Foster Townsend was noticing a change in his niece’s manner and
behavior. The change, it seemed to him, dated from the evening when
Seymour Covell and Bob Griffin renewed their acquaintanceship in the
library, when they met in his own and Esther’s presence. At least,
if not that evening, then certainly the next morning. Prior to that,
for two weeks or more, she had been, he thought, unusually grave and
quiet, and at times in her manner toward him there was--or he fancied
there was--a certain constraint which he did not understand. He did not
question her concerning it; that troubled conscience of his made him
not too eager to press an understanding. She could not have learned
from Jane Carter the real reason why her European trip had been given
up. He had sworn the Carter woman to secrecy and her obligation to him
was too great to allow her to risk dropping a hint to Esther in the
letters which the latter occasionally received.
Nevertheless there was something wrong. He thought it quite probable
that, as Griffin did not call, the pair might have had a falling out.
Soon, however, he heard of Elisha Cook’s illness and Bob’s absence was
explained. The telegram announcing Seymour Covell’s visit, followed by
the prompt appearance of that young man at the Townsend mansion took
his mind from other matters and he ceased to wonder concerning Esther’s
odd behavior. Then, all at once, her behavior became still more odd,
although in an exactly opposite way, and was again forced upon his
attention.
From the morning following the Griffin call--a surprisingly short one
it had seemed to him considering their fortnight’s separation--her
gravity and preoccupation disappeared. Now she very seldom went to
her room to remain there alone for an hour or more. She was with him
or with Covell the greater part of every day and in the evenings.
She was always ready to sing or play when asked and from being but
passively interested in the “Pinafore” production she became very
eager and seemed to look forward to each rehearsal. These rehearsals
were almost nightly as the date of performance drew near, and between
times _Josephine_ and _Rackstraw_ spent hours practicing their scenes
together in the parlor at or beside the piano. And Bob Griffin came no
more to the house.
Esther’s attitude toward Seymour Covell had changed also. When he first
came she was pleasant and agreeable when in his company, but she never
sought that company. In fact, her uncle was inclined to feel that she
kept away from it as much as she politely could. There was no doubt
whatever that Covell sought hers. From the moment of their introduction
he had sought it. During his first meal at the Townsend table he, as
Nabby told her husband, repeating what the maid had told her, looked at
Esther “a whole lot more than he did at what was on his plate.”
“Did she look at him as much as all that?” Varunas had asked.
“I didn’t hear. I don’t know’s I’d blame her much if she did. He’s
worth lookin’ at. Handsome a young feller as I’ve ever set eyes on. I
don’t know’s I shan’t be fallin’ in love with him myself,” Nabby added,
with a surprising affectation of kittenishness.
Varunas seemed to find it surprising enough. He looked at her for a
moment and then turned on his heel.
“Where you goin’ now?” his wife demanded.
“Down street--to buy you a lookin’ glass,” he retorted and slammed the
door.
This new change in Esther affected her relations with the visitor. She
avoided him no longer. They were together a great deal, although, to
be entirely honest, he was still the pursuer. Foster Townsend was not
wholly satisfied with this condition of affairs. He liked young Covell
well enough; for the matter of that it would have been hard not to
like him. As Covell, Senior, wrote in his first letter, he possessed
the knack of making people like him at first sight. Varunas, crotchety
as he very often was, liked him immensely, although he refused to admit
it to his wife, who was continually chanting praises.
Townsend was a good judge of men and prided himself upon that faculty,
so, although he found his friend’s son agreeable, witty, a fascinating
talker and the best of company, he reserved his decision concerning
what might lie beneath all these taking qualities until he should come
to know him better. As he would have expressed it, he wanted time to
find out how he “wore.” There were some objections already in his mind.
He expressed one of them to Varunas, with whom he was likely to be as
confidential as with any one except his niece--or, of course and at
times, with Reliance Clark.
“He’s almost too good looking,” he said. “I never saw one of those
fellows yet--one so pretty that he looked as if he belonged in a
picture book--who wasn’t spoiled by fool women. There are enough of
that kind in Harniss who would like nothing better than the chance to
spoil this one; that is plain enough already. And he doesn’t mind their
trying--that is just as plain.”
