Introductory material (continued 3)

“What is it?” she said to herself. “Oh, what is this… ?”

Chapter Eleven. Di Gets Another Letter

In her own room she bathed her eyes in cold water, and then went down by the front stairs to the kitchen. And her heart sank at the sight of Miles there, slouched in a chair, smoking a cigarette.

“How ill he looks!” she thought, shocked by his pallor, his haggardness.

He glanced up as she entered, without a smile, without a word.

“We’ll eat in here,” said Aunt Emma. “Get up, Miles, and bring your chair to the table.”

He obeyed, still in silence, still smoking. Aunt Emma set on the table a savory little ham omelette, fried potatoes and a pot of tea; she seemed very pleased with her skill in cooking—and with reason—but she had, apparently, no ideas at all about attractive serving. They ate upon the bare table, from the coarse kitchen china.

Miles did not eat at all; Aunt Emma paid no attention to this; she sat at the end of the table with a pleased and cheerful expression upon her healthy face, but Di was troubled.

“Miles, do eat!” she said.

He pushed back his chair and rose.

“I can’t,” he said. “My head aches…”

“You can drive down to the drug-store,” said Aunt Emma, “and get a little prescription filled for me. The fresh air will do you good. Take Diana with you.”

The prospect of a drive with Miles was by no means pleasant, especially in his present condition.

“Let’s walk instead,” said Di.

“I can’t,” said Miles, briefly.

He began walking up and down the kitchen; then abruptly he stopped beside her chair.

“Di,” he said. “Won’t you come?”

She looked up at him; their eyes met, and she was dismayed by the anguish she saw.

“All right!” she said, with a sigh. “First let’s help Aunt Emma—”

“The woman from the village will be here in half an hour,” said Aunt Emma. “Run along! I don’t need you.”

Di went upstairs to get her hat and coat, went almost mechanically. Her mind felt blank, her heart numbed, as if she had exhausted her capacity for thinking and feeling. Only that sorrow stirred her as she passed the forbidden door, sorrow, formless as a dream.

“I’m tired,” she thought. “I don’t care very much now—about anything… I ought to do something about Uncle Rufus, though.”

It was such an effort to think. Again she put on her hat, remembering with a sort of wonder how happy she had been this morning, thinking that at last she was free.

“I can’t go,” she thought, “until I’m sure that Uncle Rufus is getting proper care. He wants me here… Something horrible is going on, and I’ve got to stop it. And I’ve got a chance now… I can telephone from the drug-store. To whom?”

She could not think. Somebody must come now to help her. She must tell someone now—but who was there? Uncle Rufus had not a friend on earth and neither had she. There was no possible use in telling Mrs. Frick about this. Then who?

“Doctor Coat? No. He thinks Aunt Emma’s a wonderful person. Mr. Purvis? He’s a lawyer. If I tell him about the note—about the other things… It’s got to be Mr. Purvis. When we go to the drug-store, I’ll ring him up. I don’t care if Miles hears me.”

She came downstairs again, and found Miles waiting outside in the car.

“You’ll drive carefully, won’t you, Miles?” she asked.

“No,” said Miles.

That was not a promising beginning. He started the car with a jerk and went down the hill at a reckless speed, swung round the corner and into the main road.

“Miles!” she cried. “You’ll be arrested!”

“I don’t care!” he answered.

“Miles! There’s a policeman on a motor-cycle—”

That was a lie, but it checked him; he slowed down considerably.

“God!” he said. “I wish I had enough courage to crash into a wall and finish.”

“Isn’t that just a little inconsiderate?” she said.

“No,” said Miles. “You’d be better off dead.”

“I suppose I have something to say about that, though.”

Now that he was driving more moderately, his wild talk did not very greatly disturb her. She had heard that sort of thing before. Her father, in his bad hours, had used to tell her gloomily it would have been better if she had never been born; he had used to say that life was no more than a curse. Even as a child, her native courage, her wholesome sanity, had rebelled against that, and she rebelled now. It might be that she herself had very little, but life was good. It was beautiful out here, in the Spring sun; there was a place for her in the world, work for her to do, happiness for her, somewhere, and for everyone.

“He’s sick,” she thought. “In body and mind. And I’m afraid I can’t help him. I’m so tired—it’s hard to think of anything at all to say.”

But it was impossible for her not to try.

“Miles,” she said. “Why don’t you get a job?”

“What for?”

“You’d be much happier—”

He laughed, a theatrical and bitter laugh.

“You would!” she persisted. “I’m going back to New York presently to look for a job myself. And if you find something to do—we can have nice times together. We can have little dinners together, and go places…”

Even while she was speaking, she didn’t believe in it; that cheerful, normal world outside had lost reality for her. But she went on, valiantly.

“We’ll have such nice times… On Saturday afternoons we’ll—”

“Di!” he cried. “You don’t know… !”

“Yes, I do, Miles. You’re—upset now. You’re not feeling well. You don’t see things as they really are. Why, Miles, think how young you are! Everything still before you—”

“If you knew—what was behind me!”

“It doesn’t matter, Miles. If there’s anything you’re sorry for, or ashamed of—”

“Sorry for!” he cried. “Oh, God!”

“Then look ahead, Miles. Make up your mind that things will be different in the future.”

“There’s no possible future for me.”

In her fatigue and depression, it seemed almost unendurable to be obliged to keep this up. But no one else would bother with Miles, no one else would try to help, and she could see how sorely he was in need of help.

“There is, Miles.”

As he turned to look at her, the car swerved a little.

“Diana,” he said. “Do you really care what happens to me?”

“Yes,” she answered, promptly. “I do.”

“Even if I’ve done something… something…”

“Yes, Miles,” she said, steadily.

He turned the car to the side of the road and stopped it.

“Do you care enough—to save my life?”

“Of course,” she said, uneasily.

“Then will you marry me?”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miles.”

“Look here, Diana! I’ve got a little money—enough for us to get away somewhere… We’ll go to South America, Di. I’ll start all over again. I’ll be anything you want, Di, I’ll do anything you want, Di, Di, my darling! If you’re with me, Di, I’ll be all right! Di, I can’t live without you!”

“You don’t need to, Miles,” she said. He had seized both her hands, and she made no attempt to withdraw them. She had to be careful now, very careful, if she was to help him. “Only, we’ve got to learn to know each other.”

“I won’t live without you!” he cried. “I won’t try!”

“You’re not going to be without me. We’re going to see lots of each other—and have such good times together—”

“That won’t do,” he interrupted. “It’s all or nothing. Either you’ll marry me and come away with me—or—”

“Nothing of the sort, Miles,” she said, almost sternly. “We’re going to be the best of friends—”

“Will you marry me?” he demanded.

“Miles, I can’t—”

He started the car again, driving not recklessly now, but steadily as if with a purpose.

“This isn’t the way to the drug-store,” she said.

“No,” he said. “It’s not. We’re going somewhere else.”

“Please tell me, Miles!”

He would not answer her; he drove on and on, through a little town, through pleasant roads lined with old trees and comfortable houses, past woods, past fields. His face was set and grim; there was certainly some purpose now in his tormented heart. Time and again she tried to divert him, but he would not answer her. And she grew afraid. Was this to be the end, a sickening crash, perhaps hours of suffering, and then death… ?

“Miles!” she entreated. “Please stop! Please tell me where you are going?”

“To hell!” he shouted.

They shot up a hill, and he stopped the car. Beside them was a little bridge over a railway cut.

“There’s a train coming now,” he said. “When it’s in sight, I’m going to jump.”

“No, you’re not!” she said, but he only laughed.

In despair she looked about her; there was not a living creature in sight, only the empty road, with a wood on one side and the bridge on the other. The distant train whistled.

“I shall try to hold you,” she said. “If you—struggle—you may kill me, Miles.”

“Then we’ll die together,” he said.

The sun was shining and the wind blew on this deserted hill-top. Again the train whistled. He got up, and she caught his coat-sleeve, but he was much stronger than she. He got out of the car, and she followed, pulling desperately, to prevent his setting foot on that bridge.

“You shan’t!” she cried. “Miles! Miles! If you really do care for me one bit—”

The train was in sight. He tried to wrench himself free, but she flung her arms about him; he tried to push her away, but she twisted her foot round his ankle; he stumbled and fell on his knees. And she pressed down on his shoulders with all her might. The train went by, shaking the little bridge.

She thought then that she was going to faint; she stepped back a pace—and she saw, at her feet a letter that had fallen from his pocket. A letter addressed to herself. She stooped and snatched it up.

“Give that to me!” he cried.

She began to run.

She ran downhill, and she heard his footsteps on the hard road behind her. She ran faster, faster than she would have believed possible, with the strength of desperation. He was close behind her. Nothing about but the empty road.

“Stop!” he shouted.

She ran and ran. Nothing ahead but that straight road, and her strength was beginning to fail her now; her breath was coming in gasps; her laboring heart sent all the blood pounding in her ears. Then at the foot of the hill she saw the level crossing of the railway, and a little hut where the guard sat. He was looking at her now… Such a long way…

Her second wind came to her now; she quickened her pace; she stumbled and recovered herself, flew down the rest of the hill, to the doorway of the little shelter. She could not speak, only stand there, panting, facing the astonished old man. Then she turned her head; she saw Miles, a few paces distant, standing in the middle of the road. They looked at each other, a strange look, then he turned round and started up the hill again.

“Miles!” she called after him. But she was still breathless, her voice was faint, either he did not hear, or he did not care. She wanted to tell the old man to hurry, to save Miles, but she could not say a word.

“Sit down, Miss!” said the old man, pushing forward his chair.

She pointed after Miles, and half fell into the chair.

