months ago."
"All the same, I don't believe it was Drummond."
"You haven't missed any property, I believe?"
"No."
"So presumably the fellow had some motive other than a desire to thieve.
Besides, if he'd been on the loot he might much more easily have tried
one of the lower floors--and more sensibly."
"It would seem so," Whitaker admitted sulkily.
"And that missing switch-button--"
"What do _you_ know about that?"
"My sources of information.... It strikes me that a man who took that
much trouble to prevent your turning on the light must have been rather
anxious to avoid recognition. I shed the inference for its intrinsic
worth, merely."
"Well...." Whitaker temporized.
"And I'd like to know what you mean to do."
"About what?"
"With the understanding that you're content to leave the case of
burglary and assault to the mercies of the police: what do you mean to
do with yourself?"
"I don't know--hadn't thought."
"Unless you're hell-bent on sticking around here to get your head bashed
in--I venture respectfully to suggest that you consign yourself to my
competent care."
"Meaning--?"
"I've got a bungalow down on Long Island--a one-horse sort of a bachelor
affair--and I'm going to run down there this evening and stay awhile.
There's quiet, no society and good swimming. Will you come along and be
my guest until you grow tired of it?"
Whitaker looked his prospective host over with a calculating, suspicious
eye.
"I ought to be able to take care of myself," he grumbled childishly.
"Granted."
"But I've a great mind to take you up."
"Sensibly spoken. Can you be ready by three? I'll call with the car
then, if you can."
"Done with you!" declared Whitaker with a strong sense of relief.
As a matter of fact, he was far less incredulous of Ember's theory than
he chose to admit.
X
THE WINDOW
Though they left New York not long after three in the afternoon,
twilight was fast ebbing into night when the motor-car--the owner
driving, Whitaker invalided to the lonely grandeur of the tonneau--swept
up from a long waste of semi-wooded countryside, sparsely populated,
bumped over railroad tracks, purred softly at sedate pace through the
single street of a drowsy village, and then struck away from the main
country road.
Once clear of the village bounds, as if assured of an unobstructed way,
Ember gave the motor its head; with a long, keen whine of delight it
took the bit between its teeth and flung away like a thoroughbred
romping down the home-stretch. Its headlights clove a path through
darkness, like a splendid sword; a pale shining ribbon of road seemed to
run to the wheels as if eager to be devoured; on either hand woodlands
and desolate clearings blurred into dark and rushing walls; the wind
buffeted the faces of the travellers like a soft and tender hand,
seeking vainly if with all its strength to withstand their impetus: only
the wonderful wilderness of stars remained imperturbable.
Whitaker, braced against the jolting, snatched begrudged mouthfuls of
air strong of the sea. From time to time he caught fugitive glimpses of
what seemed to be water, far in the distances to the right. He had no
very definite idea of their whereabouts, having neglected through sheer
indifference to question Ember, but he knew that they were drawing
minute by minute closer to the Atlantic. And the knowledge was soothing
to the unquiet of his soul, who loved the sea. He dreamed vaguely, with
yearning, of wave-swept shores and their sonorous silences.
After some time the car slowed to a palpitant pause at a spot where the
road was bordered on one hand by a woods, on the other by meadow-lands
running down to an arm of a bay, on whose gently undulant surface the
flame-tipped finger of a distant lighthouse drew an undulant path of
radiance.
Ember jumped out to open a barred gate, then returning swung the car
into a clear but narrow woodland road. "Mine own domain," he informed
Whitaker with a laugh, as he stopped a second time to go back and close
the gate. "Now we're shut of the world, entirely."
The car crawled cautiously on, following a path that, in the searching
glare of headlights, showed as two parallel tracks of white set apart by
a strip of livid green and walled in by a dense tangle of scrub-oak and
pine and second growth. Underbrush rasped and rattled against the
guards. Outside the lighted way arose strange sounds audible above even
the purring of the motor--vast mysterious whisperings and rustlings:
stealthy and murmurous protests against this startling trespass.
Whitaker bent forward, inquiring: "Where are we?"
"Almost there. Patience."
Whitaker sat back again, content to await enlightenment at the pleasure
of his host. Really, he didn't much care where they were: the sense of
isolation, strong upon his spirit, numbed all his curiosity.
