SKIRMISHING
MIRIAM hung up the telephone receiver with a dissatisfied frown. For
the third time her talk with the nurse in Doctor Roberts' office had
been cut off, and her appeal to the local operator at Upper Marlboro
for a clear line had brought no results. Moving away from the telephone
table she stood hesitating in the center of the living room. Should she
go back to her bedroom and lie down again, or go out for a walk? The
latter alternative was the most inviting, although reason told her she
should try to sleep. Sleep! She had tossed and turned on her pillow for
two mortal hours and never closed her eyes. Always before her was the
scene with Alexander Nash and Guy Trenholm. Later, her mind reverted to
Betty Carter's denial of her presence at Abbott's Lodge. Twice she had
been branded a liar--was she to sit down tamely under it?
Miriam ran softly upstairs to her room, her mind made up. Putting on
her coat and hat, she hurried down the hall again, and heard, as she
passed Mrs. Nash's partly open bedroom door, the sound of a male voice
addressing the sick woman. So Doctor Nash was with his wife! Miriam did
not linger.
As she started to close the front door behind her, the telephone bell
rang loudly and she hastily entered the living room. Her unexpected
return was a trifle disconcerting to Pierre, the chauffeur, who had
started from the pantry to answer the telephone. At sight of the nurse
standing with the instrument in her hands, he ducked behind the newel
post and kept carefully out of sight, while listening intently to what
was said.
The call was from the operator at Upper Marlboro, and a second later
Miriam was again speaking to Doctor Roberts' office nurse. This time
there were no interruptions and Miriam's talk with the nurse was clear
and, from her viewpoint, satisfactory. Ten minutes later Miriam was
tramping across Abbott's estate, careless as to the direction she was
taking, providing it led away from the house of mystery.
Pierre slipped from behind the newel post in time to escape Martha as
the latter went about her household work, a reluctant Anna in tow. The
murder of Paul Abbott had created a sensation throughout the county,
and, as the mystery surrounding the case deepened, the old hunting
lodge gained a reputation for ghosts and horrors which kept visitors
at a respectful distance, the morbidly curious only daring to venture
near it in the daytime. Anna had consented to "help out" provided she
did not have to go above the first floor and could be taken home by
Corbin in the Abbott car before nine o'clock in the evening. Pierre's
attentions, as he waited in the pantry, supplied a new thrill, which
the country girl found a pleasant diversion from Martha's sullen
irritability and Corbin's unwholesome leers.
It was approaching the luncheon hour when, from his seat by the kitchen
window, Pierre perceived Alexander Nash and Corbin talking together on
the roadway. Corbin, on his way from the woodshed with a wheelbarrow of
wood, had stopped and set down his barrow at a sign from the clergyman.
From his gesticulations, Pierre gathered that he was indicating the
points of the compass, but the little chauffeur did not wait to see
more. Martha's back was turned as she put several pies in the oven,
and Anna had gone for an instant into the servants' dining room. Like
a flash Pierre was out of the door and up the back staircase to the
second floor. His low knock on Mrs. Nash's door was answered by Betty
Carter.
"_Bonjour_, Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed, bowing respectfully. "I came
to inquire for the health of Madame." His voice carried to Mrs. Nash's
sharp ears and she sat up in bed.
"Admit Pierre, Betty," she directed. "I wish to speak to him." At her
imperious tone her niece opened the door still further and Pierre
stepped inside. With a quick click of his heels, he bowed from the
hips, his hands crossed before him, and then advanced.
"Madame is better!" And his respectful tone held a note of genuine
relief. Mrs. Nash was a kind mistress and her servants were devoted to
her. "Ah, Madame, I have been anxious--yes."
"Thanks, Pierre." Mrs. Nash was touched. She had, with Betty's aid,
slipped on a becoming dressing sacque, one of the articles brought from
Washington by her husband the evening before, and her boudoir cap was
attractively arranged. "Have you heard from Somers?"
"Yes, Madame. Doctor Nash directed her to take the afternoon train
for Upper Marlboro, and I will be there to meet her," explained the
chauffeur. He turned to Betty. "Your bag, Mademoiselle, came by express
just now and Corbin has placed it in your room."
Mrs. Nash understood Betty's quickly checked motion toward the hall.
"Run along, Betty, and see to your bag," she said, good-naturedly.
