WHEN Anne went up to her room she took a seat by the window where she
could see the channel. It was an undecipherable blackness, its farther
limit defined by the shore lights. But the night was very still, the
sagging weight of cloud hung low pressing down sounds. She could hear
the barking of dogs, the cries of children, a snatch of song from
the mainland. In this intense quiet the first explosive throbs of a
starting launch would be carried clearly across the sounding board of
the water.
She kept telling herself that Rawson’s absence had nothing to do with
Joe. She had been telling herself the same thing ever since Williams’
remark at supper. She gave her reasons for thinking so, as if she
were trying to convince an adversary who was maintaining an opposing
position. It was as Shine had said, Rawson had gone on some business
they knew nothing of. There must be endless business connected with
such a case. She remembered murder cases she had read of in the
papers--accounts of false leads, trails picked up and dropped, legal
questions of state and county authority.
Then across the water, running along the surface in stuttering
reverberations, came the sound of the launch’s engine starting.
She saw the light leave the shore and come sliding forward, moving
smoothly like a light held in a steady hand. Below it a golden dagger
stabbed down into the glossy blackness of the current. She watched it
approaching, the inside of her mouth like leather, her clenched hands
wet.
When it had disappeared round the end of the house she faced the door
and stood waiting. Her power to argue with herself was gone--if he had
found out anything he might come for her. She calculated his movements:
in the library now, talking with the others. A long time seemed to
pass. The stifling pulsations of her heart died down, and moving with
an exquisite quietness as if any sound she made might bridge the space
and call them running to surprise her guilty terror, she stole to the
door and opened it a crack. The living-room was lighted but empty; they
were in the library, shut in. Again a time passed and again her heart
calmed to a slower beat. It must be business, the business that had
nothing to do with Joe.
She closed the door and decided now she might rest, not go to bed yet,
but lie down and try to get back to courage and control. She took off
her dress and put on her negligée, and with hands raised to loosen her
hair heard a step on the stairs. It struck upon her ear, heavy and
quick, a man’s step, and she remained as she was, her arms lifted, her
eyes staring into her reflected eyes in the mirror. She stood thus till
it stopped at her door. When the knock came and Rawson’s voice spoke
her name, the hands dropped and she moved to the door.
“Can you come down-stairs for a minute?” the voice said, low and
guarded. “I’m sorry to ask you to get up.”
She opened the door. “I hadn’t gone to bed. Yes, of course I’ll come.
You want to----”
“Just ask you a few more questions. I’m glad I didn’t wake you.”
She followed him along the passage and down the stairs. They crossed
the living-room side by side, Rawson with long strides, she with short
quick steps. There was a sense of hurry in their progress as if they
were hastening to some ominous goal. When she entered the library her
glance fell on Bassett facing her across the room, his brows drawn
low over the dark trouble of his eyes. His look told her of anxiety,
apprehension and a passionate concern for her. She gave it back,
feeling a desperate cold courage run to her fainting senses.
Williams indicated an armchair near the desk:
“Take a seat, Miss Tracy. Sorry we’ve had to call you down.”
She fell into it and, as the men settled themselves in theirs, ran her
tongue along her dry lips and took a deep breath of air into her lungs.
Then she raised her chin and looked at them, inquiringly attentive.
During the passage of the look she laid the charge on her mind to go
cautiously and not be afraid.
“We’ve been making some inquiries about your brother, Miss Tracy,”
Rawson began. “About his leaving here. You told us, as I remember, that
you knew he went.”
“Why, yes, he went.”
“Did you see him go?”
“Well, no, I didn’t actually _see_ him, but that wouldn’t prevent--”
She stopped and looked from one to the other of the watching
faces--“What do you mean?”
She must find out what they knew before she ventured.
“Then you _didn’t_ see him?”
“No--I didn’t see the boat go, I was up-stairs, but of course he went.”
“We’ve found out that he didn’t,” said Rawson.
