Blotted Out IN THIS STORY A TIGRESS MASQUERADES AS A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN—IN OTHER WORDS, AMY ROSS WAS PREDATORY AND CRUEL (continued 2)

He unlocked the door, turned on the switch, ran up the stairs, through the sitting room, and into the bedroom, where his coat hung.

He stopped short in the doorway. For, sitting on the bed was a tiny girl, seriously engaged in tying a ribbon about the waist of a white flannel rabbit. She looked up at the young man, but apparently was not interested, and went on with her job.

“Who are you?” demanded Ross.

“Lil-lee,” said she.

“Yes, but I mean—how did you get here?”

“I comed in a balloon,” she assured him.

Ross was completely ignorant about young children, but he realized that they were not to be held strictly accountable for their statements. And this child was such a very small one; such a funny little doll. She had a great mane of fair hair hanging about her shoulders, and, on one temple, a wilted bit of pink ribbon; she had serene blue eyes, a plump and serious face, by no means clean.

She wore a white dress, still less clean, a coral necklace, white—or grayish white—socks all down about her ankles, and the most dreadful little white shoes. He observed all this, because it was his way to observe, and because he was so amazed that he could do nothing but stare at her.

“But who brought you?” he asked.

“Minoo,” she replied.

“Who’s Minoo?”

The child held up the rabbit.

“Oh, Lord!” cried Ross. “Won’t you please try to be—sensible? I don’t know—Are you all alone here?”

“I fink I are.”

“The door was locked,” he said, aloud. “I can’t see—But what shall I do with you?”

“Gimme my dindin,” said she.

Ross wished to treat so small and manifestly incompetent a creature with all possible courtesy, but he was handicapped by his inexperience.

“Look here, Lily!” he said, earnestly. “I’m in the deuce of a hurry just now. If you’ll wait here, I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

“I will be a good baby!” said she. “But I want my dindin!”

He could have torn his hair. He could not fail Amy now. And he could not leave a good baby alone and hungry, for he did not know how long.

“Shall I take it to the house?” he thought. “The cook would feed it. But—perhaps it’s another of these damned mysteries. I haven’t time to think it out now. I’d better keep it here until I’ve thought a bit. See here, Lily, what do you eat?”

“Dindin,” Lily answered.

“Yes, I know. But—I’ve got bread. Will that do?”

“I like bread and thugar!” she agreed.

He hurried into the kitchen, cut four good, sturdy slices of bread, covered them well with butter and sugar, and brought them back on a plate. Then, with a vague memory of a puppy he had once had, he thought of water, and brought a glassful.

“Now I’ve got to go, Lily,” he explained. “But I’ll come back as soon as I can. You just wait, see?”

“I will!” she said, pleasantly, and held out her arms.

He hesitated for a moment, half frightened; then he caught up the funny little doll and kissed its cheek.

It was not a doll. It was warm and alive, and solider than it looked. It clung to him, and kissed him back again.

XI

“You won’t feel the cold the first winter in the States.”

That was what people in Manila and Porto Rico had told Ross. He thought of those people now. You didn’t feel it, did you? Yes, you did!

He had found “some place where he could hide and watch the front door”; a plantation of firs halfway between the house and the gates. He had been there more than an hour, prowling up and down behind the screen of branches; he had at first tried to smoke, but darkness and cold annihilated any sort of zest in the tobacco. He had attempted the army setting-up exercises, considerably hampered by his overcoat; but nothing produced in him either bodily warmth or a patient serenity of mind.

He was worried about that child. Not once did he say to himself that it was none of his business; he admitted willingly that a creature of that size had a claim upon all full-grown persons; he admitted that, whoever it was, and wherever it came from, it was entitled to his protection.

“She’s too little to be left there alone,” he thought. “Much too little. They always have nurses—or some one. She might fall down the stairs—or turn on the gas stove. I’ve been gone more than an hour. Good Lord! This is too much! What the devil’s the matter with that fellow, anyhow?”

He was disgusted with this thin dark man with a mustache, who was so outrageously late in coming. Very likely the funny little doll was sitting up there, crying. The raw cold pierced to the marrow of his bones.

And this, he reflected, was his second night in his native land. The first had been spent imprisoned in the garage, at the point of a revolver, but it had been a thousand times better than this. He had been warm and comfortable—and he had been innocent, a victim. Now he was taking an active part in a thoroughly discreditable affair.

He was committed to wait for a thin dark man with a mustache, and to prevent his entering the house. And how was he to do this? Walk up to him and begin to expostulate? Try to bribe him?

The thought of bribery aroused in the young man an anger which almost made him warm. No Ross would ever pay blackmail. Indeed, no Ross of his branch was fond of parting with money for any purpose at all. They were very prompt in paying their just bills and debts, but they took care that these should be moderate.

“No!” thought Ross. “If I was fool enough to give this fellow money, he’d only come back for more, later on. I’m not going to start that. No! But how am I going to stop him? Knock him out? That’s all very well, but suppose he knocked me out? Or he may carry a gun. Of course, I suppose I could come up behind him and crack him over the head with a rock. That’s what my Cousin Amy would appreciate. But somehow it doesn’t appeal to me. After all, what have I got against this fellow? What do I know about him? Only what she’s told me. And she’s not what you’d call overparticular with her words.”

His thoughts were off, then, upon the track of that problem which obsessed him. What had happened to the man under the sofa? He couldn’t still be there. But who had taken him away, and where was he now? He looked toward the house, so solid and dignified, with its façade of lighted windows. He remembered his cozy dinner in the kitchen; he thought of the orderly life going on there.

It was impossible! Yet it was true. He had seen that dead man with his own eyes. He had touched him.

Who else knew? Surely Amy; but it was obvious that she had some one to help her in all emergencies. Mrs. Jones? Ross believed that Mrs. Jones had been well aware of the man’s presence in her room. Eddy? Eddy’s behavior had been highly suspicious.

He refused to go on with this profitless and exasperating train of thought. He was sick of the whole thing. Amy had said that she would “explain everything” to him the next day. Not for a moment did he believe that she would do anything of the sort, but he did hope that at least she would tell him a little. And, anyhow, whatever she told him, whatever happened or did not happen, he was going away—back to normal, honest, decent life.

“I said I’d help her, and, by Heaven, I am!” he thought. “After to-night we’re quits. I’ll hold my tongue about all this; but—I’m going!”

He whacked his stiff arms across his chest.

“Hotel Benderly, West Seventy-Seventh Street,” he said to himself. “I’m going there to-morrow.”

For he no longer saw Phyllis Barron as a danger. He was considerably less infatuated with liberty after these two days. It occurred to him, now, that to be entirely free meant to be entirely alone, and that to be without a friend was not good.

He wanted some one to trust, and he trusted Phyllis. No matter that he had known her only five days; he had seen that she was honest; that she was steadfast, and, loveliest virtue of all, she was self-controlled. He knew that from her one need never dread tears, fury, despairs, selfishness and cajoleries.

Out there, in the cold and dark of his unhappy vigil, he thought of Phyllis, and longed for her smile.

“She’d never in her life get a fellow into a mess like this!” he thought. “But Amy—”

His distrust for his Cousin Amy was without limits. There was nothing, he thought, that she might not do. She was perfectly capable of forgetting all about him, and then, in the morning, if he were found frozen to death at his post, she would pretend to wonder what on earth the new chauffeur had been doing out there.

“After eleven,” he thought. “And Eddy hasn’t come yet. Very likely she knew he wouldn’t come. Perhaps he’s never coming back. All right! I’ll wait till twelve, and then I’m going to take a look at that little kid. I’ve got to. It’s too little.”

So he walked up and down, up and down, over the rough, frozen patch of ground behind the fir trees; his coat collar turned up, his soft hat pulled low over his eyes, his face grim and dour; a sinister figure he would have been to meet on a lonely road.

Up and down—and then something happened. At first he could not grasp what it was, only that in some way his world had changed. He stopped short, every nerve alert. Then he realized that it was a sudden increase in the darkness, and, turning toward the house, he saw the lights there going out, one by one.

“By George!” he thought. “They’re all going to bed! And I suppose I can stay here all night, eh? While they’re warm and snug, the faithful Cousin James will be on guard. All right! I said I’d do it. But I’m going to get a glass of milk for that baby.”

He set off as fast as his numb feet and stiff legs would carry him, toward the back door. He would tell the cook that he was hungry, and she would give him what he wanted. A kind, sensible woman, that cook.

He pushed open the back door and went in; it was dark in the passage, but warm, and the entrancing perfumes of the great dinner still lingered there. He went on, toward the kitchen, but before he got there, the swing door opened, and Mrs. Jones appeared. She stopped, and he thought that she whispered: “It’s I!”

He was a little disconcerted, because he knew that Mrs. Jones was not fond of him, and he was extremely suspicious of her. But she looked so sedate, almost venerable, standing there in the lighted doorway, in her best black dress, with her gray hair, her spectacles. He took off his hat, and spoke to her civilly.

“I came to ask for a glass of milk,” he said.

Then she repeated what she had said before, and it was not “It’s I,” but the word “Spy!” uttered with a suppressed scorn that startled him.

“Spy!” she said. “I know you!”

He looked at her in stern amazement.

“Leave this house!” she said. “You can deceive a poor innocent young girl, but you can’t deceive me. You and your glass of milk! I know you! And I tell you straight to your face that you’re not coming one step farther. I’m going to stay here all night, and I’m going to see to it that neither you nor anybody else comes to worry and torment that poor girl. Go!”

“All right!” said Ross, briefly, and, turning on his heel, went out of the house.

