Who—what was this stranger who seemed so interested in his whereabouts? Peter was sure that he had made no mistake. It was an unusual face, swarthy, with high cheek bones, dark eyes, a short nose with prominent nostrils. Perhaps it would not have been so firmly impressed on his memory except for the curious look of startled recognition that Peter had surprised on it at the station in New York. This had puzzled him for some moments in the train but had been speedily lost in the interest of his journey. The man had followed him to Black Rock. But why? What did he want of Peter and why should he skulk around the cabin and risk the danger of Peter's bullets? It seemed obvious that he was here for some dishonest purpose, but what dishonest purpose could have any interest in Peter? If robbery, why hadn't the man chosen the time while Peter was away in the woods? Peter grinned to himself. If the man had any private sources of information as to Peter's personal assets, he would have known that they consisted of a two-dollar watch and a small sum in money. If the dishonest purpose were murder or injury, why hadn't he attacked Peter while he was bathing, naked and quite defenseless, in the creek?
There seemed to be definite answers to all of these questions, but none to the fact of the man's presence, to the fact of his look of recognition, or to the fact of his wish to be unobserved. Was he a part of the same conspiracywhich threatened McGuire? Or was this a little private conspiracy arranged for Peter alone? And if so, why? So far as Peter knew he hadn't an enemy in America, and even if he had made one, it was hardly conceivable that any one should go to such lengths to approach an issue and then deliberately avoid it.
But there seemed no doubt that something was up and that, later, more would be heard from this curious incident. It seemed equally certain that had the stranger meant to shoot Peter he could easily have done so in perfect safety to himself through the window, while Peter was fastening his cravat. Reloading his revolver and slipping it into his pocket, Peter locked the cabin carefully, and after listening to the sounds of the woods for awhile, made his way up the path to Black Rock House.
He had decided to say nothing about the incident which, so far as he could see, concerned only himself, and so when the men on guard questioned him about the shots that they had heard he told them that he had been firing at a mark. This was quite true, even if the mark had been invisible. Shad Wells was off duty until midnight so Peter went the rounds, calling the men to the guardhouse and telling them of the change in the orders. They were to wait until the company upon the portico went indoors and then, with Jesse in command, they were to take new stations in trees and clumps of bushes which Peter designated much nearer the house. The men eyed his dinner jacket with some curiosity and not a little awe, and Peter informed them that it was the old man's order and that he, Peter, was going to keep watch from inside the house, but that a blast from a whistle would fetch him out. He also warned them that it was McGuire's wish that none of the visitors should be aware of the watchmen and that therefore there should be no false alarms.
Curiously enough Peter found McGuire in a state verynearly bordering on calm. He had had a drink. He had not heard the shots Peter had fired nor apparently had any of the regular occupants of the house. The visitors had possibly disregarded them. From the pantry came a sound with which Peter was familiar, for Stryker was shaking the cocktails. And when the ladies came downstairs the two men on the portico came in and Peter was presented to the others of the party, Miss Delaplane, Mr. Gittings and Mr. Mordaunt. The daughter of the house examined Peter's clothing and then, having apparently revised her estimate of him, became almost cordial, bidding him sit next Miss Delaplane at table.
Mildred Delaplane was tall, handsome, dark and aquiline, and made a foil for Peggy's blond prettiness. Peter thought her a step above Peggy in the cultural sense, and only learned afterward that as she was not very well off, Peggy was using her as a rung in the social ladder. Mordaunt, Peter didn't fancy, but Gittings, who was jovial and bald, managed to inject some life into the party, which, despite the effect of the cocktails, seemed rather weary and listless.
McGuire sat rigidly at the head of the table, forcing smiles and glancing uneasily at doors and windows. Peter was worried too, not as to himself, but as to any possible connection that there might be between the man with the dark mustache and the affairs of Jonathan McGuire. Mildred Delaplane, who had traveled in Europe in antebellum days, found much that was interesting in Peter's fragmentary reminiscences. She knew music too, and in an unguarded moment Peter admitted that he had studied. It was difficult to lie to women, he had found.
And so, after dinner, that information having transpired, he was immediately led to the piano-stool by his hostess, who was frequently biased in her social judgments by Mildred Delaplane. Peter played Cyril Scott's"Song from the East," and then, sure of Miss Delaplane's interest, an Étude of Scriabine, an old favorite of his which seemed to express the mood of the moment.
