Introductory material (continued 2)

“I am—a little,” she admitted. “But I think it’s nothing but—nerves. Nothing could possibly happen to me—”

“Don’t say that,” he interrupted, curtly. “You don’t know!”

“But who on earth would want to interfere with me? I haven’t a penny and I don’t know any secrets. I’m absolutely unimportant.”

“You’re not!” said Fennel.

She looked at him; their eyes met, and she smiled, her nonchalant and doubtful little smile. Not yet in her life she had been of supreme importance to anyone. People had liked her and had often been kind to her; she had no grudge against the world. But she had never counted for much. Her father no doubt had loved her, and had made her childhood a sorry and anxious time and had died making no provision for her. Angelina had been fond of her and had gone off and forgotten her. She was not even very important to herself; she didn’t care much what happened.

She stood where the sun shone on her bare head, still with that little careless smile. But he did not smile at all; he looked at her with a sort of cold anger.

“I’ve come—” he said, when a sound from above made her turn.

“It’s Uncle Rufus!” she cried.

The old man was scrambling down the hill-side, a ridiculous figure in his voluminous overcoat and the cap pulled over his eyes; he slipped and stumbled as he came, and clutched at the trees for support.

Diana ran to help him.

“Uncle Rufus!” she said, “I didn’t—”

He struck out at her blindly.

“No!” he cried. “No! You’ve betrayed me! you’re false and lying like the rest—”

“Look here!” interposed Fennel.

“Hold your tongue!” cried the old man. “And get out!”

He stood with his arm about a tree, breathing fast, glaring at them both with savage malignancy.

“I went to sleep,” he said to Di, “because I trusted you.”

“But I only went out for a moment, Uncle Rufus,” she said, so pitying him for his futile and distorted anger, more futile than ever out here, under the Spring sky. “There’s no harm done. Let’s—”

“I was asleep—and helpless!” he said. “I trusted you—and you ran away. Ran out to meet your sweetheart—like a little servant-wench—”

“Look here!” said Fennel again.

The old man turned on him with a snarl. He tried to speak but no words came. He lifted his arm, as if to hurl a curse, and lurched forward, tottered a few steps, and fell forward on his face. He lay as still as if he were a bundle of rags.

Chapter Six. A Disappearance

Fennel went down on his knees, turned the old man over, unbuttoned his overcoat, jacket and waistcoat and felt his heart.

“Is he dead?” asked Diana, in a whisper.

“No…” said Fennel. “But—” He hesitated. “We’d better get him up to the house as soon as possible.”

“We can carry him. I’ll help you.”

“No,” said Fennel. “If you’ll go on ahead, and see that things are ready for him—and send someone back—”

She set off at once scrambling up the steep hillside, ran across the grass to the house and flung open the front door.

“Wren!” she panted.

There was no answer, and she ran through the dining-room to the kitchen, where she found Wren peeling potatoes.

“There’s been—an accident!” she said, breathlessly. “Old Mr. Leonard—down there in the wood. Please go and help to carry him up to the house.”

Wren gave her a sidelong glance, like a frightened horse and bolted out of the room. She waited for a moment to get her breath and then hastened up the stairs to tell her aunt. She met Wren coming down.

“I’m going, Miss!” he assured her, anxiously.

At the end of the corridor she saw her aunt come out of her room, and lock the door behind her.

“Uncle Rufus—” the girl began.

“What man was that with you?” Aunt Emma interrupted.

Diana was a little startled.

“Fennel, his name is,” she said briefly. “Now what can I do?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said her aunt, and went past her, down the stairs. As Diana followed her, Uncle Peter came tearing down, in his hat and overcoat, and darted out of the door, slamming it behind him.

Aunt Emma went over to the window, and, lighting a cigarette, stood there looking out.

“Can I—get his room ready—or something?” asked Di.

“And how do you propose to get his room ‘ready?’ ” asked her aunt. “It’s been swept and dusted and the bed made. Did you contemplate decorating it with flowers?”

“I only wanted to do something—” Di began, reddening a little under that contemptuous tone.

“You’ve done quite enough, I should say,” observed Aunt Emma. “Ah! There they are! Now go and open the door, and look zealous.”

Over the top of the hill came Fennel and Wren, carrying the limp figure of the old man between them; they crossed the lawn and entered the lounge.

“Upstairs,” said Aunt Emma, exactly as if she were speaking to furniture-movers.

Just then a car shot past the house, and Di saw that Uncle Peter was driving it. Aunt Emma turned away, leisurely extinguished her cigarette, and went upstairs. And Di, feeling entirely superfluous, followed her again.

Fennel and Wren were just laying the old man on his bed.

“Thank you!” said Aunt Emma. “Wren, go down and put on a kettle of water to boil.”

Wren sidled out of the room at once, but Fennel stood at the bedside looking down at the old man.

“Mr. Fennel,” said Aunt Emma, very amiably, “I don’t like to impose on you—but our telephone is out of order, my brother has gone to fetch a doctor, and I’ll need Wren here. If you’d be kind enough to go to the drug-store and get a prescription made up—tell them to send it up at once… It’s on your way to the station, so perhaps it’s not asking too much—”

“Not at all,” said Fennel, briefly.

Aunt Emma sat down and taking a fountain pen and a note-book from her overall pocket, wrote briskly for a moment.

“Now!” she said. “And if you’ll be kind enough to take this as quickly as you can… Diana! You know where the linen-room is? Run and get me four clean towels… Hurry!”

Di hastened out of the room and along the corridor. But before she reached the linen-room, she heard Fennel coming after her. She stopped.

“Please come again!” she said. “I haven’t had time to thank you properly—”

He came close to her.

“See here!” he said. “I’ll be waiting for you in that same place in that wood—at nine this evening. I’ll wait an hour, and if you don’t come, then I’ll come here to the house for you.”

“Well… no, thanks,” she said, surprised. “You see, with Uncle Rufus ill, I can’t—”

“Stand out of the way!” said Aunt Emma’s voice, so close that she started. “I’ll get the towels myself, if you’re not going to help me.”

“Good afternoon!” said Fennel, curtly, and without another word or glance, went off down the stairs.

Di opened the door of the linen-room and got down the towels from a shelf.

“Now!” said Aunt Emma, “if you’re willing to be of any assistance—when there’s no male spectator to appreciate it—”

“This isn’t the time to answer,” thought Di. “I’ve got to put myself aside when Uncle Rufus is so ill.” And aloud: “What can I do?” she asked, cheerfully.

“You can go into my room,” said Aunt Emma, “and type the short article that you’ll find on the desk there. It must be posted to the Medical Journal to-night.”

Then there came to Di a very definite suspicion that her aunt wanted only to get her out of the way. She had sent her brother off in the car, Wren downstairs to the kitchen, Fennel on an errand… Fear crept up in her heart like an icy tide.

“Good God!” cried Aunt Emma. “Can’t you do anything?”

“I’d—like to—stay with Uncle Rufus,” said Di, in an unsteady voice.

For she had abandoned him once, and then great disaster had happened. And she would not abandon him again. She had promised to stand by him.

For a moment Aunt Emma looked at her, with her blue eyes like ice. Then she laughed.

“Very well!” she said. “And perhaps you’d like to taste any medicine I give him? Come along!”

They re-entered the room where the old man lay on the bed, motionless, still in his grotesque cap pulled down to his ears, and his overcoat.

“Sit down over there, out of the way,” said Aunt Emma. “I’m going to get some medicine.”

When she had left the room, it seemed to Di that the window might be opened a little. And as she did so, she saw on the drive beneath, Fennel, talking to Wren.

She could hear their words plainly.

“It’s for their own good, sir,” Wren was saying, earnestly. “There’s so much harm they could come to, if they was to get out. I know, sir, it does give one a shock to see them looking out of the window like that—but it’s for their own good.”

“There was a friend of mine, a doctor in Switzerland,” said Fennel. “He had some cases like that in his sanitarium. Cretins, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He kept them out in the air, as much as possible—”

“Did that help them, sir?” Wren interrupted.

“I should think it would help anyone,” said Fennel. “But of course he gave them some sort of treatment. Thyroid extract—”

“Thyroid extract, sir? Did that do them good?”

“I believe so. Some of them improved—grew taller, you know, and could talk better. But isn’t your Miss Leonard a physician? No doubt she—”

“Would you mind spelling that, if you please, sir? That extract you mentioned?”

Fennel did so, and Wren repeated it after him.

“Do you think it can be bought, sir—?” he began, when Aunt Emma came out of the kitchen door.

“Wren!” she said.

The little man fairly cringed.

“I was just waiting for the kettle to boil, Miss—I—”

“Get in the house,” she said, carelessly, and he disappeared at once.

Then she and Fennel looked at each other. Diana waited, with unaccountable dread, for what they would say. But they said nothing. Fennel took off his hat, and with that vivid smile of his, turned away, went off down the hill.

Di closed the window noiselessly, and sat down on a chair at the other side of the room.

“What does it mean?” she asked herself. “What does it mean?”

For she was absolutely certain that beneath all the things she could see and hear there was something else, some meaning she could not grasp. It was as if she were watching a play in a foreign language; she could see the actors, watch their gestures, their entrances and exits, hear their words, but never seize the significance. She did not even know who was the villain of the piece, or who the hero.

Fennel… Was he cast for a minor part; had he just “walked on” in this one scene and now was gone, not to appear again? A curious feeling of regret seized her, almost of desolation, because he was gone. She was left alone here with Uncle Rufus; she was his ally, pledged to stand by him, but was he her ally? She could believe that there in the wood, in his last conscious moment, he had positively hated her.

She rose, and went over to the bed to look at him. But she turned away hastily; he was so grotesque, so horrible, lying there in his overcoat and cap, his eyes closed, an expression of bitter malice on his sallow old face. She pitied him, that man who had grown old without a friend, she was willing and determined to help him, but she could not feel any affection.