“All right!” said the man. “He won’t bother you now, Miss. Just take it easy…”

“I’m afraid—” she gasped. “He’ll kill…”

Just then she saw his car coming down the hill; he shot past the little shelter, across the tracks and out of sight.

“You young ladies had ought to be more careful who you go out with, these days,” said the man. He was a solid, burly old fellow, with kindly eyes, beyond measure reassuring to her.

“But don’t you worry any more,” he continued. “He’s gone and he won’t come back, neither. He knows you’ve got a witness what could prove in a court of law how he was chasing you down the hill—”

“I was only afraid—he’d kill himself,” she answered. “He’s such a reckless—driver.”

The old man obviously did not believe a word of that. He brought her a glass of water, and stood watching her while she drank it.

“Live near here, Miss?” he asked.

“No,” she answered. “I… Perhaps I can get a taxi…”

“Ought to be some along in a few minutes,” he said. “Going down to the station, to meet the up train. Next one I see, I’ll stop it for you, if it’s got a driver I know.”

“You’re awfully kind,” she said.

“Pshaw!” said he.

She sat there in the doorway of the little shelter, with tranquil peace all about her; the railway tracks glinting like silver in the sunshine; she heard a robin singing nearby. And she held that letter tight in her hand. Someone in the world had been interested enough to write to her… There were, kind, ordinary human creatures; there were birds and sunshine…

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just read this letter,” she said to the old man.

This politeness somewhat surprised him.

“Go right ahead!” he said, and stepped outside.

The envelope had no stamp, and it had been torn open; she took the letter out of it.

“Dear Miss Leonard:

“I am bringing this along, in case anything prevents me from seeing you this evening.

“I think the letter I brought you from Mrs. Frick will have explained me pretty well. I hope you won’t think I am a meddlesome ass. But if you get this letter, it will mean that I have not been able to see you this evening, and that will be rather a bad job, because I am going to try every way I know to see you. There are a lot of things that need explaining. I don’t want to put them into a letter. I shall try to give this to Wren, to give to you. When you get it, please try to trust me. Clear out of that house the first moment you can. Put on your hat and walk out. Don’t say anything to anyone. If anyone comes along with you, go back to the house and try again. But get away. Take the first train back to New York, to Mrs. Frick’s. Things are going to happen, and you must be out of the way. This is important.

“I hope you will believe that ever since I saw you with those flowers I have been, and I always will be,

“Faithfully and respectfully your friend, “James Fennel.”

It was as if she heard him speaking, in his blunt and somewhat masterful way, as if she could see his face, unexpressive, except when that vivid smile crossed it. He, a professional thief?

“I never really believed it!” she thought. “I knew… ! I knew… !”

She could have wept, with delight, with relief. He was her friend. He would come back—

“But what happened to him that night?” she thought. And the greatest fear she had ever known in her life seized her. Why had he not been able to see her?—“That will be rather a bad job, because I am going to try every way I know to see you.”—She had gone out, to meet him; she had waited… What had happened to him?

Now she remembered what Miles had said, his words that hinted at some desperate remorse. She had not paid much heed to them at the time; she had thought he referred to his drinking, to Heaven knows what episodes in his unhappy wasted life. She had not tried at all to account for his intention to kill himself; it had seemed so in keeping with his unstable, reckless nature. But now she could believe that there was something in his heart he could not endure. He had had Fennel’s letter in his pocket…

“Here’s a cab, Miss,” said the old man. “And a driver I know, and can vouch for. Nice, steady young man.”

She rose and managed to smile.

“You’ve been so nice—” she said. “Some day I’m coming back—to thank you. Only to-day—I’m—tired.”

“That’s right!” he said, seriously. “All upset. Well, you remember if you want a witness to these goings-on, here’s Joe Archer, that seen it all.”

She came out of the little shelter and found the taxi waiting. She glanced at the driver, a squat, swarthy young Italian, then she got in.

“Where to, lady?” he asked.

She looked at him, dazed; she needed time to think. Should she go back to Mrs. Frick’s at once? Not back to The Châlet. Not there again…

“First I’d like to go somewhere to telephone, please,” she said to the driver, and as the cab started, she took out her vanity-case, to see how she looked after all this. Angelina had given her that case.

“Oh, if only I could reach her!” she thought.

She had a vision of Angelina arriving at The Châlet, dashing up in a racing car, or arriving by airplane, sweeping in like a whirlwind, facing Aunt Emma with her sublime assurance.—“What do you people think you’re doing? Lord! What an awful old house! We’ll have a doctor and a nurse for that poor old man. Where’s Fennel? I’m going to look for him. I want to talk to that detective.”

Angelina wouldn’t care whether or not it was her business to interfere, or whether anyone wanted her. She would simply take possession of everything and everyone.

“Child, you’re simply exhausted! Go and lie down this instant, you poor little angel, and I’ll come up and have tea with you in your room.”

She had said that so often; she had been, for all her sensational exploits, so strong, so confident, and, for all her carelessness, so generous and kind.

But it was not possible to reach her; the itinerary of her honeymoon was a secret.

“There never seems to be anyone but Mrs. Frick,” thought Di.

The driver stopped at a little stationer’s and she got out to telephone. It seemed a little impossible, that she could really communicate freely with the outside world; she half expected that there would be no answer to her call, or that someone would stop her.

But the usual routine went forward and she actually heard Mrs. Frick’s voice; not very amiable.

“Well?”

“It’s Diana Leonard—”

“Miss Leonard!” cried Mrs. Frick. “Merciful Powers! I’ve been so worried and anxious about you. Especially not hearing a single word from that Mr. Fennel. Where are you now? Are you coming back to-night?”

“What about Mr. Fennel?” asked Di.

“Why, he promised to come right straight back here after he’d seen you, and tell me all about things. And he never did. I rang up the Ritz, where he’s living, and they said he hadn’t come back. I didn’t know if I ought to take any steps, but I thought I’d better not. Of course he has lots of friends. If anything was wrong, they’d know. But tell me, dearie, when are you coming back here?”

“I—don’t exactly know,” said Di. “But very soon, Mrs. Frick.”

“But are you all right, dearie?” asked Mrs. Frick. “It seems to me your voice sounds sort of queer.”

“Perfectly all right, thanks.”

“Did you get the letter I sent by Mr. Fennel?”

There was a moment’s pause.

“Yes, thanks. He gave it to me,” said Di.

“I wish you’d come back!” said Mrs. Frick. “And I wish you’d tell me whatever has happened to Mr. Fennel.”

“I’m—going to try to find out,” said Di.

For she had made up her mind that she must go back to The Châlet at once.

Chapter Twelve. “You Are Like Her”

She had come to this decision rapidly, but quite deliberately.

“No one there would do me any real harm,” she thought. “They can’t afford to, because they’re hoping to get Uncle Rufus’s money through me. Aunt Emma was going to make Uncle Peter apologize. She’ll see that he doesn’t do anything like that again. And if Miles comes back, she’ll keep him in order. I’ve got to go back, and find out what’s happened to Mr. Fennel.”

She was perfectly sure that something had happened to Fennel, and that Miles was responsible for it; she was profoundly alarmed and troubled, yet in her heart there was still that unshakable confidence in Fennel. She could not imagine him defeated by Miles. He might have been deceived, sent away with some false message from herself; he might even have been taken by surprise, have been hurt, temporarily put out of the way. But if he had been deceived, he would soon find it out; if he had been hurt, he would recover. He would come back; she knew it.

Her chief motive was loyalty. Fennel had come entirely on her account; any misadventure that had befallen him was due to his wish to help her. And now she would help him.

“I can’t very well go to the police,” she thought. “I haven’t any evidence that anything’s happened. And Aunt Emma would know how to make things look all right. She called in that detective herself… I wish I’d kept that other letter—the one with the money in it. It was a forgery, of course. Who did it? Miles? Is that what he’s so wretched about?”

It was so difficult to evaluate Mile’s emotions. He was capable of being overcome with remorse for something pardonable, and equally capable of feeling not the least regret for some horrible act. His rudderless spirit knew no measure, no proportion; he did not know what he wanted or where he was going.

“If anyone had ever cared for him,” she thought, “had ever taken any trouble over him, he might have been—a decent man.”

And that, in a way, was her requiem for Miles. She had pitied him and had done what she could for him, and now she had finished with him.

The sun was beginning to set; another day was ending, and still she was not free. Going back there again…

“If you’ll drive to the East Hazelwood Station,” she told the chauffeur, “someone there can tell you how to reach a house called ‘The Châlet.’ ”

It seemed to her a surprisingly long drive.

“But of course Miles came so terribly fast,” she thought. “And perhaps he came a shorter way, too. Now I must make up my mind what to do.”

She leaned back in the cab and shut her eyes, but, instead of the clearly defined plan she wanted, trivial and aimless little thoughts drifted through her mind.

“Paying for this taxi is going to make an awful hole in my ten dollars,” she thought. “But Mrs. Frick’s turned so amiable… He remembered that day he saw me on the steps of Angelina’s house… He must be a friend of hers… He must have plenty of friends. He couldn’t just disappear… But some people do… I’ve read in the newspapers…”

She opened her eyes and sat up straight.

“I know that he came that night. I must find out why I didn’t see him. What happened to him? Miles knows. And almost certainly Aunt Emma knows. But if she won’t tell me, if I can’t find out anything, I shall have to go to the police.”

She tried to marshal in her mind the facts she had to lay before the police. That letter that had fallen from Miles’s pocket? That, combined with the fact that Fennel had disappeared, ought to be enough. But suppose he hadn’t really disappeared, but had only gone somewhere about his own affairs? It was possible that Fennel had left that letter for her, had given it to Wren, and Miles had got hold of it. That might be his only offense, the purloining of a letter. His remorse, his wild talk, might so easily be without foundation. Suppose after all that nothing had happened to Fennel?

