I got over it.”

Betty laughed not quite steadily. “You are to be congratulated.” She spoke with a mockery and malice so neatly balanced that for a swift second he failed to reply.

“I recovered,” he stated, more forcefully. “Others didn’t.” His glance held hers. “Paul is dead, but Alan Mason still lives in his fool’s paradise.”

With one spring she gained her feet and faced him, trembling with rage and excitement.

“After all, Guy Trenholm, the role of sheriff becomes you,” she said, and the scorn in her voice stung him. “Water seeks its own level.” She turned away, snatched her coat from a chair where she had left it that morning and swung out of the door.

Trenholm sat where he was for fully five minutes after the front door had closed behind Betty. When he rose he was still frowning. Going over to his bag he tossed the package of letters inside, snappedthe bag to, locked it, and taking up his cap went in search of Martha Corbin.

Betty was unconscious of the distance she walked or the direction she took. She was grateful for the cool breeze that fanned her hot cheeks. Seldom had she felt in such a fever; her throat was dry—parched. She paused long enough to wipe tiny beads of moisture from her forehead with an already damp handkerchief. She had spent the night in choking back sobs which racked her slender body. Toward morning she had slept fitfully from pure exhaustion. Only a relentless purpose spurred her to get up, regardless of the early hour, a purpose frustrated by—

Betty drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. She stopped and gazed about for a familiar landmark. She knew the countryside fairly well, and it did not take her long to locate the road which led to Upper Marlboro. She found it drier walking on its crest and trudged slowly along, keeping a wary eye out for automobiles which would make necessary a hasty run for the side of the road. She judged that she had covered about half the distance when, in passing a wood which she remembered was located on Abbott’s property, she saw a man running through the trees in her direction. Something furtive in his movements as he dodged amongthe leafless trees and bushes caused her heart to beat more rapidly, and she cast a glance behind her. No vehicle, horse-drawn or motor-driven, was in sight. Betty faltered and came to a stop, then, throwing off her unreasoning fear, she hurried forward, glancing neither to the right nor the left.

Betty had passed the wood and was breathing more easily when she detected the sound of following footsteps and she heard her name called once, and then again with more insistence. She kept straight ahead, for if recollection did not play her false, a farmhouse was around the next bend in the road. She had almost gained the turn, when a man’s shadow was thrown on the snow just in front of her, and facing to her left she found Charles Corbin, the caretaker, at her side.

“Excuse me, Miss Betty,” he said, with a tug at the visor of his cap. “I thought ye heard me coming.”

Betty’s feeling of relief found vent in a slight laugh. “Dear me, Corbin; I wish I had recognized you sooner. Why, I was actually running away from you.”

Corbin’s parchment-like face opened in an expansive grin which showed his yellow teeth. “Running away, was you, Miss Betty?” His voice dropped to a confidential pitch. “Take it from me, don’t ye do it.”

Betty ceased laughing with startling abruptness and stared at him.

“What are you talking about, Corbin?” she demanded.

His right eye opened and closed in a most expressive wink. “I want to speak to ye, Miss Betty, confidential like.”

“Well?” she drew back and looked at him in dawning comprehension. “Are you drunk?”

“No; I never touch liquor.” He slipped his hand inside his tightly buttoned coat and drew out a woman’s silk scarf and held it just beyond her reach.

“Where did you get that?” she cried.

“Where ye dropped it the morning of Mr. Paul’s murder.” As he spoke he shook out the scarf. “The blood’s still on it,” and he leered at her as she raised her eyes and looked at him. It was some seconds before she spoke, and her voice was not quite natural.

“Well, what’s your price?” she asked.

Corbin licked his lips. “How much ye got with ye?” he demanded.

From an inside pocket she drew out a bill folder containing “A.B.A.” travelers’ checks. Only one was left, but tucked behind it were two yellow-back Treasury notes.

“I can give you a check for fifty dollars or these two twenty-dollar bills,” she explained.

“I’ll take the money—on account.”

The look she gave him was expressive of her feelings, but wasted on Corbin. “Very well,” she said. “Hand me the scarf.”

“Oh, no.” He held it behind him. “Not till I get five hundred dollars.”

“Five hundred dollars!”

“Sure—that’s what Sheriff Trenholm will give for it and, eh, other information.”

Betty threw back her head and eyed him defiantly. “If you go to the sheriff he will give you what every blackmailer deserves—nothing.” And she replaced the bills in the check folder. Corbin eyed the vanishing money in alarm.

“Don’t be in a hurry!” he exclaimed. “I am a poor man. I’ll take the money—and your word for the rest.” His fingers closed greedily over the Treasury notes as he relinquished the scarf. With a mumbled word, of which Betty was oblivious, he hastened back the way he had come.

Betty stood where she was in indecision. Finally she turned and watched Corbin reënter the woods. Convinced that he was not likely to return she continued on her way toward Upper Marlboro, the scarf safely tucked inside the pocket of her fur coat.She had gone some little distance when she came to an open field and saw, close to the road, in a slight hollow, a huge boulder from which the snow had melted, leaving exposed the dry rock.

Betty’s hesitation was brief. Climbing the fence, she turned her back on the road and placing the scarf on the rock she drew out a silver match box. The first match failed to light, with the second she was more successful, and three minutes later the scarf was a smoldering heap of ashes. Drawing in her breath she blew them off the rock, and with a lighter heart, regained the road just in time to recognize her aunt’s Rolls-Royce approaching, Pierre at the wheel. The recognition was mutual and the powerful car came to a stop. Before the little chauffeur could climb out of his seat the limousine door was swung open and Doctor Nash sprang to Betty’s side, and assisted her into the car.

“Upon my word, Betty!” he exclaimed, at her wet boots. “You are most imprudent!”

“As usual.” A sigh accompanied the words and Doctor Nash turned and scanned her closely. Her brilliant color and the sparkle of her eyes accentuated the haggard lines caused by harassing thoughts and sleepless nights, but did not detract from her beauty. Nash’s critical expression softened and Betty, quickto read his thoughts, laid her hand in his. “I need your help.”

“You can count on me, Betty, always.” Nash spoke with warmth and Betty’s color deepened. She paused, however, before addressing him again.

“Promise me,” she began, sinking her voice so that he had to bend nearer to catch what she said. “Promise me not to admit to Sheriff Trenholm that you and I were at Abbott’s Lodge on Monday night.”

Nash straightened up with a jerk. “Betty!”

“Please!” Betty’s soft voice was pathos itself. There was silence in the limousine and Pierre dropped his eyes from the vision mirror in which were plainly outlined the likenesses of his two passengers in time to turn into the driveway to Abbott’s Lodge and stop under theporte cochère.

Nash sighed deeply. “Does your aunt know?”

Betty shook her head. “No one must know,” she protested vehemently. “No one.” She looked at him and the wistful, pleading appeal in her lovely eyes stirred him out of himself.

His low but fervid “Betty” reached not only her ears, but Alan Mason’s, who stood by the door of the car, held open by the attentive Pierre.

Alan broke the pause. “I’m glad you’ve come, Nash,” he said. “Your wife is worse.”

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