“Didn’t go, didn’t go back with Gabriel? Wh--why--” She swept them with
an alarmed look which fetched up on Bassett. “Why, that’s not possible!”
“Mr. Rawson’s seen Gabriel.” Bassett spoke very gently. “And he says he
didn’t take Joe over.”
“But I don’t understand. He was all ready. I said good-by to him.”
“When was that?”
“In his room, just a little while before he went. He was waiting there,
everything packed and ready, waiting for the boat.”
“And he said nothing to you about changing his plans?”
“No, I don’t believe he had changed his plans. It was his holiday, he’d
been looking forward to it, he was crazy to go.”
“Did he make any mention of an interview he’d had with Mr. Bassett?”
“No--I don’t think he said a thing about Mr. Bassett.”
“And he told you he was going, wanted to go. Was he jolly and
good-humored like a person starting on a holiday?”
“Yes--why shouldn’t he be? It was what he’d been longing to do for
years. After I left him I went to my room and dressed and when I went
down-stairs I saw that his bag and fishing-rod, which he told me he’d
left by the entrance, were gone, and I thought of course he was. And he
has, he’s gone some other way.”
Bassett looked at Rawson and murmured:
“That’s the explanation.”
Rawson went on without noticing:
“Do you know of any adventures, schemes, he might have had in his head
that would make him want to fool you, steal off without letting you
know?”
“No, but I wouldn’t. He didn’t tell me much. Boys don’t like their
sisters interfering.”
“When you saw him in his room did he say anything about Miss Saunders?”
“Miss Saunders? No--he was talking about his trip. But what are you
asking me all these questions for? If he didn’t go the way you thought
what does it matter?”
“_You’re_ sure he’s gone?” Rawson’s emphasis on the pronoun was heavy.
She looked at him with startled eyes:
“Yes, aren’t you? Why, you don’t think he’s _here_?”
It was evident that she had not grasped the sinister aspect of
Joe’s mysterious actions. It struck Bassett as odd, for he knew her
intelligence and her anxious doubts of the boy. What she had been
through, shock and lack of sleep, had blunted her perceptions. He
prayed she would get through the interview without comprehending and he
did not see how she could.
“How could he be here?” she went on, that look of naive astonishment
fastened on Rawson. “What for? And if he was--if he’d missed the boat
or changed his mind--wouldn’t he be with us all, here among the rest of
us? Of course he’s gone--he’s on his way to the woods now where he was
going.”
Rawson addressed Bassett:
“Didn’t you tell me he was to stop to-night in Bangor and meet his
friend?”
“Yes--they were to start out in the morning.”
“Where were they staying?”
“Some hotel, I don’t know the name. Do you remember it, Anne?”
She shook her head: “No. If he told me I’ve forgotten. I’ve no idea
what it was.”
“Hold on a minute,” said Williams, stretching out his hand. “Shine
spoke to me about that. He was asking about a hotel in Bangor young
Tracy recommended--the Algonquin Inn. That may be it.”
Rawson swung the desk chair round and drew the telephone to him:
“We can find out in a minute.”
They sat without moving while Rawson made the connection. As he spoke
the two men leaned forward, eagerly waiting, the girl drooped back in
her chair, her hands in her lap, her glance on the floor.
“Is there a Mr. Tracy there--Joe Tracy?” And then a period of
listening, punctuated with grunts of assent from Rawson. Then, “Mr.
Travers has gone--left on the six-fifteen this evening--I see.” A
silent stretch and a final “Thanks--that’s all I wanted. Much obliged.”
The receiver clicked into its hook, and Rawson swung the chair toward
them:
“Travers has been there waiting since last night. Tracy never showed
up. Travers had no message from him and left this evening for Moosehead
Lake.”
For a moment there was no comment. Anne raised her eyes, the sides of
the room looked a long way off and the light seemed to have intensified
to a violent glare as if she were sitting in the midst of a dazzling
illumination. The men’s faces were turned to her, glazed by the
radiance like glistening masks.