“If she’s going to take over the job of watchdog, she’s welcome to it,” he thought. “I guess she’d be pretty good at that sort of thing. But—spy!”

His face grew hot.

“I don’t feel inclined to swallow that,” he said to himself, deliberately. “Some day we’ll have a reckoning, Mrs. Jones!”

XII

The funny little doll lay asleep, very neat and straight, just in the center of the bed, the covers drawn up like a shawl, one cheek pressed against the pillow, its fair mane streaming out behind, as if it were advancing doggedly against a high wind. There was no creature in the world more helpless, yet it was not alert, not timid, as defenseless little animals are; it slept in utter confidence and security.

And that confidence seemed to Ross almost terrible. The tiny creature, breathing so tranquilly, took for granted all possible kindness and protection from him. It had asked him for food; it had offered a kiss.

He stood looking down at it with considerable anxiety, yet with the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Made yourself at home, didn’t you?” he thought.

As he looked, the child gave an impatient flounce, and threw one arm over her head. Ross drew nearer, frowning a little; bent over to examine that arm, that ruffled sleeve.

“I don’t believe—” he muttered, and very carefully pulled out the covers from the foot of the bed. His suspicions were confirmed; she was fully dressed, even to her shoes.

“Must be darned uncomfortable!” he thought. He hesitated a moment, half afraid to touch her; but at last he cautiously unbuttoned one slipper. She did not stir. He drew off the slipper, then the other one; then the socks, and tucked in the covers again.

“Poor little devil!” he said to himself. “Poor little devil! I wonder—”

A great yawn interrupted him.

“I’ll think about this in the morning,” he thought; “but I’m going to get some sleep now—before anything else happens.”

For, coming from the cold of his vigil into this warmth was making him intolerably drowsy. He took off his collar and sat down to remove those objectionable puttees.

As this unprincipled intruder had so coolly taken possession of the bed, he would have to sleep on the couch in the sitting room, but that didn’t trouble him. He felt that he could sleep anywhere, and that nothing—absolutely nothing—could keep him awake ten minutes longer.

A sound from below startled him. Some one was unlocking the door.

In his blind fatigue, he was ready to ignore even that. He didn’t care who came; he wanted to go to sleep.

But he remembered the tiny creature in the bed, the creature who expected his protection, and that roused him. Closing the bedroom door, he went to the head of the stairs, and, in a voice husky with sleep, but distinctly threatening, called out:

“Who’s that?”

“Me,” answered Eddy’s voice.

Even before he saw the boy, Ross was aware that there was something amiss with Eddy to-night. His voice was different; he climbed the stairs so slowly. He came into the sitting room, and flung down the bag he was carrying.

“I’m all in!” he said.

He looked it. His face was haggard and white; his glossy hair was no longer combed back, but flopped untidily over his forehead. There was nothing jaunty about Eddy now. He was weary, grimy, and dispirited.

“Been doing overtime,” he explained. “Lot of wires down in that storm last night.”

“Look here!” said Ross. “There’s a child here—a baby. I don’t know whose it is, or how it got here. But it’s asleep in there. Better not disturb it.”

“Wha-at!” cried Eddy. He looked amazed, he spoke in a tone of amazement, but there was something—

“By Heaven!” thought Ross. “You’ve got the other key to the garage, my lad! And the child didn’t come through a locked door.”

“A kid!” Eddy repeated.

“Queer, isn’t it?” Ross inquired, sarcastically. “If not peculiar!”

Eddy glanced at him, and then sat down and lit a cigarette.

“I’ll say it’s queer!” he observed.

“Especially as I’d left the door locked when I went out.”

Again Eddy glanced at him.

“Did you—what did they say—over at the house?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing much!”

He observed, with satisfaction, that this answer alarmed Eddy.

“Well, lissen here,” he said. “Who did you tell? Old Jones?”

“I don’t remember,” Ross declared.

“But—” Eddy began, and stopped.

“I’m going to turn in now,” said Ross. “Afraid you’ll have to put up with the chair again to-night.”

He crossed the room to the couch and lay down there. He was only partly undressed, and he put his shoes beside him, and his overcoat across his feet, because, in this nightmare existence, he had to be prepared for every impossible emergency.

“But I’ll get some sleep anyhow!” he thought, defiantly.

He stretched out, with a sigh of relief, and closed his eyes, when an almost inaudible sound, like the faintest echo of his own sigh, made him glance up again. He saw that Eddy had buried his face in his hands, and sat there, his slight shoulders hunched, his young head bent, in an attitude of misery and dejection.

And Ross was sorry for him. All through his confused and heavy dreams that night ran a little thread of pity, of regret and pain, which he could not understand. Only, he felt that in this adventure there was more than the tragedy of death.

When he opened his eyes again, the room was filled with a strange, pale light, unfamiliar to him. Dawn? It was more like twilight. He raised himself on one elbow and looked out of the window, and, for the first time in his life, he saw the snow.

Thick and fast the flakes went spinning by, tapping lightly against the glass, and, out beyond, he saw that all the world was white. White and unimaginably still. He had seen plenty of pictures of snow-covered landscapes, but he had never known the feel of a snowstorm, the odd tingle in the air, the sense of hushed expectancy.

He was amazed and delighted with it. Old and forgotten fancies of his childhood stirred in him now; queer little memories of glittering Christmas cards, of fairy tales. He remembered a story his mother had read to him, so very long ago, about a Snow Queen.

And it was good for him to remember these things, after so many ungracious years, just as it was good to see the snow, after so long a time of tropic sun and rain. He knew that it was good, and for a little time he was content, watching the snow fall.

But his destiny was not inclined to allow him many peaceful moments just then. Before he had even begun to think of his complicated anxieties, a sound from the next room brought the whole burden upon him like an avalanche. It was the child’s voice.

He jumped up from the couch, and then he noticed that Eddy had gone. He frowned, not knowing whether this was a disaster or a thing of no importance, and, without stopping to put on his shoes, went across to the bedroom door and turned the knob. He had come so quietly that no one had heard him, and he was able to observe a curious scene.

Eddy was on his knees, his head bowed before the little girl, who sat on the bed, lifting strands of his glossy hair and pulling them out to their fullest extent, with a grave and thoughtful air.

“Lookit here!” whispered Eddy. “I wish you’d quit that, baby!”

“You dot funny, flippety-floppety hair,” said she.

“Well, anyway, hold your foot still won’t you?” he entreated.

Ross saw, then, that Eddy was trying to put the child’s socks on, and getting no intelligent coöperation from her.

“What are you doing that for?” he asked.

Eddy sprang to his feet like a cat. He looked at Ross, and Ross looked at him, and the little girl lay back on the bed and began jouncing up and down.

“Well,” Eddy replied, slowly, “if you really want to know, it was me brought her here, and now I’m goin’ to take her away again; that’s all.”

Once more Ross was conscious of a disarming pity for the boy. He thought he had never seen a human creature who looked so unhappy.

“Look here, Eddy!” he remarked. “Who is she, anyhow?”

“Her?” said Eddy. “Why what does it matter?”

Ross was silent for a moment.

“I—I’m interested in the little girl,” he said, half ashamed of this weakness. “I’d like to know where she’s going.”

“Gawd knows,” said Eddy, briefly.

“What do you mean?”

“She can’t stay here,” said Eddy. “That’s one sure thing.”

Again he looked at Ross, with a strange intensity, as if he were trying desperately to read that quite unreadable face.

“If you’re really interested in the kid—” he began.

“I am,” said Ross.

Eddy sat down on the bed.

“I don’t believe you told them, over at the house,” he continued. “‘Cause, if they knew, they’d of—”

“No, I didn’t,” said Ross.

“Then nobody knows she’s here—but me and you?”

“That’s all.”

“Well,” said Eddy.

Again Ross had a distinct warning of danger, and again he defied it, standing there stubbornly resistant to all the ill winds that might blow.

“This kid,” Eddy pointed out—“she hasn’t got anybody in the world.”

As if by common consent, they both turned to look at the child. She was holding the rabbit aloft, and trying to touch it with one little bare foot; she was quite happy; with superb unconcern she left her fate in the hands of these two young men.

“I’d explain it to you, if I could,” Eddy went on; “but I can’t, just now. Later on, maybe. Only, she can’t stay here. I got to take her away before anybody sees her.” He paused. “I know somewheres I could leave her to-day, and bring her back here to-night, all right, only after that—”

A dim and monstrous suspicion stirred in Ross, but he would not examine it. He did not want to understand.

“After that,” he said, “I’ll look after her.”

XIII

They had breakfast together, Ross and Eddy and the child. And the rabbit was there, too, propped up against the coffeepot; he was fed with spoonfuls of water, and he got pretty wet in the process.

It was an amazing meal. It seemed to Ross sometimes that he was still asleep, and this a dream—the little kitchen filled with that strange, pale light, the snow falling steadily outside, and the child beside him.

“Why did I say I’d look after her?” he thought, with a sort of wonder. “What’s the matter with me, anyhow?”

He didn’t know, and could not understand. He was hopelessly involved, now, in this sorry muddle, and he saw, very clearly, that every step had been taken deliberately, of his own free will. He could have got out, long ago, but—here he was. And he was committed now to an undertaking almost too fantastic, too preposterous to contemplate.

Yet he did not regret it. Just as, in a shipwreck, he would have given his life for a tiny creature like this, so was he obliged now to offer it his protection. Eddy said she had nobody in the world. Very well, then; he had to stop, to turn aside from his own affairs, and lend a hand to this forlorn little fellow traveler. He had to do it.

“More!” said the child, briskly.

“More what?” asked Ross.

“More—evvysing!” she cried, bouncing up and down perilously upon the telephone directories he had piled on her chair. “More evvysing!”