Varunas nodded. He had half a mind to repeat a few stories he had
heard. There was Margery Wheeler, people were saying that she was
making a fool of herself over young Covell, although they did say that
he paid little attention to her. And there was a girl named Campton,
whose family lived on the lower road, not far from Tobias Eldridge’s
home, who was pretty and vivacious and who bore the local reputation
of being a “great hand for the fellows.” She had a passable voice and
was one of _Sir Joseph Porter’s_ “sisters or cousins or aunts” in the
“Pinafore” chorus. She and Seymour Covell were friendly, it was said.
Mrs. Tobias Eldridge was responsible for the report that he had been
seen leaving the Campton cottage at a late hour. Mrs. Eldridge confided
to a bosom friend that, from what she could make out, he didn’t come
to that cottage very early either. “Saw Esther home from rehearsal
first and then went down to Carrie Campton’s without tellin’ anybody;
that’s my guess, if you want to know,” she whispered. “But for heaven’s
sake don’t say _I_ ever said such a thing. Course it may not be true,
but Tobias himself saw somebody he was sure was him comin’ out of their
front door at twelve o’clock last time he went to lodge meetin’. Last
time Tobias went, I mean.”
The bosom friend had imparted this confidence, as a secret not to be
divulged, to another bosom friend, and, at last, some one had whispered
it to Varunas Gifford. Varunas was tempted to tell the story to his
employer, but decided not to do so. It might stir up trouble; you never
could tell how Cap’n Foster would take a yarn of that kind. He would
be just as likely as not to declare it was all a lie, and no one’s
business anyhow, and give him--Varunas--fits for repeating it. And,
after all, it _was_ no one’s business--except Seymour’s. Young fellows
were only young once and Carrie Campton was “cute” and attractive.
Varunas cherished the illusion that when he, himself, was young he had
been a heartbreaker. And he liked Covell. So he said nothing about the
rumored philandering.
The advance sale of seats for the “Pinafore” production had exceeded
all expectations. And the evening of the performance brought to the
town hall the largest audience it had ever held, even larger than that
attending the Old Folks’ Concert. Miss Abbie Makepeace, who contributed
the Harniss “locals” to the _Item_, sat up until three o’clock the
following morning writing rhapsodies concerning the affair. She used
up the very last half inch of space allotted to her and interesting
jottings like “Our well known boniface Mrs. Sarepta Ginn will close
her select boarding house and hostelry on the fifteenth of the month
for the season as usual” were obliged to be put over for another week.
Abbie’s whole column was filled with naught but “Pinafore.” “I never
supposed there could be anything else as important as that happen in
_this_ town in one week,” she explained to Reliance Clark the next day.
“If I’d ever expected--but, my soul, who _could_ expect such a thing!”
Varunas made no less than three trips from the mansion to the hall
that evening. His first passengers were Esther and Seymour Covell,
who, being performers, were obliged to be on hand early for dress and
make-up. The next occupants of the rear seat were Foster Townsend and
Captain and Mrs. Benjamin Snow. The Snow carryall was in the paintshop
and Townsend had invited them to ride with him. Nabby and the maid were
the third load. It was not until the Giffords were in their seats at
the hall that Varunas found opportunity to ask the question which was
in his mind.
“Nabby,” he whispered, “is anything the matter between Seymour and
Esther? Have they had a fallin’ out or anything?”
His wife turned to look at him. “What makes you ask that?” she
whispered, in return.
“The way they acted all the time I was drivin’ ’em down here to-night.
Never hardly spoke a word to each other, they didn’t. That is, she
never. He set out to once or twice, but she scarcely so much as
answered him. Anything happened that you know of?”
She shook her head. “They was that way all through supper,” she said.
“Cap’n Foster noticed it, too. The hired girl said she suspicioned
somethin’ was up, so I made an excuse and went into the dinin’ room
myself. They was mum as a deef and dumb asylum when I was there and I
see the cap’n watchin’ ’em and pullin’ his whiskers the way he does
when he’s bothered. I couldn’t make it out. They were sociable as could
be at dinner time and I heard ’em singin’ their songs and laughin’ in
the parlor afterwards. Whatever happened must have been after that,
that’s sure.”
Varunas nodded. “Oh, well,” he observed philosophically, “probably
’tain’t nothin’ much. They’ll get over it. Young fellows and girls are
always squabblin’ when they’re keepin’ company. Huh,” with a chuckle,
“I remember one time when I was sparkin’ around with--” He paused and
changed the subject. “There’s Cornelius Gott, struttin’ in,” he said.
