SHADED WINDOWS
In the days that followed, Barry Cumberland resigned himself to
waiting. He was soon practically fit again, however, and he made up
his mind to employ his first morning of freedom in a methodical search
for the scene of his accident.
Working from the nearest base where he could garage the convalescent
Rolls, he set out on foot; and in something less than half an hour had
reached the barricaded road. He had come alone. Jim Sakers’s open
scepticism upon the subject to which he usually alluded as “Barry’s
princess” had begun to jar upon the victim’s sensitiveness.
He made a slight detour through close-set trees and came out upon the
private road twenty yards beyond. There was nothing to show that
anything in the nature of repairs was taking place, and he proceeded
confidently, looking about him in quest of some landmark. He found
none. But presently an opening appeared on the left. Barry turned into
it, pulled up, and suppressed a cry of triumph.
Hitherto completely hidden by embracing woods, a house lay forty yards
back from the road. Its grounds were surrounded by a high wall, and
its construction was memorable because of a turret which crowned the
easterly wing of the building.
Barry stood watching it for a time, and groping for another memory
which the sight of the house provoked, but which nevertheless eluded
him. He realized from its situation that upon the southeast it must
look sheerly down into a valley. When, and where, before, had he seen
such a house? Try how he might he could not remember. Had he seen it
in a dream? Surely he had looked down upon it from a great height! But
when? Had the vision been prophetic--an omen? If so, an omen of what?
He advanced slowly. He bent, studying the road and the unkempt
shrubbery on his left. The track was altogether too deeply rutted to
have retained any imprint by which the passage of his own tires could
be identified.
But now, in the very shadow of the building, he pulled up sharply,
staring. There was a tree stump some four feet out from the wall, its
bark newly gashed in a rather peculiar manner. The undergrowth about
here, too, had an odd appearance. It was dying in patches.
Stepping back to the middle of the road, he looked up across the wall.
He found that he was staring directly at a window of the house
beyond--a window before which a small balcony projected!
He had made no mistake! Here it was--at this very spot--that he had
crashed! Dr. Barton had been nearer to the truth than he knew when he
had declared, “You seem to have tried to climb a tree.”
Exhilaration came. This provoking mystery was about to be solved.
Passing along the entire length of the wall without coming to any
gate, Barry reached the corner and looked across a sloping lawn beyond
which stone steps led down to a sunken garden. Far below lay the bowl
of the valley through which ran the high road to New York. A
semicircular path swept around before the long, low porch of the
house, which, as he immediately noted, appeared to be deserted. All
visible windows were shaded. There was no evidence of life whatever
about the premises. His hopes fell to zero.
Stepping onto the porch, which looked very dusty and unswept, he
pressed the bell and waited, lighting a cigarette.
There was no response; not even the barking of a dog. A second and a
third time he rang with equally negative results. The thing was
growing more and more extraordinary.
Since this road, now closed, clearly led to nowhere but the house, if
he had imagined that figure of a girl at the window, by whom had he
been taken to the hospital?
Baffled, but not beaten, he walked down the steps again. He had noted
a path which clearly led to a garden at the back--a garden concealed
behind that high wall against which he had crashed. He turned into it,
passed under the very window in which the girl had stood, and came out
at the rear of this house of mystery.
He paused in sight of the garden. Beside him was a door. It was partly
open--and from beyond came an unmistakable sound of clattering pots
and pans!
Barry raised his hand and rapped sharply. The sounds ceased. A minute
passed in silence. Barry rapped again, more loudly.
The door was suddenly opened--so suddenly, he realized, that the woman
who now stood before him must have crept forward to peep at the
intruder. He found himself confronted by a truly formidable female,
built for cargo rather than for speed. Her arms appeared to be wet to
the elbows, and were, in the words of Jim Sakers, to whom Barry later
gave an account of the interview, “as per specification. See ‘Village
Blacksmith,’ page 1.” Her muscular hands rested upon her hips. She was
iron-jawed, and her regard was a challenge.
“Good-morning,” he began. “My name is Barry Cumberland.”
The woman did not reply.
“I could get no answer to the bell,” he went on, “and came around in
the hope of finding someone at home.”
“There’s no one home but me.”
“Can you tell me when they will be back?”
“Who?”
“Well--particularly the lady. The lady whom I really came to thank for
her service----”
“Say it again.”
“The lady who witnessed an accident which took place outside this
house two weeks ago.”
The Amazon stared in silence, until:
“Forgive me,” said Barry patiently, “but did you hear what I said?”
“I heard.”
“Then why don’t you answer?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But a lady _does_ live here.”
“Does she?”
Barry was torn between laughter and indignation, but he feared an
assault might follow any manifestation of either; therefore:
“I think I told you that my name was Barry Cumberland?” he said in his
most amiable manner.
“You surely did.”
“You may have heard the name?”
“You said it twice.”
“Hang it all! At least you must know I mean no harm. I want to thank
the owner of the house for taking care of me when otherwise I might
have died on the roadside.”
“There’s no one home.”
“So you have told me! But surely I can communicate with him somewhere?
What is his name?”
“Brown.”
“But there are so many Browns! What is his first name?”
“John.”
Barry, stifling his rising anger, drew out a pocket case and pencil.
Solemnly he noted the name “John Brown”; then:
“And at what address can I write to Mr. Brown?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I mean, is it anywhere in America, or has Mr. Brown gone to Europe?”
“I don’t know.”
Apparently by accident, a ten-dollar bill dropped from the case, and
Barry held it out insinuatingly. Thereupon, with suddenly dilated
nostrils, the formidable guardian of the empty mansion slammed the
door in his face! He distinctly heard a bolt being shot.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” said he.
There are some situations from which retirement in good order is the
only possible course; and Barry Cumberland recognized the fact that
this was one of them. Returning his wallet to his pocket, he began to
retrace his steps.
“What the devil does it mean?” he muttered.
Of the woman’s antagonism there could be no doubt, nor of her loyalty
to her employer. “John Brown!” Of course, it was a fabrication. She
was lying, deliberately. Her instructions plainly were to give no
information--and she had followed them to the letter.
The object of it all defied his imagination, but he was more than ever
certain that the girl at the window overlooking the garden had been
real and no figment of delirium.
As he walked slowly out to the road again, his mind was busy with
possible theories. He had learned much but little. Suspicion created
by the barred road was strengthened by what he had found at the house.
For some unfathomable reason, the girl at the window and those
associated with her were peculiarly anxious to avoid meeting him.
But the longer he considered the problem, the more hopeless it became.
He determined to consult the local real estate people, to endeavour to
trace the ownership of the place, and to identify this “John Brown”
who was so pointedly anxious to avoid him.