And all the while he was aware of Jonathan McGuire, seated squarely in the middle of the sofa which commanded all the windows and doors, with one hand at his pocket, scowling and alert by turns, for, though the night had fallen slowly, it was now pitch black outside. Peter knew that McGuire was thinking he hadn't hired his superintendent as a musician to entertain his daughter's guests, but that he was powerless to interfere. Nor did he wish to excite the reprobation of his daughter by going up and locking himself in his room. Peggy, having finished her cigarette with Freddy on the portico, had come in again and was now leaning over the piano, her gaze fixed, like Mildred's, upon Peter's mobile fingers.
"You're really too wonderful a superintendent to be quite true," said Peggy when Peter had finished. "Butdogive us a 'rag.'"
Peter shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I can't do ragtime."
"Quit your kidding! I want to dance."
"I'm not—er—kidding," said Peter, laughing. "I can't play it at all—not at all."
Peggy gave him a look, shrugged and walked to the door.
"Fred-die-e!" she called.
Peter rose from the piano-stool and crossed to McGuire. The man's cigar was unsmoked and tiny beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
"I don't think you need worry, sir," whispered Peter. "The men are all around the house, but if you say, I'll go out for another look around."
"No matter. I'll stick it out for a while."
"You're better off here than anywhere, I should say. No one would dare——"
Here Freddy at the piano struck up "Mary" and further conversation was drowned in commotion. Mildred Delaplane was preëmpted by Mr. Gittings and Peggy came whirling alone toward Peter, arms extended, the passion for the dance outweighing other prejudices.
Peter took a turn, but four years of war had done little to improve his steps.
"I'm afraid all my dancing is in my fingers," he muttered.
Suddenly, as Freddy Mordaunt paused, Peggy stopped and lowered her arms.
"Good Lord!" she gasped. "What's the matter with Pop?"
McGuire had risen unsteadily and was peering out into the darkness through the window opposite him, his face pallid, his lips drawn into a thin line. Peggy ran to him and caught him by the arm.
"What is it, Pop? Are you sick?"
"N-no matter. Just a bit upset. If you don't mind, daughter, I think I'll be going up."
"Can I do anything?"
"No. Stay here and enjoy yourselves. Just tell Stryker, will you, Nichols, and then come up to my room."
Peggy was regarding him anxiously as he made his way to the door and intercepted Peter as he went to look for the valet.
"What is it, Mr. Nichols?" she asked. "He may be sick, but it seems to me——" she paused, and then, "Did you see his eyes as he looked out of the window?"
"Indigestion," said Peter coolly.
"You'll see after him, won't you? And if he wants me, just call over."
"I'm sure he won't want you. A few home remedies——"
And Peter went through the door. Stryker had appeared mysteriously from somewhere and had already preceded his master up the stair. When Peter reached the landing, McGuire was standing alone in the dark, leaning against the wall, his gaze on the lighted bedroom which, the valet was carefully examining.
"What is it, sir?" asked Peter coolly. "You thought you saw something?"
"Yes—out there—on the side portico——"
"You must be mistaken—unless it was one of the watchmen——"
"No, no. I saw——"
"What, sir?"
"No matter. Do you think Peggy noticed?"
"Just that you didn't seem quite yourself——"
"But not that I seemed—er——"
"Alarmed? I said you weren't well."
Peter took the frightened man's arm and helped him into his room.
"I'm not, Nichols," he groaned. "I'm not myself."
"I wouldn't worry, sir. I'd say it was physically impossible for any one to approach the house without permission. But I'll go down and have another look around."
"Do, Nichols. But come back up here. I'll want to talk to you."
So Peter went down. And, evading inquiries in the hallway, made his way out through the hall and pantry. Here a surprise awaited him, for as he opened the door there was a skurry of light footsteps and in a moment he was in the pantry face to face with Beth Cameron, who seemed much dismayed at being discovered.
"What on earth are you doing here?" he asked in amazement.
She glanced at his white shirt front and then laughed.
"I came to help Aunt Tillie dish up."
"You!" He didn't know why he should have been so amazed at finding her occupying a menial position in this household. She didn't seem to belong to the back stairs! And yet there she was in a plain blue gingham dress which made her seem much taller, and a large apron, her tawny hair casting agreeable shadows around her blue eyes, which he noticed seemed much darker by night than by day.
She noticed the inflection of his voice and laughed.
"Why not? I thought Aunt Tillie would need me—and besides I wanted to peek a little."
"Ah, I see. You wanted to see Miss Peggy's new frock through the keyhole?"
"Yes—and the other one. Aren't they pretty?"
"I suppose so."
"I listened, too. I couldn't help it."
"Eavesdropping!"
She nodded. "Oh, Mr. Nichols, but you do play the piano beautifully!"
"But not like an angel in Heaven," said Peter with a smile.
"Almost—if angels play. You make me forget——" she paused.
"What——?"
"That's there's anything in the world except beauty."