But there was that other letter she had had, signed with his name, enclosing the marked fifty-dollar bill. She was sure that letter was a forgery, done for the purpose of discrediting Fennel. Perhaps the whole story of the robbery was sheer fabrication, with Wren and Fennel the victims.

“I don’t know!” she cried to herself. “I can’t think it out. There are so many little things—that don’t seem to fit together… Only there’s something horribly wrong… And Mr. Fennel came that night, and I didn’t see him.”

She realized with dismay that she was not thinking clearly. She was worn out, almost exhausted by her terrible struggle with Miles, coming close upon the heels of so many other shocking and inexplicable things.

“If I could wait and rest—before I went back…” she thought. “Maybe it’s simply idiotic to go back. But it seems to me now the only decent thing to do. Mr. Fennel came on my account. I ought at least to try to find out what happened. And now, of course, it’s very different. I was—almost a prisoner before, but I’ve got out, and I’ll take care not to be trapped again.”

They were going up the hill now, along the woodland road. The sun was gone, the sky was drained of color; here among the trees there was a somber twilight. The Châlet was a house easy to get into, but not so easy to leave.

“I’ll see to that!” she thought, and leaning forward, spoke to the driver.

“Please wait for me,” she said. “And if I don’t come out in half an hour, please go to the door and ask for me.”

He turned round to look at her, and in the gathering dusk his swarthy face had, she thought, a strange, secret look.

“No!” she said to herself. “That’s ridiculous…” And aloud: “Please—don’t go away without me,” she said. “No matter what anyone says… Even if someone comes out and pays you and says I’m not coming. I—I am coming…” She stopped, ashamed and half-frightened by the tremor in her voice, the unmistakable note of appeal. “You see,” she said, “I’ve—left my bag there… I—they—they’d like me to stay longer—but I can’t… So if you’ll please wait…”

“Why don’t yez leave me go and ask for yer bag?” he asked.

The kindness in his voice nearly unnerved her.

“Thanks ever so much, but I’ve—got to—go in.”

“I’ll wait,” he said. “And if they won’t leave yez come out, will I tell some friends of yours?”

“Yes!” she cried. “I’ll give you an address—if you have a pencil.”

He stopped the cab, halfway up the hill and not yet in sight of the house, and on a bit of paper she wrote Mrs. Frick’s address.

“If you’ll please let her know…”

Putting the paper in his pocket, he turned away again.

“Well…” he said. “Maybe they got a right to keep your bag, but they got no right to keep you. That’s agin the law.”

“Oh—” she began, and stopped. Evidently he thought this was an affair of unpaid board; better let him go on thinking that.

“I’ll wait, aw’ right,” he added. “Don’t you worry!”

But she did worry! As they turned the corner, and she saw the house again, so desolate, and bleak, such a fear swept over her that for a moment she was paralyzed.

“I can’t!” she said, half aloud.

“What?” asked the driver.

“Nothing,” she said, and tried to reason with herself.

There was nothing really to be afraid of; the cab would be waiting for her and the driver had Mrs. Frick’s address. And even without that no one would want to hurt her, for only through her could they get Uncle Rufus’s money.

“I’ll tell Aunt Emma the whole thing,” she thought. “How Miles acted and about Mr. Fennel’s letter. I’ll tell her that if she doesn’t let me know at once what happened to Mr. Fennel, she needn’t expect me to help her out with any money ever. I’ve got the upper hand. I must remember that.”

Light was shining from the windows of the lounge. But all the other dark rooms…

“I have the upper hand!” she said to herself. “Perhaps I’m the only person who can find out what happened to Mr. Fennel. Perhaps they’ve done something—horrible…”

It was very easy to believe that, when she stood again in the shadow of that house.

“And Uncle Rufus!” she thought, with a shock. “I promised not to leave him!”

She stopped outside the door, appalled. How was it possible that she had forgotten that? For a moment, despair seized her. Then she began to think sanely and lucidly.

“I’ll stand by him. I won’t desert him. But I will not—I cannot live in that house. I must see him and explain it. There must be some sort of hotel in the village. I’ll stay there, and come to see him every day until he’s well enough to leave. I’ll beg him to insist upon having a nurse for the nights. I’ll do it all quite openly. I have the upper hand. I will not be cowardly. I will not be underhand and secret. I have the upper hand.”

She glanced back at the cab that stood square and solid in the driveway, its lights shining out clearly. Then she opened the door and entered the lounge.

“Ah!” said a bland voice, and Mr. Purvis rose from his chair. “Miss Diana… We’ve been waiting for you!”

In her condition of nervous fatigue she was ready to believe even the respectable Mr. Purvis a sinister figure.

“Waiting for me?” she repeated.

“Sit down!” he said. “Yes… Yes… It is your uncle’s wish that you should be informed… Yes… Your uncle sent for me again this afternoon, my dear young lady, and he has at last made his will… He wishes you to know—‘So that she will stay here with me’—those were his words. He is leaving you practically his entire estate of seven hundred thousand dollars.”

His pleased smile died on his lips.

“Are you ill?” he cried.

“No,” she said, faintly. “Only, naturally… I… I want to see Uncle Rufus, please.”

“Quite natural and proper!” said Mr. Purvis. “Perhaps I was somewhat too abrupt… And mind you, I don’t by any means intend to suggest that your uncle’s condition is worse. By no means! In fact—” He smiled almost archly, “it’s a curious thing, but well attested—that very often a patient takes a turn for the better after making a will. There’s no cause for immediate alarm, my dear young lady. Doctor Coat assures me…”

“May I see him, please?” asked Di. “Uncle Rufus, I mean.”

Because, before anything else, she must see that old man who had, in spite of his malice and unkindness, trusted her and so greatly rewarded her; she must assure him that she would return to-morrow morning; that she would look after him and protect him.

“I don’t know…” said Purvis. “Your aunt and Doctor Coat are with him now. They may not think it advisable—”

“I’ll just go up and see,” said Di. And all the way up the stairs she said to herself: “I have the upper hand. I’ll insist upon seeing him. And I’ll say what I want to say. I’ll see him alone. Aunt Emma wouldn’t dare refuse, with Doctor Coat there.”

As she reached the top of the stairs, she was startled to hear her aunt laugh, a low, cheerful chuckle, answered by another laugh, a man’s. It seemed to her that this sound came from the corridor that branched off from the main one, and she went very quietly in that direction.

There they were, Aunt Emma and Doctor Coat; Doctor Coat leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, Aunt Emma standing facing him, smoking, looking up at him with a glance that was coquettish and gay.

“And what did you do then, Emma?” Doctor Coat was asking, with evident admiration.

“I told him that for every remark like that, the price of the article would increase one hundred dollars,” said she.

Di turned away, astounded by this new aspect of Aunt Emma.

“But now’s my chance!” she thought, hastening to Uncle Rufus’s room.

The door was open, and Uncle Peter was sitting in there, half asleep. But at the sight of her he came wide awake in an instant.

“Hello!” he said, jauntily.

She looked past him, to the bed where the old man lay.

“Uncle Rufus!” she said.

“Come here!” he answered, in a voice so hoarse and faint she could scarcely hear it. She went toward the bed, but Uncle Peter sprang up and barred the way.

“Look here!” said Di. “I won’t have this! Uncle Rufus wants to speak to me—and if you won’t let him, I’m going to tell Doctor Coat and Mr. Purvis.”

The room was lighted only by a small lamp with a green shade; outside that bright circle it was in darkness. Uncle Peter’s face was little more than a pale blur, the old man on the bed was lost in the shadows.

“Stand out of the way, please!” she said.

“No!” said Uncle Peter.

“And what’s this?” asked Aunt Emma’s voice from the doorway, where she had appeared, with Doctor Coat.

At the sound of her voice, the old man on the bed half-raised himself.

“Don’t go…” he said, in that hoarse, extinguished voice. “They’ll kill me. Stay…”

He sank back, turned his head, still wearing the grotesque fez, to the wall, with the covers drawn up to his chin. Diana faced Doctor Coat.

“Did you hear?” she asked.

“Most unfortunate… !” he murmured.

She was indignant at so weak a word. She stepped out into the hall, where she could speak without Uncle Rufus hearing.

“Don’t you see—?” she demanded, in a sort of despair.

“He doesn’t ‘see,’ ” Aunt Emma interrupted, and, addressing Doctor Coat: “I must warn you, Matthew, that Diana takes this all very seriously. I believe she’s convinced that we’re all engaged in a conspiracy—to murder Uncle Rufus Leonard.”

“Come, come, Emma!” said Doctor Coat, shocked. “I’m sure she thinks nothing of the sort.” He glanced at Di, and smiled; no doubt he meant it for a benign, and reassuring smile, but it was not; it was nervous, apprehensive. “The important point,” he went on, “is that Rufus doesn’t believe in this—this conspiracy himself. He’s been expressing these—unpleasant suspicions for years, yet he never stopped coming here. And only this afternoon, when I suggested moving him to a hospital, he refused. That is pretty conclusive proof that this is not a genuine delusion.

“Now, the most marked characteristic of the genuine delusion, such as can be observed in the paranoiac, for instance, is not the irrationality of the fixed idea, but the tenacity with which the patient clings to it. I emphatically deny that Rufus shows any symptoms of a genuine delusion. These—suspicions are simple willful assertions, made with the clear intention of annoying, as opposed to the perfectly involuntary belief of a paranoiac. I am willing at any time to testify to the fact that Rufus is of sound mind. A little crochety, perhaps, but as sane as you or me. He—”

“It’s no use, Matthew!” Aunt Emma interrupted. “I’d like a word with her, if you’ll excuse me. Come here, please!”

Di followed her into the next room; not until the door was closed behind them did she realize what room this was. It was almost in darkness; through the window she could see the pines black as ink against the pallid sky.