“Goin’ to lead the music, they tell me. Got his funeral clothes on, of
course. He gives me the creeps, that feller does. When I think of all
the folks he’s helped lay out--Godfreys!”
Mrs. Gifford ignored the talented Cornelius.
“Why didn’t you finish what you was sayin’ first along?” she demanded,
tartly. “Who was this one you used to spark around with? I don’t
recollect ever hearin’ about her afore.”
Her husband shifted on the settee. “Oh, nobody, I guess,” he muttered.
“I was just talkin’.”
“Humph! _I_ guess ’twas a nobody, too. Nobody that was anybody would
have done much sparkin’ with you.”
“Is that so? Well, I never noticed you lockin’ the door when I used
to trot around three times a week.... Oh, well, there, there! let’s
don’t fight about what can’t be helped--I mean what’s past and gone. If
Seymour and Esther have had a rumpus probably ’twon’t last long.... I
don’t know, though; she’s pretty fussy. All the Townsends are hard to
please. You’ve got to step just so or they’ll light on you. Look how
that Griffin boy was hangin’ around; and now where is he? Don’t come
nigh the place.”
Nabby sniffed. “_He_ never amounted to anything,” she declared. “I
knew perfectly well Esther’d hand him his walkin’ ticket when she got
ready. Mercy on us, Varunas Gifford, you ain’t puttin’ old Lisha Cook’s
grandson in the same barrel with Mr. Covell, are you?”
The overture began just then and the curtain rose soon afterward. The
group of tars adjacent to the rickety canvas bulwarks of the good ship
“Pinafore” announced that they sailed the ocean blue, taking care to
obey orders and not lean against those bulwarks. They welcomed their
gallant captain, who in turn informed them that he never swore a big,
big D. Abbie Makepeace glanced anxiously at the Rev. Mr. Colton when
she heard this; but, as he was smiling, she decided it might be
proper to smile a little, too. _Rackstraw_ and _Josephine_ and _Dick
Deadeye_ and _Sir Joseph_ and all the rest made their entrances and
were greeted with applause. The performance swung on, gaining momentum
and spirit as the performers recovered from stage fright. The voice of
the prompter was heard not too frequently and none of the scenery fell
down, although it suffered from acute attacks of the shivers. A great
success, from beginning to end.
But, whereas at the Old Folks’ Concert, Esther Townsend had scored
the unquestioned hit of the evening; on this occasion her triumph was
shared by another. If, as _Josephine_, she was applauded and encored
and acclaimed, so also was Seymour Covell as _Ralph Rackstraw_. If
some of the mothers and fathers in that hall could have read the minds
of their daughters while that handsome sailor was on the stage, they
might have been surprised and disturbed. Covell was entirely at ease.
There was no awkwardness or stage fright in his acting or singing. His
voice rang strong and true, he played his part with grace and dash,
and when in the final chorus, arrayed in the glittering uniform of
a captain in the Royal Navy, he clasped _Josephine_ in his arms and
tunefully declared that the “clouded sky was now serene,” even the
demurely proper Miss Makepeace was conscious of a peculiar thrill
beneath the bosom of her black silk. The fascinating young gentleman
from Chicago was before, as well as behind, the footlights the hero of
the performance.
Esther, in spite of the applause and encores, the floral tributes and
the praise of her associates behind the scenes, was conscious that she
was not doing her best. Even in the midst of her most important scenes
she found her thoughts wandering miserably. Memories of the happy
evening of the concert kept intruding upon her mind. When the bouquets
were handed her by Mr. Gott she accepted them smilingly, but with no
inward enthusiasm. Her uncle’s floral tribute was even more beautiful
and expressive than on the former occasion and from her Aunt Reliance
came a bunch of old-fashioned posies which were lovely and fragrant.
A magnificent cluster of carnations bore the card of Seymour Covell.
She scarcely looked at them; she and Mr. Covell had had an unpleasant
scene in the parlor that afternoon. He might not have meant to be
presuming--he had protested innocence of any such intention and had
contritely begged her pardon--but she was not in a forgiving mood. It
had been a horrid day and the evening was just as detestable. She cared
little for the approval of her friends and nothing whatever for the
flowers they gave her. There were no tea roses among them. Bob Griffin
was not in the audience. She had looked everywhere for him but he was
not there. There was no reason why he should be, of course. Considering
the way he had treated her he would have been brazen indeed to come.