In the drawing-room Freddy, having found himself, had swept into a song of the cabarets, to which there was a "close harmony" chorus.
"There's that——," he muttered, jerking a thumb in the direction from which he had come.
But she shook her head. "No," she said. "That's different."
"How—different?"
"Wrong—false—un—unworthy——"
As she groped for and found the word he stared at her in astonishment. And in her eyes back of the joy that seemed to be always dancing in them he saw the shadows of a sober thought.
"But don't you like dance music?" he asked.
"Yes, I do, but it's only for the feet. Your music is for—forhere." And with a quick graceful gesture she clasped her hands upon her breast.
"I'm glad you think so, because that's where it comes from."
At this point Peter remembered his mission, which Beth's appearance had driven from his mind.
"I'll play for you sometime," he said.
He went past her and out to the servants' dining-room. As he entered with Beth at his heels, Mrs. Bergen, the housekeeper, turned in from the open door to the kitchen garden, clinging to the jamb, her lips mumbling, as though she were continuing a conversation. But her round face, usually the color and texture of a well ripened peach, was the color of putty, and seemed suddenly to have grown old and haggard. Her eyes through her metal-rimmed spectacles seemed twice their size and stared at Peter as though they saw through him and beyond. She faltered at the door-jamb and then with an effort reached a chair, into which she sank gasping.
Beth was kneeling at her side in a moment, looking up anxiously into her startled eyes.
"Why, what is it, Aunt Tillie?" she whispered quickly. "What it is? Tell me."
The coincidence was too startling. Could the same Thing that had frightened McGuire have frightened the housekeeper too? Peter rushed past her and out of the open door. It was dark outside and for a moment he could see nothing. Then objects one by one assertedthemselves, the orderly rows of vegetable plants in the garden, the wood-box by the door, the shrubbery at the end of the portico, the blue spruce tree opposite, the loom of the dark and noncommittal garage. He knew that one of his men was in the trees opposite the side porch and another around the corner of the kitchen, in the hedge, but he did not want to raise a hue and cry unless it was necessary. What was this Thing that created terror at sight? He peered this way and that, aware of an intense excitement, in one hand his revolver and in the other his police whistle. But he saw no object move, and the silence was absolute. In a moment—disappointed—he hurried back to the servants' dining-room.
Mrs. Bergen sat dazed in her chair, while Beth, who had brought her a glass of water, was making her drink of it.
"Tell me, what is it?" Beth was insisting.
"Nothing—nothing," murmured the woman.
"But there is——"
"No, dearie——"
"Are you sick?"
"I don't feel right. Maybe—the heat——"
"But your eyes look queer——"
"Do they——?" The housekeeper tried to smile.
"Yes. Like they had seen——"
A little startled as she remembered the mystery of the house, Beth cast her glance into the darkness outside the open door.
"Youare—frightened!" she said.
"No, no——"
"What was it you saw, Mrs. Bergen," asked Peter gently.
He was just at her side and at the sound of his voice she half arose, but recognizing Peter she sank back in her chair.
Peter repeated his question, but she shook her head.
"Won't you tell us? What was it you saw? A man——?"
Her eyes sought Beth's and a look of tenderness came into them, banishing the vision. But she lied when she answered Peter's question.
"I saw nothin', Mr. Nichols—I think I'll go up——"
She took another swallow of the water and rose. And with her strength came a greater obduracy.
"I saw nothin'——" she repeated again, as she saw that he was still looking at her. "Nothin' at all."
Peter and Beth exchanged glances and Beth, putting her hand under the housekeeper's arm, helped the woman to the back stairs.
Peter stood for a moment in the middle of the kitchen floor, his gaze on the door through which the woman had vanished. Aunt Tillie too! She had seen some one, some Thing—the same some one or Thing that McGuire had seen. But granting that their eyes had not deceived them, granting that each had seen Something, what, unless it were supernatural, could have frightened McGuire and Aunt Tillie too? Even if the old woman had been timid about staying in the house, she had made it clear to Peter that she was entirely unaware of the kind of danger that threatened her employer. Peter had believed her then. He saw no reason to disbelieve her now. She had known as little as Peter about the cause for McGuire's alarm. And here he had found her staring with the same unseeing eyes into the darkness, with the same symptoms of nervous shock as McGuire had shown. What enemy of McGuire's could frighten Aunt Tillie into prostration and seal her lips to speech? Why wouldn't she have dared to tell Peter what she had seen? What was this secret and how could she share it with McGuire when twenty-four hours ago she had been in complete ignoranceof the mystery? Why wouldn't she talk? Was the vision too intimate? Or too horrible?