“I should like to prevent you from making any more of a fool of yourself than is necessary,” said Aunt Emma. “Are you able to realize that if you persist in taking this notion of your Uncle Rufus’s seriously you are tending to invalidate his will?”

“I don’t care!” said Di. “I can’t—I won’t—see him—like this. He’s—frightened.”

“My God!” said Aunt Emma, with a sigh. “Very well! I’ll admit that he’s frightened. And that he had a genuine delusion. It’s a well-defined case. He has the paranoiac delusion of persecution. Technically, he’s insane. Like your father.”

“My father!” cried Di.

“Like your father,” Aunt Emma repeated. “He believed he was persecuted. He—”

“He wasn’t insane!” cried Di. “That’s not—”

“The stock is tainted,” Aunt Emma went on, tranquilly. “You must have observed it. Peter’s a high-grade moron. Rufus is a paranoiac. Miles, just at present, is a borderline case. But alcoholism will very shortly send him over the line. A somewhat difficult household to deal with.”

Di was silent for a moment.

“My father—” she began, in an unsteady, defiant voice.

“Naturally,” Aunt Emma interrupted, “you want to deny that he was unbalanced. It’s a quite instinctive reaction with you to deny anything that’s unpleasant to you. It’s time you faced facts with a little courage. This inclination of yours to build fantasies is dangerous. It was just that refusal to accept reality that destroyed your unfortunate mother.”

“Don’t—talk about her!” said Di.

“I think,” said Aunt Emma, slowly, “that she’d be glad if I were to tell you now. It’s time… I’ve kept it from you, until now, because you are so remarkably ill-adapted to hear any unpleasant truths. But now… Here, in this room…”

In this room? Where her mother’s name was printed on the window-sill…

“I don’t—want to hear…” she said.

“But you’re going to hear,” said Aunt Emma. “It was in this room that I last saw her alive. She came here, to me, in a lamentable condition. She had found out for herself what your father was. She realized that he could never make a living for her, and her own health was too much impaired for her to contemplate any sort of work. I was fond of Inez, but I had seen from the beginning that she was pitiably maladjusted. Like you, she was incapable of facing reality. Like you, she believed that she ‘needed’ things that do not exist. She demanded a love and loyalty from other people which is never given. She wanted to be ‘happy.’ You are like her.”

Her voice stopped; the dark room was silent. Then in a moment she went on:

“She was in despair because she couldn’t ‘do anything’ for you. She was perfectly convinced that she had been born for the express purpose of ‘doing’ things for other people. And because her ill-health made that impossible…”

Her strong fingers closed upon the girl’s arm.

“Come here!” she said, and led her to the window. “She wrote her name, here, on the sill. It is too dark for you to see it, but her name is here. You see those three pines, standing together? That is where she died.”

Diana could only look, with dilated eyes, at those three black trees.

“Here, from this spot where you are standing,” said Aunt Emma, “she threw herself out of the window. Because she could not face life as it is.”

Her grasp on the girl’s arm relaxed.

“Now perhaps you understand,” she said, “why I warned you against this room.”

“No…” said Diana.

“You’re like her,” said Aunt Emma. “Too much—like her.”

Chapter Thirteen. A Will Is Made

Diana remained silent, motionless, infinitely withdrawn from the woman beside her. A measureless sorrow weighed upon her, something beyond the natural grief and pity she must feel at hearing the story of her mother’s death. This was bleak, hopeless woe; it was as if she, too, had come to the end of all dear and pleasant things: before her lay the garden, somber, in the dusk; behind her the empty room, haunted by that poor spirit…

“Am I—like that?” she thought. “Not able to face life as it really is? … I’ve managed to get on—without very much, but I’ve always thought there was something better round the next corner… And suppose there isn’t? Suppose there’s never going to be any more for me—than this?”

Aunt Emma had said the stock was tainted. Was she, too, tainted with some fatal instability, some moral weakness that would leave her always friendless, poor, a failure? She had nothing—and from him who hath not, even that which he hath should be taken…

All the anxieties, the bewildered distress of her childhood, came back upon her now; her school-days, when she had been sent to one little private school after another, always trying to adjust herself, always aware that disastrous changes might come at any moment, never knowing that feeling of security and permanence so vital to a child. And as a young girl, there had been no dances, no pretty clothes, no good times; she had had to be her father’s “pal,” he had taken her with him where he wanted to go, had lived as it suited him.

Only those months with Angelina had been happy, in spite of the strange and varied duties. She had loved Angelina; she had been alive there, energetic, alert, gaining every day in self-confidence.

But evidently Angelina had not cared at all about her; she had gone off and forgotten Di.

“I don’t think anyone could ever care much for me,” she thought.

“Now!” said Aunt Emma’s voice, startling her in her bitter reverie. “Don’t stay in here any longer, Diana.”

Di did not answer or move.

“Come!” said Aunt Emma. “For a suggestible mind, the scene of a tragedy is not wholesome. In a room like this. But never mind! Now that I have explained, I think you’ll keep your ideas about Uncle Rufus to yourself. He’s not legally competent to make a will—but it would be extremely difficult to prove that. There would be only your word against Doctor Coat and Purvis and myself and others. And the word of a hysterical person isn’t worth much. No… He’s done as he wanted to do with his money, and it’s to your benefit. You need money more than an ordinary person would. You’re not capable of earning your own living. You’re hysterical and unstable, badly educated and trained.”

Di listened to this without protest. Perhaps it was true… She thought of her mother, who had stood here, where she herself was standing; her mother who had found life too hard, and had put an end to it. Perhaps it had been dark, twilight, as it was now, and when she had died out there, under the pines, perhaps she had seen a sky like this, soft, merciful, with one silver star… And then had closed her eyes, and drifted away into peace… Death was beautiful and blessèd, and life was so hard… To close her own eyes and die—like her mother… She raised her eyes to the sky, and sighed…

Then, suddenly and sharply, something awoke in her; something that had brought her gallantly through all her young life. She straightened her shoulders, and sighed again, a long sigh, as if she were waking from a dream.

After all, it didn’t matter whether life were hard or not, whether it were lonely and anxious.

“I don’t have to be happy,” she thought. “I’ve just got to do the best I can. I’m not down and out yet! I’ll—”

There was a knock at the door.

“Emma!” said Uncle Peter’s voice, apologetically. “There’s a taxi-driver here, asking for ‘a young lady.’ Shall I pay him—?”

“No!” said Di. “He won’t go, anyhow. I told him to wait.”

“Very well!” said Aunt Emma. “Then you’d better go.”

She crossed the room, and opened the door, and Di followed her.

“Please wait a moment, Aunt Emma!” she said. “I want to speak to you.”

“Peter, tell the driver she’ll be down in a few moments,” said Aunt Emma. “Now!”

The door was open and the dim light in the corridor shone into the room. She heard Uncle Peter running down the stairs.

“Well?” asked Aunt Emma.

For a moment Di was silent, struggling with a too rapid flow of thoughts. As if that terrible depression had been actually a dream, she felt a little dazed. It was difficult to come back; to remember all at once…

But she knew now that the blackest hour of her life had passed, and that she had conquered some nameless, formless horror.

“I want to ask you—” she said, “where Mr. Fennel is.”

“I’m sorry I can’t tell you,” Aunt Emma answered. “But no doubt the police will find him before very long.”

“No. I don’t believe that,” said Di, briefly. “Something’s happened to him.”

“Is this a presentiment?” inquired Aunt Emma. “People of your type are very fond of presentiments and strange, occult feelings. Do you ‘just know’ that something’s happened to Fennel?”

“It’s not very occult,” said Di. “I’ve got some pretty definite information.”

“Then take it to the police,” said Aunt Emma. “You’d better do that, anyhow. You’ll feel easier. Tell the police that we’ve murdered Fennel. And Wren, too, isn’t it? And that we are now engaged in murdering Uncle Rufus. And any others you feel worried about.”

Diana reflected for a moment.

“She let that detective come and search the house. She’s not afraid of the police. She feels sure that they can’t find out. And what can I really tell them? There’s no proof of any crime—anything having happened to Mr. Fennel. Only that letter, and that could be explained. I’m the only one who can find out. I have the upper hand. This is my chance. The taxi is waiting outside.”

She chose her words with care.

“Aunt Emma,” she said, “if I’m to have Uncle Rufus’s money, and you want to share it, I’ll have to know about Mr. Fennel.”

“You’ve already promised me a share,” said Aunt Emma. “But no doubt you are always able to find satisfactory justification for breaking your word.”

Her cool contempt was having its usual effect, sapping the girl’s self-confidence, making her feel weak, petty, contemptible.

“All right!” she said to herself, “I don’t care! I’m going to see this through, anyhow.” And aloud:

“I’ll make a bargain with you,” she said.

“I’m afraid,” said Aunt Emma, “that making a bargain with you is rather uncertain.”

“Then you could make a bargain?” said Di, quickly. “You do know what’s happened to him?”

“That’s quite intelligent!” said Aunt Emma, in a tone of pleased surprise. “You must be considerably interested in this man, to wake up so.”

“I am,” said Di.

“And what bargain do you propose?”

“If you’ll tell me where he is and what happened to him, I’ll sign some sort of paper, giving you a certain sum.”

“Unfortunately you haven’t a penny.”

“When I get it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Aunt Emma, “but I’m afraid that won’t quite do. A very short time ago you were moved by an impulse of gratitude to offer me a share of any money you might get. This gratitude has apparently evaporated now. You are now, as far as I can see, actuated by an infatuation for this man you scarcely know. If this infatuation should—not be requited, you would resent giving me anything. And you would no doubt find excellent reasons for repudiating this ‘paper’ you are always speaking of. I suppose that idea comes from your father. Probably he signed a good many ‘papers’ in his time.”