He reckoned idly that they must have threaded a good two miles of
woodland, when at length the car emerged upon a clearing and immediately
turned aside to the open doorway of a miniature garage.
For the first time in five hours he was aware of the hush of Nature; the
motor's song was ended for the night.
The clearing seemed no more than a fair two acres in extent; the forest
hemmed it in on three sides; on the fourth lay water. Nor was it an
unqualified clearing; a hundred yards distant the lighted windows of a
one-story structure shone pleasantly through a scattering plantation of
pine.
Linking arms the better to guide his guest, Ember drew him toward the
lights.
"Bungalow," he explained, sententious, flourishing his free hand:
"hermitage--retreat."
"Paradise," Whitaker summed up, in the same humour.
"Still-water swimming at the front door; surf bathing on the beach
across the bay; sailing, if you care for it; fishing, if you don't care
what you say; all sorts of civilized loafing and no society except our
own."
"No women?"
"Not a petticoat."
"No neighbours?"
"Oh"--Ember motioned to his left as they faced the water--"there's a
married establishment over there somewhere, but we don't bother one
another. Fellow by the name of Fiske. I understand the place is shut
up--Fiske not coming down this year."
"So much the better. I've been wanting just this all summer, without
realizing it."
"Welcome, then, to Half-a-loaf Lodge!"
Skirting the edges of the plantation, they had come round to the front
of the house. An open door, warm with light, welcomed them. They entered
a long and deep living-room with walls of peeled logs and, at one end, a
stone fireplace wherein a wood fire blazed heartily. Two score candles
in sconces furnished an illumination mellow and benign. At a comfortable
distance from the hearth stood a table bright with linen, silver and
crystal--covers for two. The rear wall was broken by three doors, in one
of which a rotund Chinaman beamed oleaginously. Ember hailed him by the
title of Sum Fat, explaining that it wasn't his name, but claiming for
it the virtue of exquisite felicity.
"My servant in town, here man-of-all-work; I've had him for years;
faithful and indispensable...."
Toward the end of an excellent dinner, Whitaker caught himself nodding
and blinking with drowsiness. The fatigue of their long ride, added to
the nervous strain and excitement of the previous night, was proving
more than he had strength to struggle against. Ember took laughing
compassion upon him and led him forthwith to a bedroom furnished with
the rigid simplicity of a summer camp. Once abed he lay awake only long
enough to recognize, in the pulsating quiet, the restless thunder of
surf on the beach across the bay. Then he slept round the clock.
He recovered consciousness to lie luxuriating in the sensation of
delicious and complete repose, and to listen lazily to the drum of
raindrops on the low roof--too lazy, indeed, to turn his head and
consult his watch. Yet he knew it must be late in the morning, for the
light was broad, if gray.
The shrill, imperative rattle of a telephone bell roused him more
thoroughly. Lifting on his elbow, he eyed his watch, then hastily swung
his legs out of bed; for it was nearly ten o'clock.
As he dressed he could hear the voice of Ember in the living-room
talking over the telephone. Presently there came a tap at his door, and
his host entered.
"Up, eh?" he said cheerfully. "I was afraid I'd have to wake you. You're
surely a sincere young sleeper.... I say!" His smile vanished beneath
the clouds of an impatient frown. "This is the devil of a note: I've got
to leave you."
"What's the trouble?"
"That's what I'm called upon to find out. A friend of mine's in a tight
place, and I've got to go and help pull him through. He just called me
up--and I can't refuse. D'you mind being left alone for a day or so?"
"Certainly not--only I'm sorry."
"No more than I. But I'll try to get back to-morrow. If I don't, the
next day--or as soon as I possibly can. Meanwhile, please consider
yourself lord and master here. Sum Fat will take good care of you.
Anything you want, just ask him. Now I've got to get into waterproofs:
it's raining like all get-out, but I can't wait for a let-up."
By the time Whitaker was ready for breakfast, his host had splashed off
to his motor car.
