BEHIND CLOSED DOORS.
"About this hour, one week ago to-day," thought Clara as she took her
place again in the coupé, "I should have been getting into a carriage
at the church door, with Ivan, as his wife! What an eternity seems to
have passed since then! Will the search and the waiting never end?"
There were no tears now, no disposition to give way. The dull ache at
her heart was there, and it seemed as if it would stay forever, but all
emotion now was held in check by her determination not to let the day
pass without a decisive investigation of this latest clew that had so
far led to so much racing about, and thus far, too, to the utter defeat
of her every plan.
"Where to, miss?" asked Mike who had been standing at the coupé door.
Clara had forgotten him for the moment, forgotten even where she was.
Aroused to the work in hand, she debated for about one second whether
to appeal to a lawyer to get a search-warrant for her.
She dismissed the suggestion as likely to involve too much delay. She
had never had any experience in law suits, but she had that general
conviction due to the accepted phrase "the law's delay," that no one
should resort to the courts unless there were ample time and to spare.
"We will go first to my uncle's house," she said, "and I would like to
have you take such a route that you will pass the house where we saw
Poubalov and Patterson this forenoon."
"An' I s'pose I'm to let you know if I see what's-his-name or Patterson
on the way?"
"By all means! do not stop unless you do."
The half hour's drive to Roxbury was without adventure. Clara now had
the curtains of the coupé up, and she glanced from side to side through
the windows as they rolled along, ever alert to catch any sign of her
adversaries.
The old tavern looked, indeed, deserted.
It needed but a touch of moss or ivy, to suggest a ruin, for it was not
only an ancient building, but sadly out of repair as well.
After they had passed beyond it a little way, Clara signaled to Mike to
stop.
"I dare not leave this place unguarded a moment," she said; "there
is no telling when Poubalov will return, but I must go home for a
very short time, or there will be anxiety and perhaps search for me.
Suppose you stay here till I come back. It won't take me long if I go
by car. Please, Michael, don't do anything rash. There was another good
fellow, not so sensible as you, poor man! who tried to help me, and he
got himself into dreadful trouble over it. This man, Poubalov, is a
terrible enemy, Michael."
"Is he the sort that carries a gun in one pocket and a razor in
another?" asked Mike with perfect seriousness.
"He goes well armed," replied Clara, earnestly, "and he has neither
conscience nor fear. You know what I want to accomplish, Michael, but
if any life is risked to save another's, it must be mine. I shall be
very much displeased if anything serious happens while I am gone. Wait
for me, sure."
"All right, miss," said Mike, resignedly; "if anything happens after
you get back, though, you bet I'll take a hand in!"
And if there had been any temptation for a scrimmage during Clara's
absence, there is no manner of doubt that Mike would have taken part
in it in spite of her injunctions.
Clara found Louise in a very nervous condition.
"I have not been so much worried about you, dear," she said, "for I
have learned to feel confidence that you can take care of yourself.
Still I am relieved to see you safe again. My chief anxiety is about
papa. I am afraid there is something very troublesome in his business,
and that he is breaking down under the strain."
"I know that his business has been troubling him very much of late,"
responded Clara, "for he told me so, and any one could see that he is
much disturbed; but how has he shown it to-day? I didn't see him at
breakfast, you know."
"No, he hurried to his office, as he told me later, to get some
important mail. I didn't notice anything beyond his usual nervous
manner--that is, his recent manner, at breakfast time, but about half
an hour after you had gone he returned in great haste and inquired for
you. I told him you had gone with Paul and another man who had given
you a clew, and that I couldn't tell when you would return. He seemed
very much disappointed, and walked up and down the room several times.
I asked him if he had any news about Ivan. He answered abruptly: 'I
think so. I must see Clara.'"
Startled by hope and fear at once, Clara sank into a chair.
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Louise in dismay, "don't please break down now,
for that isn't all, and I am so afraid you'll need all your strength
to-day."
"I am strong," said Clara, resolutely, but it was all she could do to
keep her voice steady; "this day will see the end one way or another,
and I am prepared for it."