“Very likely,” said Di. “But I don’t quite see…” She paused a moment, then she went on, deliberately. “You said you asked me here so that Uncle Rufus would take a liking to me and leave me his money. But if you can’t trust my word, and it’s no good signing a paper, how did you expect to get any of it?”

“Really,” said Aunt Emma, “you have more intelligence than I gave you credit for.”

“I’m just beginning to think…” said Di, half to herself.

It seemed to her of vital importance that she should think, that she should remain quiet and cool, unmoved by the elder woman’s scorn, unconfused by the darkness gathering about her. She had no one but herself to depend upon now.

“I’d like to know,” she said.

“I had,” said Aunt Emma, “three well-considered plans for obtaining a share of that money. One of them has failed. But one of the other two will succeed.”

“What is it?”

Aunt Emma did not answer, and looking at her, Di saw by the dim light an expression that horrified her. For those blue eyes were regarding her with a monstrous sort of pity, as one might look at the last struggles of a trapped animal.

“What are—your plans?” she asked.

“We’ll leave that for the present,” said Aunt Emma; “and discuss this bargain of yours. You wish to know what happened to Fennel. And I’m not at all disposed to tell you. He was a very unwelcome intruder. What’s more, if I do tell you, I have no sort of guarantee that you won’t go off and never communicate with me again.”

“If you won’t tell me,” said Di, “I’m sure to do that.”

“Perhaps it’s better so,” said Aunt Emma.

Di paid no attention to this fencing.

“What do you want me to agree to?” she asked.

“Whatever you agree to will have to be in public,” said Aunt Emma. “Purvis is a lawyer—”

“But you don’t want me to go to him and promise to pay you anything?”

“That would be somewhat crude,” said Aunt Emma. “Even Purvis would find that—peculiar. After all, it’s really your affair, to find some way of satisfying my not unreasonable demands without arousing suspicion. I am certainly entitled to some of that money. From any point of view. I am a nearer relation than you of Rufus Leonard. I should use the money in an excellent cause. And it is due to me alone that you are going to get it. I can’t make you give me anything, and, apparently, the sole claim I have upon you is my knowledge of this Fennel’s whereabouts. Naturally, I shall not relinquish my one advantage without excellent security.”

“What do you suggest?”

“It’s for you to suggest,” said Aunt Emma. “I can think of nothing, except that you might make a will in my favor—”

“A—will? But—”

“Oh, I see the drawbacks to that perfectly well!” said Aunt Emma, with a frown. “In the first place, your Uncle Rufus may live for another five years. And in the second place, there’s nothing to prevent you from making another will to-morrow. The only value would be, that you would be making a public declaration of your no doubt excellent intentions. If you were to declare, in the presence of Purvis and Coat that gratitude impelled you to assign me a share of your legacy, you’d hesitate, after that, to refuse me a loan, when you inherit. It’s a very poor plan—for me. I hope you can think of a better one.”

“I could tell Mr. Purvis that you’d lent money to my parents, and that I considered it my duty—”

“No, thanks!” said Aunt Emma. “That puts me in a very unpleasant light.”

Di was silent, thinking this over in her own characteristic way. She was not cautious, not patient; she wanted to learn about Fennel in a hurry, and be gone. She was certain now that he had been sent away by some chicanery. An attempt had been made to discredit him in her eyes, and probably something had been done to make her seem contemptible to him. And she wanted to find him, and explain.

A new thought struck her, a thought that frightened her. Was it likely that Aunt Emma would willingly let her meet Fennel, to compare notes? He was not likely to let matters rest… No. Aunt Emma must somehow feel herself quite safe from any future interference on the part of Fennel. And what could make her feel safe?

“You—promise to tell me where he is?” she asked.

“If I don’t,” said Aunt Emma, “you can very easily destroy any paper you’ve signed, if my information doesn’t suit you.”

“That’s true,” thought Di. “Suppose I do make a will… She can’t very well be planning to murder me. In the first place, as she said, Uncle Rufus is still alive, that Mr. Purvis and Doctor Coat are here, and the driver’s waiting. Even if she tells me a lie, there’s no harm done. I’ll get away at once, and find some of his friends. And if she’s lied, I’ll destroy the will—make another… No… I don’t see what possible harm it can do, to agree to that now. I want to hear what she has to say about Mr. Fennel.”

She glanced up.

“All right!” she said. “I’ll make a will. And you promise to tell me, as soon as I’ve done that?”

“I promise. But it’s going to be very awkward for me. Purvis may refuse to draw up a will for you. And if he makes any objections, if he appeals to me, I shall certainly uphold him. I don’t intend to appear in the light of a blackmailer, I assure you. You’ll have to make your impulse plausible. And you’ll have to assure him that I know nothing about it.”

“All right!” said Di, again.

“And even when you’ve done that,” said Aunt Emma, “the will won’t be worth the paper it’s written on. I’m obliged to trust you to deal honorably with me. I’m going to give you information that you can use against me. I admit that there was a certain amount of misrepresentation involved in getting Fennel away. I can count only upon whatever sense of honor you have to prevent any further trouble for me. And also upon your disinclination for a family scandal.”

“Misrepresentation…” What had Fennel been told to make him go away?

“I must know,” she thought; and aloud: “I’ll see Mr. Purvis now—”

“I doubt if you can manage him,” said Aunt Emma.

But Di, for all her honesty, her carelessness, was not without subtlety. She made up her mind to “manage” Purvis, and to manage quickly. And she did remarkably well. She found Purvis in the lounge, reading, and she went up to him with an air of urgency.

“Mr. Purvis!” she said. “I’ve got to go back to New York at once, and I don’t want to leave this house until I’ve made a will.”

“A will! But my dear young lady—!”

“Please let me!” she said. “Aunt Emma’s my nearest relation. And she asked me here when it meant—a lot to me. I’d like to feel that if anything should happen to me—a train accident, or anything—”

“But my dear young lady, at the present time… Your Uncle Rufus is—is improving—”

“I know,” she said. “But you never can tell what might happen. And I’d like to feel, before I go away, that I’d done that.”

He began to argue. But Di maintained her attitude of an illogical and impulsive young creature, and that seemed to him perfectly natural. What is more, as the heiress of Rufus Leonard, she had a new importance to him.

And she was assisted by an interruption. There was a knock at the door, and when she ran to open it, the taxi-driver spoke.

“Everything aw’ right?” he asked.

“Please keep on waiting!” she said, very low. “Don’t go away, please. And if I’m not out in half an hour, please knock again and insist on speaking to me.”

“Aw’ right!” said he, in a reassuring whisper, and closing the door she turned to Purvis.

“My taxi’s waiting!” she said, plaintively. “Please let me just dash off a will, leaving half the money to Aunt Emma. Even if it seems silly—I’d like to do it.”

Mr. Purvis, like almost everyone else, was rendered nervous by the thought of a taxi-meter steadily ticking up a charge. He urged her to wait, to come to his office the next day and discuss the matter, but he was infected now with her sense of haste.

“I will come to your office,” she said. “This is just temporary—just to make my mind easy before I go. Please help me! That meter must be running up terribly!”

Very reluctantly he yielded, and took out his fountain pen.

“Just please say that half of anything I get is to go to Aunt Emma—”

“And the rest—?”

“Oh… I don’t know… To—Mrs. Frick.”

“Who is Mrs. Frick?”

“Oh, what does it matter!”

“It does matter,” said Purvis. “You don’t realize what you’re doing in the least. Who is this Mrs. Frick?”

“Oh, don’t bother about her. Just say—my heirs and assigns—or whatever they are.”

He argued again, and she became more and more obstinate.

“Well!” she said, with a sigh. “If you won’t, then I’ll have to find some sort of lawyer in the village, on my way to the train. I’m sure I have a legal right to make a will when I want.”

“Yes,” he said, shocked and distressed. “If you insist upon this—this most irregular and unreasonable proceeding. Your aunt—”

“Please don’t tell her!” said Di. “Now!”

He drew up for her a brief will, leaving half of any estate of which she might be possessed to her aunt Emma Leonard, and the remainder to her legal heirs and assigns.

“I’ll read it to you—”

“No, thanks, I’m sure it’s all right. I’m in such a hurry—”

“I insist upon your reading it,” he said, sternly. “You cannot sign a document you have not read.”

So she read it, or pretended to read it.

“Now,” he said. “We must have two witnesses. I’ll get Doctor Coat and your Uncle Peter. And remember, young lady, you are coming to my office to-morrow, to discuss the matter.”

As he began to mount the stairs, Di went to the window and looked out, the taxi stood there, its lights shining on the drive.

“Thank God for that taxi-driver!” she thought. “I’m not—cut off.”

In a few minutes Mr. Purvis descended again, followed by Uncle Peter, very jaunty, and Doctor Coat.

“State in the presence of these witnesses the nature of the document you are signing,” said Mr. Purvis, frigidly.

“This is my last will and testament,” said Di.

And as she spoke those words aloud, she began to realize what she was doing. As she took the pen in her hand, it seemed to her that she was about to sign her own death-warrant.

Chapter Fourteen. Miles Confesses

Doctor Coat signed, in a neat, small hand, and Uncle Peter added a scrawling, infantile signature.

“Will you keep it for me, please?” she said to Purvis. “Thank you all very much… Now, I’ll just run up to say good-bye…”

She ran up the stairs, and found Aunt Emma in the upper corridor.

“It’s done,” she said. “Signed and witnessed. Now please tell me—”

“Coat’s coming up!” said Aunt Emma. “I don’t care to be found talking alone to you just now. Go down in the kitchen and ask Miles. He’ll tell you all you want to know.”