Later, while Sum Fat crooned to himself over the dish-pan in the
kitchen, Whitaker explored his quarters; to begin with, not in the least
disconsolate to be left alone. The place had for his imagination the
zest of novelty and isolation. He rather enjoyed the sensation of
complete dissociation from the rest of the world, of freedom to humour
his idlest whim without reference to the prejudices of any neighbour.
Within-doors there was every comfort conceivably to be desired by any
other than a sybarite; without--viewed from the shelter of a wide
veranda--a vague world of sweeping mist and driving rain; pine trees
Japanesque against the mist, as if etched in bronze-green on frosted
silver; a breadth of rough, hummocky ground sloping down to the water's
edge, with a private landing-stage and, farther out, a courtesying
cat-boat barely discernible.
The wind, freshening and driving very respectable if miniature rollers
against the beach, came in heavy gusts, alternating with periods of
steady, strong blowing. At times the shining lances of the rain seemed
to drive almost horizontally. Whitaker shivered a little, not
unpleasantly, and went indoors.
He poked his head into the kitchen. In that immaculate place, from which
every hint of breakfast had disappeared as if by magic, Sum Fat was
religiously cleaning his teeth--for the third time that morning, to
Whitaker's certain knowledge.
When he had finished, Whitaker put a question:
"Sum Fat, which way does the wind blow--do you know?"
Sum Fat flashed him a dazzling smile.
"East'ly," he said in a cheerful, clucking voice. "I think very fine
damn three-day blow."
"At least," said Whitaker, "you're a high-spirited prophet of evil. I
thank you."
He selected a book from several shelves stocked with a discriminating
taste, and settled himself before the fire.
The day wore out before his patience did, and with every indication of
fulfilling the prognosis of Sum Fat; by nightfall the wind had developed
into an enthusiastic gale, driving before it sheeted rain and great
ragged wastes of mist. Whitaker absolutely enjoyed the sensation of
renewed intimacy with the weather, from which his life in New York had
of late divorced him so completely. He read, dozed, did full justice to
the admirable cuisine of Sum Fat, and between whiles considered the
state of his soul, the cycle of the suns, his personal marital
entanglement, and the further preservation, intact, of his bruised
mortal body.
The ceaseless pattering on the shingled roof reminded him very strongly
of that dark hour, long gone, when he had made up his mind to wed a
strange woman. He marvelled at that madness with an inexhaustible wonder
and with an equally vast, desolate, poignant regret.
He considered faithfully what he had gained by reasserting his identity,
and found it an empty thing. He had been happier when a Wilful Missing,
unmissed, unmourned. It seemed as if it might be best to go away again,
to eliminate Hugh Whitaker from the coil his reappearance had created.
Then his wife could gain her freedom--and incidentally free him--and
marry as she willed. And Drummond would be free to come to life--with
hands unstained, his honour besmirched only in the knowledge of a few
who would not tell.
Did he remain, Drummond, he feared, would prove a troublesome problem.
Whitaker was, in the light of sober after-thought, more than half
convinced that Ember had guessed cunningly at the identity of his
assailant. The thing was conceivable, at least, of Drummond: the
hedonist and egoist seeking to regain his forfeited world in one
murderous cast. And it was hardly conceivable that he would hesitate to
make a second attempt whenever opportunity offered. New York, Whitaker
saw clearly, was far too small to contain them both while Drummond
remained at liberty. By attempting to stay there he would simply invite
a second attempt upon his life, merely strengthen Drummond's temptation.
He thought it very curious that he had heard nothing more of the
proposed action for divorce. It might be well to communicate again with
his wife's attorneys.
He went to bed with a mind unsettled, still curious, speculative, unable
to fix upon any definite course of conduct.
And the second day was like unto the first: a day of rain and wind and
fog periodically punctuated by black squalls that tore shrieking across
the bay with the blind fury of spirits of destruction gone stark, raving
mad.
The third day broke full of the spirit of the second; but toward noon
the rain ceased, and by mid-afternoon the violence of the wind had
moderated perceptibly to a stiffish but failing breeze beneath a
breaking cloud-rack. With the disappearance of fog, for the first time
since Whitaker's arrival the neighbourhood discovered perspectives. By
evening, when the wind went down with the sun, leaving absolute calm,
the barrier beach far across the quiet waters of the shallow, landlocked
bay shone like a bar of ruddy gold against a horizon of melting mauve.
