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

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

She turned the knob. The door was locked.

“Miss!” he screamed again. “For--”

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

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

Her knees gave way and she sank on the floor by the locked door. Her

hand touched something wet, she raised it, stared at it with dilated

eyes, saw it red with blood, and fell backward in a faint.

Chapter Eight.

The Candid Explanation

Sometime later in the night she got up from the floor, took off her

shoes and lay down on the bed, wrapped in a blanket. She was shaking

with a violent chill, tormented by a racking headache.

All the events of the night had become only part of a vast nightmare.

She did not care what happened now, nothing mattered except to get

warm. Time had ceased to exist; there was nothing in the world but

this physical misery.

After the chill came fever, and a raging thirst. She lay there, crying

silently because she so craved for water and could not rise to get it.

Her head ached so… The light hurt her eyes…

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

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

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

“Another!” she said.

“Swallow these two pills with it.”

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

A cold, wet cloth was laid on her throbbing head, the unbearable light

was shaded, the tumbled covers straightened. She went to sleep.

* * *

She waked with a sigh, and stretched herself luxuriously in the cool,

smooth bed. The window was open and the sweet air blew in. Turning her

head she saw the sky filled with the soft, melting colors of sunset.

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

She had never tasted anything better than that broth, strong and

well-flavored, that hot buttered toast without crusts. She still felt

weak, but marvelously comfortable now, except for a slight soreness in

her jaw.

“I was afraid that last night you were in for a bad time,” said Aunt

Emma. “You were delirious--quite a temperature.”

Di did not answer; but she heard, and she understood; her brain felt

extraordinarily lucid. She might have been delirious at some time in

the night, but at present she was perfectly clear about everything.

She remembered all the things that had actually happened with an odd

sort of detachment, as if she were no longer personally concerned.

“I’ll just let her go on,” she thought. “She’ll try to explain away

everything by saying I was delirious. All right! Let her!”

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

“Was I?” she asked.

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

She sat down in a chair by the window, where the light breeze stirred

her gray hair. She looked so rosy, so dignified, so solid…

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

now.”

“I feel all right,” said Di.

And so she did; she felt perfectly able to listen to any tale Aunt

Emma might choose to invent and to weigh and analyze it.

“It would take a good deal of generosity,” Aunt Emma went on, “to

forgive your Uncle Peter. I don’t expect you to. But I can explain his

behavior--if you care to listen.”

“Yes, thank you, I should,” said Di.

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

delirium.

“Do you object to my smoking?” asked Aunt Emma, with gentlemanly

politeness. “Perhaps with the window open, it won’t bother you… No?

Thanks!”

She lit a cigarette, and crossed her knees.

“We had a remarkably unpleasant evening,” she proceeded, her blue eyes

following the smoke. “It’s fortunate that Coat and Purvis are such

fools. They swallow everything… When you went out, I sent Miles after

you, but he couldn’t find you. So he did what anyone might expect of

him. He went down to the village, and procured a supply of bootleg

whisky. I saw, when he got back, that he’d been drinking, but I didn’t

know he’d brought more of the stuff into the house. He put it in the

cellar and every now and then he’d go down and get another drink.

Before long, he became very troublesome. Purvis helped me to get him

upstairs and into bed. I wanted to lock him into his room, but I

couldn’t find the key. I was seriously worried, for fear he would

molest you. I went to your room to see if you had come in while I was

busy with Miles; I knocked and when there was no answer, I opened the

door and by the light of my torch I saw that you were lying fully

dressed on the bed, apparently asleep. I spoke to you but you didn’t

answer, and I thought it better to lock your door.”

She paused.

“An extremely unpleasant evening…” she continued. “I didn’t know where

you’d been or what you’d been doing… I went downstairs again. Coats

and Purvis went home in a taxi, and I found your Uncle Peter in the

kitchen--almost as bad as Miles. He’d been visiting the cellar… He was

half-frightened and half-beastful. He said he had caught you trying to

escape! I’ll be quite candid with you. He thinks that Uncle Rufus is

going to leave his money to you, and that therefore you’re too

valuable to lose. I agree with him about your Uncle Rufus. And I am

perfectly willing to tell you that, if you do come into his money, I

hope you’ll give me some of it.”

Her candor was astounding; she denied nothing that had happened, made

no attempt to disguise her motives.

“I asked you here for that purpose,” she said. “Uncle Rufus had been

fond of your mother, and I hoped he’d take a fancy to you. And that

gratitude, or family feeling, or sentiment, would induce you to give

me enough to carry on my work.”

Di looked at her aunt in wonder, a little dazed; everything was made

so clear, so matter-of-fact.

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

“Wren?” her aunt repeated. “What about him? Do you know anything about

that little rat? For he’s disappeared!”

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

call me--”

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

help the police.”

“The--_police_?”

“He went off with your Uncle Rufus’s watch and money--some six

thousand dollars he was carrying in his pockets.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” cried Di.

“He can stand the loss very well--”

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

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

There was a moment’s silence.

“How is Uncle Rufus?” asked Di.

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

There was another silence.

“I’m not,” said Aunt Emma, “extravagant in my personal life.” She

smiled faintly. “You’ve probably noticed that my housekeeping is not

lavish. But I want--I need money for my work. Your Uncle Rufus is

apparently recovering from this attack--but he can’t last much longer.

I hope that when you see him to-morrow, you’ll be as amiable as your

very youthful conscience will permit. It may mean more to you than

you’re able to realize, at your age. But I’m not pretending to think

wholly of your welfare. I am thinking of my work.”

She lit another cigarette.

“I’ve told you something about it. I have been making researches in

regard to my theory of suggestibility. No one else has yet suspected

the suggestibility of the average mind. People talk about the ‘herd

instinct’! The human herd has long ceased to act instinctively. It

will, in fact, act in a manner directly opposed to its instinct. They

talk of ‘mob psychology.’ The only psychology of a mob is that of its

leaders. No mob acts spontaneously, but only upon the suggestion of

one or more superior minds. A little observation will show you how

infinitely more powerful suggestion is than instinct. The instinct of

a mother to protect her infant is certainly one of the strongest and

most deep-rooted. Yet mothers were willing to throw their infants into

the fire of Moloch when it was suggested to them. In times of war, it

is suggested to a man that he loves his flag more than his own life,

and he acts upon the suggestion.”

She was silent for a moment.

“I have been working for nearly six years with those two children you

have seen,” she said. “In minds of that type one would suppose that

mere animal instinct would enormously preponderate. I hope soon to

demonstrate that it is not so. My great difficulty has been their

propensity to imitate; and to differentiate between what is mere

imitation and what is suggested action. They are only too ready to

imitate…”

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

“I’m afraid I’m inclined to be tedious on this subject,” she said, and

for the first time Di saw on her face a smile almost appealing. “I

must get along now. I have all the cooking and so on to do, now that

Wren’s decamped. He couldn’t have chosen a worse time… Now, your Uncle

Peter will come up and apologize.”

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

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

let him.”

“No, thanks, really. I’d hate it.”

“Do you hate _him_?” asked Aunt Emma.

“No…” said Di. “I don’t hate him…”

“Well!” said Aunt Emma. “I’ll be back later, with some dinner for you.

You mustn’t think of getting up to-day. But by to-morrow you ought to

be quite yourself. And after you’ve seen your Uncle Rufus, the best

thing you can do is to go back to New York. You’ve had a fairly

unpleasant visit, I’m afraid. Have you friends in New York, and enough

money to carry on for a while?”

“Yes, thank you, Aunt Emma.”

“I’ve brought you some books and magazines, the sort of thing I

imagine would interest you. I sent Miles for them.”

Then she mounted a chair briskly, and set about fastening an extension

cord to the electric light and clamped a reading-lamp to the head of

the bed. She put the books and papers on the table and then took up a

queer old-fashioned little knitted sack of pink wool.

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

There was something touching to Di in these attentions, something she

had liked very well in her aunt’s blunt sincerity. A sense of profound

relief filled her, as if the light of day had been admitted into some

dark chamber, and what had seemed horrible was not horrible at all.

The shadow of death had passed, Uncle Rufus was getting better and,

greatest relief of all, Aunt Emma had herself suggested that she

should leave.