Peter was imaginative, for he had been steeped from boyhood in the superstitions of his people. But the war had taught him that devils had legs and carried weapons. He had seen more horrible sights than most men of his years, in daylight, at dawn, or silvered with moonlight. He thought he had exhausted the possibilities for terror. But he found himself grudgingly admitting that he was at the least a little nervous—at the most, on the verge of alarm. But he put his whistle in his mouth, drew his revolver again and went forth.
First he sought out the man in the spruce tree. It was Andy. He had seen no one but the people on the porch and in the windows. It was very dark but he took an oath that no one had approached the house from his side.
"You saw no one talking with Mrs. Bergen by the kitchen door?"
"No. I can't see th' kitchen door from here."
Peter verified. A syringa bush was just in line.
"Then you haven't moved?" asked Peter.
"No. I was afraid they'd see me."
"They've seen something——"
"You mean——?"
"I don't know. But look sharp. If anything comes out this way, take a shot at it."
"You think there's something——"
"Yes—but don't move. And keep your eyes open!"
Peter went off to the man in the hedge behind the kitchen—Jesse Brown.
"See anything?" asked Peter.
"Nope. Nobody but the chauffeur."
"The chauffeur?"
"He went up to th' house a while back."
"Oh—how long ago?"
"Twenty minutes."
"I see." And then, "You didn't see any one come away from the kitchen door?"
"No. He's thar yet, I reckon."
Peter ran out to the garage to verify this statement. By the light of a lantern the chauffeur in his rubber boots was washing the two cars.
"Have you been up to the house lately?"
"Why, no," said the man, in surprise.
"You're sure?" asked Peter excitedly.
"Sure——"
"Then come with me. There's something on."
The man dropped his sponge and followed Peter, who had run back quickly to the house.
It was now after eleven. From the drawing-room came the distracting sounds from the tortured piano, but there was no one on the portico. So Peter, with Jesse, Andy and the chauffeur made a careful round of the house, examining every bush, every tree, within a circle of a hundred yards, exhausting every possibility for concealment. When they reached the kitchen door again, Peter rubbed his head and gave it up. A screech owl somewhere off in the woods jeered at him. All the men, except Jesse, were plainly skeptical. But he sent them back to their posts and, still pondering the situation, went into the house.
It was extraordinary how the visitor, whoever he was, could have gotten away without having been observed, for though the night was black the eyes of the men outside were accustomed to it and the lights from the windows sent a glimmer into the obscurity. Of one thing Peter was now certain, that the prowler was no ghost or banshee, but a man, and that he had gone as mysteriously as he had come.
Peter knew that his employer would be anxious untilhe returned to him, but he hadn't quite decided to tell McGuire of the housekeeper's share in the adventure. He had a desire to verify his belief that Mrs. Bergen was frightened by the visitor for a reason of her own which had nothing to do with Jonathan McGuire. Any woman alarmed by a possible burglar or other miscreant would have come running and crying for help. Mrs. Bergen had been doggedly silent, as though, rather than utter her thoughts, she would have bitten out her tongue. It was curious. She had seemed to be talking as though to herself at the door, and then, at the sound of footsteps in the kitchen behind her, had turned and fallen limp in the nearest chair. The look in her face, as in McGuire's, was that of terror, but there was something of bewilderment in both of them too, like that of a solitary sniper in the first shock of a shrapnel wound, a look of anguish that seemed to have no outlet, save in speech, which was denied.
To tell McGuire what had happened in the kitchen meant to alarm him further. Peter decided for the present to keep the matter from him, giving the housekeeper the opportunity of telling the truth on the morrow if she wished.
He crossed the kitchen and servants' dining-room and just at the foot of the back stairs met Mrs. Bergen and Beth coming down. So he retraced his steps into the kitchen, curious as to the meaning of her reappearance.
At least she had recovered the use of her tongue.
"I couldn't go to bed, just yet, Mr. Nichols," she said in reply to Peter's question. "I just couldn't."
Peter gazed at her steadily. This woman held a clew to the mystery. She glanced at him uncertainly but she had recovered her self-possession, and her replies to his questions, if anything, were more obstinate than before.
"I saw nothin', Mr. Nichols—nothin'. I was just abit upset. I'm all right now. An' I want Beth to go home. That's why I came down."
"But, Aunt Tillie, if you're not well, I'm going to stay——"
"No. Ye can't stay here. I want ye to go." And then, turning excitedly to Peter, "Can't ye let somebody see her home, Mr. Nichols?"
"Of course," said Peter. "But I don't think she's in any danger."
"No, but she can't stay here. She just can't."
Beth put her arm around the old woman's shoulder.
"I'm not afraid."