“Is he—very ill?” she wondered. “Dangerously ill? It seems to me that Aunt Emma’s doing precious little for him… But of course I don’t know. Perhaps there’s nothing that can be done. She ought to know. And Mr. Fennel seemed satisfied. If he’d thought there was anything—queer, I don’t believe he’d have gone away without a word… But he wanted to see me this evening… He certainly wasn’t thinking of a lover’s tryst. Perhaps he had something to tell me—something I ought to know. It was a mistake to say I wouldn’t go. I’m sorry I said I wouldn’t.”

That reminded her of the letter he had brought from Mrs. Frick, and taking it out of her pocket she tore it open. Folded inside the letter she caught a glimpse of green, and drew out a ten-dollar bill.

Ten dollars! Freedom and independence! She could get away from here, buy a railway ticket, pay a week’s rent for a room, and look for a job. And it seemed to her that any job on earth would be joyous and delightful after this. Any job, where she was free to come and go, where there were people to talk to, an ordinary existence. She was about to read the letter when the sound of a car outside sent her to the window again, and she saw Uncle Peter, driving the roadster, and wedged in beside him, two portly, middle-aged men. Such respectable, such blessedly ordinary looking men! The thought of them coming into this house filled her with immense relief. They were coming, and she had ten dollars. At the end of this promised week she would go…

Aunt Emma entered the room.

“They’re here!” she said. “Run down and tell Wren to come up at once. We’ll have to make the patient a little more presentable for Doctor Coat.”

“Oh! Is one of them a doctor?” asked Di, better pleased than ever. Then there couldn’t be anything really—queer.

“Don’t stop in the lounge to speak to them,” said Aunt Emma. “And you’d better not come back, just yet. Wait in the kitchen until I come.”

But Di felt that no human power should keep her from speaking to those blessedly ordinary men.

“Why don’t you want me to speak to them?” she asked briefly.

Aunt Emma looked at her.

“I suppose,” she said, “that you meant to trip in, like a little ingénue in a play, all curls and dimples and they would be enchanted. But in the first place, they’re here on business, and they’ve never heard of you. And in the second place, you’re not looking quite your best. You might take a glance in the mirror.”

“No, thanks,” said Di, turning scarlet.

“Then please send Wren at once.”

She went downstairs, and hurried through the lounge without turning her head, traversed the dining-room and entered the kitchen. There sat Wren, with his head down on the table, a forlorn little figure.

At the sound of her step, he jumped up.

“Miss Leonard wants you right away,” said Di.

“Yes, Miss!” he answered.

Then, glancing nervously over his shoulder, he came nearer to her.

“Miss!” he whispered. “If you’ll kindly not mention this…” And he thrust a piece of paper into her hand and hurried out of the room.

With considerable curiosity, she opened the scrap of paper, to see what Wren wanted to say to her.

“Nine o’clock. J.F.”

That was not a message from Wren. Putting the paper into her pocket, she crossed the kitchen and opened the door, stood there to enjoy the clear air and to think. The sun was going down. The sky was tranquil; in the trees the birds were chirping their evensong.

“I will go!” she thought. “He wouldn’t ask me if it wasn’t important. He’s—trustworthy.”

It was so great a comfort to feel that, after all, he hadn’t walked off, was not gone; she looked forward with eagerness, with impatience, to seeing him, hearing his cool, unemotional voice. Nothing would confuse him, ever, nothing could deceive him, his quiet dark eyes would see, would judge, would understand—

“How idiotic!” she said to herself. “I don’t know the man. I never spoke to him before to-day. I don’t even know why he brought Mrs. Frick’s letter.”

It occurred to her that the letter might contain some explanation of Fennel. She felt in her pocket for it. The ten-dollar bill was there, and the note Wren had just given her, but Mrs. Frick’s letter was gone.

“I must have dropped it up in Uncle Rufus’s room,” she thought, very much distressed. “Well, I certainly can’t go to look for it now. I’ll have to wait.”

This was a singularly unpleasing idea, for she was morally certain that Aunt Emma would read the letter if she saw it.

“She’d do anything she wanted to do,” thought Di.

Just then she caught sight of a figure breasting the hill, outlined clearly against the pale, clear sky. It was Miles, handsome and debonair and cheerful, carrying under his arm a package wrapped in blue paper. He caught sight of her and waved, and she waved back again.

“Hello, dear!” he said, as he came nearer.

That was an unpromising beginning, but she answered amiably.

“Hello, Miles!”

He came into the kitchen and handed her the package he carried.

“Present for you!” he said.

“Thank you, Miles!” she said. “But first I’d better tell you… There’s bad news. Poor Uncle Rufus—”

“There couldn’t be any news bad enough about him,” said Miles.

“No, seriously, Miles, he’s very ill.”

“Stuff! He’s always getting ‘very ill!’ ”

“No, but this time… He came down to that little clearing in the wood after us, and he had some sort of attack. We thought he was dead—”

“Who’s ‘we’?” asked Miles.

She saw that she had made a mistake, but she was not going to be intimidated by Miles.

“A Mr. Fennel and I—”

“Who’s Mr. Fennel?”

“A friend of mine.”

“Look here!” said Miles.

And then it began, that scene she dreaded.

“You might have told me there was another fellow, and not let me make a fool of myself, thinking of you all day in the city… bringing you a present.”

“Don’t be silly!” she said firmly. “You can’t imagine that I’ve lived for twenty-three years and never made any friends. Let’s see the present! I love presents!”

But he snatched the box away.

“You needn’t be so dam’ patronizing!” he said. “I’m not a child.”

“You’re acting like one,” she said. “Oh, Miles! Don’t let’s quarrel! I’m so—so tired…”

“What about me?” he interrupted. “Why, the night I came here, I was so sick I had to be carried into the house.”

“Oh, was that you?” she cried, relieved; but added hastily, “I’m awfully sorry you were sick, what was it?”

“You know dam’ well!” he said. “They’ve told you. It was bootleg whisky. It’s killing me.”

As if in a nightmare, she knew what would come next. He would now go on to say, with considerable profanity, that no one else cared what happened to him, so why should he care? Just as her father had used to do, with that same perverse insistence upon his unique unhappiness. That, just as she had never known how to manage her father, she could not now manage Miles. She was not a managing sort of girl: she had no desire to rule, or to influence; she was only ready to help as best she could.

“Miles… ?” she said, with that dubious little smile. “Sit down and light a cigarette. It’s good for the nerves.”

For answer he slammed the box on the floor and set his heel on it, trampled on it until the wrapping and the box inside were burst, and she could see a beautiful assortment of chocolates being mashed. And she, who had in her time endured so much, and with such fortitude, began to cry.

Miles looked at her, astounded.

“I didn’t mean—”

“No!” she cried. “When you hurt people—you never expect them to be hurt…”

“Diana!” he said, really alarmed by her tears. “Diana… I’m sorry… I’ll get you another box…”

“It’s not that!” she said. “It’s just everything…”

He came to her side, and took her hand, almost timidly.

“I didn’t mean to act like this!” he said, miserably. “I’d been thinking of you all day—and looking forward so to seeing you when I got back. You poor little kid! I meant to be—different. Diana, please give me another chance! One more chance! I’ll take hold of myself, dear! I have tried to be different since I met you. I haven’t touched a drop since that night. Say you’ll—”

“Diana!” said Aunt Emma’s voice. “Will you be kind enough to cook the dinner?”

Di glanced up, so startled that she forgot the tears still wet on her cheeks.

“Wren will have to sit with your Uncle Rufus,” said Aunt Emma. “He won’t have anyone else with him; he won’t even see Doctor Coat. So I’ll have to ask you to help me out. There’ll be the Doctor and Mr. Purvis and your Uncle Peter and Miles and you and I—six of us. Just a simple dinner, naturally.”

“But—I’m awfully sorry—” said Di, “but—I’m afraid I don’t know—”

“Very well!” said Aunt Emma. “Then, Miles, you and your father will have to cook the best sort of dinner you can. Perhaps Diana will be able to turn on the light in the dining-room and put the chairs at the table.”

“She and I will get your dinner,” said Miles. “There’s nothing Diana can’t do, when she puts her mind on it.”

Aunt Emma turned, and walked off, erect and composed, and Miles went to Diana and put his arm about her shoulders. She sighed to herself, wondering what new mood this signified, but glancing up, she saw in his face a look that profoundly touched her, a sort of despairing appeal.

“Di,” he said, “if I could always be with you… I—I don’t mean to be—like I am… If you loved me—we could go away from this dam’ place… I haven’t any money, or any brains, or any character, but if I had you, I’d get them all. If you cared—”

“Miles,” she said. “I do care. I’ve liked you ever since I first saw you.”

“But not my way,” he said.

She did not answer. He bent and kissed the top of her head, and moved away.

“Let’s cook?” he suggested.

“You see,” Diana explained, “Father and I never exactly did any housekeeping. He liked to eat in restaurants.”

“I’ve never had a home in my life,” said Miles. “So between us we might be able to manage something pretty original.”

He glanced about him, then, taking the lid of a saucepan, he shoveled up the mess of chocolates and threw it into a pail. He made no more apologies, no more complaints; he only tried to help.

The larder was disconcertingly bare. They found one tin of soup which they diluted lavishly with water; they found a slab of bacon and six eggs, and a large vegetable which baffled them.

“I think it’s a turnip,” said Di. “Anyhow I’m sure it’s a tuber; I’m going to treat it like a potato and peel it and boil it.”

“Those bananas—” said Miles. “They seem pretty crude… Can’t we make some tasty little what-not out of them! Mash them?”

His good-humor, his willingness, made the preparation of that dinner the pleasantest hour Di had spent in a long time. She was so immensely glad to laugh again. She forgot, for that hour, all her anxieties, she even forgot poor Uncle Rufus.