In the evening, too, a telegram from Ember was transmitted by telephone
to the bungalow, advising Whitaker of his host's intention to return by
the following night at the latest.
This communication worked with the turn of the weather to effect a
change in the temper of Whitaker, who by this time had managed to fret
himself to the verge of incontinent departure for Australia _via_ New
York. He decided, however, to wait and thank Ember for his hospitality,
and thought seriously of consulting him as to the wisest and fairest
course to pursue.
None the less, the restlessness and impatience bred of nearly three days
of enforced inaction possessed him like a devil. After another of Sum
Fat's admirable dinners, his craving for open air and exercise drove him
out, despite the failing light, to explore the clearing rather
thoroughly, and to some extent the surrounding woodlands. At one time,
indeed, he caught sight, through thinning trees, of a summer home
somewhat more pretentious than Half-a-loaf Lodge--evidently the property
termed by Ember "the Fiske place." But it was then so nearly dark that
he didn't pause to investigate an impression that the place was
tenanted, contradictory to his host's casual statement; and he was back
on the bungalow porch in time to see the moon lift up like a great
shield of brass through the haze beyond the barrier beach.
Sounds of splashings and of song drew him down to the water's edge, to
find that Sum Fat had rowed out to the anchored cat-boat and, almost as
naked as industrious, was bailing it clear of the three days'
accumulation of rain-water. He came in, presently, and having performed
what was probably at least the eighth cleaning of his teeth since
morning, went to bed.
Wearying at length of the lunar spectacle, and quite as weary of the
sedulous attentions of a cloud of famished mosquitoes, Whitaker lounged
disconsolately indoors to a pipe and a book by candle-light. But the one
needed cleaning, and the other was out of tune with his temper, and the
flame of the candle excited the amorous interest of a great fluttering
fool of a moth until Whitaker blew it out and sat on in darkness, not
tired enough to go to bed, too tired to bestir himself and seek
distraction from a tormenting train of thought.
A pool of limpid moonlight lay like milk upon the floor beneath a window
and held his dreaming gaze while memory marshalled for his delectation a
pageant of wasted years, infinitely desolate and dreary in his vision. A
life without profit, as he saw it: an existence rendered meaningless by
a nameless want--a lack he had not wit to name.... The romance of his
life enchanted him, its futility furnished him a vast and profound
perplexity. To what end?--this was the haunting burden of his
complaint....
How long he sat unstirring, preoccupied with fruitless inquiry, he did
not guess. But later he reckoned it could not have been long after ten
o'clock when he was disturbed. The sound of a footfall, hushed and
stealthy on the veranda, roused him with a start, and almost at the same
instant he became aware of a shadow that troubled the pool of moonlight,
the foreshortened shadow of a man's head and shoulders. He sat up,
tense, rigid with surprise and wonder, and stared at the silhouetted
body at pause just outside the window. The fellow was stooping to peer
in. Whether he could distinguish Whitaker in the shadows was debatable,
but he remained motionless through a long minute, as if fascinated by
the undeviating regard returned by Whitaker. Then the latter broke the
spell with a hasty movement. Through the feeling of surprised resentment
there had filtered a gnawing suspicion that he was acquainted with the
pose of that head and the set of those shoulders. Had Drummond hunted
him down to this isolate hiding-place? On the thought he leaped up, in
two strides slammed out through the door.
"I say!" he cried loudly. But he cried, apparently, to empty air. The
man was gone--vanished as strangely and as quietly as he had appeared.
Whitaker shut teeth on an oath and, jumping down from the veranda, cast
wildly about the bungalow without uncovering a single sign of the
trespasser. In transit from his chair to the door, he had lost sight of
the fellow for no more, certainly, than half a second; and yet, in that
absurdly scanty space of time, the trespasser had managed to effect an
absolute disappearance. No conjuring trick was ever turned more neatly.
There one instant, gone the next!--the mystery of it irritated and
perplexed more than did the question of identity. It was all very
plausible to suspect Drummond--but whither could Drummond have juggled
himself in the twinkling of an eyelash? That it was no trick of an idle
imagination, Whitaker was prepared to swear: he was positive he had seen
what he had seen. And yet.... It was, on the other hand, impossible to
say where in the plantation of pines the man might not then be skulking.