"I don't need you in here every minute, and will ring the bell if
I require anything," touching the brass ornament which Martha had
resurrected from a china cabinet for her use. "Well, Pierre, have you
followed instructions?" she added in a lower key, as Betty vanished out
of sight.
Pierre carefully closed the hall door and then came over to the bed,
and placed a small paper in Mrs. Nash's outstretched hand. Silently she
read the few lines of familiar writing before addressing the expectant
servant.
"Where did you find this?" she asked.
Pierre's smile was illuminating. "Corbin has his price," he admitted.
"What next, Madame?"
Mrs. Nash sat up a trifle straighter and pointed to the bureau.
"You will find a roll of money in the top drawer," she said. "Bring it
over here." Pierre complied with her directions so speedily that she
had but a second in which to secrete the paper. Taking the money from
the chauffeur, she handed him a generous sum. "Be watchful, Pierre,"
she cautioned, as he put back the remainder of the bills in their place
in the drawer. "Overlook nothing."
"_Oui_, Madame." Pierre halted on his way to the hall door, struck by a
sudden idea. "The nurse, Mees Ward--"
"Well, what about her?" as he hesitated.
"She plans to leave to-night."
Mrs. Nash's color changed. "How do you know?" she demanded sharply.
"I heard her telephone to Doctor Roberts to bring another nurse to take
her place." Pierre explained, and then waited respectfully for her to
address him.
Mrs. Nash viewed the chauffeur in silence and then glanced about the
sunny room. It seemed suddenly cold and bare to her. When she spoke her
voice had altered to a shriller key.
"As you go along the hall, Pierre, ask my niece to return," she
directed, and closing her eyes she laid down again, one hand stroking,
as if for companionship, the tongue of the brass bell.
Miriam's walk along the Patuxent River finally brought her to a
bridge connecting the highway, and she paused to rest on its parapet.
It was a rolling country and she had walked up hill and down dale
before striking the river bank. She had put on her high boots for
cross-country walking, but she had not found the ground as soft as she
anticipated, the snow of four days before having entirely vanished
except in a few sheltered nooks and crannies.
The view from the bridge diverted Miriam's thoughts, and she studied
the panorama spread before her with interest. Perched high on a hill
close at hand was a colonial mansion, its white pillars and gabled roof
a fair landmark to be seen for miles, while toward the valley nearer
the river, and obviously on the same estate, was a low building, the
architecture of which suggested a church or chapel.
Miriam was still speculating on her surroundings when she caught sight
of a solitary horseman riding across the fields to her right. The man
rode with the unmistakable seat of an American cavalryman, and horse
and rider seemed one as they cleared the low fences and swung at last
into the highway, headed for the bridge. As he crossed the bridge, Guy
Trenholm checked his horse with such suddenness that a shower of mud
bespattered Miriam, and his first words, instead of greeting, were an
apology.
"Have I ruined your coat?" he asked, in deep contrition, as he sprang
to the ground.
"A whisk-broom will remove the damage," Miriam replied lightly. "No,
please don't try to rub it off!" as Trenholm drew out his handkerchief.
"It must dry first. Where are you going in such a hurry?"
"Not going--returning," he answered. "This is my bailiwick, that--"
pointing in the direction from which he had come--"is Anne Arundel
County, and my jurisdiction ends at the river's bank."
"And you dignify that stream with the title of river?"
"Don't be so scornful," he protested. "To-day it is a stream, but in
the War of 1812 the British men-o'-war sailed up it to this point,
burned down the original colonial homestead yonder," indicating the
mansion Miriam had been admiring, "and sailed away again."
Miriam was paying scant attention to his historical facts, instead she
was considering his previous statement.
"So your jurisdiction ends at the river," she repeated. "And a criminal
has simply to run across the bridge to elude you."
"If he is a fast runner," dryly. Trenholm stroked his horse's soft
nostril, as the chestnut mare rubbed her head against his arm and
nosed in his pocket for the apple and sugar she so dearly loved and
always found. "Also, there's a sheriff in Anne Arundel County. Are you
returning to Abbott's Lodge, or," his eyes twinkled, "thinking of a
sprint across Hills Bridge?"
"My conscience is clear," she replied, "and I am on my way to the
Lodge."
"Then let me show you a short cut," and, taking her consent for
granted, Trenholm led the way off the high road and along a footpath,
his mare walking contentedly along behind them. Miriam, a lover of
horses, stopped every now and then to caress her, unconscious of the
charming picture she made, her mind carefree for the moment, and her
cheeks glowing from her long walk in the wind.