“Now!” she said, at last. “I think we’ve done all the harm we can. If you’ll please start setting the table while I dart upstairs and brush my hair. I’ll help you when I come down. I shan’t be a minute!”

As she hurried out of the brightly-lit kitchen, she looked back over her shoulder, and saw Miles watching her. She smiled at him and went on, her heart warm with a feeling of comradeship and good-will. She went through the dark dining-room, and looked into the lounge. They were all in there, Doctor Coat and Mr. Purvis and Aunt Emma and Uncle Peter, but fortunately they were gathered in a group under a lamp, and the rest of the lounge was fairly dark. She traversed it hastily, keeping close to the desk, and ran up the stairs.

And then, as soon as she reached that upper corridor, her happiness deserted her; she was in another world now, where there was no youth, no laughter, only sordid suspicion and chilly loneliness.

Her conscience reproached her for having forgotten Uncle Rufus. After all, she was staying here only on his account; she had money enough to leave now; nothing kept her but her promise to him.

“I’ll just look in and see him,” she thought. “And speak to Wren.”

She went down the dim corridor to Uncle Rufus’s room, and knocked softly at the door. There was no answer and she hesitated to knock louder, for fear of disturbing the old man. She tried the knob and the door opened.

To her surprise, the room was black, and from the open window a current of air blew cold on her face.

“Wren!” she whispered.

There was no answer; no sound at all.

Fear seized her; she stepped back into the hall and closed the door again.

But she knew she must go back. She could not leave the old man there alone in that dark wind-swept room. Once more she opened the door and felt for the switch; she turned it, but no light came.

“Wren!” she whispered again. “Please answer!”

The window-shade flapped in the draft made by the open door. But there was no other sound. She groped her way toward the bed, filled with a thought that turned her blood to ice.

But the bed was empty. She felt over it, from head to foot, and it was empty.

Chapter Seven. The Monstrous Night

Back in her own room, with the light turned on and the door locked, she tried to think coolly.

“Of course, they may just have moved Uncle Rufus into another room,” she said to herself.

Then suddenly she rebelled.

“No!” she thought. “It’s cowardly and contemptible to go on this way, making up explanations for everything, pretending there can’t be anything wrong. Suppose there is, and I’m just letting it go on? I ought to make sure. I’ve got to see Uncle Rufus with my own eyes.”

There was a knock at her door.

“See here!” said Aunt Emma. “Will you be good enough to come down to your dinner at once? Doctor Coat and Mr. Purvis are hungry.”

“Then I’m sorry for them,” said Di, and opened the door. “Aunt Emma,” she said, “where’s Uncle Rufus? I went to his room, and he wasn’t there?”

“Nevertheless, he is in his room,” said Aunt Emma. “Perhaps with your customary ineptitude you went to the wrong room. It’s not likely that he’s gone out for a walk.”

“I’d like to see him.”

“Unfortunately, he wouldn’t like to see you. He never wants to see anyone but Wren in the course of these attacks. To-morrow, when he’s better, you can see him. And in the meantime, why not come downstairs and tell Doctor Coat and Mr. Purvis your suspicions? A doctor and a lawyer—you couldn’t ask for anything better.”

There was something in the older woman’s cold insolence, something in her voice, her look, that was beginning to tell heavily upon Di. She resented it, yet in her resentment there was a sort of despair, as if her spirit warned her that she was no match for this woman. In every encounter she was worsted; each time Aunt Emma was able to convince her that she was a fool.

And she felt herself a fool now, as she went downstairs. Her aunt introduced the two strangers to her, Doctor Coat, a courtly old fellow with a white mustache and a handsome face, and a pleasant, rather stupid smile; Mr. Purvis, stout, grave, and a little pompous. Was it likely, if there was anything wrong here, that Aunt Emma would ask them to come? It was utterly impossible to suspect them of anything even mildly irregular.

They all sat down to that atrocious dinner, and though the stout Mr. Purvis looked rueful, neither of them seemed surprised. They were apparently at home here, and accustomed to Aunt Emma’s style of living; and they talked, without constraint, of Uncle Rufus.

“Do you think there is any chance of his seeing me to-night, Emma?” asked Mr. Purvis. “If there is, of course I’ll wait as late as I can.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Anyhow, he asked for you, and he knows you’re here.”

“Poor Rufus!” he said, with a sigh.

“Well,” said Doctor Coat, in his comfortable and kindly way, “he’s been through a great many of these attacks. And with Emma’s splendid care, we’ll hope that he’ll come through this one. There’s really no need for me here. Although, of course, I quite understand how you feel about it, Emma. If anything should happen there’d be criticism… Yes… quite so… If he can be persuaded to make a will, he’ll feel very much better. Set his house in order… quite so!”

Then he turned to Diana.

“I hear he’s taken a great liking to you,” he said. “Very nice, I’m sure.”

“I don’t know,” said Di. “I’m afraid—”

“She’s almost morbidly self-distrustful,” said Aunt Emma, interrupting. “Like her poor mother.”

Mr. Purvis and Doctor Coat both looked at Di with a sort of sympathy.

“Come, come!” said the doctor. “Nothing so remarkable in his taking a liking to a charming young lady like you. He was really attached to your mother.”

A silence fell.

“I’m going to meet Mr. Fennel at nine o’clock,” Di was thinking. “I’m going to tell him every single thing, and get his opinion. I want to know if I’m just a morbid idiot, imagining things, or if there’s any reason for being—uneasy. He’s an outsider, he’ll be unprejudiced.”

Mr. Purvis began to talk now, about the League of Nations; he addressed himself entirely to Aunt Emma, and so did Doctor Coat. Occasionally they spoke to Di, amiably enough. Their manner toward Miles was one of distinct disapproval; he was evidently in disgrace. Peter Leonard they quite ignored.

Half-past eight, and they still sat at the table over the demi-tasses of astonishingly strong coffee Di had made. She was growing restless and impatient, looking down at her wrist watch under the table.

“But he said he’d wait an hour,” she thought. “There’s plenty of time.”

She had ceased to listen to the conversation that went on; she was lost in her own confused and displeasing thoughts. And suddenly she had a sort of vision of this scene, as if she were detached and viewing it from a distance. This abandoned hotel in the woods; that black empty room upstairs; those most unfortunate children shut up somewhere; down here this dismantled room with chairs and tables piled against the walls and at this one table, this group. Uncle Peter, incredibly trivial, the “grasshopper” his son had called him; Miles, half-base, half-fine, and wholly reckless; Doctor Coat with his courtly air and his stupid smile; Mr. Purvis with his pompous gravity—and herself… All fools… ? All puppets of that composed, gray-haired woman?

“She wanted me to come here and I came,” thought Di. “She wanted me to stay and I’m staying. Is everything I do really what she has planned… ?”

It was a singularly disturbing thought. More and more did she long to see Fennel, the outsider who could give her an unprejudiced opinion. She thought of him; how kindly he had spoken to poor Wren, remembered his air of quiet confidence, his steady glance…

“I didn’t realize how nice it was of him to come all this way with Mrs. Frick’s letter,” she thought. “I didn’t even thank him…”

Aunt Emma had risen and everyone else rose too, and proceeded toward the lounge. Twenty minutes to nine now.

“Come, Diana!” said Aunt Emma.

“I’ll just wash the dishes first—”

“There’s no need for that. Wren will come down early to-morrow morning.”

“Then I’ll just clear the table—”

“No,” said Aunt Emma. “Leave everything as it is.”

For a moment Diana stood looking at her.

“I ought to take things in my own hands,” she thought. “I ought to say I’m going out for a few minutes. She couldn’t stop me, before all these people. This is the time. This is the time to speak.”

It was curiously difficult to speak, but she did speak.

“I think I’ll go out—and get a breath of fresh air,” she said.

“Miles will go with you.”

This was a battle.

“No, thanks,” said Di. “I’d rather go alone.”

She was aware that everyone was listening; she was aware that her wish to go out alone surprised them all. But she was desperate. It seemed to her a matter of vital importance that she should conquer, should go out openly and freely.

“I’m sorry,” said Aunt Emma, composedly. “But I can’t permit it, my dear. This is a very lonely spot. If you object to Miles’ conversation, he can walk behind you.”

She was beaten. She could not say before all these people, that she was going out to meet a man—“like a servant wench” Uncle Rufus had said. And what is more, she did not need to tell Aunt Emma that. Aunt Emma knew already.

They all passed into the lounge and sat down; all except Diana.

“I will go!” she thought. “And I’ll go openly, too.”

As she stood by the window, Miles came over to her and offered her a cigarette. She was glad to accept one now, and as she took it, she looked at him, anxiously, half hoping that he might understand, and help her. But his face was white with anger; his glance was filled with anger and bitterness. He knew too, why she wanted to go.

“I’ll pop up and see how the invalid’s getting on!” said Uncle Peter, brightly, and rising went running up the stairs, two steps at a time.

No one else spoke, a stiff silence had fallen upon the little company. Miles had gone to his seat near the lamp.

Di opened the front door and stepped out, closed the door behind her and began to run toward the hill; she did not stop until she had reached the dark shelter of the trees. As she paused here a moment, she heard someone coming after her, running. She stopped behind a tree and waited.

It was too dark to see, but she was certain that the figure which ran past her was Miles. He went on plunging down the hill-side.

“Suppose he meets Mr. Fennel?” she thought, in alarm. “And tells him I can’t come?”

Into her heart came the quiet conviction that Fennel wouldn’t believe him, wouldn’t believe anyone. He had come to speak to her; he had said he would wait for an hour and then come to the house, and he would do that. She trusted Fennel as she had never yet in her life trusted anyone. Miles would not be able to send him away. Fennel would not go until he had seen her.