Aunt Emma’s motives were certainly not disinterested; Uncle Peter had

shown himself capable of an astounding brutality; Uncle Rufus was not

a lovable uncle. Miles was a distressing problem; Wren had turned out

to be a thief; it was not a pleasant household. But she could make

allowances now for all of them; she could forgive them their offenses

against herself, and pity their sordid failings, because to-morrow she

was leaving them and because everything here was explicable now; ugly

and depressing, but not sinister, not frightening any longer.

“And Mr. Fennel,” she thought. “Something prevented his coming. I

_know_ I’ll hear from him again. Probably to-morrow.”

She lay for a time, looking out at the darkening sky, and thinking of

Fennel. She felt so certain that she could see him again, so certain

he was her friend.

“How nice of him to have come all this way with Mrs. Frick’s letter! I

wish I hadn’t lost it. It might have explained a little about him…

He’s different from any other man I’ve seen. He’s…”

It occurred to her that her reverie was becoming a little ridiculous,

and reaching up, she turned on the lamp, and picked up a magazine. A

footstep in the hall made her glance up, and she saw Miles in the

doorway.

“Diana…?” he said.

She thought she had never seen anything more pitiable than his

handsome, wasted face, pallid, drawn, hollow-eyed; anything more

painful than his strained smile.

“How are you?” he asked.

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

“Anything I can do for you, Diana?”

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

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

“I thought…” he said. “Wouldn’t you like some ice-cream, Diana? I can

run down to the village and get it…”

She could not refuse this peace-offering.

“That would be awfully nice,” she said, and was distressed by the

obviously false cheerfulness of her own voice.

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

His haggard, desperate face haunted her; she began to read again, in

haste to forget him, for she could do nothing more for Miles.

Presently Aunt Emma appeared with a tray, upon which was a supper

immeasurably better than any meal Di had yet had in this house; a

broiled lamb chop, a potato baked in its jacket, a salad of lettuce

and tomato, a cup of coffee and a slice of sponge cake.

“How nice!” she said, pleased.

Aunt Emma smiled.

“I never cooked before to-day in my life,” she observed. “But with

Wren gone, I saw it was inevitable. So I sat down and studied the

cook-book for an hour, until I’d mastered the general principles of

cooking. Then I applied the theory. It’s amusing. I was tempted to do

superfluous things. That sponge cake, for instance…” She looked down

at it. “I believe it’s good,” she said. “It’s--Put it down, child,

until you’ve eaten the chop!”

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

Aunt Emma was manifestly pleased and so was Diana; there was a

charming atmosphere of homely good-will. Aunt Emma making a cake!

Before her footsteps had died away, Miles returned, with the ice-cream

in a dish.

“May I come in?” he asked, and when she said yes, he entered and set

the dish down on the table.

“Diana…” he said. “I’m--not going to talk any more… I’ll just try to

show you… I--can’t expect you--to have any faith in me… But… but

you’ll see, Diana…”

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

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

She wanted to speak to him, but to save her life she could not think

of a word that would sound natural and friendly. Halfway to the door

he turned and looked at her, sitting there in the queer little

old-fashioned pink jacket, with her fair hair loose. And she could not

bear the look on his face. With an anxious, uncertain smile, she held

out her hand; he strode back to her, knelt beside her, holding her

hand over his eyes.

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

“Of course!” she said, in a cheerful, matter-of-fact voice. But she

nearly wept, looking down at his dark head. From the very first she

had felt for Miles this pity, this tenderness, this unreasonable

indulgence, that was almost maternal.

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

“Yes, I will. Miles! Get up! My nice dinner’s getting cold--and the

ice-cream is melting.”

For she felt that if he did not go at once, she would begin to cry

over him, and he would certainly misunderstand that. He sprang up,

full of contrition.

“See you to-morrow!” she said, brightly, as he left the room, and he

smiled at her, comforted.

She sighed profoundly and began her dinner.

“Even when I leave here,” she thought, “I shan’t be rid of Miles; I’ll

have to go on seeing him, forever and ever. No one else seems to care

a bit for him. And he needs someone to care, so terribly. He’s

so--doomed…”

But even the doomed Miles could not make her unhappy that evening. She

had a quiet, cosy evening, reading, an amiable little chat with Aunt

Emma; then she turned out the light and settled herself for sleep,

filled with a quiet confident happiness.

“Perhaps he lives at Mrs. Frick’s,” she thought. “Anyhow, I’ll

probably hear from him to-morrow…”

And everything was explained now; everything was clear and open.

To-morrow she would leave here, and begin a new phase of her life…

* * *

She waked with a start, and sat up in bed, her heart racing. She did

not know what had awakened her, what had startled her, but there lay

upon her the oppression of a forgotten dream.

She turned on the light and looked about the little room. All neat and

tranquil here. What was it that she had forgotten…?

Then she remembered. Last night, when she had lain down on the bed,

there had been blood on her hand. And now her hand was clean. There

had been blood on the carpet, by the door… She got up and went to the

door, and, a little giddy, stooped to examine the carpet. There was

surely a faint stain there, as of something that could not be quite

scrubbed clean.

If Wren had come to her door, unknown to anyone else, the stain would

not be faint, like this. If anyone had washed her hand, and cleaned

the carpet, then whoever had done this must know of Wren’s coming.

“Perhaps Aunt Emma just didn’t want to worry me,” she said to herself,

with her old instinct to deny what was strange and unpleasant. “I’ll

ask her in the morning.”

She turned out the light, lay down again, and resolutely closed her

eyes; immediately she had a vision of Wren crawling along the corridor

on his hands and knees, scratching at her door… “Miss! For God’s sake,

let me in!…”

She turned on the light again, in haste. When she had spoken of Wren,

Aunt Emma had seemed startled, had asked if she had seen him. No… It

_was_ queer, it was wrong, that if she had washed the blood from the

girl’s hand, she should have made no mention of it.

Well, suppose someone else had washed her hand and cleaned the floor?

Who else? And if Wren had robbed Uncle Rufus and successfully escaped,

what was he doing outside her door, desperately urgent to be admitted?

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

of the explanation was worthless.

“Aunt Emma must have known,” she thought. “Nothing goes on here that

she doesn’t know… I don’t believe poor little Wren’s a thief, anyhow.

She’s just made that up, to explain--something… To explain what?…”

All the old dread and confusion had returned. She took up a book and

tried to read, but every sound made her start. It was nearly morning

when she dropped asleep.

When she opened her eyes, the sun was shining; her watch had stopped,

but she felt sure it was late. She got up at once, washed in cold

water, and began to dress. She was immensely relieved to find the

ten-dollar bill still in the pocket of her jersey; her way of escape

was still open.

“And this time,” she thought. “I’m not going to be cautious and

tactful. I’m not going to be put off. I’m going to ask Aunt Emma

point-blank who cleaned up the carpet.”

Her knees were still a little weak and the bruise on her jaw was still

sore, but she felt very well, and very resolute.

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

what really happened to Wren.”

The lounge was empty, the dining-room was empty, but in the kitchen

she found Aunt Emma washing dishes.

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

She looked so fresh and neat and pleasant, in her white overall, so

innocently and beneficently employed in this humdrum task, that it was

difficult to challenge her.

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

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

cleared up.”

“You see,” Di went on, “he came to my door last night… I couldn’t let

him in, because the door was locked… And--blood came under the door…

On the carpet--on my hand…”

Even here, in the kitchen where the morning sun was shining, it was

horrible to think of that.

“Ah!” said Aunt Emma. “So that’s what it was? I noticed it, naturally.

But I didn’t know whether you, in your feverish condition had noticed

it or not. So I thought I’d say nothing unless you asked me. Wren, was

it? He must have hurt himself in some way.”

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

“I don’t see--” she began.

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

she called.

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

“This is Detective Rogers, from the East Hazelwood Police Station.

He’s come to investigate this robbery, and Wren’s disappearance. You

must tell him everything you know--while I make you some fresh

coffee.”

Certainly this cleared Aunt Emma from the last suspicion. She had

called in the police herself.

Chapter Nine.

“Do Not Leave This House”

“Well…” said Rogers, “it seems you were the last one to hear anything

of this man. Now what time did he knock at your door?”

“I don’t know,” said Di.

“About what time?”

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

“Ten o’clock?”

“I really don’t know.”

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

He was standing with one foot on the bottom step, and Di stood on the

kitchen porch above him, very uneasy at this unexpected examination.

There were so many things she did not wish to mention.

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

“About quarter to seven.”

