THE PLANT
The very sharpness of the attack shocked Sally into such apparent calm
as she might not have been able even to simulate had she been given
more time to prepare herself.
After that first involuntary start of surprise and indignation she
stood quite still, but with a defiant chin well elevated and her
shoulders back, and if she had in her turn grown pale, it was less
with fright than with the contained exasperation that lighted the
fires in her eyes as they ranged from face to face of the four.
Lyttleton, she noticed, lingered uneasily near the door, hanging his
head, avoiding her glance, almost frankly shamefaced.
The spinster posed herself with arms akimbo and smirked superciliously
at the badgered girl, malicious spite agleam in her little black eyes.
Mrs. Standish had fallen back on the interruption and now half stood,
half rested against the dressing-table, her passion of a moment ago
sedulously dissembled. She arched an inquiring eyebrow and
smiled an inscrutable smile, questioning the proceedings without
altogether disapproving them.
Nearer Sally than any of these, the strange man confronted the girl
squarely, appraising her with an unprejudiced gaze.
"If you please--" she appealed directly to him.
"Miss Manwaring, I believe?" he responded with a slight,
semi-diffident nod.
Silently Sally inclined her head.
"That's the name she gave when she came here, at least," Mercedes
commented.
Sally addressed Lyttleton. "Please shut the door," she said quietly,
and as he obliged her, looked back to the stranger.
"Mason's my name, miss," he went on: "operative from Webb's Private
Investigation Agency, Boston. Mrs. Gosnold sent for me by
long-distance telephone this morning. I've been here all evening,
working up this case on the quiet. The understanding was that I wasn't
to take any steps without her permission; but she left it to me to use
my best judgment in case her little plan for getting a confession
didn't work. So I thought I'd better not wait any longer, seeing how
late it is and how long after the time limit she set--and all."
"Do I understand Mrs. Gosnold gave you permission to break into
my room with--these people?" Sally demanded.
"No, miss--not exactly. As I say, she told me to use my best judgment
in case the jewels weren't returned. And, as I've said, it was getting
late, and Mrs. Gosnold nowhere to be found, and I thought I'd better
get busy."
"Mrs. Gosnold has disappeared?"
"Well, you might call it that. Anyway, we can't seem to find any trace
of her. I've got an idea that maid of hers knows something, but if she
does she won't talk to me. And considering that, and everything--the
circumstances being so unusual all around--it seemed to be up to me to
take some steps to make sure nothing was wrong."
He faltered, patently embarrassed by a distasteful task.
"Well?" Sally insisted coolly. "Still you've given me no reason for
this outrageous intrusion and accusation."
"No, miss; I'm coming to that. You see, the first thing was to get
that letter-box opened and examine those envelopes. I got several of
the gentlemen to act as a sort of a committee, so as nobody could kick
on the ground that everything wasn't done open and aboveboard."
"You found no confession, I gather?" Mrs. Standish interpolated.
"No, ma'am--no confession. All but two of the cards were blank. The
two had something written on them--anonymous information, so to speak.
I brought them along so that Miss Manwaring would understand, in case
there was any mistake, it wasn't my fault."
He fumbled in a pocket, brought forth the cards, and with some
hesitation handed them over to Sally.
Both bore messages laboriously printed in pencil, of much the same
tenor:
"_Suggest you look into Miss Manwaring's antecedents--also her
actions between one and three o'clock last night_."
"_Ask Miss Manwaring what she was doing out of bed after one last
night--search of her room might prove helpful_."
Silently Sally returned the cards.
"You see," the detective apologised heavily, "after that, there wasn't
anything for it but to ask you to explain."
"There is nothing to explain; the charge is preposterous."
"Yes, miss--that is, I hope so, for your sake. All the same, I had to
ask you. Most of the gentlemen present when I opened the envelopes
seemed to think I ought to do something at once. Personally, I'd
rather have consulted Mrs. Gosnold before putting it up to you this
way."
"I'm afraid you will find that would have been wiser."
"Yes, miss, perhaps. But she being absent and no way of finding out
when she was liable to be back and the case left in my hands, to act
on my discretion, providing no confession was made--"
"Still, I advise you to wait. If you think you must do something, why
not employ your talents to find Mrs. Gosnold?"
"Well--that's so, too; and I would, only it was suggested that maybe
she hadn't disappeared really, but was just keeping out of sight until
this business was settled, preferring not to be around when anything
unpleasant was pulled off. Like this."
Sally shrugged.
"Very well," she said indifferently. "What then?"
"I'd like to ask you some questions."
"Spare yourself the trouble. I shan't answer."