“I don’t know what to make of that,” she said, the words dropping
slowly with spaces between.
“Neither do we, Miss Tracy,” said Rawson, and leaning back, his
hands clasped over his stomach, he gazed intently at her through his
horn-rimmed glasses.
The glow increased, wrapped her round in a flame-like heat that ran
along her skin in prickling points. It shone on the lenses of Rawson’s
glasses which seemed to grow larger and come nearer, malignly glaring.
“Yes, you do,” she said and heard her voice hoarse and changed. “You’ve
made something of it already. And what you’ve made is lies--wicked
lies.”
Then she had seen it. Bassett made a step forward, but she leaped to
her feet, oblivious of him:
“You think he did it, just because you can’t find him. That’s all he’s
done, gone away. You must be crazy. What would he do it _for_? Don’t
you have to have a reason to commit murder?”
Williams was sorry for her, a pallid panting creature shaken out of her
gentle semblance by an unexpected revelation. “Come now, Miss Tracy,”
he urged. “Don’t get worked up.”
But she paid no heed, pouring out her words at Rawson who remained
without change of position, looking fixedly at her.
“They weren’t good friends. I don’t know why--I asked her but she
wouldn’t tell me. And what was it--a quarrel, a grievance? But that
wouldn’t make him want to _kill_ her!”
“I’ve told them that, Anne,” Bassett implored; “there’s no use going
over it.”
She made a motion for him to keep silent and moved nearer Rawson.
“It is strange his going away like that--I’ll admit it. But he
did strange things; and does every one always do what’s sensible
and reasonable? Because he happened to act in a way that we can’t
understand is no proof he’s a murderer. He didn’t do it, he couldn’t
have done it. And to think that he’s here! Where would he be? Haven’t
you searched the whole island? He’s gone, even if he didn’t meet Jimmy
Travers. He’s gone somewhere else.”
Rawson leaned suddenly forward and caught her by the wrist:
“What did you see last night in the living-room?”
If he had meant to surprise her he failed of his purpose. She hung back
from his grip and said with defiant emphasis:
“_I saw nothing!_”
“Are you sure it was a book you came down for?”
“It was a book, as I told you.”
“You could read a few hours after your friend was murdered?”
“I could try to read--it was better than thinking.”
“You’ve got a pretty cool head, Miss Tracy,” he added, and relinquished
her hand. She fell back in her chair as if his hold upon her had been
all that sustained her in an upright position. He rose, looking down at
her, curious and unsatisfied:
“I guess we’ll call a halt for a while. We’ve other work to attend to.
But wait here till we come back; we may have to do some more talking.”
He turned to Williams and gave a jerk of his head toward the hall.
“Come on, we’ll go up there now.”
He walked to the door, Williams following him. As it shut after them
Bassett went to her and bent over her chair. She held him off with a
hand on his breast and whispered:
“Where are they going?”
“Up-stairs, to the top story.”
She clutched the lapels of his coat:
“He’s there, he’s up there.”
“He--who?”
“Joe!”
Bassett stared into her eyes. He thought her senses were giving way:
“Anne, darling, what’s the matter? Joe’s not here--you’ve just said so
yourself.”
“I said what wasn’t true--he’s there.”
He caught her arms and drew her to her feet:
“What do you mean?”
“I know it, I’ve seen him.”
“Seen Joe himself?”
“Last night when I came down for the book. He’s hiding up there--I
thought he was safe. And now they’ll find him.”
Bassett knew she was telling the truth. His mind took a sweep backward
over the last twenty-four hours--she had known it all along, played
a desperate game single-handed. In flashes of retrospect came her
questions to him in the garden, her ashen face when they had burst in
upon her the night before. The situation, accepted and familiar, was
suddenly shaken apart like the pattern in a kaleidoscope and had fallen
into another shape, a shape so unexpected and horrible that he stood
frozen looking over her shoulder into its unfolding dreadfulness.
