“WALK INTO MY PARLOR”
The sedan, with Martin Lawson driving and Dorothy beside him, purred
smoothly through the dank, cold night. Now that they were past the realm
of traffic lights, it lopped off the miles between them and Ridgefield
with the regularity of an electric saw cutting planks from a log.
During the entire journey, now nearly over, Dorothy had spoken no word
to the man beside her. She wanted him to believe that she was still
furiously angry. As a matter of fact, she had felt antagonistic toward
him from the first moment she laid eyes upon him; his smug overgrooming,
the highly polished fingernails, the small waxed moustache and too
immaculate clothing, all repelled her. She knew at once what it had
taken Janet some time to realize: Martin Lawson might be and probably
was a very clever man; he was, on the other hand, a man to be wary of.
His manner was just a little too complacent, too smooth. Notwithstanding
the forewarning she had received regarding his character, Dorothy knew
instinctively that he was not genuine and not a trustworthy person in
any respect. She detested him thoroughly.
He was a careful driver, she gave him credit for that. They found little
traffic to impede their progress along the Boston Post Road, once the
long tentacles of the great city were left behind. But the black swath
of highway leading out and on from their moisture-coated headlights
glistened wetly in their reflection. After they turned into the hills
behind Stamford, heading for the Connecticut Ridge Country, the road for
a mile or more at a stretch was covered with wet leaves. They crawled
along at a snail’s pace to prevent skidding and a crash into the New
England stone fences that rambled along the roadside dividing woodland
from the rolling meadows.
Just beyond New Canaan, they drove past Dorothy’s home and Bill
Bolton’s, for the properties faced each other across the ridge road.
Before they reached Vista it was raining dismally, and Lawson had the
windshield wiper going. Dorothy was thankful that the sixty-mile journey
from New York was nearly over. At last they reached the outskirts of
Ridgefield, and the car swung into a driveway between high pillars of
native stonework. In the glow from the electric globes on the gate
posts, the blue stone driveway curved and twisted like a huge snake,
winding through landscaped lawns and gardens as formal and precise as a
public park.
It was raining harder now, and Dorothy could see nothing beyond the path
of their headlights. Although she had never been in the grounds before,
she had driven past the Winn place numbers of times. Finally, she made
out the bulk of a great stone house. Martin Lawson stopped the car
beneath a porte-cochere. They had arrived.
Massive doors of wrought iron and glass swung open. A butler and two
footmen in livery ran down the steps. The butler, a tall,
important-looking individual, snapped open the car door.
“Good evening, Mr. Lawson,” he said. “Good evening, Miss.”
The voice with its high-pitched Oxford drawl still smacked of
Whitechapel. Dorothy, who had travelled in England, was sure that under
stress, the cockney in this personage would come out. She knew he was
careful of his aitches.
“Good evening, Tunbridge,” Lawson returned briskly, and Dorothy smiled
pleasantly. “Is Mrs. Lawson still up?”
“Madam is awaiting you in the library, sir.” Tunbridge helped Dorothy to
alight and handed Janet’s overnight bag to a footman. “Jones,” he said
to the other flunky, as Lawson stepped out of the car, “drive round to
the service entrance. Miss Jordan’s box is in the back of the car. See
that it is taken up to the Pink Bedroom and have Hanley garage the
motor-car.”
“Very good, sir,” returned the man, and he got into the automobile.
Tunbridge ushered them up the broad stone steps. Dorothy caught a last
glimpse of a leafless, dripping hedge across the drive, and the giant
skeleton arms of a tree that seemed to menace earth and sky; then she
entered the house, wondering what the next act of this strange drama
would bring forth.
She found herself in an enormous hall, furnished with objects such as
she had never seen outside a museum. Elaborately carved oak, suits of
armor, stone urns, portraits, a wide stone staircase mounting upward to
surrounding galleries, stained glass windows, tigers’ and lions’ heads,
antlers of tremendous size, strange and beautiful weapons, all ranged in
confusion before her eyes and suggested a baronial castle rather than
the home of an American scientist, in the Connecticut hills.
Tunbridge led to a door on the right, where he knocked, then opened, as
a muffled “Come in” was heard.
“Miss Jordan and Mr. Lawson, Madam,” announced the butler, and he stood
aside to let them pass.
Dorothy walked into a room whose walls seemed built of books. The
furniture was richly attractive and looked luxuriously comfortable. A
fire blazed in a fine chimney and a table near it was set with a glitter
of splendid silver and hot water plates below shining metal covers.
A tall, superbly beautiful woman, with dark eyes and coal-black hair
that grew in a widow’s peak on her brow, rose from a chair on the wide
hearth and came toward them. Her clear, white skin, and a broad streak
of silver across the black hair gave her a strangely ethereal
appearance, as though she might have been a being from another planet.
The hand she held out to Dorothy was exquisitely formed, the fingers
long and tapering.