“Give her some cawfee,” suggested Eddy.

“No,” said Ross. “Too young. They only have milk—things like that.”

And, with these words, the fantasy became real. He had actually assumed the responsibility, now. He was taking care of the child. He looked down at her, frowning a little, and she looked up into his face with cheerful expectancy. She knew very well! He was the one appointed to serve her, and she knew it. He was to supply her with “more evvysing.”

“Look here, Eddy!” he said. “There must be some one who’ll turn up later to—to take care of the child. There’s bound to be some one.”

Eddy glanced up as if he were about to speak, but his face grew scarlet, and he turned away.

“Well,” he said, after a time, “I dunno. It’s kind of hard to say. Only, I thought you—I thought you’d be a good one to—take her.”

Ross was surprised and curiously touched by this, and somewhat embarrassed. A good one, was he, for this charge? He looked at the child again.

“Her face is dirty,” he observed, sternly. “She ought to be washed. Any warm water in that kettle, Eddy?”

“Yep. But I got to hurry, before the rest of ’em get up. Go on and eat, kid!” He turned to Ross. “Tell you what I thought. I know a place where I can take her and keep her till you come and get her after dark. It’s a cottage where there’s nobody living just now. You go up the Post Road about eight miles, till you come to a church that’s being built on the left side of the road. Then you turn—”

“Yes,” said Ross. “I—” He stopped, and Eddy sat staring blankly at him.

“What?” he cried. “D’you know?”

“Go on!” said Ross. “Go on! Tell me how to get there.”

“What made you say ‘yes,’ like that?”

“I meant I was listening to you. Go on, man!” And because of his distaste for this lie, Ross spoke with a brusque impatience which impressed Eddy.

“All right!” he said. “But lissen here! I—well—you’re a funny sort of guy. I never seen any one so close-mouthed in my life. I can’t make out yet who you are, or what you come here for. But—” He sighed, and stroked his glossy hair. “I got to trust you, that’s all. Last night I thought I’d go crazy, trying to think what I could do about the kid. I couldn’t—I’ll tell you where this place is, and I hope to Gawd you’ll keep still about it. ’Cause, if we get any one else monkeying around there—well—there’ll be trouble, that’s all. Big trouble.”

“Go on!” said Ross.

So Eddy did go on, giving him careful directions for reaching the cottage Ross had visited the day before with Amy.

“And for Pete’s sake, come as early as you can,” he ended. “Come before it gets dark, will you? I—” He arose. “Come on, baby!”

She jumped down from her chair, with a piece of bread and butter in one hand, and the rabbit in the other; she was quite ready to go anywhere, with any one. Ross washed her sticky hands and tried to wash her face, but this annoyed her so much that he was not successful. Eddy brought out her coat and bonnet from a cupboard; put on his own very modish overcoat, and a cap, picked up the child, and off they went.

From an upper window, Ross watched them go across the great white waste that was so strange and yet somehow so familiar to him. Eddy stumbled now and then, over some hidden unevenness in the ground, but the child in his arms sat up straight and triumphant, her head, in the knitted hood, turning briskly from side to side. Then they were lost to sight in the falling snow and the gray morning light, and Ross turned back to the empty rooms.

It was only half past seven; he had nearly an hour before Mr. Solway expected him, and he thought he would use that time for investigating the engine of the limousine. Both cars were in deplorably good condition; there was little he could justifiably do to them, and he was, moreover, a mechanic of more enterprise than experience. But he was devoted to engines, and pretty well up in the theory of the internal combustion type.

He put on a suit of overalls he found in the garage; he started the engine and opened the hood; he was so pleased with that fine roar, that powerful vibration which was like the beat of a great, faithful heart, that he began to whistle. A superb motor; he would enjoy driving that car.

“She’s a beauty, all right!” said a voice, so very close to his ear that he jumped.

Standing at his elbow was a burly fellow of thirty-five or so, with a bulldog jaw; his voice and his smile were friendly, but his blue eyes, Ross thought, were not.

“Yes, sir!” he went on. “You’ve got a mighty fine car there.”

Ross said nothing. He did not care to continue his amateur explorations under those cold blue eyes. He shut off the engine, closed the hood, and turned toward the stranger with a challenging glance.

But the stranger was not at all abashed.

“Have a smoke,” he asked, proffering a packet of cigarettes.

“No, thanks!” said Ross, and stood there, facing the other, and obviously waiting for an explanation.

“Dirty weather!” said the stranger.

“All right!” said Ross sullenly. “What about it?”

His tone was very nearly savage, for, to tell the truth, his position was having a bad effect upon his temper. Having so much to conceal, so many unwelcome secrets intrusted to him, he had begun to suspect every one. He didn’t like this fellow.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” said the stranger, in an easy and confidential manner. “I came up this way, looking for a man. And I thought I’d drop in here and see if you could give me any information.” He stopped to light a cigarette, and his blue eyes were fixed upon Ross. “Fellow by the name of Ives,” he said. “Ever hear of him, eh?”

“No!” said Ross.

“Ives,” said the other, slowly. “Martin Ives. Fellow about your age. About your build. Dark complexioned—like you.”

“D’you think I’m your Martin Ives?” demanded Ross, angrily.

“I wish you were,” said the stranger, and his tone was so grave that Ross had a sudden feeling of profound uneasiness.

“Well, I’m not,” he said, “and I never heard of him. I’m new here—just came two days ago.”

“Two days, eh?” said the stranger. “That was Wednesday, eh?”

“I shouldn’t have told him that,” thought Ross, dismayed. “But, good Lord, I can’t remember to lie all the time! And, anyhow, what difference can it make—when I came here?”

But he could see, from the stranger’s face, that it had made a difference.

“You came here on Wednesday,” he continued. “I wonder, now, did you happen to see any one—”

“No!” shouted Ross. “I didn’t see any one. I didn’t see anything. I never heard of your Ives. Go and ask some one else. I’m busy!”

“I don’t want to bother you,” said the stranger, grown very mild. “I can see you’re busy. But it’s a pretty serious thing. You see, Ives came to Stamford on Tuesday. I’ve traced him that far. And after that—he’s disappeared.”

“Well, do you think I’ve got him hidden here?”

“My name’s Donnelly,” the stranger went on. “And I’ve come out here to find Ives.”

“All right! I wish you luck!”

“I don’t know,” said Donnelly, thoughtfully. “Maybe it won’t be so lucky—for some people.”

He was not looking at Ross now; his cold blue eyes were staring straight before him.

“But I think I’ll find him, all the same,” he declared, gently.

“Ives was the man under the sofa,” thought Ross.

XIV

Ross could not understand why that notion came as a shock to him. Naturally, the man under the sofa had a name; every one had. Yet, directly he thought of that figure as “Martin Ives,” instead of “the man,” the whole affair grew ten times more tragic and horrible—and ten times more dangerous.

“A man” might disappear, but not Martin Ives. Martin Ives was real, he had friends; he must have lived somewhere. He would be sought for—and found.

“This Donnelly—” thought Ross. “He’s got this far already. And he’ll keep on.”

In his mind he envisaged the inexorable progress of the search. Step by step, hour by hour. If this man went away, another would come. The awful march of retribution had begun. Nothing could stop it.

“Murder will out.”

His anger, his impatience, had quite vanished now. He could not resent Donnelly’s presence, because he was inevitable. He seemed to Ross the very personification of destiny, not to be eluded, not to be mollified. He looked at him and, as he had expected, found the cold blue eyes regarding him.

“Do you think you can help me?” asked Donnelly.

“I don’t see how,” said Ross. “I don’t know the fellow you’re looking for. I’ll have to get along, now. Got to drive down to the station.”

“Well,” said Donnelly, blandly, “I can wait.”

“Not here!” said Ross, with energy. “They wouldn’t like—”

“Oh, no, not here!” said the other. “See you later. So long!” And off he went.

Ross watched his burly figure tramping along the driveway until he was out of sight; then he made haste to get himself ready, took out the car, locked the garage, and drove up to the house.

It was much too early. There he sat, shut up in the snug little sedan, with the snow falling outside, as if he were some unfortunate victim of an enchantment, shut up in a glass cage. And he began to think, now, of what lay immediately before him.

“I’ll have to make some sort of excuse to Mr. Solway for going away,” he thought. “A lie, of course. I wish to Heaven I didn’t have to lie to him. Then I’ll get the child, and clear out. I’ll find some sort of home for her. Phyllis Barron will help me.”

The idea dazzled him, the magnificent simplicity of it, the unspeakable relief of just picking up the child and walking off. No explanations, no more lies. He contemplated it in detail. How he would walk into the Hotel Miston, into his comfortable room, and unpack his bags. How he would take the child to Phyllis Barron, and tell her that here was a poor little kid who had nobody in the world. She would know what to do; she would help him; the nightmare would end.

As for Amy—

“I’ll have it out with her to-day!” he thought. “I’m not called upon to give up my entire life for that girl. I’ve done enough, and more than enough.”

The door opened, and out came Mr. Solway. Ross jumped out and opened the door of the car.

“Ha!” said Mr. Solway. “Very sensible—very sensible! You came early, so that you’d have time to drive carefully. Very important—weather like this. Very sensible! But wait a bit! Mr. Dexter’s coming along.” Standing out in the snow, he shouted: “Gayle! Come, now! Come!” to the unresponsive house; then he got into the car.

“I’d like to speak to you for a minute, sir,” said Ross.

Mr. Solway observed how white and strained the young man’s face was, and he spoke to him very kindly.

“Well?” he said. “What is it, Moss?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to leave to-morrow, sir.”