“What can I do--what can I do?” Her whisper pierced to his brain and
her hands jerked at his coat in frantic urgency.
“Nothing now. They’ve gone, we can’t stop them. But tell me the
rest--how did you know--tell me everything.”
“I saw the launch go without him and I was going to speak to you, but
Shine was there and I couldn’t. Then she was killed and I didn’t know
what to think, where he’d gone, anything! But that night I heard them
say there was a man on guard at the causeway, and I came down to tell
him in case he was here and would try to get across. And then I saw
him.”
“Where?”
“In the living-room. He came from the door into the kitchen wing and I
whispered it.”
“Did he say anything?”
“No--just ran the way he’d come in. And then I knew--” she stopped
and closed her eyes. “Oh, I didn’t know it but I thought it. _Can_ it
be true--could he have done it? One minute I’m sure and then I can’t
believe it; and I don’t know, I don’t know.”
She pressed her face against his chest and he held her close, saying
anything he could think of that might sustain her--they knew nothing
yet--it was all guesswork--something might turn up that would explain
it. He did not believe what he said--knowing more than she he had no
doubts--and under his words his thoughts searched wildly for possible
ways of coming to her aid.
“Oh, God grant it, God grant it!” she groaned, and drawing away from
him ran to the door, and opening it, stood listening. He followed her
and with pauses for that tense listening, she told him of her visit to
the top floor.
“He didn’t answer you?” he said. “Then he might not have been there.”
“Where else could he be?”
“Outside. He could see us going over the island from one of those upper
windows. After we’d finished he could have slipped out again, knowing
he was safe there.”
She saw the possibilities of this and hung on them, left the door and
conning them over, paced about the room. Presently they could bear the
shut-in space no longer and crept through the hall to the living-room.
They stood on the threshold, subduing their breathing that no sound
might interfere with their entranced attention. The silence of the
house lay round them like an enshrouding essence. Far away the rhythm
of the waves came and went, faint and regular, like the pulsing of the
world’s heart tranquilly beating in some infinitely remote realm of
peace.
They returned to the library and, as the minutes passed and the strain
increased, stood motionless and dumb as statues, waiting, listening.
They felt as if everything but that room and their suspense had ceased
to exist, as if time had stopped and this one fearful hour was to
stretch out forever.
Then a sound from the distant reaches of the house broke it--the
descending feet of the men. Bassett pulled her away from the door,
closed it and drew her to the middle of the room.
“Will you help me?” she whispered. “Will you help me whatever happens?”
He nodded, there was no time now for words. He motioned her to sit
down, and moved back from her, listening to the steps which were
crossing the living-room, entering the hall. Were they louder than
they had been going up, were there three pair of feet where there had
been two? They stopped at the door, it opened and Rawson and Williams
entered.
Williams threw an electric torch on the desk and said to Bassett with a
sardonic grin:
“Nothing doing.”
Rawson spoke to Anne:
“You can go up-stairs, Miss Tracy. We’ll put off the rest of our talk
till to-morrow. You better try to get some rest. And kindly remember to
stay in your room. I don’t want any mistakes made about that to-night.”
She murmured words of compliance and rising with pale composure left
the library.
When the door shut on her Bassett said: “You got nothing up there at
all?”
It had been difficult to frame the question. Since they had left his
position with regard to them had undergone a horrible change. He did
not know how horrible till this first moment of encounter when he saw
them ready to meet him in his old rôle. He felt a surge of repudiation
and then heard Anne’s whisper at his ear. It drowned the call of his
conscience, was louder than the guiding voices that had heretofore
governed his life. She was fighting alone, she had begged his help and
he was her lover.
“Not a thing,” answered Rawson. “But we were at a disadvantage; not
enough light, and it’s a good-sized place. There’s a big store-room
full of junk, messed up with stuff, and one of the electric bulbs is
broken. We couldn’t go over that thoroughly, and he may have found
a cache there. We’ll comb it over to-morrow morning by daylight. Of
course he could have got out on the island--all that kitchen wing’s
kept open. He might have been lying low up there all yesterday and have
come down last night.”
