IN THE NIGHT
Dorothy turned over the piece of paper to find as she expected that the
other side was blank. No signature. Nothing but the double warning, and
the admonition to destroy the missive and to do so at once. Evidently
the writer either believed or knew for certain that she would shortly be
disturbed. There was no fireplace in the bedroom. Even though she tore
the note into bits, some of the scraps might be found and pieced
together should she throw them out the window; and her room might be
searched at any time. How could she make way with it? For a moment or
two Dorothy was at a loss. Mechanically her fingers tore the paper into
fine shreds.
Then she smiled. “I guess we’ll let the plumbing take care of you,” she
said, gazing down on the little pile of paper on her palm, and she
disappeared into the bathroom.
When she returned, Dorothy opened Janet’s over-night bag, took out a
pair of green silk pajamas, bedroom slippers and toilet accessories,
among which was a new toothbrush in a case. This, and the underwear she
had on were the only belongings of her own that she had retained.
From Janet’s purse, she extracted the trunk key. After some rummaging in
that large travelling wardrobe, she found a quilted bathrobe of pale
pink satin on a hanger toward the back. It was too late to unpack
entirely, and she was about to close and relock the trunk, when she
decided to leave it open. The Janet Jordan she was portraying had never
waked up at the famous meeting of last week. That Janet would feel
outraged at her imprisonment, her father’s seeming callousness and would
naturally be furious at being packed up here willy-nilly: but she would
have no cause to be suspicious of these people in this big stone house.
If she had locked the trunk—Dorothy realized she had almost made a
mistake, although a minor one—and in her present position mistakes were
dangerous affairs.
Although it was very late and the day had been a strenuous one Dorothy
did not feel tired. While she undressed, she went over in her mind the
new vistas opened up by this mysterious note she had just destroyed. As
she dissected it word by word from memory, she was astonished to find
that the scrap of paper carried much interesting information between the
lines.
Undoubtedly, Ashton Sanborn had planted a member of his organization in
the house, but how that had been possible, she could not imagine. First
of all, there was the warning to be on her guard. That Mrs. Lawson was
indicated she had no doubt. Her hostess, while seeming most charming and
courteous, had nevertheless suggested the hot lemonade which the note
told her not to drink. It was quite likely that her unknown adviser had
reason to think that the lemonade would be drugged. And then these
people could hardly mean to poison her so soon after her arrival. For
their whole idea in bringing her to Winncote, as she understood it, was
to make sure whether the real Janet had heard their secrets or not.
No—they merely wanted her to sleep soundly. But why?
Dorothy pondered on this for several minutes. There could be only one
reason, she decided. Somebody was planning to enter her bedroom tonight,
and wished to do so without her knowledge. What their purpose might be
she could not guess and she did not bother about it. To a girl of a
nervous temperament, such as Janet Jordan, the knowledge that such a
visit was planned and success arranged for by means of a drug, would
have been torture. But Dorothy, who could feel “Flash” in his holster
just above her knee was merely worried for fear that lemonade or no
lemonade she would fall asleep. The arrival here had been uneventful
enough after what had happened at the Jordans’ apartment. At least, to
all outward appearances it had been smooth sailing. She was beginning to
realize that nothing with these people was what it seemed to be. She had
climbed her Vesuvius and was standing at the crater’s edge. Already the
first rumblings of the eruption had been heard.
Her position, though seemingly secure, was nothing of the kind. The
sooner Ashton Sanborn gave her the orders he had promised, and she could
carry them out and get away from this place, the better for Dorothy
Dixon. And yet she could not help a feeling of exhilaration.
There came a gentle knock on her door. Wearing her quilted wrapper and
slippers she turned the key and opened to—the imposing Tunbridge. He
bore a small tray on which stood a steaming tumbler, a bowl of sugar,
two spoons and a napkin. “Your hot lemonade, Miss Jordan,” he announced
in his pompous voice and rather as though he were offering her a
priceless gift. “Mrs. Lawson’s instructions are to drink it after you
get in bed, Miss. May I mention also that it is very hot?”
Dorothy took the tray. “Thank you, Tunbridge, I’ll be careful. Good
night!”
“Good night, Miss.”
The butler departed in the direction of the stairway, and Dorothy closed
the door and locked it again.
She set the tray on a chair beside her bed and put two spoonfuls of
sugar into the tall glass. It was too hot for anyone to drink yet, so
she went into the bathroom to get ready for bed.