She bore the congratulations and handshakes as best she could, but she
whispered to her uncle that she was very tired and begged to be taken
home as soon as possible. The Snows were left at their door and she
and Foster Townsend and Nabby and Varunas rode back to the mansion
together. Seymour Covell remained at the hall. He had promised to help
in the “clearing up.” He suggested that he be permitted to walk home
when the clearing up was over, but to this Captain Townsend would
not consent. “Varunas will drive back for you,” he said. An argument
followed, for Covell insisted that he might not be ready to leave for
two hours or more and Gifford must not be kept from his bed so long. It
ended in a compromise. Varunas was to drive the span to the hall once
more, hitch the horses in one of the sheds at the rear, and return to
the mansion on foot.
“By the time you’re through, Seymour,” declared the captain, “you won’t
want to do any more walking. You’ll be glad enough to ride. It won’t do
the horses any harm to stand in the shed a warm night like this.”
Esther went to her own room, almost immediately after her arrival at
the big house. She was too weary even to talk, she told her uncle.
Townsend announced his own intention of “turning in” at once. “No need
for any of us to sit up for Seymour,” he added. “I told Varunas he
needn’t, either. Seymour will do his own unharnessing. He is handy with
horses and he’ll attend to the span; he told me he would.”
So, within an hour after the fall of the final curtain, the Townsend
mansion was, except for the hanging lamp burning dimly in the front
hall, as dark as most of the other houses in Harniss. The lights in
the town hall were extinguished just before midnight. The rattle of
the last carriage wheel along the main road or the depot road or the
Bayport road died away. From the window of the bedroom in their house
on the lower road Mr. Tobias Eldridge peered forth for his usual
good-night look at the sky and the weather.
“Clear as a bell,” announced Tobias. “Never see so many stars in my
life, don’t know as I ever did. Lights things up pretty nigh much as
moonlight.”
“Oh, come to bed,” ordered his wife, who was already there. “I never
see such a man to sit up when there wasn’t any need for it. I’ll bet
you there ain’t another soul wastin’ kerosene along this road from
beginnin’ to end. Do put out that lamp.”
Her husband chuckled. “You’d lose your bet,” he observed. “There’s a
light in the Campton settin’-room. I can see it from here. Carrie ain’t
home yet, I guess. Say, she looked mighty pretty up there on the stage
to-night, didn’t she?”
Mrs. Eldridge sniffed. “She done her best to look that way,” she said.
“Paint and powder and I don’t know what all! If I was her folks she’d
be to home before this, now I tell you. Put out that _lamp_!”
Tobias obeyed orders. “Women are funny critters,” he philosophized.
“You are all down on Carrie because she is pretty and the boys like
her. Next to Esther Townsend she was the best-lookin’ girl in that show
to-night. I heard more than one say so, too.”
“Umph! More men, you mean. I don’t doubt it. Well, handsome is that
handsome does, but men don’t never pay attention to _that_. There’s no
fool like an old fool--especially an old man fool. Well, you’re in
bed at last, thank goodness! Now let’s see if there is such a thing as
sleep.”
If Tobias had been permitted to remain longer at the window, and if
he had looked up the beach and away from the village instead of down
the road leading toward it, he might have noticed another yellow glare
flash into being behind the dingy panes of a building not far from his
post of observation. He would have been surprised and perhaps disturbed
to the point of investigation had he seen it, for the building was his
own property; this light came from the bracket lamp in Bob Griffin’s
“studio” beyond the low point, facing the sea.
Esther had been wrong when she decided that Bob was not in the town
hall during the performance of “Pinafore.” He had made up his mind not
to go near the place. He had no wish to see her under such conditions.
He tried to convince himself that he never wished to see her
again--anywhere, at any time. She had treated him abominably. She had
led him on, had encouraged--or, at least, had never discouraged--his
visits and his society. She must have guessed that he was falling in
love with her; surely it was plain enough. And then, when circumstances
had forced from him avowal of that love, she had not--no, she had not
resented it. She had even allowed him to think that his affection was,
to an extent, returned. And she had been glad when he announced his
intention of joining her in Paris. And then--oh, he must not think of
the happenings since then!