“Leave, eh?”

“Yes, sir. I—it’s—family troubles, sir.”

“Married man?” asked Mr. Solway, in a low voice.

“No, sir,” said Ross. The honest sympathy in the other man’s tone made him sick with shame. “It’s a—a younger sister of mine.”

“Well, my boy,” said Mr. Solway, “I’m sorry, very sorry. You’re the sort of young fellow I like. Family troubles—Too bad! I’m sorry. Come back here any time you like.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Ross.

“Nonsense! Nonsense! You’re the type of young—Ha, Gayle! Step in! Step in. Start her up, Moss!”

Ross did so. He had never been more unhappy in his life than he was now, with his lie successfully accomplished.

“This finishes it!” he thought, as he drove back from the station. “I’m going to see Amy, and have it out with her. I’ll tell her about this Donnelly. I’ll warn her—”

And then go off and leave her to face the consequences alone?

“But, hang it all, she’s not alone!” he cried to himself. “She’s got Solway, and she’s got her Gayle. Why doesn’t she go to him? He’s the natural one to share her troubles.”

Unfortunately, however, he could not help understanding a little why Amy did not want to tell Gayle. He had had another good look at Gayle when he got out of the car at the station, and he was obliged to admit that there was something very uncompromising in that handsome face. Nobody, he thought, would want to tell Gayle Dexter a guilty secret.

“I suppose she doesn’t particularly mind my knowing anything,” he reflected, “because, as far as she’s concerned, I don’t count.”

This idea pleased him as much as it would please any other young fellow of twenty-six. And, combined with his many anxieties, and his hatred and impatience toward his present position, it produced in him a very unchivalrous mood. He brought the car into the garage, and sat down on its step, with his watch in his hand. He gave Amy thirty minutes in which to send him a message.

Of course she didn’t send any. Then he went to the telephone which connected with the house. Gracie’s voice answered him.

“I want to speak to Miss Solway!” he said.

“I’ll see,” said Gracie.

He waited and waited, feeling pretty sure that Amy would not come; that she would, indeed, never speak to him or think of him unless she wanted him to do something for her. But presently, to his surprise, he heard her voice, so very gentle and sweet that he could scarcely recognize it.

“Moss?” she said, as if in wonder.

“Yes,” he said. “Look here! I’d like to—”

“I don’t think I’ll want the car all day,” said she. “Not in this weather.”

“Look here!” he began, again. “I want to speak to you. Now.”

“I shan’t need you at all to-day, Moss,” said she, graciously, and he heard the receiver go up on the hook.

He stood for a moment, looking at the telephone. His dark face had grown quite pale, and there was upon it a peculiar and unpleasant smile.

But he was, in his way, a just man, and not disposed to let his temper master him. He looked at the telephone, and he thought his thoughts for a few moments; then he resolutely put this exasperation out of his mind, and proceeded with his business.

He decided to go and get the child without any further delay. There was no reason for delay, and, to tell the truth, he was vaguely uneasy with her away. He could easily keep her hidden in the garage until the morning, and then get away early. And he wanted her here.

He took off the hated uniform, dressed himself in his customary neat and sober fashion, put his papers and what money he had into his pockets, and set off toward the station, where he knew he could get a taxi.

The beauty which had so enchanted him early in the morning was perishing fast, now. The fields still showed an unbroken expanse of white, but the trees were bare again. The flakes melted as they fell; the roads were a morass of slush, and all the tingle had gone out of the air. It was a desolate, depressing day, now, with a leaden sky. The slush came over the tops of his shoes, his hat brim dripped, his spirits sank, in this melancholy world.

But at least he was alone, and able to go his own way, in his own good time, and that was a relief. He stopped in the town, and bought himself a pipe and a tin of tobacco. He stopped whenever he felt like it, to look at things; and, passing a fruit stand, went in and bought two apples for the little girl.

“Good for children,” he thought, with curious satisfaction.

He reached the station, and saw three or four vacant taxis standing there; he selected one and went up to it, and was just about to give his directions when a hand fell on his shoulder.

“Well!” said a voice—the most unwelcome one he could have heard.

It was Donnelly, grinning broadly.

“Well!” said Ross, in a noncommittal tone.

His brain was working fast. He couldn’t go to the cottage now. He must somehow get rid of this fellow, and he must invent a plausible reason for being here.

“I walked down to get a few things,” he said, “but I guess I won’t try walking back. The roads are too bad.”

“You’re right!” said Donnelly, heartily.

“Wygatt Road!” Ross told the taxi driver, and got into the cab.

“Hold on a minute!” said Donnelly. “I’m going that way, too. I’ll share the cab with you.”

“Look here!” cried Ross.

“Well?” said Donnelly. “I’m looking.”

The unhappy young man did not know what to say. He felt that it would be extremely imprudent to antagonize the man.

“All right,” he said, at last, and Donnelly got in beside him.

The cab set off, splashing through the melted snow—going back again to that infernal garage. Suppose Donnelly hung about all day?

“Where do you want to get out?” he demanded.

“To tell you the truth,” said Donnelly, “I was waiting for you.”

“Waiting! But—”

“I sort of thought you might be coming to the station some time to-day,” said the other, tranquilly, “and I waited. Wanted a little talk with you.”

“What about?”

“Well, it’s this. I told you I was looking for a man called Ives.”

“And I told you I didn’t—”

“Now, hold on a minute! You told me you’d never heard of him. All right. Now, I told you I knew Ives came out to Stamford on Tuesday. That was about all I did know—this morning. But I’ve found out a little more since then.”

“What’s that got to do with me?” asked Ross, with a surly air and a sinking heart.

“That’s just what I don’t know. On Wednesday you came to Mr. Solway’s house. You didn’t bring anything with you, and you haven’t sent for any bag or trunk, or anything like that. Now, hold on! Just wait a minute! You said you’d come from Cren’s Agency, I’m told. But Cren’s Agency told me on the telephone that—Now, hold on! Don’t lose your temper! You can clear this up easy enough. Just show me your license. Haven’t got it with you, I suppose?”

“No!” said Ross.

“All right. You’ve left it in the garage. Very well. That’s where you’re going now, isn’t it? Unless—” He paused. “Unless you’d like to come along with me.”

“Come—where?” asked Ross.

“Why, there’s a little cottage off the Post Road,” said Donnelly. “I’d like to pay a little visit there this morning, and it came into my head that maybe you’d like to come along with me, eh?”

XV

Ross was, by nature, incapable of despair; but he felt something akin to it now. He was so hopelessly in the dark; he did not know what to guard against, what was most dangerous. He remembered Eddy’s warning, not to let any one come “monkeying around” that cottage; but he did not know the reason for that warning. Nor could he think of any way to prevent Donnelly’s going there.

Should he lock the fellow up in the garage until he had warned Eddy? No; that was a plan lacking in subtlety. Certainly it would confirm whatever suspicions Donnelly might have; it might do a great deal more harm than good.

Should he tell Amy, on the chance that she might suggest something? No. The chance of her suggesting anything helpful was very small, and the chance that she would do something reckless and disastrous very great. Better keep Amy out of it.

Then what could he do? The idea came into his head that he might keep Donnelly quiet for a time by boldly asserting that he himself was Ives. But perhaps Donnelly knew that he wasn’t.

“By Heaven, why shouldn’t I tell him the truth?” he thought, in a sort of rage. “Why not tell him I’m James Ross? There’s nothing against me. I’ve done nothing criminal. I don’t even know what’s happened here. I’ll just tell him.”

And then Donnelly would ask him why he had come, and why he was here masquerading as a chauffeur. How could he explain? For it never occurred to him as a possibility that he could ignore Donnelly’s questions.

There was an air of unmistakable authority about the man. Ross had not asked him who he was, and he had no wish in the world to find out, either; simply, he knew that Donnelly was justified in his very inconvenient curiosity, that he had a right to know, and that he probably would know, before long.

“Perhaps I can manage to get away from him,” thought Ross.

That was the thing! Somehow he must sidetrack Donnelly; get him off upon a false scent, while he himself hastened to Eddy. Such a simple and easy thing to do, wasn’t it?

“Well!” said Donnelly. “Do we go back, and have a look at that license of yours—or do we go and pay a little visit to that cottage, eh?”

“I’m going back,” said Ross, curtly.

“Of course,” Donnelly went on, in a mild and reasonable tone, “I know, and you know, that you’re not going to show me any license. What you want is a little time to make up your mind. You’re saying to yourself: ‘I don’t know this fellow. I don’t know what he’s up to. I don’t see any reason why I should trust him with any of my private affairs.’ You’re right. Why should you? You’ve talked to certain other people, and you’ve heard good reasons why you ought to keep quiet—about one or two little things. That’s sensible enough. Why, naturally,” he went on, growing almost indignant in defense of Ross, “naturally an intelligent young man like you isn’t going to tell all he knows to a stranger. Why should you?”

Ross found it difficult to reply to this.

“No,” said Donnelly. “Naturally not. What you say to me is: ‘Put your cards on the table, Donnelly. Let’s hear who you are, and what you know, and what you’re after. Then we can talk.’ That’s what you say. All right. Now, I’ll tell you. I’ll be frank. I’ll admit that when I saw you this morning, I thought you were Ives. You see, I’m frank—not pretending to know it all. I made a mistake. You’re not Ives.”

“Thanks!” said Ross.

“When Ives came out here on Tuesday,” Donnelly proceeded, “he took a taxi. I’ll tell you frankly that I just found that out this morning by a lucky fluke. No credit to me. He went out to this cottage, and there he met somebody.”

“Oh, that was me, I suppose,” said Ross.

“No,” said Donnelly. “It was a woman.”

