comforting sense of decent consideration for her, as well as with some
slight and intrinsically masculine satisfaction in the knowledge that he
was overcoming her will and her resistance.
"No--honestly!" he insisted. "These handrails make it easy."
"But please be sure," she begged. "Don't take any chances. _I_ don't
mind...."
"Let me demonstrate, then."
The stairway was comfortably narrow; he had only to grasp a rail with
either hand, and half lift himself, half hop up step by step. In this
manner he accomplished the ascent in excellent, if hopelessly
ungraceful, style. At the top he limped to a wooden seat beside one of
the bath-houses and sat down with so much grim decision in his manner
that it was evident to the woman the moment she rejoined him. But he
mustered a smile to meet her look of concern, and shook his head.
"Thus far and no farther."
"Oh, but you must not be stubborn!"
"I mean to be--horrid stubborn. In fact, I don't mind warning you that
there's a famous strain of mule in the Whitaker make-up."
She was, however, not to be diverted; and her fugitive frown bespoke
impatience, if he were any judge.
"But seriously, you must--"
"Believe me," he interrupted, "if I am to retain any vestige of
self-respect, I must no longer make a crutch of you."
"But, really, I don't see why--!"
"Need I remind you I am a man?" he argued lightly. "Even as you are a
very charming woman...."
The frown deepened while she conned this utterance over.
"How do you mean me to interpret that?" she demanded, straightforward.
"The intention was not uncomplimentary, perhaps," he said gravely;
"though the clumsiness is incontestable. As for the rest of it--I'm not
trying to flirt with you, if that's what _you_ mean--yet. What I wished
to convey was simply my intention no longer to bear my masculine weight
upon a woman--either you or any other woman."
A smile contended momentarily with the frown, and triumphed brilliantly.
"I beg your pardon, I'm sure. But do you mind telling me what you do
mean to do?"
"No."
"Well, then--?" The smile was deepening very pleasantly.
"I mean to ask you," he said deliberately, taking heart of this
favourable manifestation: "to whom am I indebted--?"
To his consternation the smile vanished, as though a cloud had sailed
before the sun. Doubt and something strongly resembling incredulity
informed her glance.
"Do you mean to say you don't _know_?" she demanded after a moment.
"Believe me, I've no least idea--"
"But surely Mr. Ember must have told you?"
"Ember seemed to be labouring under the misapprehension that the Fiske
place was without a tenant."
"Oh!"
"And I'm sure he was sincere. Otherwise it's certain wild horses
couldn't have dragged him back to New York."
"Oh!" Her tone was thoughtful. "So he has gone back to town?"
"Business called him. At least such was the plausible excuse he advanced
for depriving himself of my exclusive society."
"I see," she nodded--"I see...."
"But aren't you going to tell me? Or ought I to prove my human
intelligence by assuming on logical grounds that you're Miss Fiske?"
"If you please," she murmured absently, her intent gaze seeking the
distances of the sea.
"Then that's settled," he pursued in accents of satisfaction. "You are
Miss Fiske--Christian name at present unknown to deponent. I am one
Whitaker, as already deposed--baptized Hugh. And we are neighbours. Do
you know, I think this a very decent sort of a world after all?"
"And still"--she returned to the charge--"you haven't told me what you
mean to do, since you refuse my help."
"I mean," he asserted cheerfully, "to sit here, aping Patience on a
monument, until some kind-hearted person fetches me a stick or other
suitable piece of wood to serve as emergency staff. Then I shall make
shift to hobble to your motor-boat and thank you very kindly for
ferrying me home."
"Very well," she said with a business-like air. "Now we understand one
another, I'll see what I can find."
Reviewing their surroundings with a swift and comprehensive glance, she
shook her head in dainty annoyance, stood for an instant plunged in
speculation, then, light-footed, darted from sight round the side of the
bath-house.
He waited, a tender nurse to his ankle, smiling vaguely at the benign
sky.
Presently she reappeared, dragging an eight-foot pole, which, from
certain indications, seemed to have been formerly dedicated to the
office of clothes-line prop.
"Will this do?"
Whitaker took it from her and weighed it with anxious judgment.
"A trifle tall, even for me," he allowed. "Still...."
He rose on one foot and tested the staff with his weight. "'Twill do,"
he decided. "And thank you very much."
But even with its aid, his progress toward the boat necessarily consumed
a tedious time. It was impossible to favour the injured foot to any
great extent. Between occasional halts for rest, Whitaker hobbled with
grim determination, suffering exquisitely but privately. The girl
considerately schooled her pace to his, subjecting him to covert
scrutiny when, as they moved on, his injury interested him exclusively.