“I don’t want—”

“Then you’ll have to want,” said Aunt Emma, and turning on her heel, walked into Uncle Rufus’s room just as Doctor Coat’s benevolent and stupid face appeared at the head of the stairs.

“I can’t wait!” thought Di. “I mustn’t be so cowardly about Miles. He can’t make any trouble here, with Doctor Coat and Mr. Purvis in the house—and that driver out there. I’ll go and ask him anyhow. And if he’s—impossible, I’ll insist upon Aunt Emma telling me at once. She can’t get out of it. I can threaten to tell Mr. Purvis to tear up the will.”

But she dreaded the thought of seeing Miles again.

“On the borderline,” Aunt Emma had said, and alcoholism would soon send him across it. Was that true? Her father “technically insane,” Uncle Rufus a paranoiac, Uncle Peter mentally deficient… all of them… ? And she herself?

“I won’t think about that now,” she said to herself.

But she had thought of it, and the horrible shadow would not leave her. She went down the stairs and into the lounge, where Purvis and Uncle Peter stood talking together; she went past them without a word and into the dining-room that was in complete darkness.

“My last will and testament…”

“What have I done?” she asked herself, stopping halfway across the room. “I wish… I hadn’t…”

But even here, through the window, she could see the lights of the waiting taxi, her link with the world outside. She went on, resolutely, pushed open the swing-door, went through the pantry and into the kitchen.

Miles was sitting on the edge of the table, smoking. He glanced at her as she entered, but he did not speak or move. He was white as chalk, and on his handsome, wasted face was a queer, blank look.

“Miles!” she said, in as matter-of-fact a way as she could manage.

But he did not answer.

“Miles,” she said again. “Please tell me what happened to Mr. Fennel—”

He sprang to his feet, stood looking at her with dilated eyes.

“Aunt Emma said you’d tell me—” she went on, unsteadily.

Still he did not speak; she looked at him, and was appalled by the expression on his face.

Then suddenly anger flamed up in her.

“Miles!” she cried. “Stop—staring like that! Miles! Can’t you talk like a human being… ? I—I’m sick and tired of all this… Where’s Mr. Fennel?”

“He’s in hell!” shouted Miles.

She caught him by the arm and tried to shake him.

“Tell me!” she said. “I will know!”

“You’ll never see him again,” said Miles, with a laugh.

That laugh brought her to her senses. This was not the way to handle Miles. Her hand dropped from his arm; she drew a long breath and began, in a friendly, easy tone.

“Please tell me all about it, Miles. Aunt Emma told me to come and ask you.”

“I can’t!” he groaned.

“Yes, you can, Miles!”

He flung himself into a chair, and covered his eyes with his arm, a childish and pitiable gesture.

“Oh, Di!” he said. “Oh, Di!”

She laid her hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, Miles!” she said, encouragingly.

Evidently he was filled with remorse for whatever part he had played in this affair, and she was sorry for him. But no doubt he was exaggerating as usual; she would have to sift out the truth from his words.

“I didn’t think—I could do that,” he said, still with his eyes covered. “I didn’t mean to… But it was because I love you so… She promised to help me. She said you’d marry me. And you would have loved me, if he hadn’t come. You liked me at first. If he hadn’t come…”

He let his arm fall, and looked up at her, with a sort of anguished bewilderment.

“That night when we cooked the dinner together, Di… That was the happiest hour I ever had in my life… Then when you went upstairs to dress, she told me she’d heard you promise to meet that fellow at nine o’clock, in the clearing… She said I could stop it. She told me she’d keep you in the house as long as possible, and I could meet him. I was to tell him that you and I were secretly married and ask him to lend us enough money to get away, and ask him to clear out for a few days—for your sake—so that no one could question him. She said that would disgust him with the whole show, and that if he thought you were mixed up in everything he’d simply drop it—anyhow, until you’d had a chance to get away… But when she couldn’t keep you in the house—when you ran out like that, Di, I—couldn’t stand it. To see you, hell-bent on meeting another man… I went after you. I only meant to stop you… But I missed you, in the dark. I couldn’t find you… I went to the clearing, and I saw him standing there… He had heard me coming… I found I had Uncle Rufus’s loaded stick in my hand. I don’t remember taking it. I swear I had no idea of—of that—when I left the house… But when I saw him… Di, I didn’t mean to do that! I swear I didn’t!”

Her hand had fallen from his shoulder; she was leaning against the table, looking and looking at him.

“What—was it—that you did?” she asked.

“I only struck once, Di I swear it… ! And then I heard someone coming down the hillside, and I dragged him back, among the trees. It was you… ! Oh, God, Di! You called him! You sat down there—and waited for him—you called him again… And he was lying there, not ten yards from you… all the time…”

She stood as if frozen with horror. He was still speaking, but she could not hear.

“Lying there…” she thought. “When I called to him… Dead—murdered…”

Suddenly she caught Miles’s sleeve.

“Miles!” she said. “No… Miles, perhaps it’s not true… Miles, you’re not—sure… ?”

“I wish to God I wasn’t!” he said. “After you’d gone, I tried… But he—was gone…”

“Gone?” she echoed, catching at any straw. “You mean disappeared?”

“No!” he said. “Disappeared… ? No. He lay there. I didn’t know what to do with—it… I thought—I’d go mad… I dragged him along—and pushed him into the old quarry… And—later… I went back again—and called him…” His hand covered hers that lay on his sleeve. “That’s why I wanted to kill myself,” he said. “But now—I don’t care. They’re sure to find him. I don’t care. I’m ready—to go.”

“No, Miles—” she protested, almost mechanically.

“I am, Di,” he said. “I’ll be glad to finish.”

He rose, stood looking down at the ground, with a look somber and austere.

“She’s told me, often enough, that I’m not to be trusted. And it’s true. I’ve never done anything but harm. I never could. I’m ready for the police, whenever they come…”

“Aunt Emma will help you,” she said, with the same mechanical kindness.

“She doesn’t know what I’ve done. I’m not going to tell her. She’d get me out of it. There’d be more lies and lies and lies… And there’s nothing ahead for me, Di. I’ve been thinking over—everything. My whole life… I’ve always done what she wanted. She was the only one who did anything for me. My father never had any money. She sent me to school and to college. I suppose she was good to me. But she always told me what a weak, good-for-nothing devil I was… It didn’t help much… But she was right… Di, there in the wood, something—happened to me—something sprang up inside me… I’m not fit to live.”

There was no instinct for revenge in the girl, no impulse to retaliate. The death of this wasted, broken boy could in no way compensate for the life he had taken; it could give her no possible satisfaction to see him punished. But she could not pity him. Not now. She was thinking of Fennel.

It seemed to her the greatest misfortune possible that she was never to know him better, never to see him again. It seemed to her as if the vital, the significant part of her own life had ended with him.

“He came to meet me,” she thought. “If it hadn’t been for me, he would be alive now.”

Miles was still talking, but she did not listen. Nothing mattered at all now; there was no object, no motive left. She could not care what she did, or what happened to her. She wanted to get away, alone and think.

“Well… Good-by, Miles!” she said, with a polite little smile.

She was not even aware that she had interrupted him in the middle of a speech.

“Di…” he cried. “Where are you going?”

“I’m just going back to New York, Miles. I’m—tired.”

“You’re going to leave me, Di?”

“Miles,” she said, with a sort of despair. “I’ve got to go. I—can’t stand any more.” As she turned away, the swing-door was pushed open, and Mr. Purvis entered.

“This taxi-driver insists upon speaking to you,” he said, severely.

“I’ll come—” she answered, and followed him into the lounge, where she found the driver standing with his back to the door.

“I’m coming,” she told him, with that same polite little smile, and went toward the door.

“But—your bag?” he said.

“I don’t care. I’ll send for it later,” she said.

“My dear young lady!” protested Purvis. “Surely you’re going to say good-by to your uncle?”

Again she had forgotten Uncle Rufus. She was very reluctant to leave him like this, yet it seemed to her certain that if she went up those stairs, she would not easily come down again. She had her chance now to get away and she must take it.

“I’m coming back very soon,” she said, and, indifferent to Purvis’s shocked face, she followed the driver out of that accursed house. The Spring night was cool and fresh, she drew a deep breath.

“When I’ve had time to think,” she said to herself, “I’ll find some way to get him away from there. But I can’t think just now.”

The driver opened the door of the cab; she had her foot on the step, when a window on the floor above was opened and Doctor Coat’s voice called, in a tone of severe indignation:

“Miss Diana! One moment, if you please! Your uncle wishes to speak to you for a moment!”

She began to cry. Fatigued and miserable tears, like a child.

“I—can’t!” she called back.

But Doctor Coats had closed the window and retired, and she knew she had to go.

“Well, shall I keep on waiting?” asked the driver.

“Yes,” she said, and once more entered that house. After all, Doctor Coat was upstairs, Mr. Purvis was in the lounge, the driver was waiting. Nothing could happen to her. And in any case, she could not refuse to hear what the old man had to say.

Once more she mounted those stairs to the dimly-lit corridor above, and went to Uncle Rufus’s room.

But Doctor Coat was not there; the room was empty except for the old man lying on the bed with his face to the wall in the almost dark room. She went over to the bed.

“Uncle Rufus!” she said, softly.

He turned his head; she had a glimpse of something in his eyes that made her cry out. Then a hand pressed over her mouth, her wrists were caught behind her back. She struggled in vain, her wrists were tied, and her ankles; the hand over her mouth was supplanted in a flash by a handkerchief; she was jerked backward, someone lifted her feet, someone else her head.

It was Aunt Emma who held her bound ankles. She looked straight into those blue eyes. Then she was carried into the next room, laid on the bed; she saw Aunt Emma and Uncle Peter go out; she heard the key turn in the lock.