The night wind was sharp; hatless and coatless, in her thin dress, she shivered. The pines rustled in the dark and, close to her, a little owl gave its trembling cry.

She waited and listened.

“It must be nine o’clock,” she thought. “He’s there and Miles will see him. Perhaps he’ll pretend to go away, and then come back. Or perhaps he’ll insist upon seeing me…”

“Perhaps he didn’t go to look for Mr. Fennel at all,” she thought. “He may simply have gone to the village—or rushed back to New York in a rage.”

She began cautiously to descend the hill, straining her ears to catch any sound. But there was nothing but the rustle of the pines in the wind, and the cry of the little owl. She thought of Uncle Rufus coming down here this afternoon, and she shivered.

At last she was in sight of the clearing and the faint starlight showed it empty. But anyone could be standing in the shadows… She did not like the thought of Miles, standing there waiting. She remembered his white, angry face…

She waited and waited. If Fennel had pretended to go away, he would come back. Was Miles here, waiting for that?

Her teeth began to chatter with cold.

“Suppose I caught cold?” she thought. “Got ill—in that horrible house?”

She felt chilled to the bone already.

“I won’t stand this!” she said to herself. “There’s no reason why I shouldn’t see Mr. Fennel or anyone else, if I want to. I won’t hide. I won’t be—secret. If Miles is there, very well! I’ll tell him what I think of him for spying on me.”

And she stepped down into the clearing. Was that something stirring among the trees?

“Mr. Fennel!” she cried.

No one came, no one answered.

“Mr. Fennel!” she called, again, her voice rising to a high note of fear.

This would not do, panic lay this way. With an effort, she stopped calling, and stood there, waiting. In the faint light of the stars, she could not see the dial of her watch. She did not know how long she had waited or must wait. Only she would endure it for as long as she could, for surely he would come.

She sat down on that fallen log, where she had seen him this afternoon, curled up her feet as best she could under her short skirt, folded her arms about her chest, and kept her vigil; in supreme physical misery, cold and cramped, in dread, in dismay. Sometimes she imagined she heard someone coming, and called his name, but there was never any answer. And at last she began to see that he was not coming.

She would have to go back to that house, to face Aunt Emma, to endure another scene with Miles. And after all she had no friend.

“If I had that ten dollars with me,” she thought, “I’d never go back. I’d take a train for New York now. There’s nothing illegal in not wearing a hat and coat.”

But she had left the money in the pocket of her jersey when she had changed her dress before dinner. And there was her promise to Uncle Rufus.

Again she had forgotten Uncle Rufus. She got up, sick at heart, numb with cold, and began to climb the hill. She had promised to stand by him, and she could not leave him there, ill and helpless.

Light was shining from the windows of the lounge; she had no desire to go in there. She went round to the back of the house and quietly opened the kitchen door. The kitchen was dark, but the gas stove was lighted, under a singing kettle; it was blessedly warm. She sat down in a chair near the stove, to wait until this wretched chilliness was gone, before she must pass through the lounge on her way to the stairs.

“He didn’t come,” she thought. “But I know he meant to come. I know he will come soon. He knew there was something wrong. He’ll come.”

She was weary, almost exhausted; she nearly went to sleep there by the stove. But she heard that footstep. She sat up straight, her heart beating fast. Had he come to the house, as he had said he would? Surely that was someone coming up the back steps…

Then a door opened beside her, the door which led to the cellar, and clearly outlined in the bright light that shone behind him she saw Uncle Peter, pallid, grimy, without a collar, breathing hard, and on his face, a wild terrible look.

She gave a cry, and he leaped forward like a cat. His hand was pressed across her mouth, holding her head against the back of the chair. She struggled but she could not rise, could not make any sound. Then he drew back; she was about to cry out again when his fist shot out and caught her on the point of the jaw and she collapsed unconscious.

* * *

When she opened her eyes again she was lying on a bed. Her head ached cruelly; she felt deathly sick and giddy. It was utterly dark, she could see nothing, hear nothing; for a few minutes she could not remember.

Then it came back to her… Uncle Peter, the trivial, the cheerful, the one person in this house she had thought negligible…

She sat up. At first giddiness and the pain in her head forced her back on the pillow again, but the second time she felt better. She put her feet on the floor and still faint and dizzy, stood upright, holding by the head of the bed. She must find out where she was, what this dark prison was.

Her groping hand touched a little table, and a great hope sprang up in her. Moving nearer, she felt the lamp; it was there; she turned the switch and the light came. And with a sob of relief she found herself in her own room.

A little Paradise, it seemed to her, the safest, cosiest place in the world. She looked about her at her own belongings with the delight of one who has made a long and terrible journey and is at last home again.

Then she heard a noise in the corridor outside; a dragging, shuffling sound. She leaned forward in her chair. The wind had risen; that sound could be the branch of a tree brushing her window… Only it was coming nearer.

She knew now that this room was not safe and snug, but desperately exposed and that there was no corner where she could hide; she was sick and shaken, and defenseless.

Something scratched at her door. And not near the knob, but close to the floor, like an animal. She did not stir.

“Miss!” whispered Wren’s voice. “Oh, Miss! For God’s sake, let me in!”

She went to the door, but with her hand on the knob, she hesitated.

“What’s the matter?” she whispered back.

“Miss! Oh, let me in, quick! For God’s sake!”

But his voice came from below, as if he were at her feet…

“Miss!” he screamed, suddenly. “Quick!”

She turned the knob. The door was locked.

“Miss!” he screamed again. “For—”

His voice ceased abruptly. She heard nothing at all now.

“Wren!” she called, rattling the knob. “I can’t! I can’t! …”

Her knees gave way and she sank on the floor by the locked door. Her hand touched something wet, she raised it, stared at it with dilated eyes, saw it red with blood, and fell backward in a faint.

Chapter Eight. The Candid Explanation

Sometime later in the night she got up from the floor, took off her shoes and lay down on the bed, wrapped in a blanket. She was shaking with a violent chill, tormented by a racking headache.

All the events of the night had become only part of a vast nightmare. She did not care what happened now, nothing mattered except to get warm. Time had ceased to exist; there was nothing in the world but this physical misery.

After the chill came fever, and a raging thirst. She lay there, crying silently because she so craved for water and could not rise to get it. Her head ached so… The light hurt her eyes…

“What’s the matter, my dear?” asked Aunt Emma’s voice beside her.

“I want—a glass of water!” she sobbed.

Her head was raised and a glass held to her lips.

“Another!” she said.

“Swallow these two pills with it.”

She did not care what she swallowed, so long as she got the water.

A cold, wet cloth was laid on her throbbing head, the unbearable light was shaded, the tumbled covers straightened. She went to sleep.

* * *

She waked with a sigh, and stretched herself luxuriously in the cool, smooth bed. The window was open and the sweet air blew in. Turning her head she saw the sky filled with the soft, melting colors of sunset.

“Now!” said Aunt Emma. “A nice cup of broth and a piece of toast.”

She had never tasted anything better than that broth, strong and well-flavored, that hot buttered toast without crusts. She still felt weak, but marvelously comfortable now, except for a slight soreness in her jaw.

“I was afraid that last night you were in for a bad time,” said Aunt Emma. “You were delirious—quite a temperature.”

Di did not answer; but she heard, and she understood; her brain felt extraordinarily lucid. She might have been delirious at some time in the night, but at present she was perfectly clear about everything. She remembered all the things that had actually happened with an odd sort of detachment, as if she were no longer personally concerned.

“I’ll just let her go on,” she thought. “She’ll try to explain away everything by saying I was delirious. All right! Let her!”

She looked up at Aunt Emma with a glance of calm interest.

“Was I?” she asked.

“And no wonder,” said Aunt Emma. “You had—a disturbing experience.”

She sat down in a chair by the window, where the light breeze stirred her gray hair. She looked so rosy, so dignified, so solid…

“If you feel able,” she said. “I think we’d better talk this over now.”

“I feel all right,” said Di.

And so she did; she felt perfectly able to listen to any tale Aunt Emma might choose to invent and to weigh and analyze it.

“It would take a good deal of generosity,” Aunt Emma went on, “to forgive your Uncle Peter. I don’t expect you to. But I can explain his behavior—if you care to listen.”

“Yes, thank you, I should,” said Di.

So Aunt Emma was not going to pretend that that blow was part of any delirium.

“Do you object to my smoking?” asked Aunt Emma, with gentlemanly politeness. “Perhaps with the window open, it won’t bother you… No? Thanks!”

She lit a cigarette, and crossed her knees.

“We had a remarkably unpleasant evening,” she proceeded, her blue eyes following the smoke. “It’s fortunate that Coat and Purvis are such fools. They swallow everything… When you went out, I sent Miles after you, but he couldn’t find you. So he did what anyone might expect of him. He went down to the village, and procured a supply of bootleg whisky. I saw, when he got back, that he’d been drinking, but I didn’t know he’d brought more of the stuff into the house. He put it in the cellar and every now and then he’d go down and get another drink. Before long, he became very troublesome. Purvis helped me to get him upstairs and into bed. I wanted to lock him into his room, but I couldn’t find the key. I was seriously worried, for fear he would molest you. I went to your room to see if you had come in while I was busy with Miles; I knocked and when there was no answer, I opened the door and by the light of my torch I saw that you were lying fully dressed on the bed, apparently asleep. I spoke to you but you didn’t answer, and I thought it better to lock your door.”

She paused.

“An extremely unpleasant evening…” she continued. “I didn’t know where you’d been or what you’d been doing… I went downstairs again. Coats and Purvis went home in a taxi, and I found your Uncle Peter in the kitchen—almost as bad as Miles. He’d been visiting the cellar… He was half-frightened and half-beastful. He said he had caught you trying to escape! I’ll be quite candid with you. He thinks that Uncle Rufus is going to leave his money to you, and that therefore you’re too valuable to lose. I agree with him about your Uncle Rufus. And I am perfectly willing to tell you that, if you do come into his money, I hope you’ll give me some of it.”