He made little or no attempt to converse while in motion; a spirit of
bravado alone, indeed, would have enabled him to pay attention to
anything aside from the problem of the next step; and bravado was a
stranger to his cosmos then, if ever. So she had plenty of opportunity
to make up her mind about him.
If her eyes were a reliable index, she found him at least interesting.
At times their expression was enigmatic beyond any rending. Again they
seemed openly perplexed. At all times they were warily regardful.
Once she sighed quietly with a passing look of sadness of which he was
wholly unaware....
"Odd--about that fellow," he observed during a halt. "I was sure I knew
him, both times--last night as well as to-day."
"Last night?" she queried with patent interest.
"Oh, yes: I meant to tell you. He was prowling round the
bungalow--Ember's, I mean--when I first saw him. I chased him off, lost
him in the woods, and later picked him up again just at the edge of your
grounds. That's why I thought it funny that he should be over here this
morning, shadowing you--as they say in detective stories."
"No wonder!" she commented sympathetically.
"And the oddest thing of all was that I should be so sure he was
Drummond--until I saw--"
"Drummond!"
"Friend of mine.... You don't by any chance know Drummond, do you?"
"I've heard the name."
"You must have. The papers were full of his case for a while. Man
supposed to have committed suicide--jumped off Washington Bridge a week
before he was to marry Sara Law, the actress?"
"Why ... yes. Yes, I remember. But.... 'Supposed to have committed
suicide'--did you say?"
He nodded. "He may have got away with it, at that. Only, I've good
reason to believe he didn't.... I may as well tell you: it's no secret,
although only a few people know it: Ember saw Drummond, or thinks he
did, alive, in the flesh, a good half-hour after the time of his
reported suicide."
"Really!" the girl commented in a stifled voice.
"Oh, for all that, there's no proof Ember wasn't misled by an accidental
resemblance--no real proof--merely circumstantial evidence. Though for
my part, I'm quite convinced Drummond still lives."
"How very curious!" There was nothing more than civil but perfunctory
interest in the comment. "Are you ready to go on?"
And another time, when they were near the boat:
"When do you expect Mr. Ember?" asked the girl.
"To-night, probably. At least, he wired yesterday to say he'd be down
to-night. But from what little I've seen of him, you can never be sure
of Ember. He seems to lead the sedentary and uneventful life of a flea
on a hot griddle."
"I shall be glad to see him," said the girl in what Whitaker thought a
curious tone. "Please tell him, will you? Don't forget."
"If that's the way you feel about him, I shall be tempted to wire him
not to come."
"Just what do you mean by that?" asked the woman sharply, a glint of
indignation in her level, challenging stare.
"Merely that your tone sounded a bit vindictive. I thought possibly you
might want to have it out with him, for the sin of permitting me to
infest this neck o' the woods."
"Absurd!" she laughed, placated.
When finally they came to the end of the dock, he paused, considering
the three-foot drop to the deck of the motor-boat with a dubious look
that but half expressed his consternation. It would be practically
impossible to lower himself without employing the painful member to an
extent he didn't like to anticipate. He met the girl's inquiring glance
with one wholly rueful.
"If it weren't low tide...." he explained, crest-fallen.
She laughed lightly. "But, since it is low tide, you'll have to let me
help you again."
Cautiously lowering himself to a sitting position on the dock, feet
overhanging the boat, he nodded. "'Fraid so. Sorry to be a nuisance."
"You're not a nuisance. You're merely masculine," the girl retorted,
jumping lightly but surely to the cockpit.
She turned and offered him a hand, eyes dancing with gay malice.
Whitaker delayed, considering her gravely.
"Meaning--?" he inquired pleasantly.
"Like all men you must turn to a woman in the end--however brave your
strut."
"Oh, it's that way, is it? Thank you, but I fancy I can manage."
And with the aid of the clothes-prop he did manage to make the descent
without her hand and without disaster.
"Pure _blague_!" the girl taunted.
"That's French for I-think-I'm-smart-don't-I--isn't it?" he inquired
with an innocent stare. "If so, the answer is: I do."
Her lips and eyes were eloquent of laughter repressed.
"But now?" she argued, sure of triumph. "You've got to admit you
couldn't do without me now!"