Whitaker instituted a narrow search, but fruitless.
Eventually pausing and glaring round the clearing in complete
bewilderment, he detected or else fancied a slight movement in the
shadows on the edge of the encompassing woodland. Instantly, heedless of
the risk he ran if the man were indeed Drummond and if Drummond were
indeed guilty of the assault now four nights old, Whitaker broke for the
spot. It proved to be the entrance to one of the woodland paths, and
naturally--whether or no his imagination were in fault--there was nobody
waiting there to be caught.
But if any one had been there, he had unquestionably fled along the
trail. Whitaker in a rage set himself to follow, sticking to the path
partly through instinct, mainly thanks to a spectral twilight
manufactured in the forest by moon-beams filtered thin through
innumerable leaves and branches. Once or twice he paused to listen, then
again plunged on: misled perhaps by the mysterious but inevitable noises
of the nocturnal woodland. Before he realized he could have covered half
the distance, he emerged abruptly into the clearing of the Fiske place.
Here he pulled up, for the first time alive to the intrinsic idiocy of
his conduct, and diverted besides by the discovery that his impression
of the early evening, that the cottage was tenanted, had been well
founded.
The ground floor windows shone with a dim but warm illumination. There
was one quite near him, a long window opening upon the railed veranda,
through which he could see distinctly part of a living-room rather
charmingly furnished in a summery way. At its farther end a dark-haired
woman in a plain black dress with a short apron and lace cap sat reading
by lamplight: evidently a maid. Her mistress--judged by appearances--was
outside on the lawn below the veranda, strolling to and fro in company
with a somewhat short and heavy man who wore an automobile duster and
visored cap. By contrast, her white-clad figure, invested with the
illusion of moonlight, seemed unusually tall. Her hair was fair, shining
like a head-dress of palest gold as she bent her head, attentive to her
companion. And Whitaker thought to discern an unusual quality in her
movements, a quality of charm and a graciousness of mien rarely to be
noticed even in the most beautiful of the women he had known.
Of a sudden the man paused, produced a watch from beneath his duster,
consulted it briefly and shut the case with a snap. He said something in
a brusque tone, and was answered by what sounded like a pleasant
negative. Promptly, as if annoyed, he turned and strode hastily away,
disappearing round the house.
Alone, the woman watched him as long as he was in sight, her head to one
side with an effect of critical amusement. Then with a low laugh she
crossed the veranda and entered the lighted room. At the same time,
Whitaker, lingering and watching without in the least understanding or
even questioning why he was doing this thing so contrary to his
instincts, heard the heavy rumble of a motor-car on the far side of the
house and saw the machine swing off across the clearing and into the
woods.
In the living-room the woman was saying: "You may go now, Elise. I'll be
ready for bed before long."
"Yes, madam." The maid rose and moved briskly out of sight.
Her mistress, casting aside a scarf of embroidered Chinese brocade,
moved about the room with an air at once languid and distrait. Pausing
beside a table, she took up a book, opened it, shut it smartly,
discarding it as if hopeless of finding therein any sort of diversion.
She stood for a moment in deep thought, her head bowed, the knuckle of a
slender forefinger tapping her chin--charmingly posed. Whitaker abruptly
understood why it was he loitered, peeping: she was absolutely
beautiful, a creature both exquisite and superb, a matchless portrait
for the galleries of his memory.
With a sigh and a quick movement of impatience, seating herself at a
cottage piano she ran her fingers over the keys. Whitaker recognized the
opening bars of something or other of Beethoven's--he couldn't say
precisely what, at the instant; and even as he tried a thing happened
which drove the music altogether from his mind: in short, he discovered
that he was not the only watcher below the window.
Something--a movement or perhaps a slight sound--had drawn his attention
from the woman. He saw the other man standing boldly in full moonlight,
all his attention concentrated on the brilliant picture framed by the
window. He was unquestionably without knowledge of the nearness of the
other--of Whitaker in the shadows. And though his back was to the moon
and his face further shadowed by a peaked cap, Whitaker was absolutely
sure of the man: he was certainly Drummond.