Aunt Tillie was already untying Beth's apron.
"I know ye're not, dearie. But ye can't stay here. I don't want ye to. I don't want ye to."
"But if you're afraid of something——"
"Who said I was afraid?" she asked, glaring at Peter defiantly. "I'm not. I just had a spell—all this excitement an' extra work—an' everything."
She lied. Peter knew it, but he saw no object to be gained in keeping Beth in Black Rock House, so he went out cautiously and brought the chauffeur, to whom he entrusted the safety of the girl. He would have felt more comfortable if he could have escorted her himself, but he knew that his duty was at the house and that whoever the mysterious person was it was not Beth that he wanted.
But what was Mrs. Bergen's reason for wishing to get rid of her?
As Beth went out of the door he whispered in her ear, "Say nothing of this—to any one."
She nodded gravely and followed the man who had preceded her.
When the door closed behind Beth and the chauffeur, Peter turned quickly and faced the housekeeper.
"Now," he said severely, "tell me the truth."
She stared at him with a falling jaw in a moment of alarm—then closed her lips firmly. And, as she refused to reply,
"Do you want me to tell Mr. McGuire that you were talking to a stranger at the kitchen door?"
She trembled and sinking in a chair buried her face in her hands.
"I don't want to be unkind, Mrs. Bergen, but there's something here that needs explaining. Who was the man you talked to outside the door?"
"I—I can't tell ye," she muttered.
"You must. It's better. I'm your friend and Beth's——"
The woman raised her haggard face to his.
"Beth's friend! Are ye? Then ask me no more."
"But I've got to know. I'm here to protect Mr. McGuire, but I'd like to protect you too. Who is this stranger?"
The woman lowered her head and then shook it violently. "No, no. I'll not tell."
He frowned down at her head.
"Did you know that to-night McGuire saw the stranger—the man thatyousaw—and that he's even more frightened than you?"
The woman raised her head, gazed at him helplessly, then lowered it again, but she did not speak. The kitchen was silent, but an obbligato to this drama, like the bray of the ass in the overture to "Midsummer Night's Dream," came from the drawing-room, where Freddy Mordaunt was now singing a sentimental ballad.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Bergen, but if Mr. McGuire is in danger to-night, I've got to know it."
"To-night!" she gasped, as though clutching at a straw. "Not to-night. Nothin'll happen to-night. I'm sure of that, Mr. Nichols."
"How do you know?"
She threw out her arms in a wide gesture of desperation. "For the love o' God, go 'way an' leave me in peace. Don't ye see I ain't fit to talk to anybody?" She gasped with a choking throat. "Heain't comin' back again—not to-night. I'll swear it on th' Bible, if ye want me to."
Their glances met, hers weary and pleading, and he believed her.
"All right, Mrs. Bergen," he said soothingly. "I'll take your word for it, but you'll admit the whole thing is very strange—very startling."
"Yes—strange. God knows it is. But I—I can't tell ye anything."
"But what shall I say to Mr. McGuire—upstairs. I've got to go up—now."
"Say to him——?" she gasped helplessly, all her terrors renewed. "Ye can't tell him I was talkin' to anybody." And then more wildly, "Ye mustn't. I wasn't. I was talkin' to myself—that's the God's truth, I was—when ye come in. It was so strange—an' all. Don't tell him, Mr. Nichols," she pleaded at last, with a terrible earnestness, and clutching at his hand. "For my sake, for Beth's——"
"What has Beth to do with it?"
"More'n ye think. Oh, God——" she broke off. "What am I sayin'——? Beth don't know. She mustn't. He don't know either——"
"Who? McGuire?"
"No—no. Don't ask any more questions, Mr. Nichols," she sobbed. "I can't speak. Don't ye see I can't?"
So Peter gave up the inquisition. He had never liked to see a woman cry.
"Oh, all right," he said more cheerfully, "you'd betterbe getting to bed. Perhaps daylight will clear things up."
"And ye won't tell McGuire?" she pleaded.
"I can't promise anything. But I won't if I'm not compelled to."
She gazed at him uncertainly, her weary eyes wavering, but she seemed to take some courage from his attitude.
"God bless ye, sir."
"Good-night, Mrs. Bergen."
And then, avoiding the drawing-room, Peter made his way up the stairs with a great deal of mental uncertainty to the other room of terror.
Stryker, who kept guard at the door of McGuire's room, opened it cautiously in response to Peter's knock. He found McGuire sitting rigidly in a rocking-chair at the side of the room, facing the windows, a whisky bottle and glass on the table beside him. His face had lost its pallor, but in his eyes was the same look of glassy bewilderment.