Her candor was astounding; she denied nothing that had happened, made no attempt to disguise her motives.

“I asked you here for that purpose,” she said. “Uncle Rufus had been fond of your mother, and I hoped he’d take a fancy to you. And that gratitude, or family feeling, or sentiment, would induce you to give me enough to carry on my work.”

Di looked at her aunt in wonder, a little dazed; everything was made so clear, so matter-of-fact.

“But—Wren?” she asked, almost involuntarily.

“Wren?” her aunt repeated. “What about him? Do you know anything about that little rat? For he’s disappeared!”

“I don’t know…” said Di, with unusual caution. “I thought I heard him call me—”

“When?” asked Aunt Emma. “I’d like very much to know. And it might help the police.”

“The—police?”

“He went off with your Uncle Rufus’s watch and money—some six thousand dollars he was carrying in his pockets.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” cried Di.

“He can stand the loss very well—”

“I wasn’t thinking of that,” said Di. “I’m sorry—for Wren.”

“You needn’t be,” said Aunt Emma, dryly.

There was a moment’s silence.

“How is Uncle Rufus?” asked Di.

“Better. He’s been asking for you. You can see him to-morrow.”

There was another silence.

“I’m not,” said Aunt Emma, “extravagant in my personal life.” She smiled faintly. “You’ve probably noticed that my housekeeping is not lavish. But I want—I need money for my work. Your Uncle Rufus is apparently recovering from this attack—but he can’t last much longer. I hope that when you see him to-morrow, you’ll be as amiable as your very youthful conscience will permit. It may mean more to you than you’re able to realize, at your age. But I’m not pretending to think wholly of your welfare. I am thinking of my work.”

She lit another cigarette.

“I’ve told you something about it. I have been making researches in regard to my theory of suggestibility. No one else has yet suspected the suggestibility of the average mind. People talk about the ‘herd instinct’! The human herd has long ceased to act instinctively. It will, in fact, act in a manner directly opposed to its instinct. They talk of ‘mob psychology.’ The only psychology of a mob is that of its leaders. No mob acts spontaneously, but only upon the suggestion of one or more superior minds. A little observation will show you how infinitely more powerful suggestion is than instinct. The instinct of a mother to protect her infant is certainly one of the strongest and most deep-rooted. Yet mothers were willing to throw their infants into the fire of Moloch when it was suggested to them. In times of war, it is suggested to a man that he loves his flag more than his own life, and he acts upon the suggestion.”

She was silent for a moment.

“I have been working for nearly six years with those two children you have seen,” she said. “In minds of that type one would suppose that mere animal instinct would enormously preponderate. I hope soon to demonstrate that it is not so. My great difficulty has been their propensity to imitate; and to differentiate between what is mere imitation and what is suggested action. They are only too ready to imitate…”

She rose, and tossed her cigarette out of the window.

“I’m afraid I’m inclined to be tedious on this subject,” she said, and for the first time Di saw on her face a smile almost appealing. “I must get along now. I have all the cooking and so on to do, now that Wren’s decamped. He couldn’t have chosen a worse time… Now, your Uncle Peter will come up and apologize.”

“Oh, no, thanks!” said Di, hastily. “I’d really rather he didn’t.”

“He ought to,” said Aunt Emma. “He’s waiting to do so. I advise you to let him.”

“No, thanks, really. I’d hate it.”

“Do you hate him?” asked Aunt Emma.

“No…” said Di. “I don’t hate him…”

“Well!” said Aunt Emma. “I’ll be back later, with some dinner for you. You mustn’t think of getting up to-day. But by to-morrow you ought to be quite yourself. And after you’ve seen your Uncle Rufus, the best thing you can do is to go back to New York. You’ve had a fairly unpleasant visit, I’m afraid. Have you friends in New York, and enough money to carry on for a while?”

“Yes, thank you, Aunt Emma.”

“I’ve brought you some books and magazines, the sort of thing I imagine would interest you. I sent Miles for them.”

Then she mounted a chair briskly, and set about fastening an extension cord to the electric light and clamped a reading-lamp to the head of the bed. She put the books and papers on the table and then took up a queer old-fashioned little knitted sack of pink wool.

“Let me put this around your shoulders,” she said. “Now!”

There was something touching to Di in these attentions, something she had liked very well in her aunt’s blunt sincerity. A sense of profound relief filled her, as if the light of day had been admitted into some dark chamber, and what had seemed horrible was not horrible at all. The shadow of death had passed, Uncle Rufus was getting better and, greatest relief of all, Aunt Emma had herself suggested that she should leave.

Aunt Emma’s motives were certainly not disinterested; Uncle Peter had shown himself capable of an astounding brutality; Uncle Rufus was not a lovable uncle. Miles was a distressing problem; Wren had turned out to be a thief; it was not a pleasant household. But she could make allowances now for all of them; she could forgive them their offenses against herself, and pity their sordid failings, because to-morrow she was leaving them and because everything here was explicable now; ugly and depressing, but not sinister, not frightening any longer.

“And Mr. Fennel,” she thought. “Something prevented his coming. I know I’ll hear from him again. Probably to-morrow.”

She lay for a time, looking out at the darkening sky, and thinking of Fennel. She felt so certain that she could see him again, so certain he was her friend.

“How nice of him to have come all this way with Mrs. Frick’s letter! I wish I hadn’t lost it. It might have explained a little about him… He’s different from any other man I’ve seen. He’s…”

It occurred to her that her reverie was becoming a little ridiculous, and reaching up, she turned on the lamp, and picked up a magazine. A footstep in the hall made her glance up, and she saw Miles in the doorway.

“Diana… ?” he said.

She thought she had never seen anything more pitiable than his handsome, wasted face, pallid, drawn, hollow-eyed; anything more painful than his strained smile.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Oh, fine, thanks!” she answered, with artificial brightness.

“Anything I can do for you, Diana?”

“Not a thing in the world, thanks, Miles.”

He was silent for a moment, and they did not look at each other.

“I thought…” he said. “Wouldn’t you like some ice-cream, Diana? I can run down to the village and get it…”

She could not refuse this peace-offering.

“That would be awfully nice,” she said, and was distressed by the obviously false cheerfulness of her own voice.

“All right! I’ll get it,” he said, and was gone.

His haggard, desperate face haunted her; she began to read again, in haste to forget him, for she could do nothing more for Miles.

Presently Aunt Emma appeared with a tray, upon which was a supper immeasurably better than any meal Di had yet had in this house; a broiled lamb chop, a potato baked in its jacket, a salad of lettuce and tomato, a cup of coffee and a slice of sponge cake.

“How nice!” she said, pleased.

Aunt Emma smiled.

“I never cooked before to-day in my life,” she observed. “But with Wren gone, I saw it was inevitable. So I sat down and studied the cook-book for an hour, until I’d mastered the general principles of cooking. Then I applied the theory. It’s amusing. I was tempted to do superfluous things. That sponge cake, for instance…” She looked down at it. “I believe it’s good,” she said. “It’s—Put it down, child, until you’ve eaten the chop!”

“I had to try it!” said Di. “It’s perfect!”

Aunt Emma was manifestly pleased and so was Diana; there was a charming atmosphere of homely good-will. Aunt Emma making a cake!

Before her footsteps had died away, Miles returned, with the ice-cream in a dish.

“May I come in?” he asked, and when she said yes, he entered and set the dish down on the table.

“Diana…” he said. “I’m—not going to talk any more… I’ll just try to show you… I—can’t expect you—to have any faith in me… But… but you’ll see, Diana…”

His voice was painfully unsteady and he did not look at her.

“If you want anything,” he said, “I’ll be here—all the time.”

She wanted to speak to him, but to save her life she could not think of a word that would sound natural and friendly. Halfway to the door he turned and looked at her, sitting there in the queer little old-fashioned pink jacket, with her fair hair loose. And she could not bear the look on his face. With an anxious, uncertain smile, she held out her hand; he strode back to her, knelt beside her, holding her hand over his eyes.

“Forgive me, Diana!” he whispered. “I’m sorry…”

“Of course!” she said, in a cheerful, matter-of-fact voice. But she nearly wept, looking down at his dark head. From the very first she had felt for Miles this pity, this tenderness, this unreasonable indulgence, that was almost maternal.

“I’m so sorry!” he said, again. “Just give me one more chance!”

“Yes, I will. Miles! Get up! My nice dinner’s getting cold—and the ice-cream is melting.”

For she felt that if he did not go at once, she would begin to cry over him, and he would certainly misunderstand that. He sprang up, full of contrition.

“See you to-morrow!” she said, brightly, as he left the room, and he smiled at her, comforted.

She sighed profoundly and began her dinner.

“Even when I leave here,” she thought, “I shan’t be rid of Miles; I’ll have to go on seeing him, forever and ever. No one else seems to care a bit for him. And he needs someone to care, so terribly. He’s so—doomed…”

But even the doomed Miles could not make her unhappy that evening. She had a quiet, cosy evening, reading, an amiable little chat with Aunt Emma; then she turned out the light and settled herself for sleep, filled with a quiet confident happiness.

“Perhaps he lives at Mrs. Frick’s,” she thought. “Anyhow, I’ll probably hear from him to-morrow…”

And everything was explained now; everything was clear and open. To-morrow she would leave here, and begin a new phase of her life…

* * *

She waked with a start, and sat up in bed, her heart racing. She did not know what had awakened her, what had startled her, but there lay upon her the oppression of a forgotten dream.

She turned on the light and looked about the little room. All neat and tranquil here. What was it that she had forgotten… ?

Then she remembered. Last night, when she had lain down on the bed, there had been blood on her hand. And now her hand was clean. There had been blood on the carpet, by the door… She got up and went to the door, and, a little giddy, stooped to examine the carpet. There was surely a faint stain there, as of something that could not be quite scrubbed clean.