“Oh, Lord!” thought Ross. “This is—I can’t stand much more of this.”

“Now, I’m not going to pretend I know who that woman was,” Donnelly went on. “I don’t. I haven’t found that out—yet. Not yet.”

“But you will,” thought Ross.

He felt sure of that. He believed that there was no hope now for the guilty ones, and he felt that he was one of the guilty ones. He did not know what had happened at “Day’s End,” but the burden of that guilt lay upon his heart. This man was the agent of destiny, inexorable, in no way to be eluded. He had come to find out, and find out he surely would.

Ross was a young man of remarkable hardihood, though; no one had ever yet been able to bully him, or to intimidate or fluster him. He had precious little hope of success, but he meant to do what he could. If he could only gain a little time, perhaps he might think of a plan, and, in the meanwhile, he would say nothing and admit nothing.

“Now, before we talk,” said Donnelly, “you want to know who I am, and how I came to be mixed up in this business. As soon as you saw me, you said to yourself: ‘Police!’”

Ross winced at the word.

“That was natural. But you made a mistake. I’ll tell you frankly that I was a police detective once, but I’ve left the force. I’m a private citizen, now, same as you are. Got a little business of my own—what you might call a private investigator. Collecting information—jobs like that. Nothing to do with criminal cases.”

He was silent for a moment.

“Nothing to do with criminal cases,” he repeated. “I don’t like ’em. Now, this—”

Again he fell silent.

“We’ll hope this isn’t one,” he said. “I’ll tell you about it. My sister, she’s a widow, and she keeps a rooming house, down on West Twelfth Street. Well, yesterday she came to me with a story that sort of interested me. She told me that about a month ago a young fellow took a room in her house. Quiet young fellow, didn’t give any trouble, but she’d taken a good deal of notice of him, in what you might call a sort of motherly way.”

“Yes, I know,” Ross nodded.

“A good-looking young fellow, very polite and nice in his ways—and she thought from the start that he was pretty badly worried about something. She’d hear him walking up and down at night—and she said there was a look on his face—You know how women are.”

“Yes,” Ross agreed.

“So, when he didn’t show up for a couple of nights, she came to me. I told her to go to the police, but she had some sort of notion that he wouldn’t like that—and I dare say she didn’t like it herself. Bad for business—a thing like that in the newspapers, you know. So, just to please her, I got his door unlocked, and had a look at his room.”

“You found—”

“Well, the first thing I saw there was a pile of money on the table—about seventy-five dollars in bills, under a paper weight, and a half finished letter. No name—just began right off—‘I won’t wait any longer.’ But here’s the letter. You can see for yourself.”

Unbuttoning his overcoat, he took a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and handed it to Ross. It read:

I won’t wait any longer. I am coming out to Stamford to-morrow, and if you refuse to see me this time, it will be the end. You’ve been putting me off with one lie after the other for all this time, and now it’s finished. I don’t know how you can be so damned cruel. Don’t you even want to see your own child? As for your husband—I have no more illusions about that. You’re sick of me. All you want is to get rid of me, and you don’t care how, either. Well, I don’t care. I’d be better off with a bullet through the head. It’s only the baby—

Here there were several words scratched out, and it began again:

Darling, my own girl, perhaps I’m wrong. I hope to God I am. Perhaps you are really doing your best, and thinking of what’s best for the child. Only, it’s been so long. I want you back so. I’ve got a little money saved. I can keep you both. I can work. I can make you happy, even if we are a bit poor. Darling, just let me see you and—

That was the end. Ross touched his tongue to his dry lips, and folded up the letter again. He dared not look at Donnelly, but he knew Donnelly was looking at him.

“Ives wrote that letter,” said Donnelly. “The way I figure it out is this. He began to write, and then he decided that, instead of sending a letter, he’d go. He must have been in a pretty bad state to leave all that money behind. But, of course, he meant to come back. Well, he didn’t. Aha! Here we are!”

The taxi stopped before the gates of “Day’s End,” and Donnelly, getting out, told the driver to wait for him. Then he set off with Ross, not along the drive, but across the lawn, behind the fir trees.

“I won’t bother you by telling you how I know he came to Stamford on Tuesday,” he proceeded. “It’s my business to find out things like that. He came, and he took a taxi out to this cottage I’ve mentioned, and a woman met him there. He sent the taxi away—and that’s the last I’ve heard of him.”

The snow was wholly turned to rain, now; it blew against Ross’s face, cold and bitter; the trees stood dripping and shivering under the gray sky. He was wet, chilled to the bone, filled with a terrible foreboding.

“That cottage belongs to an old lady in the neighborhood,” said Donnelly. “But she doesn’t know anything about this. She said the place had been vacant two years, and she didn’t expect to rent it till she’d made some repairs. She said anybody could get into it easily enough if they should want to. Well!”

They stood before the garage, now, and Ross took the key from his pocket.

“So you see,” said Donnelly, “that’s how it is. I’ve traced him that far. I know that there’s some woman in Stamford who has a good reason for wanting to get rid of him. And now—” He looked steadily at Ross, “And now I’ve about finished.”

“Finished?” said Ross. “You—you mean—”

But Donnelly did not answer.

XVI

Ross went upstairs to the sitting room over the garage. It did not occur to him to extend an invitation to his companion; he knew well enough that he would hear those deliberate footsteps mounting after him; he knew that Donnelly would follow.

He took off his hat and overcoat and flung himself into a chair, and Donnelly did the same, in a more leisurely fashion. Certainly he was not a very troublesome shadow; he did not speak or disturb Ross in any way. He just waited.

And Ross sat there, his legs stretched out before him, hands in his pockets, his head sunk, lost in a reverie of wonder, pity, and great dread.

“Her child?” he thought. “Amy’s child? Ives was her husband, and that baby is her child?”

He recalled with singular vividness the phrases of that pitiful, unreasonable letter. “Just let me see you.” “It’s been so long!” “You’re sick of me. All you want is to get rid of me.” He could imagine Ives, that fellow who was about his age, about his build—alone in his furnished room, writing that letter. “How can you be so damned cruel?” And “darling.”

“In a pretty bad state,” Donnelly had said. And he had come, with all his hope and his fear and his pain, to “Day’s End,” and—

“But if—if that was Ives I saw in Mrs. Jones’s room,” thought Ross, “then who was it Amy wanted me to watch for last night?”

This idea gave him immeasurable relief. That man had not been Ives. Ives hadn’t come yet. The whole tragedy was an invention of his own.

“No reason to take it for granted that that letter was meant for Amy,” he thought. “Plenty of other women in Stamford. No; I’ve simply been making a fool of myself, imagining.”

But there was one thing he had not imagined. There was, among all these doubts and surmises, one immutable fact, the man under the sofa. He could, if he pleased, explain away everything else, but not that.

It seemed to him incredible that he had, in the beginning, accepted that fact so coolly. He had thought it was “none of his business.” And now it was the chief business of his life. It was as if that silent figure had cried out to him for justice; as if he had come here only in order to see that man, and to avenge him.

“No!” he protested, in his soul. “I’ve got nothing to do with justice and—vengeance. The thing’s done. It can never be undone. I don’t want to see—any one punished for it. That’s not my business. I’m nobody’s judge, thank God!”

“Well?” said Donnelly, gently.

Ross looked up, met his glance squarely.

“I can’t help you,” he said.

Donnelly arose.

“I’m sorry for that,” he said. “Mighty sorry. I’ve been very frank with you. Showed you the letter—laid my cards on the table. Because I had a notion that you’d heard one side of the case, and that if you heard the other you might change your mind. You might think that Ives hadn’t had a fair deal.”

“I can’t help that,” muttered Ross.

“No,” said Donnelly, “of course you can’t. And I can’t help it now, either.” He sighed. “Well,” he said, “I’ll be off now. Good-by!”

“What are you going to do?” asked Ross, sitting up straight.

“Why, I’m going to that cottage I mentioned,” said Donnelly. “And if I don’t find Ives there, or something that’ll help me to find him—then I’ll have to turn the case over to the police.”

Ross got up and began to put on his damp overcoat.

“I’ll go with you,” he said.

Whether this was the best thing for him to do, he could not tell. But he could see no way of preventing Donnelly from going, and he would not let him go alone. He meant to be there, with Eddy and the little girl.

Donnelly had already gone to the head of the stairs, and Ross followed him, impatient to be gone. But the other’s burly form blocked the way. He was listening. Some one was opening the door of the garage.

Ross made an attempt to get by, but Donnelly laid a hand on his arm.

“Wait!” he whispered.

Light, quick footsteps sounded on the cement floor below, and then a voice, so clear, so sweet:

“Jim-my!”

“Miss Solway!” he cried. “Jimmy’s not here. Only me—Moss—and a friend of mine!”

This was his warning to her, and he hoped with all his heart that she would understand, and would go. Donnelly had begun to descend the stairs. If she would only go, before that man saw her!

But she had not gone. When he reached the foot of the stairs, and looked over Donnelly’s shoulder, he saw her there. She was wearing her fur coat, with the collar turned up, and a black velvet tam; the cold air had brought a beautiful color into her cheeks; her hair was clinging in little damp curls to her forehead; he had never seen her so lovely, so radiant. And for all that he knew against her, and all that he suspected, he saw in her now a pitiful and terrible innocence.

“She doesn’t know!” he thought. “She doesn’t realize—she can’t realize—ever—what she’s done. She doesn’t even know when she hurts any one.”

And there was Donnelly, standing before her, hat in hand, his eyes modestly downcast; a most inoffensive figure. She was not interested in him; she thought he didn’t matter; she was looking past him at Ross, with that cajoling, childish smile of hers.