“And after dinner, what did you do?”

“We went to the lounge.”

“How long did you stay there?”

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

“How far did you walk?”

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

“How long did that take you?”

“Five or ten minutes.”

“Then you went back to the house?”

“No. I stayed there for a while.”

“How long? Ten minutes?”

“Longer than that.”

“Twenty minutes?”

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

time.”

“We’ll call it half an hour. Thirty minutes then, ten minutes walk

each way, that’d bring you back to the house about 9.40. Then what did

you do?”

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

“Ten minutes?”

“I--don’t know.”

“And after that?”

“I--went to bed.”

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

“Yes…”

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

Wren say to you?”

“He asked me to let him in.”

“What did you answer?”

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

“What did he say?”

“He asked again for me to let him in. Then he stopped

talking--suddenly.”

“Did you hear him walk away?”

“No.”

“You say you found blood under the door?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

“I--think I fainted.”

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

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

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

“I never had any ‘dealings.’”

“Any idea why he came to you?”

“No.”

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

Fennel?”

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

to see me.”

“You met Fennel in the wood?”

“Yes.”

“What did you know about Fennel?”

“He brought me a letter from a friend.”

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

Reluctantly she gave him Mrs. Frick’s address.

“You’re personally acquainted with Fennel?”

“I hadn’t met him before, but--”

“Can you describe him?”

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

“Don’t be too sure of that!” said Rogers. “Now, was this Fennel a man

of medium height, slender, dark complexion and mustache, nice

gentlemanly ways?”

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

“That’s ‘Smoky’ all right,” said Rogers. “That’s just the way he

works, too. What they call one of these society burglars.”

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

“Now, I understand that while you were talking to this Fennel, your

uncle came, and there were words.”

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

except his own.”

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

“Attack. Heart attack,” said Aunt Emma.

“Attack,” said Rogers. “You then went to the house, leaving Fennel

alone with your uncle? And Fennel was presently joined by Wren?”

“Yes. But--”

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

together?”

“I did,” said Aunt Emma. “After I’d invented a plausible reason for

getting Fennel out of the house, I found him out on the drive, talking

to Wren. He went away at once as soon as I appeared.”

“Yes,” said Rogers. “That’s how he works. When he was alone with the

old gentleman, he found that money in his pockets. But he was too

smart to lift it then. No… He gets Wren to do the dirty work--”

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

“He always makes a good impression,” said Rogers. “No. He’s ‘Smoky,’

all right. Depend on it! Now, if I can just use your telephone--”

“It’s out of order,” said Aunt Emma.

“Too bad! Well, I’ll just take a look around the house… Old gentleman

able to answer any questions?”

“It’s not advisable for him to talk much,” said Aunt Emma. “But he’s

so disturbed about the loss of the money, it may do him good to see

that steps are being taken. If you’ll be careful to excite him as

little as possible.”

“Trust me!” said Rogers.

Aunt Emma addressed herself to Di.

“I’ve just put your breakfast ready in here,” she said. “You won’t

mind eating in the kitchen, my dear? And there’s a letter for you,

that came this morning. I’ll go with Rogers while he questions your

Uncle Rufus.”

As soon as they were out of sight, Di took the letter from the table,

and tore it open.

“Dear Miss Leonard:

“_I was very sorry indeed to fail you at our little rendezvous last

night. Believe me, it was a great disappointment to me. But

circumstances prevented it. Please accept the enclosed as a little

mark of my admiration--and my regret that we cannot meet again._

“_Yours most sincerely,_

“James Fennel.”

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

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

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

It seemed to her that she was mortally stricken by this blow, that she

could never get over it. Not only the revelation that Fennel was a

thief, but the insult of his sending her this money, the tone of his

note…

“I liked him,” she thought, “I liked him--better than any other man

I’ve ever met.”

She poured herself a cup of coffee, cooled it with milk and drank it.

And remembered Fennel, his steady dark eyes, his quick, vivid smile…

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

Then she thought that perhaps other women had said that of him. “That

was the way he worked…” Other credulous women were charmed by that

smile, by that quiet, serious, almost stiff manner…

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

“If only I hadn’t lost that letter!” she thought. “But I’ll see Mrs.

Frick this afternoon. I’ll ask her about him. Perhaps--”

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

sent her money.

“But maybe he didn’t realize,” she thought. “Maybe he only--wanted to

be--kind…” Kind? “My regret that we cannot meet again…”

The profound instinct of her nature was loyalty. She had a quick, and

remarkably sound intuition in the reading of character; she saw

people’s virtues, and forever cherished them; she saw their weaknesses

and could excuse them. And she had seen in that man something strong

and fine, something which her heart refused to discredit. She was

cruelly affronted by his letter, profoundly troubled by the suspicion

that Rogers had evoked, but she _could not_ dismiss Fennel as utterly

worthless.

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

mind. I’ll forget him. I must forget him.”

But she did not. A leaden oppression weighed upon her. That Rogers

seemed so confident, so resolute; suppose he found Fennel, arrested

him, sent him to prison?

“I’ll have to be a witness,” she thought. “Against him… I’ll have to

admit that I left him alone with Uncle Rufus… And this letter--”

She jumped up, went to the dining-room door, listened, and when she

was sure she was not seen, set fire to the letter and burnt it to

ashes in a plate, then threw the ashes out of the window and rinsed

the plate.

Now she was finished with Fennel.

She was still trying to eat the excellent breakfast set out for her

when her aunt re-entered the room.

“Not very satisfactory,” she observed, with a sigh. “Your Uncle Rufus

is difficult to handle. And this detective… Their one idea is to see

these men in jail. _I_ don’t want Wren in jail. I want him here, in

the kitchen. He was very useful to me. As for his theft, it didn’t

surprise me. Naturally not. I knew he’d been in jail before. Only

here, until Uncle Rufus came, there was nothing for him to steal.”

Again she sighed. “Now there’ll be all the stupidity and bother of a

trial… Of course they’ll catch Fennel and Wren.”

Fennel and Wren bracketed together.

“They may not,” said Di.

“Uncle Rufus told this detective that every one of the missing bills

was marked, with two crosses in green ink on the corners. That will

make it much easier to trace them.”

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

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

you in to New York.”

Di remembered her promise.

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

“You can ask him,” said Aunt Emma. “Now, while we’re here,

undisturbed, I want to have a little talk with you. It’s not going to

be very pleasant for either of us, but I’m afraid it can’t be

avoided.”

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

the table.

“I am in need of money,” Aunt Emma went on, “desperately in need of

money to carry on my work. Neither Peter nor Miles are able--or

willing--to help me. I have no one else. That is why I am going to

tell you--what it would be kinder not to tell you.”

Di waited, very pale.

“You know, of course, what your father was like,” Aunt Emma went on.

“But you can’t remember your mother. She was one of the very few

persons--she was perhaps the only person who was ever really fond of

me. I don’t know why. There is nothing natural about affection.

Certainly when Harvey was first married, I felt nothing but disgust

and annoyance. I knew he couldn’t support a wife and I knew he’d ask

me to help him. He did. At that time, I had all the money I needed for

the rest of my life. I wasn’t by any means rich, but my father had

left me enough money to live on, so that I could work without

troubling about my daily bread. When Harvey came to me for money, I

refused him. I had nothing whatever to spare and he knew it.

“Then he sent his wife. She was a pretty girl… Very pretty, very

gallant and honest…” she was silent for a moment.

“Poor little Inez…” she said.

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

endurance.

“She came, like you, and offered to help me with my work, for a small

salary--any salary… She was quick and intelligent, but pitiably unfit

for scientific work. And not strong. She tired easily. I was glad to

lend her small sums of money from time to time, but I couldn’t let her

work for me. I don’t know how they managed to live. It must have been

hard for her. I have never seen anyone change so… Then one day she

came to me. She was ill then, very ill and desperate. Your father was

seriously involved in some discreditable business. I admit that he was

more of a fool than a knave; he hadn’t realized what he was doing. But

that wouldn’t have helped him, in court. Inez literally didn’t have a

penny. She came here, with you… And I was sorry for her. I helped your

father out of his difficulty, and I set them on their feet again. To

do this, I had to sell some of my holdings, and my income was cut in

half. And I’ve never had one day free from financial anxiety since

then.”

She rose.

