Tangled Threads
I stared at her a moment without replying--so she _was_ guilty! So she
_did_ know! I heard the opening of the door as the maid left the room,
and the sound somehow restored me a portion of my self-control.
"Cease? But why?" I asked. "Surely----"
"Marcia has said that the marriage is impossible," she interrupted. "Is
not that enough?"
"Mr. Curtiss does not think so. And if it is impossible, he, at least,
has a right to know why."
"Marcia has decided not; she has no wish to bring reproach to the memory
of a respected man, who----"
She checked herself--but she had already said too much.
"Then you know why your daughter left so suddenly?" I questioned. "But
an hour ago, you said you didn't know."
"I did not then," she murmured.
"I have no wish to know," I went on rapidly, noting her sudden pallor.
"I have no right to know. But I'm here to find Miss Lawrence so that Mr.
Curtiss can, at least, have a last talk with her. That seems a
reasonable demand. Do you know where she is?"
"No!" she answered explosively.
"She is not in this house?"
"Assuredly not; I have already told you she is not here."
"I fancied perhaps she had returned."
"Such a suspicion is absurd."
"You've had no word from her?"
"Not a single word."
"Then it wasn't she who told you the cause of her disappearance?"
"She told me nothing."
I had no need to ask who it was; some instinct told me it was the maid.
"And you saw her last----"
"When she left me to dress, as I've already told you. I've been speaking
the truth, Mr. Lester."
"Pardon me," I said; "I hadn't the least doubt of it; but I'm sure you
can appreciate my position, can look at it from Mr. Curtiss's side.
Perhaps you suspect where Miss Lawrence is, without being absolutely
certain. If you would tell me----"
She stopped me with a sudden gesture; I saw that I had touched the
truth.
"Or, at least," I persisted, pressing my advantage, "if you know why
your daughter fled, you might yourself tell Mr. Curtiss----"
Again she stopped me.
"The secret is not mine," she said hoarsely.
"Whose is it? Who has the right to tell?"
"No one!"
"And you will let it wreck two lives?"
I saw the spasm of pain which crossed her face. She must yield; a moment
more, and I should know the secret!
"To-morrow--give me till to-morrow!" she cried. "Perhaps you're right--I
must think--I cannot decide now--instantly. There are so many things to
consider--the dead as well as the living."
"Very well," I agreed. "I will call to-morrow morning----"
"At eleven--not before."
"To-morrow at eleven, then. And I hope you'll decide, Mrs. Lawrence, to
help me all you can. The living come before the dead."
She bowed without replying, and seeing how deadly white she was, I
checked the words which rose to my lips and let myself out into the
hall.
The maid was standing just outside the door. I wondered how much she had
heard of what had passed within.
"One moment," I said, as she started for the stairway, and I stepped
again into Miss Lawrence's room.
It had grown too dark there to see anything distinctly, for this room
was not flooded, as her mother's had been, by the last rays of the sun,
but in a moment I switched on the light. The maid stared from the
threshold, her face dark with anger, but not daring to interfere.
"This is the dressing-table, isn't it?" I asked, walking toward it.
"Yes, sir," she answered sullenly.
"It was here you found the letter?"
"Yes, sir."
"You persist in that farce?" I demanded, wheeling round upon her.
She did not answer, only stared back without flinching. I realised that
here was a will not easily overcome.
"Very well," I said quietly at last, "I shall get along, then, in spite
of you," and I returned to my inspection of the room.
There was a writing-desk in one corner, with pens, ink, and paper. I
picked up a sheet of paper and looked at it; I dipped a pen in the ink
and wrote a few words upon it; then I blotted it, folded it, and placed
it in my pocket.
"Now we can go," I said, and switched off the light.
She led the way down the stairs without replying.
"My hat is in the library," I said, as we reached the foot, and I turned
down the lower hall.
The library was even darker than the room upstairs had been, for the
trees around the house seemed to shadow especially the windows of this
wing. I noted how the windows extended to the floor and opened upon a
little balcony. One of the windows was open, and I went to it and looked
out. A flight of steps connected one end of the balcony with the ground,
and I fancied from the steps I could discern a faint path running away
among the trees.
A convulsive sob at the door brought me around. It was the maid, who had
entered and was glaring at me with a face to which the growing darkness
gave an added repulsiveness. The sob, which had more of anger than of
sorrow in it, had burst from her involuntarily, called forth, no doubt,
by her inability to hinder me in my investigations, to show me the door,
to kick me out. I could see her growing hatred of me in her eyes, in the
grip of the hands she pressed against her bosom; and a certain
reciprocal anger arose within me.
"Here is a handkerchief of your mistress," I said, plunging my hand into
my pocket and drawing forth the square of lace. "Please return it to her
wardrobe. It's valuable," I added, with a sudden burst of inspiration;
"especially so, since it's her bridal handkerchief."
The shot told. She took the handkerchief with a hand that shook
convulsively, and I determined to risk a second guess.
"She left it here," I said. "She left it here when she went out by
yonder window and ran through the grove. Shall I tell you where she
went? But you know!"
"I do not!" burst from her. "It's a lie!"
"You know," I repeated remorselessly. "You followed her there. It was
there she wrote that note which you brought back with you and which you
_found_ on her dresser."
"No, no!" The words were two sobs rather than two articulate sounds.
"Don't lie to me! If the note was written here, why did she use a
writing-paper different from her own? You're playing with fire! Take
care that it doesn't burn you!"
But I had touched the wrong note.
"Burn me!" she cried. "You think you can frighten me! Well, you can't!
I'm not that kind."
And, indeed, as I looked at her, I saw that she spoke the truth.
"Very well," I said; "do as you think best. I've warned you," and
without waiting for her to answer, I passed before her down the hall,
not without the thought that she might plunge a knife into my back--she
was certainly that kind! I opened the door myself and closed it behind
me, then started down the walk. But in a moment, I dodged aside among
the trees and hastened around the house. I was determined to follow that
path which started from the library balcony--I must see whither it led.