“Oh, Moss!” she said. “Will you bring the sedan round to the house? Please? I want to go out.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Solway,” he said, and it seemed to him that any one could hear the significance in his voice. “Mr. Solway told me not to take you out—in this weather.”

“Oh!” she said, and sighed. “All right,” with gentle resignation; “I’ll just have to wait, then.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Solway,” said Ross again.

Didn’t she see how that fellow was watching her? It was torment to Ross. There was not a shadow on her bright face; she stood there, gay, careless, perfectly indifferent to the silent Donnelly.

“All right!” she said, and turned away, then, to open the door. But it was heavy for her small fingers, and Donnelly hastened forward.

“Excuse me, miss!” he said, and pushed back the door for her.

“Oh, thanks!” she said, smiling into his face, and off she went, running through the rain across the sodden lawn. Ross looked after her; so little, so young.

“And that’s Miss Solway!” said Donnelly, speculatively.

Ross glanced at him, and his heart gave a great leap. For, on the other’s face, was an unmistakable look of perplexity.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s Miss Solway.”

“She’s pretty young, isn’t she?” Donnelly pursued, still following with his eyes the hurrying little figure.

“I suppose so,” said Ross, casually. It was difficult for him to conceal his delight. Donnelly was evidently at a loss; he couldn’t believe ill of that girl with her careless smile. He thought she was too young, too light-hearted. The very fact of her ignoring Ross’s warning had done this for her. If she had understood, if across her smiling face had come that look Ross had seen, that look of terror and dismay, Donnelly would not have thought her too young.

“He’s not sure now!” thought Ross. “He’s not sure. She has a chance now. If I can only think of something.”

He could not think of anything useful now, but he felt sure that he would, later on. There was a chance now. Donnelly was only human; he, like other men, could be deluded.

They left the garage and walked back to the waiting taxi.

“What about a little lunch first?” suggested Donnelly.

“All right!” said Ross.

So they stopped at a restaurant in the town, and sent away the cab. They sat down facing each other across a small table. Ross was hungry, and Donnelly, too, ate with hearty appetite, but he did not talk. He was thoughtful, and, Ross believed, somewhat downcast.

“Getting up a new theory,” said the young man to himself. “Perhaps I can help him.”

The vague outline of a plan was assembling in his mind, but he could not quite discern it yet. It seemed to him plain that Donnelly had nothing but suspicions; that he had no definite facts as to any connection between Ives and Amy Solway. He had thought she was the woman to whom that letter was addressed; but since he had seen her, he doubted. Very well; he must be kept in doubt.

When they had finished lunch, they went round the corner to a garage, and took another taxi. Ross settled himself back comfortably, and filled and lighted his new pipe; a good time to break it in, he thought. Donnelly brought out a big cigar, which he kept in the corner of his mouth while he talked a little upon the subject of tobacco. The cab grew thick with smoke, and Ross opened the window beside him. The rain blew in, but he did not mind that.

They came to the cottage along the lane which took them directly to its front gate. There it stood, forlorn and shabby, the shutters closed, the neglected garden a dripping tangle. They went up the steps; Donnelly knocked, but there was no answer. He pushed open the door, and they went in. He called out: “Is there anybody here?”

But Ross knew then that the house was empty. The very air proclaimed it.

“My luck’s in!” he thought, elated.

XVII

“Nice, cheerful little place!” observed Donnelly, looking about him.

Ross said nothing. He had not even dared hope for such a stroke of luck as that Eddy and the little girl should be gone, yet the silence in this dim, damp, little house troubled him. Where and why had they gone?

“We’ll just take a look around,” said Donnelly.

He opened a door beside him, revealing a dark and empty room. He flashed an electric torch across it; nothing there but the bare floor and the four walls. He closed the door and went along the passage, and opened the door of the next room. The shutter was broken here, and one of the window panes, and the rain was blowing in, making a pool on the floor that gleamed darkly when the flash light touched it.

That door, too, he closed, with a sort of polite caution, as if he didn’t want to disturb any one. Then he looked into the room at the end of the passage. This was evidently the kitchen, for there was a sink there, and a built-in dresser. He turned on the taps; no water.

“Now we’ll just take a look upstairs,” he said, in a subdued tone.

He mounted the stairs with remarkable lightness for so heavy a man; but Ross took no such precaution. Indeed, he wanted to make a noise. He did not like the silence in this house.

Donnelly opened the door facing the stairs. One shutter had been thrown back, and the room was filled with the gray light of the rainy afternoon. And, lying on the floor, Ross saw a white flannel rabbit.

It lay there, quite alone, its one pink glass eye staring up at the ceiling, and round its middle was a bedraggled bit of blue ribbon which Ross remembered very well.

“Now, what’s this?” said Donnelly.

He picked up the rabbit, frowning a little; he turned it this way and that, he fingered its sash. And, to Ross, there was something grotesque and almost horrible in the sight of the burly fellow with a cigar in one corner of his mouth, and an intent frown on his red face, holding that rabbit.

“It’s a clew, isn’t it?” he inquired, with mock respect.

Donnelly glanced at him quickly. Then he put the rabbit into the pocket of his overcoat, from which its long ears protruded ludicrously.

“Come on!” he said.

The next door was locked, and here Donnelly displayed his professional talents. Before Ross could quite see what he was at, he had taken something from his pocket; he bent forward, and almost at once the lock clicked, and he opened the door.

It seemed to Ross that nothing could have been more eloquent of crime, of shameful secrecy and misery, than that room. There was a wretched little makeshift bed against one wall, made up of burlap bags and a ragged portière; there was a box on which stood a lantern, an empty corned beef tin, and a crushed and sodden packet of cigarettes. There was nothing else.

With a leaden heart, he looked at Donnelly, and saw him very grave.

“Come on!” he said, again.

And they went on, into every corner of that house that was so empty and yet so filled with questions. They found nothing more. Some one had been here, and some one had gone; that was all.

Donnelly led the way back to the room where that some one had been.

“Now we’ll see if we can find some more clews here,” he said. “Like the fellows in the story books.”

He took up the packet of cigarettes and went over to the window with it. But, instead of examining the object in his hand, his glance was arrested by something outside, and he stood staring straight before him so long that Ross came up beside him, to see for himself.

From this upper window there was an unexpectedly wide vista of empty fields, still white with snow, and houses tiny in the distance, and a belt of woodland, dark against the gray sky; all deserted and desolate in the steady fall of sleet. What else?

Directly before the house was the road, where the taxi waited, the driver inside. Across the road the land ran downhill in a steep slope, washed bare of any trace of snow, and at its foot was a pond, a somber little sheet of water, shivering under the downpour. But there was nobody in sight, nothing stirred. What else? What was Donnelly looking at?

“I think—” said Donnelly. “I guess I’ll just go out and mooch around a little before it gets dark. Just to get the lay of the land. You don’t want to come—in this weather. You just wait here. I won’t keep you long.”

Ross did want to go with him, everywhere, and to see everything that he saw, but he judged it unwise to say so. He stood where he was, listening to the other’s footsteps quietly descending; he heard the front door close softly, and a moment later he saw Donnelly come out into the road and cross it, with a wave of his hand toward the taxi driver, and begin to descend the steep slope toward the pond.

“What’s he going there for?” thought Ross. “What does he think—”

Before he had finished the question, the answer sprang up in his mind. Donnelly had not found Ives in the cottage, so he was going to look for him down there. Suppose he found him?

“No!” thought Ross. “It’s—impossible. I—I’m losing my nerve.”

To tell the truth, he was badly shaken. He was ready to credit Donnelly with superhuman powers, to believe that he could see things invisible to other persons, that he could, simply by looking out of the window, trace the whole course of a crime.

“I’ve got to do something,” he thought. “Now is my chance. I can give him the slip now.”

But he was a good seven or eight miles from “Day’s End.” Well, why couldn’t he hurry down, jump into the taxi, and order the driver to set off at once? Long before Donnelly could find any way of escape from this desolate region, he could get back to the house and warn Amy. And, in doing so, he would certainly antagonize Donnelly, and confirm any suspicions he might already have.

“No,” he thought. “He’s not sure about Amy now. And I don’t believe he’s got anything against me. I can’t afford to run away. He hasn’t found anything yet that definitely connects Amy with the—the case.”

But when he did?

Donnelly had reached the bottom of the slope now, and was sauntering along the edge of the pond, hands in his pockets. He had in nowise the air of a sleuth hot upon a scent, but to Ross his leisurely progress suggested an alarming confidence. He knew—what didn’t he know? And Ross, the guilty one, knew nothing at all. In angry desperation, he turned away from the window.

“All right!” he said, aloud. “I’ll have a look for clews myself!”

And, without the slightest difficulty, he found all the clews he wanted.

The makeshift bed was the only place in the room where anything could be hidden; he lifted up the portière that lay over the bags, and there he found a shabby pocket-book in which were the papers of the missing Martin Ives.

Everything was there—everything one could want. There was a savings bank book, there were two or three letters, and there was a little snapshot of Amy, on the back of which was written: “To Marty—so that he won’t forget.”

Ross looked at that photograph for a long time. He was not expert enough to recognize that the costume was somewhat outmoded, but he did know that this picture had been taken some time ago, because Amy was so different. It showed her standing on a beach, with the wind blowing her hair and her skirts, her head a little thrown back, and on her face the jolliest smile—a regular schoolgirl grin.

It hurt him, the sight of that laughing, dimpled, little ghost from the past. He remembered her as he had seen her to-day, still smiling, still lovely, but so changed. She was reckless now, haunted now, even in her most careless moments.