“The driver won’t go away,” she thought. “I must keep my head. I musn’t…”

She felt the world slipping away from her, there was a roaring in her head, a swirling blackness before her eyes. It seemed to her that the handkerchief over her mouth was smothering her; she tried to raise her bound hands, and fainted.

* * *

Mrs. Frick… Someone was speaking of Mrs. Frick. She tried to call out, and realized that she was gagged. It was Aunt Emma speaking in the corridor outside.

“No. I don’t know who this Mrs. Frick is. But if—she’s a friend of the poor child’s…”

“Well, then…” said Mr. Purvis’s voice. “I’d better tell that chauffeur, eh? Tell him to communicate with this Mrs. Frick? Apparently she gave him the address.”

“Yes,” said Aunt Emma, with a sigh. “He’d better advise Mrs. Frick to come out here to-morrow and see the poor child. It’s a little beyond me. I’ve knocked and knocked on her door, but she refuses to answer.”

Doctor Coat’s voice intervened.

“You don’t think, Emma… ? We ought to—er—force an entrance?”

“No…” said Aunt Emma, with hesitation. “I’m afraid that would make her worse… An hysterical condition like hers is only intensified by attention. It seems to me, Matthew, that if she’s let alone, she’ll come to her senses more quickly. But if you advise—”

“No,” he said. “No, I agree with you, Emma. No… Most unfortunate…”

“I noticed,” said Purvis’s voice, “that she was distraught. As to that fantastic idea of making a will…”

“I’m sorry you humored her,” said Aunt Emma gravely.

“Yes,” said Doctor Coat, in the same grave tone. “A mistake, Purvis. She has this notion that she’s responsible for her uncle’s illness… Of course, in a way, she is. If she hadn’t run off like that to meet this man…”

“Fortunately,” said Aunt Emma, “Rufus seems to be doing very well. But it’s quite possible, of course, that he may take a turn for the worse. And if he should, I’m afraid it would completely unbalance her… She’d believe she had practically killed him. I can only hope that this Mrs. Frick will take her away.”

“You don’t consider her… er—?” said Doctor Coat.

“Insane?” said Aunt Emma. “Not at all. She is uneducated, impressionable, childish. But no more insane than nine people out of ten. Her father encouraged her to believe in her own importance. She’s capable of the most irrational actions, due to her faulty training and her lack of reasoning ability… If I had time and opportunity, I believe I could do a good deal with her. She’s attracted to me—as you’ve noticed. But I have my hands full, just now. I shall be glad if this friend, this Mrs. Frick—will come and take her away to-morrow.”

“Well!” said Purvis. “We’d better be going now, Emma. You’ll let us know, of course, if poor Rufus is worse… ? I’ll explain to the driver then, that he’s to notify Mrs. Frick, as she told him to do… Very unfortunate.”

“Yes,” Aunt Emma agreed. “But to-morrow morning when she finds her uncle improved, she may be more reasonable. Good-night, Matthew! Good-night, Sam!”

In desperation, in a passion of helpless anger, Di had struggled to call out, to make any sort of sound that would attract their attention. And, as she heard their answered “Good-night, Emma!” she deliberately rolled off the bed on to the floor, with a thud that made her dizzy.

“What’s that?” asked Purvis.

“The children,” said Aunt Emma. “They’re in that room.”

The faint squeaking of someone’s shoes died away. For a few minutes there was absolute silence. Then Di heard voices below, in the driveway; the engine started, the door of the cab slammed, the tires crunched over the gravel. They were gone.

She had thought that nothing mattered, that she did not care what happened. But it was not so. Every valiant and healthy impulse of her soul rose in revolt against this ignominy, this defeat. She lay still, gathering her strength.

“Everything’s come out just as she wanted it,” she thought. “I’ve made my will. I’ve played into her hands perfectly… Now she thinks she’ll get rid of me. She has some plan all made, of course… Well, it won’t succeed! I’ll do something. I’ll find some way…”

She had read stories and seen pictures of people who escaped from bonds like hers, who freed themselves from more urgent dangers than this. And she tried; she tried to narrow one hand so that it would slip out of the bandage that held her wrists; tried to move her ankles. But she had never realized before how it hurt to have one’s hands tied behind the back, or the pain of a gag. And worse than anything were the tides of panic fear that threatened her again and again, in this utter helplessness. She could not make a sound; she could not even sit up; her struggles had no other effect than to leave her panting, desperate, with a cold sweat on her forehead. She lay quiet again, in the dark room.

And then an appalling thought struck her.

If Aunt Emma were to profit by that will, not only must she herself die, but Uncle Rufus must die first. That will had condemned him to death, as surely as if she had sent a bullet through his head; perhaps even at this moment—

She remembered the utter terror she had seen in his eyes. First Fennel, and then this forlorn and helpless old man, both to die because she had made fatal errors…

She strained her ears, to catch any sound from that next room, and once more that panic desperation assailed her; she tugged wildly at her bonds, made strange stifled sounds that frightened her.

She did not know whether hours or minutes went by. There were periods when she was scarcely conscious, and other times when she reflected, with a cool, impersonal lucidity.

“If Aunt Emma’s going to let Mrs. Frick come out here to-morrow, that means that she’ll be ready for her. She couldn’t possibly afford to let me talk to Mrs. Frick. She can’t afford to let me go—after this. She doesn’t mean to let me go… There’s no one to help me. She can make Miles think and act as she pleases. Mr. Fennel’s—gone… Wren’s gone. Mr. Purvis and Doctor Coat will believe what she tells them. The taxi-driver’s doing just what I told him to do—notifying Mrs. Frick. I’ve got to help myself.”

But how?

“I don’t know,” she said to herself. “But I won’t give up. I shan’t struggle any more. I’ll save my strength. I’ll try not to think of what’s happened…”

She made a gallant effort to remember poems she had learnt in school, to fill her mind with fine and beautiful thoughts. But while she repeated lines to herself, horrible images came into her mind: Uncle Rufus in his terror, Fennel at the bottom of that old quarry. Fennel, above all. She could see him so clearly, could recall the tones of his voice, his vivid smile.

The door opened, and a sturdy white figure stood before her, outlined against the dim light in the hall. She paused a moment, and then entering the room, screwed a bulb into the electric light socket and turned on the switch, closed and locked the door, and kneeling beside the girl, untied her hands.

Di gave a smothered scream of pain as her arms dropped to her sides and the blood began to circulate. Aunt Emma untied the twisted handkerchief that had cut so cruelly into the corners of her mouth, and that done, sat down on the edge of the bed.

“My God!” she said, with a sigh.

Her face looked drawn with weariness, its fresh color vanished; she sat staring at the ground.

“Miles has told me,” she said. “What folly! What criminal folly! All my plans ruined…”

Di sat down in a chair, and tried with numb, clumsy fingers to untie her ankles.

“Everything ruined… !” Aunt Emma went on. “And I’m dragged, against my will, into a dangerous and repugnant course… I never forsaw this…” She sighed again. “It’s too late now,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Uncle Rufus—?” asked Di, with dry, stiff lips.

“He doesn’t really matter,” said Aunt Emma. “It’s you I’m thinking of. It’s you I’m sorry for.”

Her ankles freed, Di looked up, into that tired, middle-aged face, framed in gray hair. This could not be a criminal, a monster of duplicity and evil…

“Then—if you’re sorry—” she began.

“I’ve never disliked you,” Aunt Emma went on, indifferent to her words. “I hoped at first that you’d marry Miles. That was my first plan. That would have kept the money in my control. And it would have been a very good thing for him. But that failed. And now that you know what he’s done… That’s the end, of course.”

“What—do you mean?” asked Di.

“Why, that you can’t live,” said Aunt Emma, sighing again. “And I’m sorry.”

“Do you mean,” asked Di, “that you’re going to try to murder me?”

“There’s nothing else I can do,” said Aunt Emma.

They both spoke in ordinary, normal tones, sitting in that commonplace hotel bedroom, filled with the garish light of the unshaded bulb.

“You can’t expect not to be found out,” said Di. “Mrs. Frick will make inquiries. Even Doctor Coat and Mr. Purvis will ask questions.”

“I think I’ve planned it pretty well,” said Aunt Emma. “But I didn’t come here out of mere wanton cruelty—to gloat over you, and so on. I’m really very sorry. Only, it’s a question of my safety, the opportunity to go on with my work, against your life; and naturally… The idea of killing you is horrible to me. And no doubt to you, also,” she added, politely. “I thought—I hope you’ll take the way I shall suggest. It is as your mother did. It will look quite natural to outsiders. Coat and Purvis believe that you were filled with remorse for your uncle’s condition. They’ll see that when you heard of his death—”

“His death… ?”

“You committed suicide,” Aunt Emma went on. “I give you my word to make it as easy as possible for you. The ground out there slopes down pretty sharply. The chances are that it will be a fatal fall. But if it isn’t, if you’re injured and in pain, I’ll attend to you immediately. I’ll see that you don’t suffer at all.”

“And if I don’t do that!”

“Well, you’ll have to go out of that window,” said Aunt Emma. “If you won’t do it voluntarily there’ll have to be a very unpleasant struggle.” She rose. “Think it over!” she said. “Think of your mother in this room. She found that life wasn’t worth living. And it isn’t for you either. You’re ineffectual, incompetent. You’re of no value to anyone. There’s nothing ahead of you but a lifetime of poorly paid work.”

She unscrewed the bulb and put it in her pocket. Di made a rush for the door, but it shut in her face, and the key turned outside.

Chapter Fifteen. A White Figure

She was free to move about now; to call for help if she wished; she was left quite undisturbed to make what plans she could for her escape.