“That’s all,” she said. “I have no proofs. It never occurred to me to

demand any sort of written acknowledgment from your father. I knew

he’d never be able to repay me. If you choose to do so, when you come

into Uncle Rufus’s money--”

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

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

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

“Very well!” said Aunt Emma. “I know you mean that--now. But when

you’ve left here, you’ll begin to think. ‘Why should I believe Aunt

Emma. She has no proof. It’s very much more agreeable not to believe

her.’”

“Then what _can_ I do?”

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

see your Uncle Rufus.”

Di rose and followed her.

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

All her past was clouded with the sorrow of her mother, with disgrace

and misery. The present was beyond measure bitter, and lonely; she had

no friends, no home, no money, and that letter from Fennel was to her

like a personal disgrace.

“There must be something--wrong in me,” she thought, “or he wouldn’t

have dared to do that. He must have been sure I wouldn’t show the

letter or the money to the police. He must have seen…”

They mounted the stairs and went to Uncle Rufus’s room. She remembered

that she had believed she found it dark and empty the other evening,

but, with so many empty rooms, it would be very easy to make a

mistake. It was not empty now, Uncle Rufus lay in the bed, and Uncle

Peter sat beside him, sprawled out in a chair. The blind was drawn

down, and the room looked singularly gloomy and depressing for a

sick-room.

Uncle Peter sprang up as they entered.

“Morning!” he said to Di, in a muffled, embarrassed voice. “I hope

you’re well?”

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

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

talk to her?”

“No!” said the old man, curtly.

He was, she thought, a remarkably unpleasant object, sitting propped

up with pillows, wrapped in a voluminous dressing-gown, and wearing on

his head a red Turkish fez with a jaunty black tassel. And the room

was so dim, so close, so horribly depressing… She went nearer to the

bed.

“Would you like me to stay here--in the house--?” she asked, in a low

voice. “Until you’re feeling better, Uncle Rufus?”

“I don’t care what you do,” he answered, and flounced over on his

side, with his back to her.

She waited for a moment and then turned away. Aunt Emma was still in

the doorway, with a faint smile on her lips.

“We’re not a demonstrative family,” she observed. “Now… Do you want to

go at once or wait until after lunch?”

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

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

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

Locking her door she took the fifty-dollar bill out of her pocket and

examined it. On two corners there were tiny crosses made in green ink.

“What shall I do with it?” she thought. “I ought to get it back to

Uncle Rufus somehow. It’s his…”

She stood looking at it, feeling to the fullest extent all her

desolation, her grief, her disappointment. She was going--to what? To

no other friend than Mrs. Frick, and going back in immeasurably worse

condition than she had left, saddened by the knowledge of her mother’s

past suffering, worn out by the horrible experiences she had had here,

humiliated by her betrayed trust in Fennel, still half-sick from her

recent fever, defeated…

Then, suddenly, her spirit rose in arms. She _would not_ be defeated

and humiliated.

“I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of!” she said to herself. “I’m going

to go back to New York and forget all this. As if it were a nightmare.

I have all my life before me. I _won’t_ be miserable! I won’t!”

She opened her trunk briskly and the sight of the dresses that

Angelina had given her was balm to her.

“Angelina will come back some day,” she thought. “Lord! It’s good to

remember that there are people like her in the world--happy people,

full of life and courage. This house isn’t the world. Once I get away,

I’ll see everything differently. I’m afraid my family isn’t

very--wholesome.”

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

spirits rose and rose.

“Even if Miles is pretty awful, driving in,” she thought, “it’ll soon

be over. To-night--this very night--I’ll be at Mrs. Frick’s! I’ll go

out to an Italian restaurant and have a nice little dinner. Perhaps

I’ll take Mrs. Frick to the movies. It’ll be like Heaven, after this!”

She powdered her nose and put on her hat, and the very sight of

herself in a hat was a delight. At last she was going. She picked up

her bag and turned toward the door.

On the carpet, near the door, was a white square of paper. She stooped

and picked it up. There were some words written on it in pencil:

“Do not leave this house. If you go they will kill me. Burn this. For

God’s sake, do not leave this house.”

Chapter Ten.

The Forbidden Room

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

She read and re-read those words, scrawled on what seemed a scrap torn

from a paper bag.

“I think--it’s Wren…” she said to herself. “He tried to tell me

something before. He’s still here…”

She thought of Rogers. If Wren were really in danger…? But Rogers

would find him and arrest him, send him to prison. She was not asked

to give any assistance, only not to go away, as if only her presence

here prevented a crime.

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

After all, was it Wren who had written? It might be someone else.

Uncle Rufus, perhaps? He had told her plainly enough that he believed

his life to be in danger, and had asked her to remain here. Perhaps he

had been somehow intimidated, and dared not urge her to stay while

those people were in the room.

But whoever had written, and whatever the cause, she could not go

until she had discovered the meaning of that note. She took off her

hat and almost laughed.

“I can’t go,” she thought. “I’ll _never_ be able to leave--”

That was a bad thought to entertain. Never be able to leave? Had she

known that the first day she came here? Something had weighed so

heavily upon her then… As if she had known that she could never get

away, never get back to the cheerful outside world, that here was the

end…

“No!” she said to herself. “I cannot think--things like that. I have

no one but myself to depend on now. I’ve got to keep cool. I’ve got to

be sensible.”

She tore the note into fragments, and putting them into the

wash-basin, let the water run on them until they were washed down the

drain.

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

appealed to her.

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

wits.”

There was, first of all, the ordeal of telling Aunt Emma that she had

changed her mind about going. She discovered then that she was afraid

of Aunt Emma; Uncle Peter had been brutal, Uncle Rufus not much

better, Miles was dangerously uncertain, yet of all the inmates of

this house, Aunt Emma, who had tended her kindly when she was ill, who

had brought up her meals, Aunt Emma was the one she feared most.

“But I have the advantage now,” she told herself. “Aunt Emma expects

to get money from me. She can’t afford to antagonize me. I’ve got to

use that advantage.”

She opened her door and went out into the corridor. There was no

reason why that long red-carpeted hall should seem horrible to her; no

reason to think the silence here was sinister… A door opened behind

her, and Aunt Emma came out.

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

“I’ve been thinking--” said Di. “While I was dressing I felt--quite

miserable… If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay here, in the country,

for another day or so, until I feel better.”

Aunt Emma made no answer for a time.

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

good for you.”

A threat, was that?

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

“You’re highly nervous and impressionable,” Aunt Emma went on. “If I’d

realized that before, I’d never have let you come here. There’s

something about this house…”

She came quickly down the hall, and turned the knob of the door next

to Uncle Rufus’s room. It opened, she looked at the lock, looked down

at the floor, and then closed the door again.

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

“No, it doesn’t fit,” she said. “Very well! If you’re going to stay

here, let me earnestly warn you against going into that room.”

“That--sounds like Bluebeard,” said Di, with a pretty poor attempt at

lightness.

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

faint smile.

“After Bluebeard was dead,” she said, “and the unlucky wives removed,

do you think the family ever cared much for that little room?”

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

“I imagine,” Aunt Emma proceeded, “that no one would ever use that

room again. Even when the sun shone into it. Even if the castle were

pulled down, one stone from the walls of that room, built into some

other wall, would bring dreams…”

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

disturbed.

“I believe you went in there once, by mistake, thinking it was Uncle

Rufus’s room,” said Aunt Emma. “Perhaps you felt then that it

wasn’t--” she paused--“a good room for you to be in,” she added, with

the grim shadow of a smile. “If you’re going to stay here, I warn you,

for your own peace of mind. There’s nothing there. See!” She flung

open the door, and Di saw a neat bare room with the usual hotel

furnishings. Aunt Emma closed the door again. “Don’t go in there--_if

you can help it_.”

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

For she was, to the best of her ability, defying Aunt Emma. She knew

she must do this, for the good of her soul. She must not be repressed

or dismayed.

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

Aunt Emma accepted the offer, and they went downstairs together. And

all the way, Di was thinking “Why mustn’t I go into that room? And why

should I want to?”

She tried to forget that room.

“I’ve stayed here to find out who wrote me that note,” she told

herself. “That’s the important thing. That’s what I must think of.”

But she kept on thinking about the room. She remembered going into it

that night, finding it empty and dark, with the wind blowing into it.

And hadn’t she, even then, felt something there, something terrible…?

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

the important thing.”