“And his sister saw him.” Williams laughed with good-humored derision.
“You didn’t get anything out of her, Rawson.”
“No, I didn’t. She’s either a very smart young lady, or an entirely
innocent one. I’m not sure which. But she _did_ lead us to believe
he’d gone when he hadn’t, she _did_ come down-stairs on a pretty
fishy errand, and she _did_ forget the name of the hotel he’d gone to.
All quite possible but--well, we’ll know to-morrow.” He walked to the
window and looked out. “Dark as a pocket!” He turned to Bassett: “When
the tide’s full out could a person get across that channel except by
the causeway?”
“There are places where they might swim the stream in the middle. It’s
a deep strong current but a good swimmer could do it.”
“He might try it--he must be pretty keen about getting off here. You
know this shore-line. Suppose you go down and take up a station below
the boat-house among those juniper bushes. That’s a place a person
might use as a sheltered start for a get-away. You can’t see but you
can hear. Take Williams’ gun, and if there’s a sound, challenge, if
there’s no answer, shoot. I’ll come down with you, I want to take a
look at Patrick and I’ll stay round myself for a while.”
He stepped to the sill of the window but Williams, feeling for his
revolver, stopped him:
“Hold on a minute. I got an idea that I think’ll help a bit. I’ve been
thinking of it all day and if I’m not mistaken it’ll land your man or
your woman neater and easier than lying in wait for them outside where
they know by this time we’ve got a guard.”
Rawson turned back into the room:
“Let’s hear it--we want to clear this up to-night. But, Mr. Bassett,
you go on. Stop and tell Patrick what you’re doing and see that he’s on
the job. I’ll be down with him later, unless Williams’ idea opens up
something new.”
Bassett took the revolver and stepped out of the window.
The night was muffling dark; beyond the long squares of light the
windows cast, it lay a velvet blackness, the murmurs of the falling
tide issuing from it as if it had a voice which was whispering its
secrets.
The outside darkness had a reflex on his own soul. As his body moved
forward into its shadowless density, his spirit sank deeper into an
enshrouding gloom. He saw Anne in a circling whirlpool, being sucked
nearer and nearer to the vortex. She knew Joe had never gone, had
connived at his concealment, had lied to them at every turn--accessory
after the fact. If they got the boy there was no way of extricating
her and it was impossible that they should not get him, held here, all
means of escape cut off. To-night, at the latest to-morrow, Joe would
be haled before them. He thought of anything he could do, any wild
act within the compass of human daring and ingenuity, and could find
nothing.
He reached the boat-house and groped his way about it to find Patrick.
Coming round the angle where the man was stationed he pronounced his
name and was surprised to get no answer. He stretched a feeling hand
which came in contact with a large warm bulk, immovable under his touch
and giving forth a sound of heavy regular breathing. His own breathing
stifled, his movements noiseless as a cat’s, he struck a match and
sheltering it with his curved hand, held it out. In its glow he saw
Patrick huddled on the bench, his shoulders braced against the wall,
his head drooped forward in profound sleep.
He dropped the match and put his foot on it. With the extinguishing of
its tiny gleam the darkness closed blacker than before and he had to
feel for the wall behind him, drawing close against it. The thought of
his trust rose hazy in the hinterlands of his mind like the memory of
some distant state of being in which he once had existed.
Pressed against the wall, he calculated the distances about him. The
approach to the causeway was to his right, an incline of rocky steps,
and in the stillness he could hear the lightest foot descending them.
On such a night Joe might venture again--would venture if his nerve
still held. If he did it would be within the next hour, and if Patrick
slept and Rawson did not come he would go by unchallenged.
A fitful breeze arose, carrying sea odors. He saw the lights in the
house go out, and the darkness close, solid and even, over where they
had been. He heard the murmurings of the tide growing lower, fainter,
till they sunk to silence and he knew the bed of the channel was
uncovered.