They had gone fully three quarters of the distance to the Lodge when
the footpath took a sudden turn to the right and, crossing a wood,
skirted a small graveyard. The unexpected sight caused Miriam to
start slightly and she took in the air of desolation and the unkept
appearance of the graves with a sense of depression which she strove to
shake off.
"The Masons' family burying ground," explained Trenholm, observing her
change of expression. "It is now part of Abbott's estate. Not a very
cheerful sight, is it?"
Miriam shook her head. "Not very," she echoed, and paused idly to
count the headstones, some still standing upright, while others, badly
chipped and lichen-covered, reclined on the ground. "Twelve," she
announced.
"No, thirteen," added Trenholm, pointing to a grave a little distance
from the others and running obliquely to them.
"Surely, I didn't see that one," she exclaimed. "Why is it placed in
that manner--outside the pale, so to speak?" and she touched a piece of
rusty iron which had once formed the fence around the family plot. A
number of other upright pieces of iron indicated the line it had once
taken.
"It's a suicide's grave," explained Trenholm. "There is an old
superstition among the negroes that such a grave cannot be dug
straight or on line with the others. Shall we walk on, Miss Ward?" and
turning, he whistled to his mare, standing some distance down the path.
They were both rather silent, Miriam, her momentary lapse into her old,
gay self, having dropped back into a depression deeper than before,
while Trenholm watched her with an absorption of which he was totally
unaware.
"I'm afraid you will be late for luncheon," he remarked, happening to
glance at his wrist watch as he put his hand on the bridle rein of the
mare.
"It doesn't matter," she replied absently. "It won't inconvenience
them, for Martha doesn't expect me. I should be asleep, you know."
"You should indeed," he said, and she wondered at his emphatic tone.
"This is no preparation for night duty."
"But I am not going on duty to-night," she broke in. "I'm leaving the
case."
"What?" Trenholm stopped abruptly and eyed her in concern. "Fired?"
"No, indeed!" She flushed hotly. "Do you suppose I can take care of
Mrs. Nash after her husband's treatment of me?"
He did not answer at once. "So you are running away," he commented
softly. "Frankly, I did not expect it of you."
"Mr. Trenholm!"
"Running away," he reiterated, paying not the slightest attention to
her indignant ejaculation. "Running away under fire."
"Nothing of the sort!" she flared back. "Do you suppose I'll stay in
any house where I've twice been called a liar?"
"I'm afraid you'll have to," he retorted, with equal heat. "You cannot
leave Abbott's Lodge, Miss Ward."
"What?" She gazed at him astounded. "Why not?"
"Because you are the last person known to have seen Paul Abbott alive,"
he pointed out slowly. "And your statements regarding the events of
Monday night are unsubstantiated."
Miriam stared at him as if unable to believe her ears. "Do you
insinuate I lied?" she demanded.
Trenholm's hand on his horse's rein tightened until the knuckles shone
white, but his glance did not waver.
"It is not a question of my opinion one way or the other," he said
sternly. "You are our chief witness, and as sheriff of Prince Georges
County, I cannot permit you to leave Abbott's Lodge."
Miriam regarded him intently. "So that is your attitude," she said,
finally. "I am glad to have it defined. You have, at least," with a
ghost of a smile, "been honest with me."
"Thank you!" Trenholm drew a step nearer. "Your reasonable acceptance
of the situation encourages me to ask a personal question."
"Yes?" she prompted, as he paused. "Well?"
"What is your interest in the black seal?"
Miriam stared at him, thunderstruck. "The black seal?" she repeated.
"Yes--the seal which you have traced many times on paper," and from his
coat pocket he drew a number of papers, and held them so that Miriam
could see the drawings she had made at odd moments while in the sick
room. They were cleverly done--distinct and clear in every detail.
Miriam looked first at them and then up at Trenholm, standing silent
and stern by her side.
"Those drawings were in my bag last night," she stammered. "How did you
get them?"
"I examined your bag," calmly.
Her eyes were dark with anger. Twice her voice failed her. "You are
impossible--intolerable--" she gasped, and turning ran toward Abbott's
Lodge, in her blind haste passing Alan Mason without recognition.
The latter stopped and stared after her, then catching sight of Guy
Trenholm standing patiently by his mare, he whistled softly to himself.