Five minutes later she switched off all the lights except the one on the
head board. Then she got into bed, picked up the glass and stirred her
lemonade, making sure that the spoon tinkled against the glass. If
anyone was listening outside her door they would naturally think she was
drinking the stuff.
After waiting a moment or two longer, she set the glass down on the tray
with a thump that might have been heard on the gallery. But the glass
remained in her hand. Off went her light now, and still holding the
lemonade she got quickly and quietly out of bed. A silent trip to the
bathroom in the dark and she emptied the lemonade into her washbowl.
Then she came back and placed the empty glass on the tray. She hurried
over to the bow window, opened a sash, turned off the heat in the
radiator and crawled into bed again.
The bed was to the left of the door as one entered the room. By lying on
her right side Dorothy held the entire room within her view. After the
soft glare from the shaded electric lights, it seemed inky black, but
soon her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. In the wall just beyond the
foot of the bed was the closed door of her closet. The trunk stood
beyond that in the corner. The alcove and window seat took up a large
section of the farther wall and in the corner, diagonally across from
where she lay was a dark spot—the writing desk. Opposite her bed was
the half open door to the bathroom. The dressing table, the door to the
hall but a few feet from her head—mentally she had completed her tour
of the room.
Then for a long while, or so it seemed to the excited girl, she lay
there waiting. Of course her door was locked, but the affair of the
Winged Cartwheels a few months before had taught Dorothy that keys may
be turned from the outside with a pair of small pincers. Her mind now
set itself on the key in the door. In vain she listened for the warning
click that would come when it turned in the lock. Now that she was lying
in bed she began to discover how tired she was. It became harder and
harder to stay awake.
She knew that she must have dozed, for without warning a light appeared,
a golden circle on the center of the rug. Instantly she was wide awake
and her hand beneath the blankets drew her throwing knife from its
sheath. Through half-closed eyelids she made out a dark figure holding a
flash light pointed toward the floor.
Then the glowing circle moved to the empty glass beside her bed, and
Dorothy closed her eyes. For a moment it rested upon her face and she
heard a low chuckle. Dorothy knew that voice. Her visitor was Laura
Lawson.
The light swept away from her face. Mrs. Lawson touched the wall switch
by the door and the bedroom sprang into light. The drug in the lemonade
must have been a strong one, for it was evident that the intruder had no
fear of her awakening. Without wasting another glance on Dorothy, Laura
Lawson went to the wardrobe trunk and commenced a detailed inspection of
its contents.
The woman’s back was turned, so Dorothy had no difficulty in watching
her movements. Everything in the trunk was taken out, glanced at and put
back exactly as it had been. This took some time, and it was fully half
an hour before her hostess finished with the trunk. Next she overhauled
the small travelling bag and the purse. Then the empty drawers of the
dressing table and desk came under the woman’s eye. The pillows and
cushions of the window seat were lifted. The rug was turned back. Every
nook and cranny of the room and closet came under observation. Then she
went into the bathroom.
“What under the shining canopy can she be looking for?” Dorothy
marveled. “It can’t be the note I got tonight. She proposed the lemonade
before that could have been written. I wonder if she’ll search the bed?
She mustn’t find Flash—”
When Laura Lawson returned to the bedroom, she saw that the sleeper had
turned over and was now facing the wall. For a moment she gazed down on
the girl, then her hand crept under the pillow. Finding nothing there,
the covers were pulled back to the foot of the bed.
Dorothy felt the cold breeze from the open window blowing on her
pajamaed body, but she did not move. Presently sheet, blankets and silk
comfort were replaced and the woman left the bedside. Dorothy chuckled
inwardly. Flash was still safe. She was lying on him.
Off went the light. Dorothy knew that Mrs. Lawson’s slippered feet would
make no sound on the thick pile of the rug. She waited to hear the door
open and close, but heard nothing. With her face to the wall, she could
see nothing. The strain of lying motionless became nerve wracking. What
was the woman doing anyhow? Slowly she rolled over again. So far as she
could tell, the room was empty.
For what seemed an age Dorothy lay, listening. Except for the wind
sighing through the bare trees outside her window, there was no other
sound. She felt nervous and unpleasantly excited. She must know if the
door had been left unlocked. Slipping out of bed she tiptoed across to
it and tried the handle. The door did not give.
Suddenly she froze against the panels. A dim glow appeared on the
opposite wall as the closet door swung slowly back, and outlined in the
opening was the tall figure of Tunbridge.