She moved about the kitchen, working under Aunt Emma’s directions,

beating eggs for an omelette, making cocoa for Uncle Rufus.

“Did she mean that something had happened in that room? Well, what of

it? Nothing to do with me! I _must_ think about that note. I must do

something.”

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

“It must have been written either by Wren or Uncle Rufus. The first

thing is, to find out if Uncle Rufus wrote it. If he didn’t, then Wren

must be somewhere in the house…”

That was not an agreeable thought, that someone was hidden in this

house, among all these empty rooms.

“If I find that Uncle Rufus wrote it, I’m going to tell that

detective,” she thought. “But if it was Wren--I can’t. He did all he

could for me. I won’t help to send him to jail.”

“Diana,” said Aunt Emma, “will you take this tray up to your Uncle

Rufus? Then come down, and we’ll have our own lunch.”

Di took the tray and went toward the door.

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

many steps.”

Di had not known before of this back stairway leading up from the

kitchen. It was dark, with a closed door at the top, and darker still

as Aunt Emma closed the kitchen door behind her. And at once, as that

door shut, she began thinking again of the forbidden room.

“Oh, how stupid and disgusting of me!” she cried to herself, in a sort

of despair. “Exactly like Bluebeard’s wife! Just because Aunt Emma

said not to go into it… She probably did that on purpose--one of her

horrible psychological experiments… Perhaps she wants to divert my

mind from other things…”

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

the door.

“If only I can get a word alone with Uncle Rufus… And I’ll look into

that room, just to prove to myself…”

She came out into an unfamiliar corridor, that branched off from the

main one; this one, too, was lined with closed doors.

“There must be at least twenty-five empty rooms in this floor,” she

thought. “And I don’t know what’s upstairs. There’s the cellar, too.

It’s all very well for me to talk about ‘searching the house,’ but

it’s not going to be an easy job. Especially without being seen…”

Uncle Rufus’s door was closed, and she knocked. There was no answer,

and presently she knocked again. The silence alarmed her; she tried

the handle, and found the door locked.

“Uncle Rufus!” she called.

A door across the corridor opened and Uncle Peter appeared.

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

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

“I know,” said Uncle Peter, with his old apologetic air. “He was

asleep, and I just stepped into my own room for a smoke--”

“Please unlock the door!”

“Certainly!” he said. “Certainly!” He took the key from his pocket,

put it into the lock and flung open the door.

Uncle Rufus was not asleep; he was sitting bolt upright in the bed in

that dark, close room.

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

him.

He only shook his head.

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

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

“Let me!” said Di.

“No,” protested Uncle Peter. “I understand his ways, y’know.” Di went

nearer to the bed, but Uncle Peter blocked the way. “Please don’t get

him worked up!” he whispered.

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

sidelong.

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

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

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

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

voice.

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

“He’s hungry,” Uncle Peter explained, and at once began feeding him

with the cocoa. “When you go down, would you mind telling your Aunt

Emma that _I’m_ hungry too? She keeps me shut up here… Least she can

do is to remember my food.”

“Uncle Rufus,” said Di, looking steadily at the old man. “I’ll stay.

I’ll be here--all the time--if you want anything. I’ll come back after

lunch and see you.”

The room was too dim for her to see his face clearly at that distance,

but she hoped that he understood.

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

going on.”

As she left the room, Uncle Peter closed the door behind her, and she

heard the key turn in the lock. The impulse seized her to bang on the

door and make him open it again. She could not endure the thought of

the old man locked in there, helpless and frightened. And in spite of

her previous experience with him, she had no fear of Uncle Peter, only

contempt.

“But that wouldn’t do any good,” she thought. “I’ll have to handle

this thing better than that. Somehow, I’m going to get away this

afternoon and find that detective.”

She had almost reached the head of the front stairs when something

checked her. That room… Now was her chance to look at it, to rid

herself, once and for all, of this preposterous obsession.

She turned back, she hesitated; she listened.

“Perhaps that’s just what Aunt Emma wants,” she thought. “For me to go

in there. Perhaps there’s something--I won’t like…”

Better to see it, though, whatever it was; better to go, and be done

with it. She went softly past Uncle Rufus’s door, to that other door,

put her hand on the knob. And again she hesitated.

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

But she turned the knob, and opened the door.

Nothing there, surely, to trouble the most timid. Through the window

she could see the blue sky, the tree tops, inside, only a dusty

neatness. She stepped over the threshold.

Then she felt it. A strange tingling in her veins, a dread, an

excitement, that made her heart beat fast. But there was nothing

there; nothing at all…

She looked toward the door of the clothes-closet.

“All right!” she said, aloud, and with a sort of rush, went over to it

and flung it open. Nothing there but empty shelves and hooks. She

closed the door again, and looked about her. Nothing anywhere.

Yet somehow this blankness did not reassure her. Her oppression, her

feeling of dread and excitement was increasing; she could not believe

there was really nothing here; she felt only that she had not

found--what there was to find. She opened the drawers of the bureau;

all empty.

And her fear grew. There was something here, something in the very air

that stifled her. She hurried to the window, to open it, and stopped

there, with her face grown white as chalk.

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

“Inez.”

Her mother’s name… Why was that here?

Ever since she had come into this house, she had been hearing of her

mother, had been led back to her vague, childish memories of her. It

had always saddened her to think of her mother, and now with that

sorrow there was something else, something dark and dreadful. She

looked and looked at that name on the window-sill until suddenly she

turned and ran out of the room, shutting the door behind her. Tears

were running down her cheeks; she was shaken to the soul by an emotion

she could not comprehend.

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

Chapter Eleven.

Di Gets Another Letter

In her own room she bathed her eyes in cold water, and then went down

by the front stairs to the kitchen. And her heart sank at the sight of

Miles there, slouched in a chair, smoking a cigarette.

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

haggardness.

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

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

chair to the table.”

He obeyed, still in silence, still smoking. Aunt Emma set on the table

a savory little ham omelette, fried potatoes and a pot of tea; she

seemed very pleased with her skill in cooking--and with reason--but

she had, apparently, no ideas at all about attractive serving. They

ate upon the bare table, from the coarse kitchen china.

Miles did not eat at all; Aunt Emma paid no attention to this; she sat

at the end of the table with a pleased and cheerful expression upon

her healthy face, but Di was troubled.

“Miles, do eat!” she said.

He pushed back his chair and rose.

“I can’t,” he said. “My head aches…”

“You can drive down to the drug-store,” said Aunt Emma, “and get a

little prescription filled for me. The fresh air will do you good.

Take Diana with you.”

The prospect of a drive with Miles was by no means pleasant,

especially in his present condition.

“Let’s walk instead,” said Di.

“I can’t,” said Miles, briefly.

He began walking up and down the kitchen; then abruptly he stopped

beside her chair.

“Di,” he said. “_Won’t_ you come?”

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

anguish she saw.

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

“The woman from the village will be here in half an hour,” said Aunt

Emma. “Run along! I don’t need you.”

Di went upstairs to get her hat and coat, went almost mechanically.

Her mind felt blank, her heart numbed, as if she had exhausted her

capacity for thinking and feeling. Only that sorrow stirred her as she

passed the forbidden door, sorrow, formless as a dream.

“I’m tired,” she thought. “I don’t care very much now--about anything…

I ought to do something about Uncle Rufus, though.”

It was such an effort to think. Again she put on her hat, remembering

with a sort of wonder how happy she had been this morning, thinking

that at last she was free.

“I can’t go,” she thought, “until I’m sure that Uncle Rufus is getting

proper care. He wants me here… Something horrible is going on, and

I’ve got to stop it. And I’ve got a chance now… I can telephone from

the drug-store. To whom?”

She could not think. Somebody must come now to help her. She must tell

someone now--but who was there? Uncle Rufus had not a friend on earth

and neither had she. There was no possible use in telling Mrs. Frick

about this. Then who?

“Doctor Coat? No. He thinks Aunt Emma’s a wonderful person. Mr.

Purvis? He’s a lawyer. If I tell him about the note--about the other

things… It’s got to be Mr. Purvis. When we go to the drug-store, I’ll

ring him up. I don’t care if Miles hears me.”

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

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

“No,” said Miles.

That was not a promising beginning. He started the car with a jerk and

went down the hill at a reckless speed, swung round the corner and

into the main road.

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

“I don’t care!” he answered.

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

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

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

finish.”