He opened the top letter; it bore the date of last Monday, but no address. It read:

Dear Mr. Ives:

Amy has asked me to reply to your letter of a month ago. I scarcely need to tell you how greatly it distressed her. If you should come to the house publicly now, everything she has tried to do would be ruined. She had hoped that you would wait patiently, but as you refuse to do so, she has consented to see you.

She wants to see Lily as well, and, although there is a great deal of risk in this, if you will follow my directions, I think we can manage. Telephone to the nurse with whom the child is boarding to bring her to the station at Greenwich by the train leaving New York at 7.20 a.m. on Tuesday and Eddy will meet her there. You can take an early afternoon train to Stamford. Take a taxi there and go up the Post Road to Bonnifer Lane, a little past the Raven Inn. There is a new church being built on the corner. Turn down here, and stop at the first house, about half a mile from the main road. You will find the little girl there, and I shall be there, waiting for you, between three and five, and we can make arrangements for you to see Amy.

Remember, Mr. Ives, that Amy trusts you to do nothing until you have seen her.

Respectfully yours, Amanda Jones.

Ross folded up the letter. Yes; nobody could ask for a much better clew. He took out another letter, but before opening it, he glanced out of the window. And he saw Donnelly coming back.

He put the wallet into his pocket, and went to the head of the stairs. A great lassitude had come upon him; he felt physically exhausted. His doubt—and his hope—were ended now.

Donnelly came in quietly, and advanced to the foot of the stairs. It was not possible to read his face by that dim light, but his voice was very grave.

“Come on!” he said.

“Find anything?” asked Ross.

Donnelly was silent for a moment.

“I’ve finished,” he said, at last.

“What—” began Ross.

“I’ve finished,” Donnelly repeated, almost gently. “It’s up to the police now. We’ll have that pond dragged.”

Ross, too, was silent for a moment.

“All right!” he said. “I’ll just get my hat.”

He turned back into the room; Donnelly waited for him below. In a few minutes Ross joined him, and they got into the cab.

XVIII

M. Solway descended from the train and walked briskly toward his car. The new chauffeur was standing there, stiff as a poker.

“Well, Moss!” he said. “Everything all right, eh?”

“Yes, thank you, sir,” said Ross.

“That’s it!” said Mr. Solway, with his vague kindliness. He got into the car, and Ross started off through the sleet and the dark. Mr. Solway made two or three observations about the weather, but his chauffeur answered “Yes, sir,” “That’s so, sir,” rather absent-mindedly. He was, to tell the truth, very much preoccupied with his own thoughts. He was wondering how a pond was dragged, and how long such a thing might take.

He had seen no one, spoken to no one, since he had left Donnelly at the police station and gone back to the garage alone. So he had had plenty of time to think.

He stopped the car before the house, Mr. Solway got out, and Ross drove on to the garage. There would be a little more time for thinking before he was summoned to dinner. He went upstairs and sat down, stretched out in a chair, staring before him. He was still wearing the peaked cap which had belonged to Wheeler; perhaps it was not a becoming cap, for his face looked grim and harsh beneath it.

He was not impatient, now, as that James Ross had been who had landed in New York three days ago. Indeed, he seemed almost inhumanly patient, as if he were willing to sit there forever. And that was how he felt. He had done his utmost; now he could only wait.

The sleet was rattling against the windows, and a great wind blew. It must be a wild night, out in the fields, where a lonely little pond lay. A bad night to be in that little cottage. A bad night, anywhere in the world, for a child who had nobody.

From his pocket he brought out a snapshot, and looked at it for a long time; then he tore it into fragments and let them flutter to the floor. He closed his eyes, then, but he was not asleep; the knuckles of his hand grasping the arm of the chair were white.

No; he wasn’t asleep. When the telephone rang in the garage, he got up at once and went downstairs to answer it.

“Dinner’s ready!” said Gracie’s voice. “Eddy come in yet?”

“Not yet,” answered Ross. “But—wait a minute!”

For he thought he heard some one at the door. He was standing with the receiver in his hand when the door slid open and Eddy came in.

“He’s just—” he began, turning back to the telephone, when Eddy sprang forward and caught his arm, and whispered: “Shut up! Sh-h-h!”

“Just about due,” said Ross to Gracie. Then he hung up the receiver and faced Eddy.

“Don’t tell ’em I’m here!” said Eddy. “I—I don’t want—I c-can’t stand any—jabbering. I—Oh, Gawd!”

At the end of his tether, Eddy was. His lips twitched, his face was distorted with his valiant effort after self-control. And it occurred to Ross that, for all his shrewdness and his worldly air, Eddy was not very old or very wise.

“What’s up, old man?” he asked. “Tell me. You’d better get your dinner now.”

“Nope!” said Eddy. “I—can’t eat. I—I don’t want to talk.”

Ross waited for some time.

“Lissen here,” said Eddy, at last. “You—you seemed to like—that kid. You—you’ll look after her, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Ross answered.

He would have been surprised, and a little incredulous, if any one had called him tactful, yet few people could have handled Eddy better. He knew what the boy wanted; knew that he needed just this cool and steady tone, this incurious patience.

“Go and get her,” Eddy pleaded. “She’s down at the barber’s—near the movie theayter. Go and get her.”

“All right. I’ll have my dinner first, though. Want me to bring you something?”

“Nope!” said Eddy. “Lissen! I guess the cops are after me already.”

“You mean they’ve—found him?”

“Yep,” said Eddy. “They’ve found him. How did you know?”

Ross did not answer the question.

“Can’t you get away?” he asked.

“Not going to try,” said Eddy. “I—I’m too d-darn tired. I—I don’t care!” There was a hysterical rise in his voice, but he mastered it. “Let ’em come!”

“What have they got against you?”

“They’ve found him—in the pond—where I put him.”

“Who’s going to know that?”

“Oh, they’ll know, all right!” said Eddy. “They got ways of finding out things. They’ll know, and they’ll think it was me that—All right! Let ’em!”

“Then you’re not going to tell?”

Eddy looked at him.

“D’you think it—wasn’t me?”

“Yes,” Ross replied. “I think it wasn’t you, Eddy.”

There was a long silence between them.

“What d’you think I’d ought to do?” asked Eddy, almost in a whisper.

“Suppose we talk it over,” said Ross.

“Yes—but—I dunno who you are.”

“Well, let’s say I’m Ives.”

Eddy sprang back as if he had been struck.

“Ives!”

“Look here!” said Ross. “I’m going to tell you what I did.”

And, very bluntly, he told. Eddy listened to him in silence; it was a strange enough thing, but he showed no surprise.

“D’you think it’ll work?” he asked, when Ross had finished.

“I hope so. Anyhow, there’s a chance. Now, you better tell me the whole thing. There’s a lot that I don’t know—and I might make a bad mistake.”

The telephone rang again. It was Gracie, annoyed by this delay.

“I’ll come as soon as I can,” said Ross, severely. “But I’m working on the car, and I can’t leave off for a few minutes.”

He turned again to Eddy.

“Go ahead!” he said.

Eddy sat down on the step of the sedan, and Ross leaned back against the wall, his arms folded, his saturnine face shadowed by the peaked cap.

“Tuesday I went and got her—the kid, y’ know, and took her to the cottage.”

“Did you know about her before?”

“Sure I did! I knew when they got married—her and Ives—four years ago. She told me herself. You know the way she tells you things—crying an’ all.”

Ross did know.

“Well, I used to see Ives hanging around. He was a nice feller—but he didn’t have a cent. He was an actor. She was too young, anyway—eighteen—same age as me. I told her I’d tell Mr. Solway, and then she told me they’d got married. I felt pretty bad—on Mr. Solway’s account. But she—well, you know how she acts. Her mother’d left her some money she’s going to get when she’s twenty-five, if she don’t get married without her stepfather’s consent. Mrs. Solway had the right idea. She knew Amy, all right. Only, it didn’t work. Amy wanted to get married and have the money, too. That’s how she is. So she told me she was going to tell Mr. Solway when she was twenty-five. I know I’d ought to have told him then, but—I didn’t.”

Ross understood that.

“Mr. Solway went over to Europe that summer, and she and Mrs. Jones went somewheres out West, and Lily was born out there. And Ives, he took the kid, and she came back here. She used to see Ives pretty often for awhile—go into the city and meet him. Then she began talking about what a risk it was. That was because she’d met this Gayle Dexter. That made me sick! I said I’d tell Mr. Solway, but she said her and Ives was going to get divorced, an’ nobody’d ever know, and that I’d ruin her life and all. And I gave in—like a fool. Only, you see, I—I’ve known Amy all my life.”

“I see!” said Ross.

“Well, it seems Ives was beginning to get suspicious, when she didn’t see him no more. He kept writing; I used to get the letters for her—general delivery—an’ she kept stalling—and at last he said he was coming here to see her. Well, her and Mrs. Jones must have told him to come along. And Tuesday I met the kid and took her to that cottage. My idea, that was. I told Mrs. Jones about the place. I wish to Gawd I hadn’t.” He was silent for a moment. “Only, I thought it might—I was glad to do it, ’cause I thought maybe if Amy seen Ives and the kid, she’d—kinder change her mind. He come that afternoon, and seen Mrs. Jones. Well, I went there after work, and he told me Amy was coming to see him next morning. He was real pleased. He was—he was a—nice feller—”

Eddy’s mouth twitched again. “I wish—I’d known. Anyway, she wouldn’t go to see him. Jones tried to make her—said she’d got to have a talk with him—but Amy, she took on something fierce. Said she’d never see him again. Well, I guess he must of waited and waited, and in the afternoon he come here to the garage. I tried to argue with him and all, but it wouldn’t work. He started off for the house, and I telephoned over to Jones. An’ he went—he went out of that door—”

Eddy turned and stared at the door with an odd blank look. It was as if he saw something—which was not there.

