THE MIDNIGHT INTRUDER
Once in their rooms the drooping spirits of the picnickers revived,
somewhat. It was a fine night, the air warm and fragrant. The windows of
the sleeping rooms were wide open and the moonlight streamed across the
floor, filling the whole place with its soft radiance.
"Oh look!" cried Grace, going over to the open window. "What a darling
balcony! I believe the other rooms all open out on it too. Good-bye,"
she called to Mollie and the countess, as she stepped nimbly over the
sill. "I'm going to make a call."
Grace had hardly disappeared, before the countess went quickly to the
door, closed it, then came back to Mollie, her finger on her lip.
Drawing Mollie over to one corner of the room, where they could not be
observed from the outside, the countess whispered. "Mademoiselle Mollie,
I believe you love me and trust me, even more than do your friends, and
because of this I am going to ask you to do me a very great favor."
Mollie's blue eyes looked lovingly up into the dark eyes of the
countess. So fervent was her feeling of adoration for this fascinating
stranger that she was prepared to grant any favor that lay within her
power. "I should dearly love to help you in any way I can," she said
earnestly. "You make me very, very happy."
The countess kissed her.
"Dear child," she continued, "the thing I am going to ask seems simple
enough, but some day you will understand how much it means to me. Wait a
moment," she added almost under her breath. "There is some one whom I
hold in such dread that, even in this desolate and far-away place, he or
his confederate might be listening."
She looked about her cautiously, then went to the window and anxiously
scanned the balcony. It was quite empty. Her eyes searched the long
avenue leading to the grove that looked like a huge black spot in the
moonlight. Then she returned to Mollie and said softly, "I am not afraid
of ghosts, and neither are you, Mollie, I am sure, because there are no
such things; but this place fills me with foreboding. It is so lonesome,
so utterly dismal. What was that? I thought I heard a noise below. Did
you hear anything?"
"Perhaps it was Jim closing up for the night," replied Mollie, pressing
close to the countess for comfort. "But what was the favor? I will do
anything for you."
"This is it," answered the countess, her voice again dropping to a
whisper. "Will you, for a few days, carry a paper for me? It is a very
dangerous paper, dangerous, that is, because some one else wishes it,
but it is a very valuable one to me because I may need it, and if you
will keep it safely hidden until I do need it, you will not only be
doing me a service but Mademoiselle Warren also."
Mollie looked puzzled. The countess's words were shrouded in mystery.
"Does it concern the Count de Sonde, too?" she asked breathlessly.
"Yes," replied the countess; "it concerns him very intimately. Will you
do this for me, little Mollie? I know now that the paper is not safe
either in my house or on me. It would be quite safe with you, however.
Even my enemy would never think of that, and, if anything should happen
to me, you may produce the paper at once. Give it to Mr. Stuart. He will
know what should be done."
The countess took from her dress a square, flat chamois bag which
fastened with a clasp and evidently contained a document of some sort.
"Fasten it into your dress with this pin," she said, "and keep the pin
as a memento of our friendship."
And the pin, as Mollie saw later, was no ordinary affair, but a broad
gold band on which was a beautifully enameled coat of arms.
"Is this another secret session?" cried Ruth's voice gayly from the
window.
The two conspirators started nervously.
"Come into our room," Ruth continued. "Papa has sent up the luncheon
hamper. There are still some sandwiches and fruit left; likewise a box
of candy. We were too frightened to have appetites at supper, but I
think a little food, now, will cheer us mightily."
"This looks quite like a boarding-school spread," exclaimed Miss Sallie
as they gathered around the feast. "But it is really a good idea. I feel
that this little midnight luncheon might help me keep up my courage
until I get to sleep."
"What a jolly little feast," cried the Countess Sophia. "I am quite
beginning to take heart again after that fearful ordeal below. I had a
feeling all the time that the chairs were not really empty."
"Goodness me!" cried Grace, "do change the subject, or we shall be
afraid to go to bed at all."
"And I move that we take to our couches at once," said Ruth, "while we
have the courage to do so. Madame de Villiers, are you not afraid to
sleep alone?"
"Not in the least, my dear. I am not afraid of the most courageous ghost
that ever walked. I believe I will retire at once. I am very tired."
Taking one of the candles which stood in a row on the mantel, making a
cheerful illumination, the stately old woman bade them good night, and
the tapping of her stick resounded through the empty hall.
Soon after Grace, Mollie and the countess stepped through the window,
and down the balcony to their room.
"You'd better close your shutters," called Grace over her shoulder.
"We're going to."
"And lose all this glorious moonlight?" asked Ruth. "Never. This balcony
is too high from the ground for any one to climb up, easily, and
besides, old Jim is going to be on guard to-night. Aunt Sallie thinks we
had better try to make ourselves comfortable without doing much
undressing. Even if we don't sleep very well to-night, we can make up
for it when we get back to the hotel." With these words Ruth blew out
the candles and five minutes later, their shoes and outer clothing
removed, she and Barbara and Miss Sallie were fast asleep.
Grace and Mollie, however, struggled vainly with the heavy wooden
shutters, but try as they might they could not succeed in closing them
tightly. After some subdued laughter and many exclamations they
abandoned their task in disgust, and blowing out their candles prepared
themselves for sleep.
At midnight Ruth awoke with a start. She had a distinct sensation that
some one had been looking into her face. But the room was still flooded
with moonlight, and she could see plainly that, except for her sleeping
companions, no one was there. She turned over and closed her eyes again,
but the sudden waking had driven sleep away.