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

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

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

Now that he was driving more moderately, his wild talk did not very

greatly disturb her. She had heard that sort of thing before. Her

father, in his bad hours, had used to tell her gloomily it would have

been better if she had never been born; he had used to say that life

was no more than a curse. Even as a child, her native courage, her

wholesome sanity, had rebelled against that, and she rebelled now. It

might be that she herself had very little, but life was good. It was

beautiful out here, in the Spring sun; there was a place for her in

the world, work for her to do, happiness for her, somewhere, and for

everyone.

“He’s sick,” she thought. “In body and mind. And I’m afraid I can’t

help him. I’m so tired--it’s hard to think of anything at all to say.”

But it was impossible for her not to try.

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

“What for?”

“You’d be much happier--”

He laughed, a theatrical and bitter laugh.

“You would!” she persisted. “I’m going back to New York presently to

look for a job myself. And if you find something to do--we can have

nice times together. We can have little dinners together, and go

places…”

Even while she was speaking, she didn’t believe in it; that cheerful,

normal world outside had lost reality for her. But she went on,

valiantly.

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

“Di!” he cried. “You don’t know…!”

“Yes, I do, Miles. You’re--upset now. You’re not feeling well. You

don’t see things as they really are. Why, Miles, think how young you

are! Everything still before you--”

“If you knew--what was behind me!”

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

ashamed of--”

“Sorry for!” he cried. “Oh, God!”

“Then look ahead, Miles. Make up your mind that things will be

different in the future.”

“There’s no possible future for me.”

In her fatigue and depression, it seemed almost unendurable to be

obliged to keep this up. But no one else would bother with Miles, no

one else would try to help, and she could see how sorely he was in

need of help.

“There is, Miles.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Miles,” she said, steadily.

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

“Do you care enough--to save my life?”

“Of course,” she said, uneasily.

“Then will you marry me?”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miles.”

“Look here, Diana! I’ve got a little money--enough for us to get away

somewhere… We’ll go to South America, Di. I’ll start all over again.

I’ll be anything you want, Di, I’ll do anything you want, Di, Di, my

darling! If you’re with me, Di, I’ll be all right! Di, I _can’t_ live

without you!”

“You don’t need to, Miles,” she said. He had seized both her hands,

and she made no attempt to withdraw them. She had to be careful now,

very careful, if she was to help him. “Only, we’ve got to learn to

know each other.”

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

“You’re not going to be without me. We’re going to see lots of each

other--and have such good times together--”

“That won’t do,” he interrupted. “It’s all or nothing. Either you’ll

marry me and come away with me--or--”

“Nothing of the sort, Miles,” she said, almost sternly. “We’re going

to be the best of friends--”

“Will you marry me?” he demanded.

“Miles, I can’t--”

He started the car again, driving not recklessly now, but steadily as

if with a purpose.

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

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

“Please tell me, Miles!”

He would not answer her; he drove on and on, through a little town,

through pleasant roads lined with old trees and comfortable houses,

past woods, past fields. His face was set and grim; there was

certainly some purpose now in his tormented heart. Time and again she

tried to divert him, but he would not answer her. And she grew afraid.

Was this to be the end, a sickening crash, perhaps hours of suffering,

and then death…?

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

going?”

“To hell!” he shouted.

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

bridge over a railway cut.

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

to jump.”

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

In despair she looked about her; there was not a living creature in

sight, only the empty road, with a wood on one side and the bridge on

the other. The distant train whistled.

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

me, Miles.”

“Then we’ll die together,” he said.

The sun was shining and the wind blew on this deserted hill-top. Again

the train whistled. He got up, and she caught his coat-sleeve, but he

was much stronger than she. He got out of the car, and she followed,

pulling desperately, to prevent his setting foot on that bridge.

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

one bit--”

The train was in sight. He tried to wrench himself free, but she flung

her arms about him; he tried to push her away, but she twisted her

foot round his ankle; he stumbled and fell on his knees. And she

pressed down on his shoulders with all her might. The train went by,

shaking the little bridge.

She thought then that she was going to faint; she stepped back a

pace--and she saw, at her feet a letter that had fallen from his

pocket. A letter addressed to herself. She stooped and snatched it up.

“Give that to me!” he cried.

She began to run.

She ran downhill, and she heard his footsteps on the hard road behind

her. She ran faster, faster than she would have believed possible,

with the strength of desperation. He was close behind her. Nothing

about but the empty road.

“Stop!” he shouted.

She ran and ran. Nothing ahead but that straight road, and her

strength was beginning to fail her now; her breath was coming in

gasps; her laboring heart sent all the blood pounding in her ears.

Then at the foot of the hill she saw the level crossing of the

railway, and a little hut where the guard sat. He was looking at her

now… Such a long way…

Her second wind came to her now; she quickened her pace; she stumbled

and recovered herself, flew down the rest of the hill, to the doorway

of the little shelter. She could not speak, only stand there, panting,

facing the astonished old man. Then she turned her head; she saw

Miles, a few paces distant, standing in the middle of the road. They

looked at each other, a strange look, then he turned round and started

up the hill again.

“Miles!” she called after him. But she was still breathless, her voice

was faint, either he did not hear, or he did not care. She wanted to

tell the old man to hurry, to save Miles, but she could not say a

word.

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

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

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

it easy…”

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

Just then she saw his car coming down the hill; he shot past the

little shelter, across the tracks and out of sight.

“You young ladies had ought to be more careful who you go out with,

these days,” said the man. He was a solid, burly old fellow, with

kindly eyes, beyond measure reassuring to her.

“But don’t you worry any more,” he continued. “He’s gone and he won’t

come back, neither. He knows you’ve got a witness what could prove in

a court of law how he was chasing you down the hill--”

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

reckless--driver.”

The old man obviously did not believe a word of that. He brought her a

glass of water, and stood watching her while she drank it.

“Live near here, Miss?” he asked.

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

“Ought to be some along in a few minutes,” he said. “Going down to the

station, to meet the up train. Next one I see, I’ll stop it for you,

if it’s got a driver I know.”

“You’re awfully kind,” she said.

“Pshaw!” said he.

She sat there in the doorway of the little shelter, with tranquil

peace all about her; the railway tracks glinting like silver in the

sunshine; she heard a robin singing nearby. And she held that letter

tight in her hand. Someone in the world had been interested enough to

write to her… There were, kind, ordinary human creatures; there were

birds and sunshine…

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

man.

This politeness somewhat surprised him.

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

The envelope had no stamp, and it had been torn open; she took the

letter out of it.

“Dear Miss Leonard:

“_I am bringing this along, in case anything prevents me from seeing

you this evening._

“_I think the letter I brought you from Mrs. Frick will have explained

me pretty well. I hope you won’t think I am a meddlesome ass. But if

you get this letter, it will mean that I have not been able to see you

this evening, and that will be rather a bad job, because I am going to

try every way I know to see you. There are a lot of things that need

explaining. I don’t want to put them into a letter. I shall try to

give this to Wren, to give to you. When you get it, please try to

trust me. Clear out of that house the first moment you can. Put on

your hat and walk out. Don’t say anything to anyone. If anyone comes

along with you, go back to the house and try again. But get away. Take

the first train back to New York, to Mrs. Frick’s. Things are going to

happen, and you must be out of the way._ This is important.

“_I hope you will believe that ever since I saw you with those flowers

I have been, and I always will be,_

“_Faithfully and respectfully your friend,_

“James Fennel.”

It was as if she heard him speaking, in his blunt and somewhat

masterful way, as if she could see his face, unexpressive, except when

that vivid smile crossed it. He, a professional thief?

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

She could have wept, with delight, with relief. He was her friend. He

would come back--

“But what happened to him that night?” she thought. And the greatest

fear she had ever known in her life seized her. Why had he not been

able to see her?--“That will be rather a bad job, because I am going

to try every way I know to see you.”--She had gone out, to meet him;

she had waited… What had happened to him?

Now she remembered what Miles had said, his words that hinted at some

desperate remorse. She had not paid much heed to them at the time; she

had thought he referred to his drinking, to Heaven knows what episodes

in his unhappy wasted life. She had not tried at all to account for

his intention to kill himself; it had seemed so in keeping with his

unstable, reckless nature. But now she could believe that there was

something in his heart he could not endure. He had had Fennel’s letter

in his pocket…

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

vouch for. Nice, steady young man.”

She rose and managed to smile.