“This very door,” he muttered. “My Gawd!”

“Yes,” said Ross, quietly. “He went to the house. And then?”

Eddy turned back with a shudder.

“I didn’t never think,” he said. “Wheeler’d left, then, so I drove the big car down to the station to meet Mr. Solway, and when I brung him home, you was there. Old Lady Jones tried to tip me off. I saw her trying to tell me something behind your back. I couldn’t make out what it was, but I knew there was something queer. I thought you was a detective Ives ’d sent to see what was going on, ’cause he’d been saying he’d do that. I didn’t know, then—But next day Jones told me that—that Ives had—died. Said he’d fell down dead from a heart attack. And she said we’d got to get rid of him on the Q. T., for Amy’s sake. I—I thought I couldn’t—but I did. Fella I know lent me his Ford. I said I wanted to take a girl out. And, while you were out there on the lawn, I—I got him—out of Jones’s room.”

“Do you mean he’d been there all that time?”

“I guess so. She told me she been sitting up all night, trying to—to see if she could—do anything for him. But he—Anyway, Jones told me what to do, and I did it. I—you don’t know what it was like—going all that way—alone—with him. And I had to put stones in his pockets.” He looked at Ross with a sort of wonder.

“I can’t believe it now!” he cried. “It don’t seem true! I don’t know why—only Jones told me that if I didn’t, there’d be a inquest an’ all. And she said everyone’d think that Amy—It would all come out, she said, and Amy and Mr. Solway’d be in the newspapers and all. And she said he was dead, anyway. The pond couldn’t hurt him. I—”

He came closer to Ross, and laid a hand on his sleeve. “Lissen here!” he said. “D’you think that’s true—that he—just died?”

“There’s no use thinking about that—now,” said Ross.

XIX

Ross could feel sorry enough for Eddy, for his ghastly trip to the pond, for all the dread and misery that lay upon his soul. He was sorry for Ives, although his sufferings were at an end. He pitied Mr. Solway, in his ignorance of all this. He was sorry, in his own way, for Amy. But, above all creatures in this world, he pitied that little child.

Eddy told him about her. When Ives had gone to “Day’s End,” he had left the child with the obliging barber in town, and she had been there all that night and the next day, until Mrs. Jones had sent Eddy after her.

“She said it would start people talking, if the kid stayed there, and she told me to take her back to the cottage and leave her till she made some plans. But I couldn’t do that. The way I felt last night, I didn’t care. I’d rather have seen the whole thing go to smash than leave the kid alone there all night. That’s why I brung her here. And this morning—I couldn’t stay there—in that house. It kind of gave me the creeps. So I took her back to the barber’s.” He paused.

“Jones don’t care about the kid,” he added. “She don’t care about anything on earth but Amy. Lissen here! I know she’s old and all, but I think—maybe she—I just wonder if the old girl had the nerve?”

Ross had had that thought, too. But it seemed to him that, no matter who had actually done this thing, even if it were an accident—which he did not believe—the guilt still lay upon the woman who had betrayed and abandoned the man and the child. Amy was guilty, and no one else.

He straightened up, with a sigh.

“Come along!” he said. “We’ll get our dinner. No! Don’t be a fool, my lad. It’s what you need.”

Eddy was considerably relieved by his confession. He went upstairs, washed, changed his coat, and brushed his glossy hair, and when he set off toward the house, there was a trace of his old swagger about him. Only a trace, though, for he walked beneath a shadow.

As for Ross, there was precious little change to be discerned in his dour face and impassive bearing. And it was his very good fortune to be so constituted that he did not show what he felt, for he was to receive an unexpected shock.

“Sit down!” said Gracie, sharply. “I put somethin’ aside for you. Now hurry up! It puts me back with the dishes an’ all.”

“An’ thim extry people,” said the cook, who was also a little out of temper. “There’ll not be enough butter for breakfast, the way they did be eatin’, an’ me without a word of warnin’ at all.”

“It’s that Mr. Teagle,” said Gracie. “Them small men is always heavy eaters.”

“Teagle? Who’s he?” asked Eddy.

“Haven’t you heard?” cried Gracie, almost unable to believe that she was to have the bliss of imparting this amazing news. “Why, there was a body found in a lake somewheres.”

“Oh, I heard about that, down at the comp’ny!” said Eddy, scornfully.

“But lissen, Eddy! It turns out it was a cousin o’ Miss Amy’s! It seems they found some papers an’ letters an’ all near where they found him, an’ he turns out to be her cousin! This Mr. Teagle, he’s a lawyer. They sent for him, an’ he come out here to look at the poor feller, and then he come to the house, ’cause Miss Amy’s goin’ to get all his money. She took on somethin’ terrible! Mr. Solway, he telephoned to Mr. Dexter, and he come out, too. I guess it was kinder to comfort her.”

“What would she be needin’ all the comfortin’ for?” demanded the cook. “She’d never set eyes on the cousin at all, and her to be gettin’ all that money.”

“She’s kinder sensitive,” said Gracie.

“Sensitive, is it!” said the cook, with significance.

Ross went on eating his dinner. He did not appear to be interested. When he had finished, he bade them all a civil good night, and got up and went out.

“He’s a cold-blooded fish,” said Gracie.

Yet, something seemed to keep him warm—something kept him steadfast and untroubled as he walked, head down, against the storm of wind and sleet, along the lonely roads to the town. He found the barber shop to which Eddy had directed him, and when he entered, the lively little Italian barber did not think his face forbidding.

“I’ve come for the little girl,” said Ross.

“Oh, she’s all right!” cried the barber. “She’s O. K. She eata soom nica dinner—verrie O. K. She sooma kid.”

He was a happy little man, pleased with his thriving business, with his family, with his own easy fluency in the use of the American tongue. He took Ross through the brilliantly lighted white tiled shop—a sanitary barber, he was—into a back room, where were his wife and his own small children.

And among them was the little fair-haired Lily, content and quite at home as she seemed always to be. You might have thought that she knew she had nobody, and no place of her own in this world, and that she had philosophically made up her mind to be happy wherever fate might place her.

She was sitting on the floor, much in the way of the barber’s wife, who pursued her household duties among the four little children in the room with the deft unconcern of a highly skilled dancer among eggshells. The woman could speak no English, but she smiled at Ross with placid amiability. She could not understand why three different men should have brought this child here at different times; but, after all, she didn’t particularly care. A passing incident, this was, in her busy life.

As for the barber himself, he had his own ideas. He saw something suspicious in the affair; a kidnaping, perhaps; but he preferred to know nothing. It was his tradition to be wary of troubling the police. He took the money Ross gave him, and he smiled. Nobody had told him anything. He knew nothing.

The barber’s wife got the little girl ready, and Ross picked her up in his arms. She turned her head, to look back at the children, and her little woolen cap brushed across his eyes; he had to stop in the doorway of the shop, to shift her on to one arm, so that he could see. And then, what he did see was Donnelly.

“Well! Well!” said Donnelly, in a tone of hearty welcome.

“Well!” said Ross. “I’m in a hurry to get back, now. To-morrow—”

“Of course you are!” said Donnelly. “I’m not going to keep you a minute. I’ve got something here I’d like the little girl to identify.”

Ross’s arm tightened about the child.

“No!” he protested. “No! She’s got nothing to do with—this.”

“Pshaw!” said Donnelly, with a laugh. “It’s only this.” And from his pocket he brought out the rabbit.

“Oh, my wabbit!” cried the little girl, with a sort of solemn ecstasy.

“Hi! Taxi!” called Donnelly, suddenly, and a cab going by slowed down, turned, skidding a little on the wet street, and drew up to the curb. Without delay, Ross put the child inside, and got in after her, but Donnelly remained standing on the curb, holding open the door. Light streamed from the shop windows, but his back was turned toward it; his face was in darkness; he stood like a statue in the downpour.

“There’s some funny things about this case—” he observed.

Ross said nothing.

“Mighty funny!” Donnelly pursued. “And, by the way—” He leaned into the cab. “I’ve seen a good deal of you to-day, but I don’t believe you’ve told me your name.”

It seemed to Ross for a moment that he could not speak. But, at last, with a great effort, he said:

“Ives.”

“Ah!” said Donnelly.

Ross waited and waited.

“If you’d like to see—my bank book and papers,” he finally suggested.

“No,” said Donnelly, soothingly. “No, never mind. And this James Ross. You never heard of him, I suppose?”

“No.”

“He landed in New York on Wednesday, went to a hotel in the city, left his bags, and came right out to Stamford—and fell in a pond. Now, that’s a queer stunt, isn’t it?”

Ross put his arm round the child’s tiny shoulders and drew her close to him.

“Very!” he agreed.

“I thought so myself. Queer! I found the man’s pocketbook in that cottage—in that very room where you waited for me. What d’you think of that? There was a letter from a lawyer in New York—name of Teagle. I telephoned to him, and he came out. He could identify the man’s handwriting and so on. But he’d never seen him. Said he didn’t think there was any one in this country who had. He has a theory, though. Like to hear it—or are you in a hurry?”

“No! Go ahead!”

“Well, Teagle’s theory is that this Mr. James Ross knew he had a cousin out this way. Miss Solway, you know. It seems her mother made a match the family didn’t approve of, and they dropped her, years ago. Now, Teagle thinks this Mr. James Ross wanted to see for himself what this cousin was like, and that he came out to that cottage to stay while he sort of mooched around, getting information about her. Family feeling, see? Only—he met with an accident.”