If Wren had come to her door, unknown to anyone else, the stain would not be faint, like this. If anyone had washed her hand, and cleaned the carpet, then whoever had done this must know of Wren’s coming.

“Perhaps Aunt Emma just didn’t want to worry me,” she said to herself, with her old instinct to deny what was strange and unpleasant. “I’ll ask her in the morning.”

She turned out the light, lay down again, and resolutely closed her eyes; immediately she had a vision of Wren crawling along the corridor on his hands and knees, scratching at her door… “Miss! For God’s sake, let me in! …”

She turned on the light again, in haste. When she had spoken of Wren, Aunt Emma had seemed startled, had asked if she had seen him. No… It was queer, it was wrong, that if she had washed the blood from the girl’s hand, she should have made no mention of it.

Well, suppose someone else had washed her hand and cleaned the floor? Who else? And if Wren had robbed Uncle Rufus and successfully escaped, what was he doing outside her door, desperately urgent to be admitted?

Everything was not clear and open. With Wren unexplained, all the rest of the explanation was worthless.

“Aunt Emma must have known,” she thought. “Nothing goes on here that she doesn’t know… I don’t believe poor little Wren’s a thief, anyhow. She’s just made that up, to explain—something… To explain what? …”

All the old dread and confusion had returned. She took up a book and tried to read, but every sound made her start. It was nearly morning when she dropped asleep.

When she opened her eyes, the sun was shining; her watch had stopped, but she felt sure it was late. She got up at once, washed in cold water, and began to dress. She was immensely relieved to find the ten-dollar bill still in the pocket of her jersey; her way of escape was still open.

“And this time,” she thought. “I’m not going to be cautious and tactful. I’m not going to be put off. I’m going to ask Aunt Emma point-blank who cleaned up the carpet.”

Her knees were still a little weak and the bruise on her jaw was still sore, but she felt very well, and very resolute.

“I’m sick and tired of all this mystery!” she thought. “I want to know what really happened to Wren.”

The lounge was empty, the dining-room was empty, but in the kitchen she found Aunt Emma washing dishes.

“Well!” said Aunt Emma. “You’re early! Did you have a good night?”

She looked so fresh and neat and pleasant, in her white overall, so innocently and beneficently employed in this humdrum task, that it was difficult to challenge her.

“Not so very,” said Di. “I—got thinking—about Wren.”

“About Wren?” Aunt Emma repeated. “Well, I hope we’ll soon see that cleared up.”

“You see,” Di went on, “he came to my door last night… I couldn’t let him in, because the door was locked… And—blood came under the door… On the carpet—on my hand…”

Even here, in the kitchen where the morning sun was shining, it was horrible to think of that.

“Ah!” said Aunt Emma. “So that’s what it was? I noticed it, naturally. But I didn’t know whether you, in your feverish condition had noticed it or not. So I thought I’d say nothing unless you asked me. Wren, was it? He must have hurt himself in some way.”

Very composed, very plausible was Aunt Emma. But Di was not satisfied.

“I don’t see—” she began.

“Wait a moment!” said Aunt Emma, and opening the back door: “Rogers!” she called.

A stout, clean-shaven man ran up the steps.

“This is Detective Rogers, from the East Hazelwood Police Station. He’s come to investigate this robbery, and Wren’s disappearance. You must tell him everything you know—while I make you some fresh coffee.”

Certainly this cleared Aunt Emma from the last suspicion. She had called in the police herself.

Chapter Nine. “Do Not Leave This House”

“Well…” said Rogers, “it seems you were the last one to hear anything of this man. Now what time did he knock at your door?”

“I don’t know,” said Di.

“About what time?”

“I haven’t any idea what time it was.”

“Ten o’clock?”

“I really don’t know.”

“We’ll see if we can’t get at it,” said Rogers.

He was standing with one foot on the bottom step, and Di stood on the kitchen porch above him, very uneasy at this unexpected examination. There were so many things she did not wish to mention.

“Now, what time did you have dinner?” asked Rogers.

“About quarter to seven.”

“And after dinner, what did you do?”

“We went to the lounge.”

“How long did you stay there?”

“I—I went out—at nine o’clock for—a little walk.”

“How far did you walk?”

“Just to a little clearing, down the hill.”

“How long did that take you?”

“Five or ten minutes.”

“Then you went back to the house?”

“No. I stayed there for a while.”

“How long? Ten minutes?”

“Longer than that.”

“Twenty minutes?”

“I—I think it was longer than that. I don’t know. I didn’t see the time.”

“We’ll call it half an hour. Thirty minutes then, ten minutes walk each way, that’d bring you back to the house about 9.40. Then what did you do?”

“I was chilly. I sat in the kitchen a little while.”

“Ten minutes?”

“I—don’t know.”

“And after that?”

“I—went to bed.”

“You were asleep when Wren knocked at the door?”

“Yes…”

“Well,” said Rogers. “I guess we’ll have to let the time go. What did Wren say to you?”

“He asked me to let him in.”

“What did you answer?”

“I—think I asked him what was the matter?”

“What did he say?”

“He asked again for me to let him in. Then he stopped talking—suddenly.”

“Did you hear him walk away?”

“No.”

“You say you found blood under the door?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

“I—think I fainted.”

“When you came to yourself, I suppose you called for help?”

“My aunt was there. I was—rather ill, feverish…”

“I see…” said Rogers. “Now what dealings had you had with Wren?”

“I never had any ‘dealings.’ ”

“Any idea why he came to you?”

“No.”

“That afternoon Wren brought you a private message from a man called Fennel?”

“It wasn’t a ‘private’ message. He just told me that Mr. Fennel wanted to see me.”

“You met Fennel in the wood?”

“Yes.”

“What did you know about Fennel?”

“He brought me a letter from a friend.”

“What’s the name and address of the friend?”

Reluctantly she gave him Mrs. Frick’s address.

“You’re personally acquainted with Fennel?”

“I hadn’t met him before, but—”

“Can you describe him?”

“Why?” she demanded. “He has nothing to do with this.”

“Don’t be too sure of that!” said Rogers. “Now, was this Fennel a man of medium height, slender, dark complexion and mustache, nice gentlemanly ways?”

“That description would apply,” said Aunt Emma from the doorway.

“That’s ‘Smoky’ all right,” said Rogers. “That’s just the way he works, too. What they call one of these society burglars.”

“He’s not a burglar,” said Di, briefly. “It’s ridiculous—”

“Now, I understand that while you were talking to this Fennel, your uncle came, and there were words.”

“He was angry because I’d left him alone. There weren’t any ‘words,’ except his own.”

“But just the same he got so excited he had some sort of fit?”

“Attack. Heart attack,” said Aunt Emma.

“Attack,” said Rogers. “You then went to the house, leaving Fennel alone with your uncle? And Fennel was presently joined by Wren?”

“Yes. But—”

“Did you, at any time subsequent to this, see Fennel and Wren together?”

“I did,” said Aunt Emma. “After I’d invented a plausible reason for getting Fennel out of the house, I found him out on the drive, talking to Wren. He went away at once as soon as I appeared.”

“Yes,” said Rogers. “That’s how he works. When he was alone with the old gentleman, he found that money in his pockets. But he was too smart to lift it then. No… He gets Wren to do the dirty work—”

“That’s ridiculous!” cried Di. “Mr. Fennel—”

“He always makes a good impression,” said Rogers. “No. He’s ‘Smoky,’ all right. Depend on it! Now, if I can just use your telephone—”

“It’s out of order,” said Aunt Emma.

“Too bad! Well, I’ll just take a look around the house… Old gentleman able to answer any questions?”

“It’s not advisable for him to talk much,” said Aunt Emma. “But he’s so disturbed about the loss of the money, it may do him good to see that steps are being taken. If you’ll be careful to excite him as little as possible.”

“Trust me!” said Rogers.

Aunt Emma addressed herself to Di.

“I’ve just put your breakfast ready in here,” she said. “You won’t mind eating in the kitchen, my dear? And there’s a letter for you, that came this morning. I’ll go with Rogers while he questions your Uncle Rufus.”

As soon as they were out of sight, Di took the letter from the table, and tore it open.

“Dear Miss Leonard:

“I was very sorry indeed to fail you at our little rendezvous last night. Believe me, it was a great disappointment to me. But circumstances prevented it. Please accept the enclosed as a little mark of my admiration—and my regret that we cannot meet again.

“Yours most sincerely, “James Fennel.”

She unfolded the enclosed paper, and found in it a fifty-dollar bill.

Her knees trembled under her, and she sank into a chair by the table.

“Oh, no!” she said, half aloud. “Oh, no!”

It seemed to her that she was mortally stricken by this blow, that she could never get over it. Not only the revelation that Fennel was a thief, but the insult of his sending her this money, the tone of his note…

“I liked him,” she thought, “I liked him—better than any other man I’ve ever met.”

She poured herself a cup of coffee, cooled it with milk and drank it. And remembered Fennel, his steady dark eyes, his quick, vivid smile…

“It can’t be true!” she cried to herself.

Then she thought that perhaps other women had said that of him. “That was the way he worked…” Other credulous women were charmed by that smile, by that quiet, serious, almost stiff manner…

But he had come with a letter from Mrs. Frick.

“If only I hadn’t lost that letter!” she thought. “But I’ll see Mrs. Frick this afternoon. I’ll ask her about him. Perhaps—”

Perhaps he was not a thief. But he had written this insolent note, had sent her money.