"I begged papa to tell me what he had heard, but he refused to do so,
almost roughly, too. 'Tell her to wait when she comes in,' he said, and
he went out again. He came back at luncheon time looking dreadfully
excited. His first words were an inquiry for you. The perspiration
rolled down his face as he tried to be calm. He couldn't eat or keep
still. I tried to soothe him, but he wouldn't let me. Then I insisted
that he tell me what he had heard. 'I haven't heard anything,' he
answered excitedly; 'who said I had? I only surmise. I must see Clara.'
We both supposed you would come home to luncheon, and he waited for you
as long as his impatience would let him. He went away about fifteen
minutes ago, telling me again to have you wait for him. I am dreadfully
alarmed."
"So am I," said Clara in a low voice. She was beginning to feel a sense
of confusion, and she had to think hard to convince herself that she
had really left Paul on guard at Bulfinch Place and Michael in the
street near the old tavern. It seemed to her essential that she should
be in both places, and here at home also. She had intended to seek her
uncle's assistance in any event, and now he was vainly looking for her
with some manner of important and, it seemed likely, bad news.
"I am faint," she added after a moment; "perhaps I can think better if
I have a cup of tea."
Louise hastened to give the orders to the servant, and a few minutes
later Clara ate and drank. It was well that she thought of luncheon,
well that she could eat, for her vital energies had been severely drawn
on, and there was much more ahead of her to do. After she had refreshed
herself she said:
"I cannot wait for uncle. I don't know what is the most important thing
to do, but I feel that I must not wait here. I will send Michael, the
cabman, back. Please see that he has luncheon, and keep him here until
uncle returns. Then send him for me. He will know where to find me, and
I promise to come home at once unless--Well, send him to me, and I will
return if I can."
Louise was tearful at Clara's departure, but she did not try to detain
her. It would have done no good, and she knew it.
When Clara found Mike faithfully on guard just where she had left him,
she told him her programme, and together they hunted for a place
from which she could keep her eyes on the old tavern, unobserved by
Poubalov, should he return.
They found it in the sitting-room of a house across the way, the
mistress of which, a plain, practical woman who knew the woes of
economy, was not averse to renting for a few hours the apartment she
seldom had time to use, and never on a Monday.
This done, Mike drove to Mr. Pembroke's and hitched his horse at the
gate, with its nose in a feed-bag. The young man made short work of the
luncheon Louise had prepared for him, and then promptly fell asleep
over the book she gave him to while away time with.
No good end will be served by reviewing the lonely hours of Clara's
vigil. It was with her, as with Paul, a monotonous period, far harder
to endure, in some senses, than the exciting and exacting experiences
of the forenoon.
It will be enough, then, to say that when Mike came in the edge of the
evening to tell her that her uncle was at home, she had seen no sign of
Poubalov or Patterson, or of life in the ancient tavern.
Reluctantly she quitted her post, because nothing had happened,
willingly because she hoped for definite information of some kind from
her uncle. The coupé was at the door.
"Will you want me longer, miss?" asked Mike as she came out, prepared
to go home.
"I suppose you ought to go," answered Clara, doubtfully.
"I dunno," said Mike, in the same manner; "me boss will be wonderin'
what's become of the rig."
The long day, spent so far as he could see to no purpose, had tried
him, and yet, had Clara said the word he would have remained in one
spot through the night. Clara did not say it.
She, too, was fatigued, not more with the exertion of the first half
of the day than with the tedious watching of she second.
"You may drive me home," she said wearily; "and if your employer will
let you, you might come back in an hour or two to see if I need you."
Mike, therefore, drove away, when he had left Clara at Mr. Pembroke's
gate.
She went up to the house, and Louise met her at the door with a white,
frightened face.
"Papa is worse than ever," she whispered; "go to him at once. He is in
the library."
Clara opened the door and went in.
Her uncle sat at the table, with his arms and head upon it, and he did
not look up until she touched him and spoke to him.
"I am sorry, uncle dear," she said, "that I was not at home when you
wanted me."
He raised his head with a groan.
"It doesn't matter," he responded; "you could have done nothing, as it
has happened."
"Didn't you have some news for me, uncle? Tell me; I can endure
anything."