"Why the H—— couldn't you come sooner?" He whined the question, not angrily, but querulously, like a child.
"I was having a look around," replied Peter coolly.
"Oh! And did you find anybody?"
"No."
"H-m! I thought you wouldn't."
Peter hesitated. He meant to conceal the housekeeper's share in the night's encounters, but he knew that both Andy and the chauffeur would talk, and so,
"Therewassomebody outside, Mr. McGuire," he said. "You were not mistaken, a man prowling in the dark near the kitchen. Andy thought it was the chauffeur, who was in the garage washing the cars."
"Ah!"
McGuire started up, battling for his manhood. It seemed to Peter that his gasp was almost one of relief at discovering that his eyes had not deceived him, that the face he had seen was that of a real person, instead of the figment of a disordered mind.
"Ah! Why didn't they shoot him?"
"I've just said, sir, Andy thought it was the chauffeur."
McGuire was pacing the floor furiously.
"He has no business to think. I pay him to act. And you—what did you do?"
"Three of us searched the whole place—every tree, every bush—every shadow——. The man has gone."
"Gone," sneered the other. "A H—— of a mess you're making of this job!"
Peter straightened angrily, but managed to control himself.
"Very well, Mr. McGuire," he said. "Then you'd better get somebody else at once."
He had never given notice before but the hackneyed phrase fell crisply from his lips. For many reasons, Peter didn't want to go, but he bowed and walked quickly across the room. "Good-night," he said.
Before he had reached the door the frightened man came stumbling after him and caught him by the arm.
"No, no, Nichols. Come back. D'ye hear? You mustn't be so d—— touchy. Come back. You can't go. I didn't mean anything. Come now!"
Peter paused, his hand on the knob, and looked down into the man's flabby, empurpled countenance.
"I thought you meant it," he said.
"No. I—I didn't. I—I like you, Nichols—liked you from the very first—yesterday. Of course you can't be responsible for all the boneheads here."
Peter had "called the bluff." Perhaps the lesson might have a salutary effect. And so, as his good humor came back to him, he smiled pleasantly.
"You see, Mr. McGuire, you could hardly expect Andy to shoot the chauffeur. They're on excellent terms."
McGuire had settled down into a chair near the table, and motioned Peter to another one near him.
"Sit down, Nichols. Another glass, Stryker. So." He poured the whisky with an assumption of ease and they drank.
"You see, Nichols," he went on as he set his empty glass down, "I know what I'm about. Thereissomebody trying to get at me. It's no dream—no hallucination. You know that too, now. I saw him—I would have shot him through the window—if it hadn't been for Peggy—and the others—but I—I didn't dare—for reasons. She mustn't know——" And then eagerly, "She doesn't suspect anything yet, does she, Nichols?"
Peter gestured over his shoulder in the direction of the sounds which still came from below.
"No. They're having a good time."
"That's all right. To-morrow they'll be leaving for New York, I hope. And then we'll meet this issue squarely. You say the man has gone. Why do you think so?"
"Isn't it reasonable to think so? His visit was merely a reconnoissance. I think he had probably been lying out in the underbrush all day, getting the lay of the land, watching what we were doing—seeing where the men were placed. But he must know now that he'll have to try something else—that he hasn't a chance of getting to you past these guards, if you don't want him to."
"But he nearly succeeded to-night," mumbled McGuire dubiously.
Peter was silent a moment.
"I'm not supposed to question and I won't. But it seems to me, Mr. McGuire, that if this visitor's plan were to murder you, to get rid of you, he would have shot you down to-night, through the window. From his failure to do so, there is one definite conclusion to draw—and that is that he wants to see you—to talk with you——"
McGuire fairly threw himself from his chair as he roared,
"I can't see him. I won't. I won't see anybody. I've got the law on my side. A man's house is his castle. A fellow prowls around here in the dark. He's been seen—if he's shot it's his own lookout. And hewillbe shot before he reaches me. You hear me? Your men must shoot—shoot to kill. If they fail I'll——"
He shrugged as if at the futility of his own words, which came stumbling forth, born half of fear, half of braggadocio.
Peter regarded him soberly. It was difficult to conceive of this man, who talked like a madman and a spoiled child, as the silent, stubborn, friendless millionaire, as the power in finance that Sheldon, Senior, had described him to be. The love of making money had succumbed to a more primitive passion which for the time being had mastered him. From what had been revealed, it seemed probable that it was not death or bodily injury that he feared, for Peter had seen him stand up at the window, a fair target for any good marksman, but an interview with this nocturnal visitor who seemed bent upon bringing it about. Indeed, the childish bravado of his last speech had voiced a wish, but beneath the wish Peter had guessed a protest against the inevitable.