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

you. Only to-day--I’m--tired.”

“That’s right!” he said, seriously. “All upset. Well, you remember if

you want a witness to these goings-on, here’s Joe Archer, that seen it

all.”

She came out of the little shelter and found the taxi waiting. She

glanced at the driver, a squat, swarthy young Italian, then she got

in.

“Where to, lady?” he asked.

She looked at him, dazed; she needed time to think. Should she go back

to Mrs. Frick’s at once? Not back to The Châlet. Not there again…

“First I’d like to go somewhere to telephone, please,” she said to the

driver, and as the cab started, she took out her vanity-case, to see

how she looked after all this. Angelina had given her that case.

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

She had a vision of Angelina arriving at The Châlet, dashing up in a

racing car, or arriving by airplane, sweeping in like a whirlwind,

facing Aunt Emma with her sublime assurance.--“What do you people

think you’re doing? Lord! What an awful old house! We’ll have a doctor

and a nurse for that poor old man. Where’s Fennel? I’m going to look

for him. I want to talk to that detective.”

Angelina wouldn’t care whether or not it was her business to

interfere, or whether anyone wanted her. She would simply take

possession of everything and everyone.

“Child, you’re simply exhausted! Go and lie down this instant, you

poor little angel, and I’ll come up and have tea with you in your

room.”

She had said that so often; she had been, for all her sensational

exploits, so strong, so confident, and, for all her carelessness, so

generous and kind.

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

was a secret.

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

The driver stopped at a little stationer’s and she got out to

telephone. It seemed a little impossible, that she could really

communicate freely with the outside world; she half expected that

there would be no answer to her call, or that someone would stop her.

But the usual routine went forward and she actually heard Mrs. Frick’s

voice; not very amiable.

“Well?”

“It’s Diana Leonard--”

“Miss Leonard!” cried Mrs. Frick. “Merciful Powers! I’ve been so

worried and anxious about you. Especially not hearing a single word

from that Mr. Fennel. Where are you now? Are you coming back

to-night?”

“What about Mr. Fennel?” asked Di.

“Why, he promised to come right straight back here after he’d seen

you, and tell me all about things. And he never did. I rang up the

Ritz, where he’s living, and they said he hadn’t come back. I didn’t

know if I ought to take any steps, but I thought I’d better not. Of

course he has lots of friends. If anything was wrong, _they’d_ know.

But tell me, dearie, when are you coming back here?”

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

“But are you all right, dearie?” asked Mrs. Frick. “It seems to me

your voice sounds sort of queer.”

“Perfectly all right, thanks.”

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

There was a moment’s pause.

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

“I wish you’d come back!” said Mrs. Frick. “And I wish you’d tell me

whatever has happened to Mr. Fennel.”

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

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

once.

Chapter Twelve.

“You Are Like Her”

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

“No one there would do me any real harm,” she thought. “They can’t

afford to, because they’re hoping to get Uncle Rufus’s money through

me. Aunt Emma was going to make Uncle Peter apologize. She’ll see that

he doesn’t do anything like that again. And if Miles comes back,

she’ll keep him in order. I’ve got to go back, and find out what’s

happened to Mr. Fennel.”

She was perfectly sure that something had happened to Fennel, and that

Miles was responsible for it; she was profoundly alarmed and troubled,

yet in her heart there was still that unshakable confidence in Fennel.

She could not imagine him defeated by Miles. He might have been

deceived, sent away with some false message from herself; he might

even have been taken by surprise, have been hurt, temporarily put out

of the way. But if he had been deceived, he would soon find it out; if

he had been hurt, he would recover. He would come back; she knew it.

Her chief motive was loyalty. Fennel had come entirely on her account;

any misadventure that had befallen him was due to his wish to help

her. And now she would help him.

“I can’t very well go to the police,” she thought. “I haven’t any

evidence that anything’s happened. And Aunt Emma would know how to

make things look all right. She called in that detective herself… I

wish I’d kept that other letter--the one with the money in it. It was

a forgery, of course. Who did it? Miles? Is that what he’s so wretched

about?”

It was so difficult to evaluate Mile’s emotions. He was capable of

being overcome with remorse for something pardonable, and equally

capable of feeling not the least regret for some horrible act. His

rudderless spirit knew no measure, no proportion; he did not know what

he wanted or where he was going.

“If anyone had ever cared for him,” she thought, “had ever taken any

trouble over him, he might have been--a decent man.”

And that, in a way, was her requiem for Miles. She had pitied him and

had done what she could for him, and now she had finished with him.

The sun was beginning to set; another day was ending, and still she

was not free. Going back there again…

“If you’ll drive to the East Hazelwood Station,” she told the

chauffeur, “someone there can tell you how to reach a house called

‘The Châlet.’”

It seemed to her a surprisingly long drive.

“But of course Miles came so terribly fast,” she thought. “And perhaps

he came a shorter way, too. Now I must make up my mind what to do.”

She leaned back in the cab and shut her eyes, but, instead of the

clearly defined plan she wanted, trivial and aimless little thoughts

drifted through her mind.

“Paying for this taxi is going to make an awful hole in my ten

dollars,” she thought. “But Mrs. Frick’s turned so amiable… He

remembered that day he saw me on the steps of Angelina’s house… He

must be a friend of hers… He must have plenty of friends. He couldn’t

just disappear… But some people do… I’ve read in the newspapers…”

She opened her eyes and sat up straight.

“I know that he came that night. I must find out why I didn’t see him.

What happened to him? Miles knows. And almost certainly Aunt Emma

knows. But if she won’t tell me, if I can’t find out anything, I shall

have to go to the police.”

She tried to marshal in her mind the facts she had to lay before the

police. That letter that had fallen from Miles’s pocket? That,

combined with the fact that Fennel had disappeared, ought to be

enough. But suppose he hadn’t really disappeared, but had only gone

somewhere about his own affairs? It was possible that Fennel had left

that letter for her, had given it to Wren, and Miles had got hold of

it. That might be his only offense, the purloining of a letter. His

remorse, his wild talk, might so easily be without foundation. Suppose

after all that nothing had happened to Fennel?

But there was that other letter she had had, signed with his name,

enclosing the marked fifty-dollar bill. She was sure that letter was a

forgery, done for the purpose of discrediting Fennel. Perhaps the

whole story of the robbery was sheer fabrication, with Wren and Fennel

the victims.

“I don’t know!” she cried to herself. “I can’t think it out. There are

so many little things--that don’t seem to fit together… Only there’s

something horribly wrong… And Mr. Fennel came that night, and I didn’t

see him.”

She realized with dismay that she was not thinking clearly. She was

worn out, almost exhausted by her terrible struggle with Miles, coming

close upon the heels of so many other shocking and inexplicable

things.

“If I could wait and rest--before I went back…” she thought. “Maybe

it’s simply idiotic to go back. But it seems to me now the only decent

thing to do. Mr. Fennel came on my account. I ought at least to try to

find out what happened. And now, of course, it’s very different. I

was--almost a prisoner before, but I’ve got out, and I’ll take care

not to be trapped again.”

They were going up the hill now, along the woodland road. The sun was

gone, the sky was drained of color; here among the trees there was a

somber twilight. The Châlet was a house easy to get into, but not so

easy to leave.

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

driver.

“Please wait for me,” she said. “And if I don’t come out in half an

hour, please go to the door and ask for me.”

He turned round to look at her, and in the gathering dusk his swarthy

face had, she thought, a strange, secret look.

“No!” she said to herself. “That’s ridiculous…” And aloud:

“Please--don’t go away without me,” she said. “No matter what anyone

says… Even if someone comes out and pays you and says I’m not coming.

I--I _am_ coming…” She stopped, ashamed and half-frightened by the

tremor in her voice, the unmistakable note of appeal. “You see,” she

said, “I’ve--left my bag there… I--they--they’d like me to stay

longer--but I can’t… So if you’ll please wait…”

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

The kindness in his voice nearly unnerved her.

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

“I’ll wait,” he said. “And if they won’t leave yez come out, will I

tell some friends of yours?”

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

He stopped the cab, halfway up the hill and not yet in sight of the

house, and on a bit of paper she wrote Mrs. Frick’s address.

“If you’ll please let her know…”

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

“Well…” he said. “Maybe they got a right to keep your bag, but they

got no right to keep _you_. That’s agin the law.”