Well, he was through with her forever. Absolutely through. He could go
to Paris now with a clear conscience. His grandfather was practically
well again and he might go when he pleased. Yet so far he had made no
new reservations nor set a date for his departure. To be away, far
away, where he could not see her or hear of her ought, considering
everything, to have been an alluring prospect--but it was not.
On the evening of the opera he had remained with his grandfather until
the latter’s early hour for retiring. Then he came downstairs and tried
to read, but soon threw down his book and went out. He harnessed
the horse to the buggy and drove out of the yard with no definite
destination in mind. The horse, perhaps from force of habit, turned
east along the main road. Later that main road became the main road of
Harniss. By that time Bob had decided to go to the town hall--never
mind why; he, himself, was not certain. He left the horse and buggy at
the local livery stable. It was after eight when he climbed the steps
of the hall. The curtain had risen and there was “standing room only,”
so the ticket seller told him. He crowded in behind a double row of
other standees at the rear of the ranks of benches and remained there,
looking and listening, to the bitter end.
It was bitter. When she made her first entrance and smiled in pleased
surprise at the applause which greeted her, he began to suffer the
pangs of self-torture. The sight of her, beautiful, charming, the sound
of her voice, the zest with which she played her part--all these were
like poisoned arrows to him. If she had shown the least evidence of the
misery she should have felt, which he was feeling--but she did not. To
all outward appearance she was happy, she was enjoying herself. She
had forgotten him entirely. And the tender looks which she bestowed
upon Seymour Covell as her sailor lover were altogether too convincing.
Those love scenes which Bob had resentfully remembered when she told
him Covell was to play _Rackstraw_ were far worse in their portrayal
than in his fancy. A dozen times he was on the point of leaving the
hall, but he did not leave; he remained and saw and suffered. Furiously
jealous, utterly wretched, he stood there until the curtain fell. Then
he hurried out into the night, eager to get away from her, from the
crowd, from everybody--from his own thoughts, if that were possible.
It was not, of course. At first he started toward the stable where he
had left the Cook horse and buggy. Half-way there he changed his mind
and, leaving the main road, turned down the lower road until he came to
the beach. He was in no hurry to get back to Denboro. His grandfather
was sure to be awake and expecting him and ready for questions and
conversation. He would have to tell where he had been and, if he
mentioned the “Pinafore” performance, that would have to be described
in detail. He simply could not talk about it now, that evening, and
he would not. The memory of the final tableau, with Esther and Covell
in close embrace, was--was-- If he could only forget it! If he could
forget her!
He tramped the beach for miles in the starlight. At last, suddenly
awakening to a realization of the distance he had traveled, he turned
and walked back again. He endeavored to dismiss the evening’s torture
from his mind and to center his thinking upon himself and what his
own course should be. The sensible thing was to go abroad at once. He
would go. Then, having clenched his teeth upon this determination, he
immediately unclenched them.... To go and leave her with her scheming
uncle had been bad enough, but to leave her with this other fellow, who
was, of course, just one more pawn in the Townsend game, that was the
point where his resolution stuck and refused to pass.
He came opposite his beach studio and, acting upon a sudden impulse,
unlocked the door and entered. He lighted the bracket lamp and sat
down in a chair to continue his thinking, and, if possible, reach
some decision. It was as hard to reach there as it had been during
his walk. Covell--Covell--Covell! For _that_ fellow to marry Esther
Townsend! Yet, on the other hand, why not? Handsome, accomplished,
fascinating--the son of a millionaire! And backed by the influence of
the big mogul of Ostable County! What chance had Elisha Cook’s grandson
against that combination? If Esther had ever really loved him--Bob
Griffin--then-- But she did not. She had thrown him off like an old
glove. Then, in heaven’s name, _why_ was he such a fool as to waste
another thought on her?
He rose from the chair determined to sail for Europe by the next
steamer. He blew out the lamp, locked the door, and started, walking
more briskly now, in the general direction of the livery stable. Still
thinking and debating, in spite of his brave determination, he had
reached a point just beyond the Campton cottage on the lower road when
he heard a sound which caused him to awaken from his nightmare. A thick
dump of silver-leaf saplings bordered the road at his left and in their
black shadow he saw a bulk of shadow still blacker, a shadow which
moved. He walked across to investigate.