“But maybe he didn’t realize,” she thought. “Maybe he only—wanted to be—kind…” Kind? “My regret that we cannot meet again…”

The profound instinct of her nature was loyalty. She had a quick, and remarkably sound intuition in the reading of character; she saw people’s virtues, and forever cherished them; she saw their weaknesses and could excuse them. And she had seen in that man something strong and fine, something which her heart refused to discredit. She was cruelly affronted by his letter, profoundly troubled by the suspicion that Rogers had evoked, but she could not dismiss Fennel as utterly worthless.

“I don’t understand!” she thought, in despair. “I’ll put him out of my mind. I’ll forget him. I must forget him.”

But she did not. A leaden oppression weighed upon her. That Rogers seemed so confident, so resolute; suppose he found Fennel, arrested him, sent him to prison?

“I’ll have to be a witness,” she thought. “Against him… I’ll have to admit that I left him alone with Uncle Rufus… And this letter—”

She jumped up, went to the dining-room door, listened, and when she was sure she was not seen, set fire to the letter and burnt it to ashes in a plate, then threw the ashes out of the window and rinsed the plate.

Now she was finished with Fennel.

She was still trying to eat the excellent breakfast set out for her when her aunt re-entered the room.

“Not very satisfactory,” she observed, with a sigh. “Your Uncle Rufus is difficult to handle. And this detective… Their one idea is to see these men in jail. I don’t want Wren in jail. I want him here, in the kitchen. He was very useful to me. As for his theft, it didn’t surprise me. Naturally not. I knew he’d been in jail before. Only here, until Uncle Rufus came, there was nothing for him to steal.” Again she sighed. “Now there’ll be all the stupidity and bother of a trial… Of course they’ll catch Fennel and Wren.”

Fennel and Wren bracketed together.

“They may not,” said Di.

“Uncle Rufus told this detective that every one of the missing bills was marked, with two crosses in green ink on the corners. That will make it much easier to trace them.”

She took a packet of cigarettes from her overall pocket and lit one.

“You’ll want to see Uncle Rufus,” she said. “And then Miles will drive you in to New York.”

Di remembered her promise.

“I think Uncle Rufus expects me to stay…” she said.

“You can ask him,” said Aunt Emma. “Now, while we’re here, undisturbed, I want to have a little talk with you. It’s not going to be very pleasant for either of us, but I’m afraid it can’t be avoided.”

“It’s about Fennel,” thought Di, and clasped her hands together under the table.

“I am in need of money,” Aunt Emma went on, “desperately in need of money to carry on my work. Neither Peter nor Miles are able—or willing—to help me. I have no one else. That is why I am going to tell you—what it would be kinder not to tell you.”

Di waited, very pale.

“You know, of course, what your father was like,” Aunt Emma went on. “But you can’t remember your mother. She was one of the very few persons—she was perhaps the only person who was ever really fond of me. I don’t know why. There is nothing natural about affection. Certainly when Harvey was first married, I felt nothing but disgust and annoyance. I knew he couldn’t support a wife and I knew he’d ask me to help him. He did. At that time, I had all the money I needed for the rest of my life. I wasn’t by any means rich, but my father had left me enough money to live on, so that I could work without troubling about my daily bread. When Harvey came to me for money, I refused him. I had nothing whatever to spare and he knew it.

“Then he sent his wife. She was a pretty girl… Very pretty, very gallant and honest…” she was silent for a moment.

“Poor little Inez…” she said.

It seemed to Di that this was intolerable, beyond her powers of endurance.

“She came, like you, and offered to help me with my work, for a small salary—any salary… She was quick and intelligent, but pitiably unfit for scientific work. And not strong. She tired easily. I was glad to lend her small sums of money from time to time, but I couldn’t let her work for me. I don’t know how they managed to live. It must have been hard for her. I have never seen anyone change so… Then one day she came to me. She was ill then, very ill and desperate. Your father was seriously involved in some discreditable business. I admit that he was more of a fool than a knave; he hadn’t realized what he was doing. But that wouldn’t have helped him, in court. Inez literally didn’t have a penny. She came here, with you… And I was sorry for her. I helped your father out of his difficulty, and I set them on their feet again. To do this, I had to sell some of my holdings, and my income was cut in half. And I’ve never had one day free from financial anxiety since then.”

She rose.

“That’s all,” she said. “I have no proofs. It never occurred to me to demand any sort of written acknowledgment from your father. I knew he’d never be able to repay me. If you choose to do so, when you come into Uncle Rufus’s money—”

“I’ll sign—a note—or something—” said Di, unsteadily.

“It wouldn’t be worth the paper it was written on,” said Aunt Emma.

“Then I’ll give you—my word—that if I ever do get any money—”

“Very well!” said Aunt Emma. “I know you mean that—now. But when you’ve left here, you’ll begin to think. ‘Why should I believe Aunt Emma. She has no proof. It’s very much more agreeable not to believe her.’ ”

“Then what can I do?”

“Nothing,” said Aunt Emma. “Except remember. Now you’d better come and see your Uncle Rufus.”

Di rose and followed her.

“I wish I’d never been born,” she thought.

All her past was clouded with the sorrow of her mother, with disgrace and misery. The present was beyond measure bitter, and lonely; she had no friends, no home, no money, and that letter from Fennel was to her like a personal disgrace.

“There must be something—wrong in me,” she thought, “or he wouldn’t have dared to do that. He must have been sure I wouldn’t show the letter or the money to the police. He must have seen…”

They mounted the stairs and went to Uncle Rufus’s room. She remembered that she had believed she found it dark and empty the other evening, but, with so many empty rooms, it would be very easy to make a mistake. It was not empty now, Uncle Rufus lay in the bed, and Uncle Peter sat beside him, sprawled out in a chair. The blind was drawn down, and the room looked singularly gloomy and depressing for a sick-room.

Uncle Peter sprang up as they entered.

“Morning!” he said to Di, in a muffled, embarrassed voice. “I hope you’re well?”

“Yes, thanks,” she answered, curtly enough.

“Uncle Rufus,” said Aunt Emma, mildly. “Here’s Diana. Do you want to talk to her?”

“No!” said the old man, curtly.

He was, she thought, a remarkably unpleasant object, sitting propped up with pillows, wrapped in a voluminous dressing-gown, and wearing on his head a red Turkish fez with a jaunty black tassel. And the room was so dim, so close, so horribly depressing… She went nearer to the bed.

“Would you like me to stay here—in the house—?” she asked, in a low voice. “Until you’re feeling better, Uncle Rufus?”

“I don’t care what you do,” he answered, and flounced over on his side, with his back to her.

She waited for a moment and then turned away. Aunt Emma was still in the doorway, with a faint smile on her lips.

“We’re not a demonstrative family,” she observed. “Now… Do you want to go at once or wait until after lunch?”

“I’d like to help you—wash the dishes—or something,” said Di.

“There’s a woman coming from the village to do all that, thanks.”

“Then I’ll pack now,” said Di, and went to her own room.

Locking her door she took the fifty-dollar bill out of her pocket and examined it. On two corners there were tiny crosses made in green ink.

“What shall I do with it?” she thought. “I ought to get it back to Uncle Rufus somehow. It’s his…”

She stood looking at it, feeling to the fullest extent all her desolation, her grief, her disappointment. She was going—to what? To no other friend than Mrs. Frick, and going back in immeasurably worse condition than she had left, saddened by the knowledge of her mother’s past suffering, worn out by the horrible experiences she had had here, humiliated by her betrayed trust in Fennel, still half-sick from her recent fever, defeated…

Then, suddenly, her spirit rose in arms. She would not be defeated and humiliated.

“I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of!” she said to herself. “I’m going to go back to New York and forget all this. As if it were a nightmare. I have all my life before me. I won’t be miserable! I won’t!”

She opened her trunk briskly and the sight of the dresses that Angelina had given her was balm to her.

“Angelina will come back some day,” she thought. “Lord! It’s good to remember that there are people like her in the world—happy people, full of life and courage. This house isn’t the world. Once I get away, I’ll see everything differently. I’m afraid my family isn’t very—wholesome.”

She looked out of the window, and saw the blue April sky, and her spirits rose and rose.

“Even if Miles is pretty awful, driving in,” she thought, “it’ll soon be over. To-night—this very night—I’ll be at Mrs. Frick’s! I’ll go out to an Italian restaurant and have a nice little dinner. Perhaps I’ll take Mrs. Frick to the movies. It’ll be like Heaven, after this!”

She powdered her nose and put on her hat, and the very sight of herself in a hat was a delight. At last she was going. She picked up her bag and turned toward the door.

On the carpet, near the door, was a white square of paper. She stooped and picked it up. There were some words written on it in pencil:

“Do not leave this house. If you go they will kill me. Burn this. For God’s sake, do not leave this house.”

Chapter Ten. The Forbidden Room

There was no one to turn to, no one to consult, no one to help her.

She read and re-read those words, scrawled on what seemed a scrap torn from a paper bag.

“I think—it’s Wren…” she said to herself. “He tried to tell me something before. He’s still here…”

She thought of Rogers. If Wren were really in danger… ? But Rogers would find him and arrest him, send him to prison. She was not asked to give any assistance, only not to go away, as if only her presence here prevented a crime.

“Aunt Emma wants me to go,” she thought.

After all, was it Wren who had written? It might be someone else. Uncle Rufus, perhaps? He had told her plainly enough that he believed his life to be in danger, and had asked her to remain here. Perhaps he had been somehow intimidated, and dared not urge her to stay while those people were in the room.

But whoever had written, and whatever the cause, she could not go until she had discovered the meaning of that note. She took off her hat and almost laughed.

“I can’t go,” she thought. “I’ll never be able to leave—”

That was a bad thought to entertain. Never be able to leave? Had she known that the first day she came here? Something had weighed so heavily upon her then… As if she had known that she could never get away, never get back to the cheerful outside world, that here was the end…

“No!” she said to herself. “I cannot think—things like that. I have no one but myself to depend on now. I’ve got to keep cool. I’ve got to be sensible.”