“Oh--” she began, and stopped. Evidently he thought this was an affair

of unpaid board; better let him go on thinking that.

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

But she did worry! As they turned the corner, and she saw the house

again, so desolate, and bleak, such a fear swept over her that for a

moment she was paralyzed.

“I can’t!” she said, half aloud.

“What?” asked the driver.

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

There was nothing really to be afraid of; the cab would be waiting for

her and the driver had Mrs. Frick’s address. And even without that no

one would want to hurt her, for only through her could they get Uncle

Rufus’s money.

“I’ll tell Aunt Emma the whole thing,” she thought. “How Miles acted

and about Mr. Fennel’s letter. I’ll tell her that if she doesn’t let

me know at once what happened to Mr. Fennel, she needn’t expect me to

help her out with any money ever. I’ve got the upper hand. I _must_

remember that.”

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

dark rooms…

“I have the upper hand!” she said to herself. “Perhaps I’m the only

person who can find out what happened to Mr. Fennel. Perhaps they’ve

done something--horrible…”

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

of that house.

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

him!”

She stopped outside the door, appalled. How was it possible that she

had forgotten that? For a moment, despair seized her. Then she began

to think sanely and lucidly.

“I’ll stand by him. I won’t desert him. But I will not--I _cannot_

live in that house. I must see him and explain it. There must be some

sort of hotel in the village. I’ll stay there, and come to see him

every day until he’s well enough to leave. I’ll beg him to insist upon

having a nurse for the nights. I’ll do it all quite openly. I have the

upper hand. I will not be cowardly. I will not be underhand and

secret. I have the upper hand.”

She glanced back at the cab that stood square and solid in the

driveway, its lights shining out clearly. Then she opened the door and

entered the lounge.

“Ah!” said a bland voice, and Mr. Purvis rose from his chair. “Miss

Diana… We’ve been waiting for you!”

In her condition of nervous fatigue she was ready to believe even the

respectable Mr. Purvis a sinister figure.

“Waiting for me?” she repeated.

“Sit down!” he said. “Yes… Yes… It is your uncle’s wish that you

should be informed… Yes… Your uncle sent for me again this afternoon,

my dear young lady, and he has at last made his will… He wishes you to

know--‘So that she will stay here with me’--those were his words. He

is leaving you practically his entire estate of seven hundred thousand

dollars.”

His pleased smile died on his lips.

“Are you ill?” he cried.

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

Rufus, please.”

“Quite natural and proper!” said Mr. Purvis. “Perhaps I was somewhat

too abrupt… And mind you, I don’t by any means intend to suggest that

your uncle’s condition is worse. By no means! In fact--” He smiled

almost archly, “it’s a curious thing, but well attested--that very

often a patient takes a turn for the better after making a will.

There’s no cause for immediate alarm, my dear young lady. Doctor Coat

assures me…”

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

Because, before anything else, she must see that old man who had, in

spite of his malice and unkindness, trusted her and so greatly

rewarded her; she must assure him that she would return to-morrow

morning; that she would look after him and protect him.

“I don’t know…” said Purvis. “Your aunt and Doctor Coat are with him

now. They may not think it advisable--”

“I’ll just go up and see,” said Di. And all the way up the stairs she

said to herself: “I have the upper hand. I’ll _insist_ upon seeing

him. And I’ll say what I want to say. I’ll see him alone. Aunt Emma

wouldn’t dare refuse, with Doctor Coat there.”

As she reached the top of the stairs, she was startled to hear her

aunt laugh, a low, cheerful chuckle, answered by another laugh, a

man’s. It seemed to her that this sound came from the corridor that

branched off from the main one, and she went very quietly in that

direction.

There they were, Aunt Emma and Doctor Coat; Doctor Coat leaning

against the wall with his hands in his pockets, Aunt Emma standing

facing him, smoking, looking up at him with a glance that was

coquettish and gay.

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

admiration.

“I told him that for every remark like that, the price of the article

would increase one hundred dollars,” said she.

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

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

The door was open, and Uncle Peter was sitting in there, half asleep.

But at the sight of her he came wide awake in an instant.

“Hello!” he said, jauntily.

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

“Uncle Rufus!” she said.

“Come here!” he answered, in a voice so hoarse and faint she could

scarcely hear it. She went toward the bed, but Uncle Peter sprang up

and barred the way.

“Look here!” said Di. “I won’t have this! Uncle Rufus wants to speak

to me--and if you won’t let him, I’m going to tell Doctor Coat and Mr.

Purvis.”

The room was lighted only by a small lamp with a green shade; outside

that bright circle it was in darkness. Uncle Peter’s face was little

more than a pale blur, the old man on the bed was lost in the shadows.

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

“No!” said Uncle Peter.

“And what’s this?” asked Aunt Emma’s voice from the doorway, where she

had appeared, with Doctor Coat.

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

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

me. Stay…”

He sank back, turned his head, still wearing the grotesque fez, to the

wall, with the covers drawn up to his chin. Diana faced Doctor Coat.

“Did you hear?” she asked.

“Most unfortunate…!” he murmured.

She was indignant at so weak a word. She stepped out into the hall,

where she could speak without Uncle Rufus hearing.

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

“He doesn’t ‘see,’” Aunt Emma interrupted, and, addressing Doctor

Coat: “I must warn you, Matthew, that Diana takes this all very

seriously. I believe she’s convinced that we’re all engaged in a

conspiracy--to murder Uncle Rufus Leonard.”

“Come, come, Emma!” said Doctor Coat, shocked. “I’m sure she thinks

nothing of the sort.” He glanced at Di, and smiled; no doubt he meant

it for a benign, and reassuring smile, but it was not; it was nervous,

apprehensive. “The important point,” he went on, “is that Rufus

doesn’t believe in this--this conspiracy himself. He’s been expressing

these--unpleasant suspicions for years, yet he never stopped coming

here. And only this afternoon, when I suggested moving him to a

hospital, he refused. That is pretty conclusive proof that this is not

a genuine delusion.

“Now, the most marked characteristic of the genuine delusion, such as

can be observed in the paranoiac, for instance, is not the

irrationality of the fixed idea, but the tenacity with which the

patient clings to it. I emphatically deny that Rufus shows any

symptoms of a genuine delusion. These--suspicions are simple willful

assertions, made with the clear intention of annoying, as opposed to

the perfectly involuntary belief of a paranoiac. I am willing at any

time to testify to the fact that Rufus is of sound mind. A little

crochety, perhaps, but as sane as you or me. He--”

“It’s no use, Matthew!” Aunt Emma interrupted. “I’d like a word with

her, if you’ll excuse me. Come here, please!”

Di followed her into the next room; not until the door was closed

behind them did she realize what room this was. It was almost in

darkness; through the window she could see the pines black as ink

against the pallid sky.

“I should like to prevent you from making any more of a fool of

yourself than is necessary,” said Aunt Emma. “Are you able to realize

that if you persist in taking this notion of your Uncle Rufus’s

seriously you are tending to invalidate his will?”

“I don’t care!” said Di. “I can’t--I won’t--see him--like this.

He’s--frightened.”

“My God!” said Aunt Emma, with a sigh. “Very well! I’ll admit that

he’s frightened. And that he had a genuine delusion. It’s a

well-defined case. He has the paranoiac delusion of persecution.

Technically, he’s insane. Like your father.”

“My father!” cried Di.

“Like your father,” Aunt Emma repeated. “_He_ believed he was

persecuted. He--”

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

“The stock is tainted,” Aunt Emma went on, tranquilly. “You must have

observed it. Peter’s a high-grade moron. Rufus is a paranoiac. Miles,

just at present, is a borderline case. But alcoholism will very

shortly send him over the line. A somewhat difficult household to deal

with.”

Di was silent for a moment.

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

“Naturally,” Aunt Emma interrupted, “you want to deny that he was

unbalanced. It’s a quite instinctive reaction with you to deny

anything that’s unpleasant to you. It’s time you faced facts with a

little courage. This inclination of yours to build fantasies is

dangerous. It was just that refusal to accept reality that destroyed

your unfortunate mother.”

“Don’t--_talk_ about her!” said Di.

“I think,” said Aunt Emma, slowly, “that she’d be glad if I were to

tell you now. It’s time… I’ve kept it from you, until now, because you

are so remarkably ill-adapted to hear any unpleasant truths. But now…

Here, in this room…”