As he came near the shadow assumed outline. A two-seated carriage and
a pair of horses. He recognized the outfit at once. The horses were
the Townsend span and the carriage the Townsend “two-seater.” He could
scarcely believe it. What on earth were they doing there, on the lower
road, at this time of night--or morning?
The idea that the span might have run away, or wandered off by
themselves, was dispelled when, upon examination, he found them
attached by a leather hitching strap to the stockiest of the
silver-leaf saplings. This, of course, but made the puzzle still harder
to answer. Who had brought them there? Varunas alone; or Varunas acting
as driver for Foster Townsend? But, if Townsend had come to one of the
few houses on that part of the road, where was Varunas, who would,
naturally, remain with the horses? And if Varunas had come alone--why?
And there was no dwelling within fifty yards of that spot.
Bob turned and looked up the road. The nearest house was that occupied
by Henry Campton, father of Carrie Campton whom Bob knew slightly and
had seen that evening in the “Pinafore” chorus at the town hall. The
Campton cottage was on the other side of the way, but its windows were
dark. He turned to look in the opposite direction and as he did so, he
heard, from somewhere behind him, a door close softly. Turning once
more, he saw a figure walking rapidly toward the spot where the span
was tethered.
Bob started to walk away and then hesitated. He was curious, naturally.
If the person approaching was Captain Foster Townsend he had no wish to
meet him; but if, as was more probable, the person was Varunas Gifford
then he was tempted to wait and ask what he was doing there at two
o’clock in the morning. So he remained in the shadow by the carriage.
It was not until the newcomer was within a few feet of him that the
recognition came. The man who had come out of the Campton house was
neither Townsend nor Gifford, but Seymour Covell.
Covell did not recognize Bob. It was not until the latter moved that he
grasped the fact that there was any one there. Then he started, stopped
and leaned forward to look.
“Who is that?” he demanded, sharply. Bob stepped out from the shadow.
“It is all right, Covell,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed.”
Covell did not, apparently, recognize him even then. He stood still and
tried to peer under the shade of the Griffin hatbrim.
“Who is it?” he repeated, his tone still sharply anxious.
Bob pushed back the hat. “Griffin,” he answered. “It is all right.
Nothing to be frightened about.”
Covell took a step toward him. “Eh?” he queried. “What--? Oh, it is
you, is it! I couldn’t see.” Then, after a moment, he added: “What are
you doing here?”
The tone in which the question was put was neither pleasant nor polite.
There was resentment in it and suspicion, so it seemed to Griffin. He
was strongly tempted to counter with an inquiry of his own, for surely
his presence at that spot at that time was not more out of the ordinary
than Seymour Covell’s. His explanation was easy to give, however, so he
gave it.
“Nothing in particular,” he replied. “I have been down at my shanty,
the one I use as a studio, and I was walking back when I saw these
horses standing here. I wondered, at first, whose they were and then
why they had been left here at this time of night. So I stopped for a
minute to investigate, that is all.”
The explanation was complete and truthful, but Covell seemed to find it
far from satisfactory.
“Humph!” he grunted, still scrutinizing Griffin intently and with a
frown. “That is all, is it? You weren’t here for any particular reason,
then?”
“No. Why should I be?”
“I don’t know why you should. I can’t see that you need be concerned
with these horses. Nor why they were left here or who left them, for
that matter. What business was it of yours?”
“Not any, I suppose. It seemed a little odd, considering the time. When
I saw whose horses they were I couldn’t imagine why Captain Townsend or
his driver had come to this part of the town so late. I never thought
of you.... Good-night.”
He turned to go, but Covell detained him.
“Wait!” he ordered. “Say, look here, Griffin, there are a good many odd
things about all this, seems to me. I want to know why you-- Say, where
is this place you call a studio?”
“A quarter of a mile up the beach. Why?”
“Do you usually spend your nights in it?”
“No.”
“You live in--what is it?--Denboro, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are a long way from home, I should say.... Yes, and with a
damned poor excuse, if you want to know.”
Bob did not answer. The fellow’s tone and manner were offensive and,
disliking him as he did and with his own temper set on a hair trigger
just then, he thought it best to leave before the interview became a
quarrel. He turned to go, but Covell caught him by the shoulder.