Peter acknowledged McGuire's right to seclusion in his own house, but he found himself wondering whether death for the intruder as proposed by his employer were a justifiable means of preserving it, especially if the strange visitor did not himself use violence to gain his ends. And so, when McGuire presently poured himself another glass of whisky, and drank it, Peter took the liberty of asking the question.
"I am ignorant of your laws in this country, Mr. McGuire, but doesn't it seem that short of forcible entryof this house we would hardly be justified in shooting the man?"
"I take the responsibility for that."
"I understand. But what I was going to propose was a hunt through the woods to-morrow. A description of this man would be helpful. For instance, whether he was smoothly shaven or whether he had a beard—or—or a mustache?"
McGuire scowled.
"The man has a slight growth of beard—of mustache. But what difference does that make? No one has a right here—without my permission."
Peter sipped at his glass. As he had suspected, there were two of them.
"That's true. But even with this, we can move with more intelligence. This forest is your property. If we find any person who can't give an account of himself, we could take him into custody and turn him over to the proper authorities."
"No. No," cried McGuire. "And have him set loose after a trivial examination? Little good that would do. This man who is trying to reach me——"
McGuire stopped suddenly, glaring at his superintendent with bloodshot eyes, and Peter very politely waited for him to go on. But he brought his empty glass down on the table with a crash which shattered it.
"He mustn't reach me," he roared. "I won't see him. That's understood. He's a man I'd have no more compunction about shooting than——"
McGuire, with a curious suddenness, stopped again. Then rose and resumed his habit of pacing the floor. For a moment it had almost seemed as if he were on the point of a revelation. But the mood passed. Instead of speaking further he threw out his arms in a wide gesture.
"I've said enough," he growled, "more than enough.You know your duty." And he gestured toward the door. "Do it!" he finished brusquely.
Peter had already risen, and Stryker unemotionally opened the door for him.
"I'll stay on duty all night, Mr. McGuire," he said quietly. "I'd advise you to turn in and get some sleep. You need it."
"Yes. Yes, I will. Thanks, Nichols," said McGuire, following him to the door and offering a flabby hand. "Don't mind what I've said to-night. I think we understand each other. Stryker will see that the house is locked when the young people come up. Keep your men to the mark and take no chances."
"Good-night."
The remainder of the night, as Mrs. Bergen had predicted, proved uneventful, and at daylight Peter went to his cabin and tumbled into bed, too tired to think further of McGuire's visitors—or even of the man with the black mustache.
The next day he lay abed luxuriously for a while after he had awakened, but no amount of quiet thinking availed to clarify the mystery. There were two men, one bearded, interested in watching McGuire, another with a black mustache, interested in Peter. And so, after wondering again for some puzzling moments as to how Mrs. Bergen, the housekeeper, had come to be involved in McGuire's fortunes, he gave the problem up.
Foreseeing difficulties over breakfast at the house, he had arranged to make his own coffee on a small oil stove which happened to be available, and so Peter set the pot on to boil and while he dressed turned over in his mind the possibilities of the future. It seemed quite certain that the antagonism, whatever its nature, between his employer and the prowling stranger must come to an issue of some sort almost at once. The intruder, if he were thesort of man who could inspire terror, would not remain content merely to prowl fruitlessly about with every danger of being shot for his pains, and McGuire could hardly remain long in his present situation without a physical or mental collapse.
Why hadn't McGuire taken flight? Why indeed had he come to Black Rock House when it seemed that he would have been much safer amongst the crowds of the city, where he could fall back upon the protection of the police and their courts for immunity from this kind of persecution?
Pieced together, the phrases his employer had let slip suggested the thought that he had come to Black Rock to escape publicity in anything that might happen. And McGuire's insistence upon the orders that the guards should shoot to kill also suggested, rather unpleasantly, the thought that McGuire knew who the visitor was and earnestly desired his death.
But Mrs. Bergen could have no such wish, for, unlike McGuire, she had shown a reticence in her fears, as though her silence had been intended to protect rather than to accuse. Beth Cameron, too, was in some way unconsciously involved in the adventure. But how? He drank his coffee and ate his roll, a prey to a very lively curiosity. Beth interested him. And if Aunt Tillie Bergen, her only near relative, showed signs of inquietude on the girl's account, the mysterious visitor surely had it in his power to make her unhappy. As he washed up the dishes and made his bed, Peter decided that he would find Beth to-night when she came back from work and ask her some questions about her Aunt Tillie.