"Oh, I can manage a motor, if that's what you mean," he retorted
serenely; "though I confess there are a few new kinks to this one that
might puzzle me a bit at the start. That chain-and-cogwheel affair to
turn the flywheel with, for instance--that's a new one. The last time I
ran a marine motor in this country we had to break our backs and run
chances of breaking our arms as well, turning up by hand."
The girl had gone forward, over the cabin roof, to cast off. She
returned along the outboard, pushing the boat clear, then, jumping back
into the cockpit, started the engine with a single, almost effortless
turn of the crank which Whitaker had mentioned, and took the wheel as
the boat swung droning away from the dock. Not until she had once or
twice advanced the spark and made other minor adjustments, did she
return attention to her passenger.
Then, in a casual voice, she inquired: "You've been out of the country
for some time, I think you said?"
"Almost six years on the other side of the world--got back only last
spring."
"What," she asked, eyes averted, spying out the channel--"what does one
do on the other side of the world?"
"This one knocked about, mostly, for his health's sake. That is, I went
away expecting to die before long, was disappointed, got well and strong
and--took to drifting.... I beg your pardon," he broke off hastily; "a
civil answer to a civil question needn't necessarily be the history of
one's life."
The girl put the wheel down slowly, swinging the boat upon a course
direct to the landing-stage at Half-a-loaf Lodge.
"But surely you didn't waste six years simply 'drifting'?"
"Well, I did drift into a sort of business, after a bit--gold mining in
a haphazard, happy-go-lucky fashion--did pretty well at it and came home
to astonish the natives."
"Was it a success?"
"Rather," he replied dryly.
"I meant your plan to astonish the natives."
"So did I."
"You find things--New York--disappointing?" she analyzed his tone.
"I find it overpowering--and lonely. Nobody sent a brass band to greet
me at the dock; and all the people I used to know are either married and
devoted to brats, or divorced and devoted to bridge; and my game has
gone off so badly in six years that I don't belong any more."
She smiled, shaping her scarlet lips deliciously. The soft, warm wind
whipped stray strands of hair, like cords of gold, about her face. Her
eyelids were half lowered against the intolerable splendour of the day.
The waters of the bay, wind-blurred and dark, seemed a shield of
sapphire fashioned by nature solely to set off in clear relief her
ardent loveliness.
Whitaker, noting how swiftly the mainland shores were disclosing the
finer details of their beauty, could have wished the bay ten times as
wide.
XII
THE MOUSE-TRAP
Late in the afternoon of the same day, Ember, appearing suddenly in
front of the bungalow, discovered Whitaker sitting up in state; a
comfortable wicker chair supported his body and a canvas-seated camp
stool one of his feet; which last was discreetly veiled in a dripping
bath-towel. Otherwise he was fastidiously arrayed in white flannels and,
by his seraphic smile and guileless expression, seemed abnormally at
peace with his circumstances.
Halting, Ember surveyed the spectacle with mocking disfavour, as though
he felt himself slightly at a disadvantage. He was, indeed, in a state
that furnished an admirable contrast to that of the elegant if disabled
idler. His face was scarcely whiter with the impalpable souvenirs of the
road than was his slate-coloured mohair duster. The former, indeed,
suffered by comparison, its personal coat of dust being deep-rutted with
muddy paths of perspiration; beneath all lay the dull flush of flesh
scorched by continuous exposure to sunlight and the swift rush of
superheated air. None the less, his eyes, gleaming bright as through a
mask, were not unamiable.
"Hel-_lo_!" he observed, beginning to draw off his gauntlets as he
ascended the veranda steps and dropped into another wicker chair.
"How _do_ you do?" returned Whitaker agreeably.
"I'm all right; but what the deuce's the matter with you?"
"Game leg, thanks. Twisted my ankle again, this morning. Sum Fat has
been doctoring it with intense enthusiasm, horse liniment and chopped
ice."
"That's the only proper treatment for sprains. Bad, is it?"
"Not very--not half as bad as I thought it would be at first. Coming on
top of the other wrench made it extra painful for a while--that's all.
By to-morrow morning I'll be skipping like the silly old hills in the
Scriptures."
"Hope so; but you don't want to overdo the imitation, you know. Give
nature a chance to make the cure complete. Otherwise--well, you must've
had a pretty rotten stupid time of it, with that storm."
"Oh, not at all. I really enjoyed it," Whitaker protested.
"Like this place, eh?"
"Heavenly!" asserted the invalid with enthusiasm. "I can't thank you
enough."
"Oh, if you forgive me for leaving you alone so much, we'll call it
square." Ember lifted his voice: "Sum Fat, ahoy!"