And she could make none. It occurred to her to knock on the wall of Uncle Rufus’s room, but she decided against it. It would either frighten the old man still more, or wake in him hopes that she saw no way to realize. Or perhaps he could no longer hear anything…

She would have done anything possible to help him, but she could think of nothing. There had been, in that talk with her aunt, something that robbed her of the last hope. Her death had been arranged in so cool and matter-of-fact a way; she herself was so utterly negligible; there was nothing in her aunt to which she could appeal.

If this were to be her last hour, she meant it to be a good one, undaunted by fear and weakness. She faced her danger with courage and dignity. She thought of all the happy moments she had had, of all the people who had been kind to her, with a regret that was almost impersonal. It seemed to her that the past was already immeasurably remote. She thought, above all, of Fennel.

Then her mind turned to her childhood, and she tried to remember her mother. Here, in this room, her mother had battled with despair and anguish, and had lost. The room seemed filled with that tragic presence. In the darkness, the daughter tried to recapture some childish memory of that face, that voice; she wanted to feel near to her mother. She wanted to understand how her mother could, of her own free will, have left her child.

Was it because, after all, life was not worth living?

“If she could come back, just for a moment,” she thought. “If she could tell me why she wanted to die—and what she found—on the other side… How could she bear to leave me?”

Aunt Emma had said that some strange and disturbing thing lingered here… If only she could pierce the veil, could come closer to that presence…

“Mother…” she said, half-aloud.

She had no one else to love. It seemed to her that if her mother would draw near to her, and she could go—with her… It would be good to go…

Why not? Why wait for a horrible and futile struggle? Did not the very walls of this room whisper to her—“Life is cruel, and death is peace”—Why not go to her mother… ?

She rose, and crossed the room to the open window. Here, on this very spot, her mother had last stood… Out there—

An awful fear choked her; her heart seemed to stop. For there, at the foot of the dark pines, lay a white figure.

“Mother!” she said, inaudibly.

Her mother had come back, to show her the way. One instant, and she could lie there too—

“Miss Leonard!” said a voice behind her.

She turned, to see a figure standing there in the dark. Another ghost… She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came.

“Steady!” said the voice. “Steady, dear girl!”

His arm was about her shoulders, and she clutched his coat frantically.

“How can you come!” she whispered. “You were dead, too.”

“Never was less so,” he answered. “But come now. Let’s get away.”

“How—could you come?”

“I found the kitchen door open, and I saw the back stairs, and came up them. I didn’t know where you’d be, or whether I’d be—welcome. But I saw this door locked, with the key outside. Didn’t want to knock, you see, so I walked in.”

“He said—he killed you.”

“His mistake, whoever he was. I was knocked out for a while. Then I found myself lying in a quarry, and I got up and came out. I went to a doctor—but I only told him I’d been in an accident. I haven’t told the police or anyone. I wanted to see you first. I’d have come before, but—I was a little—bothered by that whack I got. Now let’s clear out.”

“No! We can’t leave Uncle Rufus without—”

“Uncle Rufus!” he repeated. “But look here! You needn’t worry about him.”

“I do! You don’t know—”

“I know one thing,” he said. “The poor old fellow was dead when we carried him in—”

“No! He’s—there—in the next room…”

“He’s dead,” said Fennel. “I’m sorry if I’m—blunt, but—”

“Come and see!” she cried. “If it’s not too late.”

“Wait a minute! I—you see, I don’t exactly understand what’s going on here. And I’m sure you don’t. That’s why I didn’t call in any outside help. I wanted to know first how much you’re—involved in this.”

“I don’t know exactly what you mean.”

“I mean,” he said, “have you promised to conceal anything—given any sort of help—done anything that could get you in trouble with the law?”

“I—don’t know,” she said, doubtfully. “I don’t think I have.”

“Good!” he said, “Then we don’t care how much of a row we raise, do we?”

“But if I had—?” she asked.

“Then I’d have had to get you away quietly.”

“But did you think I might have done something—wrong?”

“No,” he said, “Nothing wrong, and nothing silly. But you might have made a mistake. And there’s something going on here. When we carried the poor old fellow in, I saw that he was dead. But your aunt behaved as if he were alive. That’s why I wanted to see you that evening. I wanted to tell you, and get you out of the way before the big break. Now it’s too late. Now you’ll have to be mixed up in it.”

“I did do one thing. I made a will. You see, Uncle Rufus had left his money to me, and I made a will leaving half of it to Aunt Emma.”

“How did she work that?”

Di hesitated a moment.

“I wanted to find out what had happened to you. We made a bargain—”

“I see!” he said, and was silent for a moment. Then he took his arm from about her shoulders and moved away a little.

Everything he did was right, every action, every word of his was perfectly clear to her; she knew how he felt about things; she knew that he understood her. His quiet acceptance of the situation had steadied her, made her feel resolute and safe.

“The trouble is,” he said, “that there are three men here, and my wrist’s broken—”

“Oh!” she cried.

“It’ll mend. But we’ll have to manage carefully. Somehow we ought to get a look at the man in the next room. I want you to be able to swear that he’s not your uncle… I’ll just take a cautious survey.”

He went over to the door, but he did not open it. She came to his side.

“I was a fool!” he said. “When I unlocked the door, I left the key there. And now we’re locked in.”

For a moment they were silent.

“What about the window?” he said. “You were looking out when I came in—”

“Oh, it was horrible!” she cried. “I thought I saw something… I was nervous…”

They went together to the window—and it was still there, that white figure.

“Do you—see it?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said.

“I thought—it was my mother. She—died like that. She—fell from this very window…”

He reached for her hand and held it.

“No way to get out of here,” he said. “Can you shoot?”

“Shoot?”

“I have an automatic, but I can’t do much with my left hand.”

“I never even saw one, except in the movies,” she said. “And I’m afraid—I couldn’t shoot anyone—even if I knew how.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” he said. “I was only thinking of shooting the lock, so that we could get out.”

“I’ll try it.”

“I’m afraid it would—”

Something fell past them, something like a great white bird and struck the ground with a terrible thud, and did not move.

And from the next room came a scream.

“My child! You’ve killed my child… ! Let me go… ! My child…”

“It’s Wren!” cried Di.

“Stand here!” said Fennel. “You can see the white doorknob. Stand close—there. Aim just below the knob. Pull the trigger.”

The noise dazed her. And in the next room that wild voice was still shouting; some article of furniture was overturned with a crash.

“Try again!” said Fennel’s quiet voice beside her. “Not so high.”

Again a stab of flame and the crash of the shot, and the splintering of wood.

“Too low!” said Fennel. “Now! This time you’ll do it.”

She aimed with desperate care, tried to steady her shaking hand. Her finger was on the trigger, when there came a yell from the next room.

“Help! Help! Murder!”

The shot went wild.

“Last bullet,” said Fennel. “Never mind, dear. You’ve splintered the wood. I’ll see if I can kick through that panel.”

“Help!” yelled that voice.

“We’re coming, Wren!” she called, with all her strength.

Fennel gave the door a well-directed kick; a second.

Then another shot sounded, there was a cracking, tearing sound, and Fennel collapsed on the floor.

“What happened?” she cried. “Oh, what’s the matter?”

“Stand away from that door!” he shouted.

But she was on her knees beside him. She spoke to him, but he did not answer. All noise had ceased in the next room, all noise everywhere had ceased; there was a silence that seemed to ring in her ears.

“James!” she said.

“Yes?” he answered, in his ordinary, composed voice.

“What’s happened to you?”

“I got a bullet in the leg,” he said. “Through the door.”

She was passionately determined to be as quiet, as cool as he; she must not disappoint him.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

For answer he laid his head back against her shoulder, and she began to stroke his forehead.

Outside the pines stirred in the breeze, and far away a dog barked and a motor horn sounded.

“I must get him to a doctor,” she thought.

They were locked in this room. And God knows who or what was in the corridor outside. Even if she could get out, how was she to leave him alone in this horrible house while she went for help? He might be bleeding to death, dying here, now, with his head against her shoulder. No one knew they were here. No one would come.

“James,” she said, “can you move?”

“I—can,” he answered, “but—I don’t care much about moving—just now…”

“I’ll bring the chair for you to lean against,” she said. “I want to look around.”

She pushed the chair so that he was propped up against it, and then she stood behind, in the dark, and tried to think. Other people had escaped from situations like this… She could not make a rope of sheets, to lower herself from the window, for there was only a mattress on the bed.

“If I threw out the mattress,” she thought, “and then jumped… If I missed it, if I hurt myself, he’d be worse off than ever. Perhaps I can kick the door panel in…”

She had an unconquerable aversion to making any more noise. But it must be tried. She had started forward, when a sound outside made her jump. Was it possible… ? She went to the window; her glance fell indifferently upon the two white figures that lay there; she strained her ears to catch that sound again.

No doubt about it; a car was coming up the hill.

“This way, please!” she called. “Please come here! Please come here! This way! I need help! Please—!”

Her light young voice seemed to float off on the breeze; there was no answer. Now she could see the glare of the headlights as the car turned the corner.

“Please come here!” she cried, desperately. “This way!”

“My darling child!” called back a strong, beautiful voice. “What are you doing?”

“Angelina!” she cried. “Don’t go away!”

The car had stopped and Angelina sprang out, and ran along the path. She stopped suddenly, and bent over the white figure lying there.

“What’s this?” she cried.

“Angelina! Get in somehow—”

A man had got out of the car, and stood beside Angelina, looking up at the window.

“Come in!” cried Di, in a fury of impatience. “There’s someone hurt here. I’m locked in. Hurry up!”

They both disappeared round the corner of the house, and for a long time she heard nothing.

“James!” she said. “Could anything happen to them… ?”

“Nothing can happen to Angelina,” he said.

Then she heard voices outside, Angelina’s voice. The key turned in the lock, the door was flung open, the light of an electric torch shone in her face.