“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?”