The Chinaman appeared in the doorway, as suddenly and silently as if
magically materialized by the sound of his name. He bore with
circumspection a large tray decorated with glasses, siphons, decanters
and a bowl of cracked ice.
"I make very remarkable damn fine quick guess what you want first," he
observed suavely, placing the tray on a small table convenient to
Ember's hand. "That all now?"
"You're a sulphur-coloured wizard with pigeon-toed eyes," replied Ember
severely. "Go away from here instantly and prepare me all the dinner in
the establishment, lest an evil fate overtake you."
"It is written," returned Sum Fat, "that I die after eight-seven years
of honourable life from heart-failure on receiving long-deferred raise
in wages."
He shuffled off, chuckling.
"Scotch or Irish?" demanded Ember, clinking glasses.
"Irish, please. How's your friend's case?"
"Coming along. You don't seem surprised to see me."
"I had your telegram, and besides I heard your car, just now."
"Oh!" There was a significance in the ejaculation which Whitaker chose
to ignore as he blandly accepted his frosted glass. "You
weren't--ah--lonely?" Ember persisted.
"Not in the least."
"I fancied I saw the flutter of a petticoat through the trees, as I came
up to the house."
"You did."
"Found a--ah--friend down here?"
"Acquaintance of yours, I believe: Miss Fiske."
"Miss Fiske!" There was unfeigned amazement in the echo.
"Anything wonderful about that?" inquired Whitaker, sharply. "I fancied
from what she said that you two were rather good friends."
"Just surprised--that's all," said Ember, recovering. "You see, I didn't
think the Fiske place was open this year."
He stared suspiciously at Whitaker, but the latter was transparently
ingenuous.
"She expressed an unaccountable desire to see you--told me to tell you."
"Oh? Such being the case, one would think she might've waited."
"She had just started home when you drove in," Whitaker explained with
elaborate ease. "She'd merely run over for a moment to inquire after my
ankle, and couldn't wait."
"Thoughtful of her."
"Wasn't it?" To this Whitaker added with less complacency: "You'll have
to call after dinner, I suppose."
"Sorry," said Ember, hastily, "but shan't be able to. Fact is, I only
ran in to see if you were comfortable--must get back to town immediately
after dinner--friend's case at a critical stage."
"Everybody loves me and worries about my interesting condition--even
you, wretched host that you are."
"I apologize."
"Don't; you needn't. I wouldn't for the world interfere with your
desperate business. I'm really quite happy here--alone."
"Alone--I think you said?" Ember inquired after a brief pause.
"Alone," Whitaker reiterated firmly.
"I'm glad you like the place."
"It's most attractive, really.... I say, who are the Fiskes, anyway?"
"Well ... the Fiskes are the people who own the next cottage."
"I know, but--"
"Oh, I never troubled to inquire; have a hazy notion Fiske does
something in Wall Street." Ember passed smoothly over this flaw in his
professional omniscience. "How did you happen to meet her?"
"Oh, mere accident. Over on the beach this morning. I slipped and hurt
my ankle. She--ah--happened along and brought me home in her
motor-boat."
On mature reflection, Whitaker had decided that it would be as well to
edit his already sketchy explanation of all reference to the putative
spy who wasn't Drummond; in other words, to let Ember's sleeping
detective instincts lie. And with this private understanding with
himself, he felt a little aggrieved because of the quarter toward which
Ember presently saw fit to swing their talk.
"You haven't seen Drummond--or any signs of him, have you?"
"Eh--what?" Whitaker sat up, startled. "No, I ... er ... how should I?"
"I merely wondered. You see, I.... Well, to tell the truth, I took the
liberty of camping on his trail, while in town, with the idea of serving
him with notice to behave. But he'd anticipated me, apparently; he'd
cleared out of his accustomed haunts--got away clean. I couldn't find
any trace of him."
"You're a swell sleuth," Whitaker commented critically.
"You be damn'.... That's the true reason why I ran down to-day, when I
really couldn't spare the time; I was a bit worried--afraid he'd maybe
doped out my little scheme for keeping you out of harm's way."
"Oh, I say!" Whitaker expostulated, touched by this evidence of
disinterested thoughtfulness. "You don't mean--"
"On the contrary, I firmly believe him responsible for that attack on
you the other night. The man's a dangerous monomaniac; brooding over his
self-wrought wrongs has made him such."