He tried to look at her, but a violent fit of trembling seized him and
he averted his eyes.
"I thought there was going to be news, good news," he stammered,
"but----" and he shook his head sorrowfully.
"Do you mean that you have been disappointed, uncle?"
"Disappointed!" he repeated excitedly; "worse! All is lost, Clara,
lost! Oh! that wily Russian!"
"What Russian, uncle? In mercy's name, tell me!"
"Your man Poubalov! He is----" Mr. Pembroke's words stuck in his throat
and he looked at Clara with watery eyes.
"You have seen him then," she whispered faintly.
Mr. Pembroke nodded.
"And you have nothing to tell me?"
Her uncle opened his lips, tried to speak, and failing, grasped the
table with both hands while his eyes fixed themselves in a stare and
his face grew livid.
Clara ran to the sideboard in the dining-room and brought him a glass
of brandy.
She poured a quantity down his throat till he gasped with pain.
The spasm passed, but left him weak, well-nigh helpless, and Clara
summoned the servant to take him to his room.
A neighboring physician was called in, and after half an hour or so he
reported that Mr. Pembroke was in no immediate danger.
Clara wished to see him, not, however, to torment him with questions,
but the physician advised that he be left alone, with merely a servant,
or Louise at hand to attend to his needs.
"I am pretty certain," added the doctor, "that your presence would
irritate him."
Clara withdrew to the drawing-room and tried to collect her thoughts.
She had not heard from Paul and it was now eight o'clock. It could
not be that nothing had happened during the long afternoon. Something
surely had occurred, and that through Poubalov, to prostrate her
uncle---- Ah! she could not sit still. Her programme had not been fully
performed. She was useless here, in the way, the doctor had said that
plainly enough. The tavern must be searched to-night, and if Paul were
not there to help, she must do without him.
She said nothing to Louise, or the servants. In the kitchen she found a
candle and a box of matches. There and elsewhere about the house were
keys of various descriptions. She took every one she could lay her
hands on, and thus provided, set forth alone.
It was a very quiet, retired street, on which the tavern stood. Once
it had been a main road, but traffic had long since been diverted into
other channels. She saw nobody as she approached the gloomy structure
with its overhanging porch, and few lights were in the windows of
adjacent houses. Under the porch she paused a moment in the effort to
still the beating of her heart. Then, instead of making any attempt to
pass through the front door, she went around to the driveway that Paul
had described, and came to an entrance at the very back of the tavern.
She placed a trembling hand upon the knob and sought to insert a key
in the lock--but the door was opening before her! It was not only not
locked, it had not been latched, and the pressure of her hand had set
it ajar.
With unsteady step and with her mind bewildered by grewsome
conjectures, Clara entered. She closed the door behind her and lit the
candle. Had Poubalov, then, returned when she had weakly given up the
watching, and abducted Ivan a second time? What did her uncle's words
mean? "All is lost!" Was Ivan---- She did not permit herself to frame
the thought completely, but gathering all her resolution set forth to
accomplish her task. Not even indulging in a useless regret that Paul
was not with her, she looked about the room in which she stood. It had
once been a kitchen, and a glance at it was enough. An open door was
before her and she passed through it.
This was evidently the dining-room, and several doors were in view,
only one of which was open. Feeling that this indicated the course
taken by Poubalov in carrying Ivan out of the house from the room where
he had been confined, she pushed on, and passing through this door,
found herself in the front hall. There was a stairway at her right
hand, and doors at both right and left. Whither should she go? The
doors were closed and she chose the stairs.
At the top were two corridors as well as the passage leading to
another flight of stairs. Haphazard she proceeded along the corridor
to the left. It was tortuous, like all hotel passages, and the floor
was broken here and there by steps, now up, now down. She passed many
doors, but all were closed. At the very end were two doors, almost side
by side, and as she stood hesitant, her blood chilled and her heart
leaped to her throat.
Was that a groan that she had heard behind one of those doors?
Utterly unable to move, she listened with painful intentness.
Yes--again it came, muffled, feeble, inarticulate, but unmistakably
the sound of a human voice. In her agony of apprehension Clara found
herself halting, from a strange inability to decide which door to open.