She tore the note into fragments, and putting them into the wash-basin, let the water run on them until they were washed down the drain.

What helped her was the thought that some other human creature had appealed to her.

“I’ve got to find out,” she said to herself. “I’ve got to use my wits.”

There was, first of all, the ordeal of telling Aunt Emma that she had changed her mind about going. She discovered then that she was afraid of Aunt Emma; Uncle Peter had been brutal, Uncle Rufus not much better, Miles was dangerously uncertain, yet of all the inmates of this house, Aunt Emma, who had tended her kindly when she was ill, who had brought up her meals, Aunt Emma was the one she feared most.

“But I have the advantage now,” she told herself. “Aunt Emma expects to get money from me. She can’t afford to antagonize me. I’ve got to use that advantage.”

She opened her door and went out into the corridor. There was no reason why that long red-carpeted hall should seem horrible to her; no reason to think the silence here was sinister… A door opened behind her, and Aunt Emma came out.

“Ready?” she asked. “If you are, I’ll call Miles.”

“I’ve been thinking—” said Di. “While I was dressing I felt—quite miserable… If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay here, in the country, for another day or so, until I feel better.”

Aunt Emma made no answer for a time.

“I think you’re making a mistake,” she said at last. “This house isn’t good for you.”

A threat, was that?

“The country’s so pretty, this time of the year,” said Di.

“You’re highly nervous and impressionable,” Aunt Emma went on. “If I’d realized that before, I’d never have let you come here. There’s something about this house…”

She came quickly down the hall, and turned the knob of the door next to Uncle Rufus’s room. It opened, she looked at the lock, looked down at the floor, and then closed the door again.

“Let me try your key!” she said, and Di gave it to her.

“No, it doesn’t fit,” she said. “Very well! If you’re going to stay here, let me earnestly warn you against going into that room.”

“That—sounds like Bluebeard,” said Di, with a pretty poor attempt at lightness.

Aunt Emma stood with her back to the door, looking at the girl with a faint smile.

“After Bluebeard was dead,” she said, “and the unlucky wives removed, do you think the family ever cared much for that little room?”

Di looked back at her, not understanding, yet uneasy.

“I imagine,” Aunt Emma proceeded, “that no one would ever use that room again. Even when the sun shone into it. Even if the castle were pulled down, one stone from the walls of that room, built into some other wall, would bring dreams…”

“Well, but Bluebeard never lived here,” said Di, more and more disturbed.

“I believe you went in there once, by mistake, thinking it was Uncle Rufus’s room,” said Aunt Emma. “Perhaps you felt then that it wasn’t—” she paused—“a good room for you to be in,” she added, with the grim shadow of a smile. “If you’re going to stay here, I warn you, for your own peace of mind. There’s nothing there. See!” She flung open the door, and Di saw a neat bare room with the usual hotel furnishings. Aunt Emma closed the door again. “Don’t go in there—if you can help it.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult,” said Di, smiling herself.

For she was, to the best of her ability, defying Aunt Emma. She knew she must do this, for the good of her soul. She must not be repressed or dismayed.

“Can I help you with the lunch?” she asked.

Aunt Emma accepted the offer, and they went downstairs together. And all the way, Di was thinking “Why mustn’t I go into that room? And why should I want to?”

She tried to forget that room.

“I’ve stayed here to find out who wrote me that note,” she told herself. “That’s the important thing. That’s what I must think of.”

But she kept on thinking about the room. She remembered going into it that night, finding it empty and dark, with the wind blowing into it. And hadn’t she, even then, felt something there, something terrible… ?

“No!” she said to herself. “And anyhow, it doesn’t matter. That’s not the important thing.”

She moved about the kitchen, working under Aunt Emma’s directions, beating eggs for an omelette, making cocoa for Uncle Rufus.

“Did she mean that something had happened in that room? Well, what of it? Nothing to do with me! I must think about that note. I must do something.”

With no little effort, she forced herself to return to that subject.

“It must have been written either by Wren or Uncle Rufus. The first thing is, to find out if Uncle Rufus wrote it. If he didn’t, then Wren must be somewhere in the house…”

That was not an agreeable thought, that someone was hidden in this house, among all these empty rooms.

“If I find that Uncle Rufus wrote it, I’m going to tell that detective,” she thought. “But if it was Wren—I can’t. He did all he could for me. I won’t help to send him to jail.”

“Diana,” said Aunt Emma, “will you take this tray up to your Uncle Rufus? Then come down, and we’ll have our own lunch.”

Di took the tray and went toward the door.

“The back stairs,” said Aunt Emma, opening a door, “It saves a good many steps.”

Di had not known before of this back stairway leading up from the kitchen. It was dark, with a closed door at the top, and darker still as Aunt Emma closed the kitchen door behind her. And at once, as that door shut, she began thinking again of the forbidden room.

“Oh, how stupid and disgusting of me!” she cried to herself, in a sort of despair. “Exactly like Bluebeard’s wife! Just because Aunt Emma said not to go into it… She probably did that on purpose—one of her horrible psychological experiments… Perhaps she wants to divert my mind from other things…”

She reached the door at the top, and had to set down the tray, to open the door.

“If only I can get a word alone with Uncle Rufus… And I’ll look into that room, just to prove to myself…”

She came out into an unfamiliar corridor, that branched off from the main one; this one, too, was lined with closed doors.

“There must be at least twenty-five empty rooms in this floor,” she thought. “And I don’t know what’s upstairs. There’s the cellar, too. It’s all very well for me to talk about ‘searching the house,’ but it’s not going to be an easy job. Especially without being seen…”

Uncle Rufus’s door was closed, and she knocked. There was no answer, and presently she knocked again. The silence alarmed her; she tried the handle, and found the door locked.

“Uncle Rufus!” she called.

A door across the corridor opened and Uncle Peter appeared.

“Ah!” he said, jauntily. “A little refreshment! I can do with that!”

“It’s for Uncle Rufus,” said Di, indignantly. “His door’s locked—”

“I know,” said Uncle Peter, with his old apologetic air. “He was asleep, and I just stepped into my own room for a smoke—”

“Please unlock the door!”

“Certainly!” he said. “Certainly!” He took the key from his pocket, put it into the lock and flung open the door.

Uncle Rufus was not asleep; he was sitting bolt upright in the bed in that dark, close room.

“Are you feeling better?” Di asked, stirred to pity and concern for him.

He only shook his head.

“Here’s some nice hot cocoa,” she went on. “Will you let me—?”

“I’ll have to feed him,” whispered Uncle Peter.

“Let me!” said Di.

“No,” protested Uncle Peter. “I understand his ways, y’know.” Di went nearer to the bed, but Uncle Peter blocked the way. “Please don’t get him worked up!” he whispered.

Di looked over her shoulder at the old man and saw him looking at her sidelong.

“Uncle Rufus!” she cried. “Please—just tell me how you feel?”

“Better!” he croaked, in a hoarse voice.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Don’t go till I’m better—” he said, in that same hoarse, painful voice.

“I won’t!” she said. “Wouldn’t you like—?”

“He’s hungry,” Uncle Peter explained, and at once began feeding him with the cocoa. “When you go down, would you mind telling your Aunt Emma that I’m hungry too? She keeps me shut up here… Least she can do is to remember my food.”

“Uncle Rufus,” said Di, looking steadily at the old man. “I’ll stay. I’ll be here—all the time—if you want anything. I’ll come back after lunch and see you.”

The room was too dim for her to see his face clearly at that distance, but she hoped that he understood.

“He wrote that note,” she thought. “He’s afraid. Something horrible is going on.”

As she left the room, Uncle Peter closed the door behind her, and she heard the key turn in the lock. The impulse seized her to bang on the door and make him open it again. She could not endure the thought of the old man locked in there, helpless and frightened. And in spite of her previous experience with him, she had no fear of Uncle Peter, only contempt.

“But that wouldn’t do any good,” she thought. “I’ll have to handle this thing better than that. Somehow, I’m going to get away this afternoon and find that detective.”

She had almost reached the head of the front stairs when something checked her. That room… Now was her chance to look at it, to rid herself, once and for all, of this preposterous obsession.

She turned back, she hesitated; she listened.

“Perhaps that’s just what Aunt Emma wants,” she thought. “For me to go in there. Perhaps there’s something—I won’t like…”

Better to see it, though, whatever it was; better to go, and be done with it. She went softly past Uncle Rufus’s door, to that other door, put her hand on the knob. And again she hesitated.

“Perhaps I’ll be sorry…” she said to herself.

But she turned the knob, and opened the door.

Nothing there, surely, to trouble the most timid. Through the window she could see the blue sky, the tree tops, inside, only a dusty neatness. She stepped over the threshold.

Then she felt it. A strange tingling in her veins, a dread, an excitement, that made her heart beat fast. But there was nothing there; nothing at all…

She looked toward the door of the clothes-closet.

“All right!” she said, aloud, and with a sort of rush, went over to it and flung it open. Nothing there but empty shelves and hooks. She closed the door again, and looked about her. Nothing anywhere.

Yet somehow this blankness did not reassure her. Her oppression, her feeling of dread and excitement was increasing; she could not believe there was really nothing here; she felt only that she had not found—what there was to find. She opened the drawers of the bureau; all empty.

And her fear grew. There was something here, something in the very air that stifled her. She hurried to the window, to open it, and stopped there, with her face grown white as chalk.

For printed on the window-sill in neat black letters was a name:

“Inez.”

Her mother’s name… Why was that here?

Ever since she had come into this house, she had been hearing of her mother, had been led back to her vague, childish memories of her. It had always saddened her to think of her mother, and now with that sorrow there was something else, something dark and dreadful. She looked and looked at that name on the window-sill until suddenly she turned and ran out of the room, shutting the door behind her. Tears were running down her cheeks; she was shaken to the soul by an emotion she could not comprehend.