Beth Cameron saved him that trouble. He was sitting at the piano, awaiting a telephone call to Black Rock House, where he was to have a conference with his employer on the forestry situation. He was so deeplyabsorbed in his music that he was unaware of the figure that had stolen through the underbrush and was now hidden just outside the door. It was Beth. She stood with the fingers of one hand lightly touching the edge of the door-jamb, the other hand at her breast, while she listened, poised lightly as though for flight. But a playful breeze twitched at the hem of her skirt, flicking it out into the patch of sunlight by the doorsill, and Peter caught the glint of white from the tail of his eye.
The music ceased suddenly and before Beth could flee into the bushes Peter had caught her by the hand.
Now that she was discovered she made no effort to escape him.
"I—I was listening," she gasped.
"Why, Beth," he exclaimed, voicing the name in his thoughts. "How long have you been here?"
"I—I don't know. Not long."
"I'm so glad."
She was coloring very prettily.
"You—you told me you—you'd play for me sometime," she said demurely.
"Of course. Won't you come in? It's rather a mess here, but——"
He led her in, glancing at her gingham dress, a little puzzled.
"I thought you'd be farmeretting," he said.
But she shook her head.
"I quit—yesterday."
He didn't ask the reason. He was really enjoying the sight of her. Few women are comely in the morning hours, which have a merciless way of exaggerating minute imperfections. Beth hadn't any minute imperfections except her freckles, which were merely Nature's colorings upon a woodland flower. She seemed to fill the cabin withmorning fragrance, like a bud just brought in from the garden.
"I'm very glad you've come," he said gallantly, leading her over to the double window where there was a chintz-covered seat. "I've wanted very much to talk to you."
She followed him protestingly.
"But I didn't come to be talked to. I came to listen to you play."
"You always arrive in the midst of music," he laughed. "I played you in, without knowing it. That was an Elfentanz——"
"What's that?"
"A dance of the Elves—the fairies." And then, with a laugh, "And the little devils."
"The little devils? You meanme!"
"Elf—fairy and devil too—but mostly elf."
"I'm not sure I like that—but Idolike the music. Please play it again."
She was so lovely in her eagerness that he couldn't refuse, his fingers straying from the dance by slow transitions into something more quiet, the "Romance" of Sibelius, and then after that into a gay littlescherzo, at the end of which he turned suddenly to find her flushed and breathless, regarding him in a kind of awe.
"How lovely!" she whispered. "There were no devils in that."
"No, only fairies."
"Angels too—but somethin' else—that quiet piece—like the—the memory of a—a—sorrow."
"'Romance,' it's called," he explained gently.
"Oh!"
"The things we dream. The things that ought to be, but aren't."
She took a deep breath. "Yes, that's it. That's whatit meant. I felt it." And then, as though with a sudden shyness at her self-revelation, she glanced about. "What a pretty place! I've never been here before."
"How did you find your way?"
"Oh, I knew where the cabin was. I came through the woods and across the log-jam below the pool. Then I heard the music. I didn't think you'd mind."
"Mind! Oh, I say. I don't know when I've been so pleased."
"Are you really? Yousaya lot."
"Didn't I play it?"
That confused her a little.
"Oh!" she said demurely.
"And now, will you talk to me?"
"Yes, of course. But——"
"But what——?"
"I—I'm not sure that I ought to be here."
"Why not?"
"It's kind of—unusual."
He laughed. "You wouldn't be you, if you weren't unusual."
She glanced at him uneasily.
"You see, I don't know you very well."
"You're very exclusive in Black Rock!" he laughed.
"I guess wehaveto be exclusive whether we want to or not," she replied.
"Don't you think I'll do?"
"Maybe. I oughtn't to have come, but I just couldn't keep away."
"I'm glad you did. I wanted to see you."
"It wasn't that," she put in hastily. "I had to hear you play again. That's what I mean."
"I'll play for you whenever you like."
"Will you? Then play again, now. It makes me feel all queer inside."
Peter laughed. "Do you feel that way when you sing?"
"No. It all comes out of me then."
"Would you mind singing for me, Beth?" he asked after a moment.
"I—I don't think I dare."
He got up and went to the piano.
"What do you sing?"
But she hadn't moved and she didn't reply. So he urged her.
"In the woods when you're coming home——?"
"Oh, I don't know——It just comes out—things I've heard—things I make up——"
"What have you heard? I don't know that I can accompany you, but I'll try."
She was flushing painfully. He could see that she wanted to sing for him—to be a part of this wonderful dream-world in which he belonged, and yet she did not dare.
"What have you heard?" he repeated softly, encouraging her by running his fingers slowly over the simple chords of a major key.
Suddenly she started up and joined him by the piano.
"That's it—'The long, long trail a-windin'——" and in a moment was singing softly. He had heard the air and fell in with her almost at once.