“How do you do, Janet,” she said pleasantly. “Welcome to Winncote. You
are later than we expected. The Doctor has gone to bed, but he left his
greetings.”
“Thank you,” Dorothy returned formally and shook hands. “You are very
kind, Mrs. Lawson.”
Laura Lawson gave her a smile, but the girl saw that it was a smile of
the lips alone, her dark eyes remained somber. “Did you have a
breakdown?” she asked her husband, taking notice of him for the first
time.
“Slippery roads—it was impossible to do much more than crawl, Laura.”
He lifted a dish cover on the table and inspected its contents. “Glad
you thought to order supper—I’m famished.”
“So am I,” admitted his wife and her words seemed to carry a double
meaning. “It’s long after three. Come over here by the fire and get
warm, Janet. Now Tunbridge—if you’ll please serve us?”
Tunbridge seated them at the supper table and uncovered the dishes.
“Just a light meal,” announced the hostess, “scrambled eggs, toast and
cocoa, but it will warm you up and help you last until breakfast.”
“It looks delicious!” said Dorothy, who discovered at the sight of food
that she was starving. In fact all three were hungry, and for some
little time conversation was dropped while the soft-footed Tunbridge
waited upon them.
“We will have a chat tomorrow, Janet,” Mrs. Lawson said presently.
“Tonight you are tired and so am I. We take breakfast in our rooms. Ring
for it when you’re ready, but don’t hurry about getting up, I’ll see you
down here about eleven-thirty. Have you had enough to eat and drink, my
dear?”
“Plenty, thank you, Mrs. Lawson.” Dorothy thought it would be just as
well if she played the demure mouse until she had a chance to size up
her employer.
“Then I think we’ll go upstairs, Janet, and I’ll show you your room.”
She looked at her husband. “You’ll be coming up soon, Martin?”
“Just as soon as I finish this pipe, and get a bit warmer.”
“I think,” said Mrs. Lawson, “that both you and Janet had better take a
hot lemonade before you go to bed. I don’t want to have you both laid up
with colds tomorrow.” She smiled solicitously at the girl.
“I hate the filthy stuff,” protested her husband.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she answered coldly and turned to the butler.
“Tunbridge, have hot lemonades sent to Miss Jordan and Mr. Lawson in
about twenty minutes, if you please.”
“Very good, madam.”
Laura Lawson slipped her arm through Dorothy’s. “Don’t be long, Martin.”
“I won’t. Good night, Janet.”
“Good night, Mr. Lawson.”
Mrs. Lawson seemed lost in thought as they slowly mounted the stone
stairs. Suddenly she began chattily: “Men are such stupid creatures,
Janet. So stupid about taking medicine or anything else that may be good
for them. Martin and that hot lemonade is a case in point. I hope that
you haven’t any foolish ideas like that?”
“Oh, no, indeed. I’m rather fond of it.”
“That’s fine. Now promise me you’ll get into bed and drink it just as
hot as possible. There’s nothing better to ward off a cold, and you’ll
sleep like a top into the bargain. Well, here’s your room, my dear. It’s
late, so I won’t come in, but I think you’ll find all you need to make
you comfortable. If you want anything, ring. Good night, Janet. Sleep
well.”
“I’m sure I will, Mrs. Lawson. Good night.”
The older woman passed along the gallery and Dorothy entered her
bedroom. It was a good-sized room, attractively furnished with
everywhere evidence of a woman’s taste. Pink-shaded electric candles
gleamed from the walls papered in cream and scattered with tiny pink
rosebuds. The small grey-painted bed displayed pink pillow cases, sheets
and blankets. A dainty writing desk in one corner of the room was also
painted grey as was the chaise longue and the chairs, where the
upholstery carried out the note of pink. A soft grey rug, pink-bordered,
covered the floor, and Dorothy’s feet sank into its thick, warm pile as
she investigated her new quarters. She saw that the room was nearly
square, and opposite the door a rounded alcove sheltered a bow window,
hung with pink taffeta, and the window seat below it was cushioned in
pink.
In a corner against the wall stood Janet’s wardrobe trunk, and near it
was a door that led into a spacious closet. Dorothy hung her coat on a
padded hanger, and then looked into the rose and onyx tiled bath.
As she re-entered the bedroom she stopped short in surprise. A small
piece of white paper protruded from beneath the door to the gallery.
Quickly she stooped, snatched the paper and opened the door. The gallery
was empty. Crossing to the balustrade she looked down upon the great
entrance hall. That also was deserted and nobody was to be seen on the
staircase.
She turned back, closed and locked her door. Then she spread out the
paper she had crumpled in her hand. Printed on one side in pencil she
read the words:
“BE ON YOUR GUARD. DO NOT DRINK THE LEMONADE. DESTROY THIS AT ONCE.”
“Now I wonder...” Dorothy muttered softly, “who sent me this note?”