“No, you don’t!” he declared. “You don’t get out of it like that. I
want to know why you are hanging around here in the middle of the
night.”
Bob shook the grip from his shoulder.
“What is the matter with you, Covell?” he demanded, angrily. “Don’t
speak to me like that.”
“I speak as I please. Now then, out with it! What are you doing here?”
“I told you. For the matter of that, what are you doing here,
yourself?... Not that I care what you do, of course.”
Covell’s fists clenched. For an instant Bob thought he was going to
strike him. He did not, however. Instead he laughed, mockingly.
“Oh, no, you don’t care, do you?” he sneered. “You don’t care a little
bit. I could see that when we met that night at the Townsends’. Well, I
haven’t met you there since, I’ll say that much.”
It was Bob who narrowed the space between them. His step brought them
face to face.
“Covell,” he said, deliberately, “you are drunk, I suppose. That is the
only excuse I can think of for you. Well, drunk or sober, you may go to
the devil. Do you understand?”
“I understand _you_ all right, Griffin. And I understand why you are
hanging around, trying to find out what I do and where I go. I can
understand that well enough. You cheap sneak!”
Bob scarcely heard the epithet. It was the first part of the speech
which brought enlightenment to his mind. At last he understood, as he
might so easily have understood before if he had had time to think.
Involuntarily he glanced over his shoulder at the Campton cottage.
“I see!” he exclaimed. “Oh, yes, yes! I see.... Humph!”
Covell had noticed the look and its direction. He raised his hand.
“By gad!” he cried, his voice rising almost to a shout. “I’ll--”
He sprang forward, his fist upraised. Bob, by far the cooler of the
two, seized the lifted arm and held it.
“Hush!” he whispered. “Hush, you fool! There is some one coming.”
Some one was coming, was almost upon them. If they had not been so
absorbed in their own affairs they would have heard the step minutes
before and might have noticed that it had paused as if the person,
whoever he or she might be, had stopped to listen. Now the steps came
on again and the walker, a man, appeared on the sidewalk opposite. He
was evidently looking in their direction.
“Hello!” he hailed, after a moment. “Who is that? What’s the matter?
Anything?”
Bob answered. “No. Nothing is the matter,” he said.
“Oh! I didn’t know but there might be.... Say, who are you, anyhow?”
There was no reply to this. The man--his voice, so Bob thought, seemed
familiar although he could not identify it--took a step forward as if
to cross the road. Then he halted and asked, a little uneasily: “You’re
out kind of late, ain’t you?”
Again it was Bob who answered. “Why, yes, rather,” he said, as calmly
as he could, considering the state of his feelings. “We’re all right.
Don’t let us keep you. You are out rather late yourself, aren’t you?”
In spite of its forced calmness the tone was not too inviting. The man
stepped back to the sidewalk.
“Why--why, I don’t know but I be,” he stammered, a little anxiously.
After another momentary pause he added, “Well, good-night,” and hurried
on at a pace which became more rapid as he rounded the other thicket
of silver-leaves at the bend just beyond. He passed out of sight
around its edge. Bob, who had been holding the Covell arm during the
interruption, now threw it from him.
“There!” he said, between his teeth. “Now go home, Covell. Go home.
Unless,” with sarcasm, “you have more calls to make between now and
breakfast time. At any rate, get away from me. I have had enough of
you.”
Covell did not move. He was breathing rapidly. “You low down spy!” he
snarled. “I’d like to know whether you are doing your spying on your
own account or whether you were put up to it.... Well,” savagely,
“I’ll tell you one thing; your sneaking tricks won’t get you anywhere
with--with the one you are trying to square yourself with. You can bet
your last dollar on that.”
And now it was Bob who sprang forward. Just what might have happened
if Covell had remained where he was is a question. Bob was beyond
restraint or words. His impulse was to give this fellow what he richly
deserved and to do it then and there.
But Covell sprang backward. Not with the idea of avoiding battle--he
was no coward--but to find space in which to meet it. His leap threw
him against the fore wheel of the Townsend carriage and the shock
almost knocked him from his feet. The nervous horses reared and
pranced. The wheel turned.
“Look out!” shouted Bob, in alarm.
The warning was too late. Covell fell--fell almost beneath the plunging
hoofs. A moment later, when Griffin dragged him from their proximity,
he was white and senseless, an ugly gash in his forehead.