"You persuade yourself too much, old man. You set up an inference and
idolize it as an immortal truth. Why, you had me going for a while. Only
last night there was a fellow skulking round here, and I was just dippy
enough, thanks to your influence, to think he resembled Drummond. But
this morning I got a good look at him, and he's no more Drummond than
you are."
"The hell you say!" Ember sat up, eyes snapping. "Who was he then?"
"Simply a good-for-nothing vagabond--tramp."
"What'd he want?"
"Search me."
"But why the devil didn't you tell me this before?"
"You don't mean to say you attach any importance to the mere fact that
an ordinary tramp--"
"I attach importance to many things that other people overlook. That's
my artfulness. I don't suppose it has occurred to you that tramps follow
the railroads, and that Long Island is free of the vermin for the simple
reason that the Long Island Railroad doesn't lead anywhere any
self-respecting tramp would care to go?"
"It's true--I hadn't thought of that. So that makes the appearance of a
tramp in these parts a cir-spicious sus-cumstance?"
"It does. Now tell me about him--everything."
So the truth would out, after all. Whitaker resignedly delivered himself
of the tale of the mare's-nest--as he still regarded it. When he had
come to the lame conclusion thereof, Ember yawned and rose.
"What are you going to do about it?" Whitaker inquired with irony.
"Wash and make myself fit to eat food," was the response. "I may
possibly think a little. It's an exhilarating exercise which I don't
hesitate to recommend to your distinguished consideration."
He was out of earshot, within the bungalow, before Whitaker could think
up an adequately insolent retort. He could, however, do no less than
smile incredulously at the beautiful world: so much, at least, he owed
his self-respect.
He lolled comfortably, dreaming, forgetful of his cold-storage foot,
serene in the assurance that Ember was an alarmist, Drummond (if alive)
to a degree hand-bound by his own misconduct, a wretched creature
self-doomed to haunt the under-world, little potent either for good or
for evil; while it was a certainty, Whitaker believed, that to-morrow's
sun would find him able to be up and about--able to hobble, even if with
difficulty, at least as much as the eighth of a mile.
Long shadows darkened athwart the clearing. The bay was quick with
moving water, its wonderful deep blue shading to violet in the distant
reaches. Beyond the golden arm of the barrier beach drifted the lazy
purple sails of coastwise schooners. Gradually these blushed red, the
golden arm took on a ruddy tinge, the bosom of the waters a translucent
pink, mirroring the vast conflagration in the western skies.
Somewhere--not far away--a whippoorwill whistled with plaintive
insistence.
In the deepening twilight a mental shadow came to cloud the brightness
of Whitaker's confident contentment. He sat brooding and mumbling curses
on the ache in his frost-bitten foot, and was more than slightly
relieved when Sum Fat lighted the candles in the living-room and
summoned Ember to help the invalid indoors.
Neither good food nor good company seemed able to mitigate this sudden
seizure of despondency. He sat glooming over his plate and glass, the
burden of his conversation _yea, yea_ and _nay, nay_; nor was anything
of Ember's intermittent banter apparently able to educe the spirited
retorts ordinarily to be expected of him.
His host diagnosed his complaint from beneath shrewd eyebrows.
"Whitaker," he said at length, "a pessimist has been defined as a dog
that won't scratch."
"Well?" said the other sourly.
"Come on. Be a sport. Have a good scratch on me."
Whitaker grinned reluctantly and briefly.
"Where's my wife?" he demanded abruptly.
"How in blazes--!"
"There you are!" Whitaker complained. "You make great pretensions, and
yet you fall down flat on your foolish face three times in less than as
many hours. You don't know who the Fiskes are, you've lost track of your
pet myth, Drummond, and you don't know where I can find my wife. And yet
I'm expected to stand round with my mouth open, playing Dr. Watson to
your Sherlock Holmes. I could go to that telephone and consult
'Information' to better advantage!"
"What you need," retorted the other, unmoved, "is a clairvoyant, not a
detective. If you can't keep track of your trial marriages yourself...!"
He shrugged.
"Then you don't know--haven't the least idea where she is?"
"My dear man, I myself am beginning to doubt her existence."
"I don't see why the dickens she doesn't go ahead with those divorce
proceedings!" Whitaker remarked morosely.
"I've met few men so eager for full membership in the Alimony Club.
What's your hurry?"
"Oh, I don't know." Which was largely truth unveneered. "I'd like to get
it over and done with."
"You might advertise--offer a suitable reward for information concerning
the whereabouts of one docile and dormant divorce suit--"