Was that a noise?
Ruth held her breath and listened. There was not a sound except the
regular breathing of Miss Sallie.
Ruth lay with every nerve strained to catch the lightest footfall. In a
moment it came again, very faint but still distinct. Something--some
one--moved somewhere.
She sat up in bed and touched Barbara lightly on the cheek.
Barbara opened her eyes slowly then sat up. Ruth pointed to the next
room. The two girls listened intently. Again there was the sound, a
soft, a very soft footfall on a creaking board.
Cautiously the two girls climbed from the bed and crept over to the door
between the two rooms. On a small bed at the far side of the room lay
the countess, sleeping soundly. Grace and Mollie also were fast asleep
in the other bed. Suddenly Ruth gripped Bab's arm. The eyes of both
girls were riveted on the old fashioned dressing table in one corner of
the room. Before it stood the same terrible old man that Bab had seen at
the villa. He was examining minutely every thing on the dresser. Next he
turned his attention to the girls' walking suits which hung over the
backs of the chairs. He searched the pockets of the coats, the linings,
and even the hems of the skirts.
"He is certainly looking for a paper," Barbara thought, as she watched
him make his systematic search, "and he certainly has something to do
with the countess's affairs."
Barbara's mind reverted to the group she had seen on the hotel veranda,
the night before. What was the explanation of it all? Was the countess
really an impostor and why, when she evidently feared Monsieur Duval and
ignored Mrs. De Lancey Smythe, did she hold interviews late at night
with them? She had distinctly refused the "Automobile Girls'"
invitations to the hotel, yet she had not refused to meet others there.
And what part could this ferocious looking old man possibly have in the
drama?
All this passed rapidly through Bab's mind as with her hand clasped
tightly in Ruth's the two girls watched the intruder with bated breath.
To Bab there was something strangely familiar about him, his movements
suggested some one she had seen before, yet she could find no place in
her memory for him.
Failing to find what he desired, the old man again turned toward the
countess a look of indescribable menace on his face. He took a step
toward her then--a sudden burst of weird music floated up from the
gloomy drawing room. With a smothered exclamation the intruder whirled
and making for the window swung himself over the ledge. Ruth clutched
Barbara for support. She was trembling with fear.
"Don't be frightened, dear," soothed Bab bravely. "That isn't ghost
music. It's only Miss Thorne playing the harp. It's an unearthly hour
for music, but she couldn't have begun to play at a more opportune
moment, either. I believe that frightful old man thought it was ghost
music. Just listen to it. It's enough to give any one the creeps."
The demented old woman played on in a wailing minor key, and presently
footsteps were heard coming down the hall. By this time Mollie, Grace
and the countess were wide awake and seeing Bab and Ruth in their room
demanded to know what had happened. A moment later Madame de Villiers
and Miss Sallie, both fully dressed, entered the room.
"No more sleep for me to-night," announced Miss Stuart firmly. "I feel
that the sooner morning comes and we get out of this house the better
pleased I shall be."
At that instant a melancholy strain like the wail of a lost soul rose
from down stairs. Then all was silent.
"I begin to believe it is the departed spirit of her sister Lucy that
executed that last passage," shuddered the countess. "Come, my dears let
us finish dressing. It will soon be morning and then surely some way
will be provided for us to go back to Palm Beach."
"Shall we tell her?" whispered Ruth to Bab.
"We'd better," nodded Bab. "Then she will be constantly on her guard."
"Listen, everyone," commanded Ruth. "We are going to tell you something
but you mustn't feel frightened. We think the countess should know it at
once. You tell them about it, Bab."
Bab obediently began a recital of what had transpired after she and Ruth
had been so suddenly wakened. The others listened in consternation to
her story. The countess who turned very pale while Bab was speaking,
looked appealingly at Madame de Villiers. The stern old woman was
apparently much agitated. "He shall not harm the Countess Sophia," she
muttered, forgetful of those about her. "I will protect her even from
him."
"Aunt Sallie, shall I call Father?" asked Ruth a few moments later. The
seven women were seated about the room in silent dejection.
"No, Ruth," responded her aunt. "We will not waken him. A man that can
sleep through a concert such as we were favored with deserves to be left
in peace. It is after four o'clock now. I think we'll let him sleep
until six, at least. Then after breakfast, perhaps, he will be able to
devise some means by which we may return to the hotel."
It was a very tired and sleepy band of picnickers that gathered around
the Thorne breakfast table that morning, and breakfast was not over when
the honk of an automobile horn was heard and a large touring car rolled
up the avenue.
"Hurrah!" shouted Ruth. "It's Mr. Warren. Oh, but I'm glad to see him."
It was indeed Mr. Warren, who, when the party did not return that night,
had taken the fastest launch he could find and made for the picnic
ground. He had discovered the note, as Mr. Stuart had hoped, had
returned to the hotel where the history of Thorne house and its mistress
was not unknown and had come for them himself after a few hours sleep.
"I should be happy and honored if you would all come again," said Miss
Thorne as she waved adieu to her guests from the front piazza, while Jim
and Chloe bobbed and bowed and chuckled over the generous present they
had each received from Mr. Stuart.
As the automobile rolled down the avenue they caught a last glimpse of
the mistress of Thorne House still waving her handkerchief, and in every
heart was a feeling of tender sympathy for the little old woman whose
present was so irrevocably linked to the past.