"You might make things easier for all of us, miss, yourself included."
"I promise faithfully," Sally said, "to answer any questions you may
care to ask fully, freely, truthfully--in the presence of Mrs.
Gosnold. Find her first. Until you do, I refuse to say a word."
"I don't suppose you'd mind telling me how you came to get your
job as secretary to Mrs. Gosnold."
True to her word, Sally kept her lips tight shut.
At this, Miss Pride felt called upon to volunteer: "Mrs. Standish
ought to be able to tell you that, Mr. Mason. She brought
Miss--Manwaring here."
"I'm sure," Mrs. Standish said with an elaborate air of indifference,
"I know little or nothing about Miss Manwaring." But Sally's regard
was ominous. She hesitated, apparently revising what she had at first
intended to say. "She came to me last week--the day we left New
York--with a letter of recommendation purporting to be from Mrs.
English--Mrs. Cornwallis English, the social worker, who is now in
Italy."
"Purporting?" iterated the detective.
"Oh, I have no reason to believe it wasn't genuine, I'm sure."
"Have you the letter handy'?"
"I don't think I have," Mrs. Standish replied dubiously. "Perhaps. I
can't say. I'll have to look. I'm careless about such matters."
"That's all you know about her?"
"Practically. She seemed pleasant-spoken and intelligent. I took a
fancy to her, gave her an outfit of clothing, brought her here and
introduced her to my aunt, who personally engaged her, understanding
all the circumstances. That is the limit of my responsibility for Miss
Manwaring."
Sally drew a deep breath; at all events, the woman had not dared
repeat any of her former abominable accusations; if she was
unfriendly, she was also committed to a neutral attitude: no more talk
of a forged letter, no more innuendo concerning Sally's "accomplice"
of the night before.
There was a pause. The detective scratched his head in doubt.
"All this is very irregular," he deprecated vaguely.
Miss Pride opened her mouth to speak, but Lyttleton silenced her with
a murmured word or two. She sniffed resentfully but held her peace.
"I can't accept your apology;" Sally returned with dignity. "But I'm
sure you have no longer any excuse for annoying me."
But Mr. Mason held his ground. "The trouble is," he insisted, "after
those cards had been read, one of the gentlemen said he had seen you
out in the garden between two and three o'clock."
"Mr. Lyttleton!" Sally accused with a lip of scorn.
"Why, yes," the detective admitted.
Mrs. Standish made a furious gesture, but contrived to refrain from
speech.
"I suppose I shouldn't have mentioned it," Lyttleton said blandly,
looking Sally straight in the face. "But the circumstances were
peculiar, to say the least, if not incriminating. I saw this
cloaked figure from my window. I thought its actions suspicious. I
dressed hurriedly and ran down in time to intercept Miss Manwaring at
an appointment with a strange man. I didn't see his face. He turned
and ran. While I was questioning Miss Manwaring Mr. Trego came up and
misconstrued the situation. We had a bit of a row, and before it was
cleared up Miss Manwaring had escaped."
Sally's sole comment was an "Oh!" that quivered with its burden of
loathing.
"Sorry," Lyttleton finished cheerfully; "but I felt I had to mention
it. I dare say the matter was innocent enough, but still Miss
Manwaring hasn't explained it, so far as I know; I felt it my duty to
speak."
To the inquiring attitude of the detective Sally responded simply:
"Find Mrs. Gosnold."
"Yes, miss," he returned with the obstinacy of a slow-witted man.
"Meantime, I guess you won't mind my looking round a bit, will you?"
"Looking round?"
"Your room, miss."
Sally gasped. "You have the insolence to suggest searching my room?"
"Well, miss--"
"I forbid you positively to do anything of sort without Mrs. Gosnold's
permission."
"There!" Miss Pride interpolated with sour satisfaction. "If she has
nothing to fear, why should she object?"
"Do be quiet, Mercedes," Mrs. Standish advised sweetly. "Miss
Manwaring is quite right to object, even if innocent."
"You see, miss," Mason persisted, "I have Mrs. Gosnold's authority to
make such investigation as I see fit."
"I forbid you to touch anything in this room."
"I'm sorry. I'd rather not. But it looks to me like my duty."
She perceived at length that he was stubbornly bent on this outrageous
thing. For a breath she contemplated dashing madly from the place,
seeking Trego, and demanding his protection.
But immediately, with a sharp pang, she was reminded that she might no
longer depend even on Trego.
As the detective tentatively approached her dressing-table the girl
swung a wicker armchair about so that it faced a corner of the room
and threw herself angrily into it, her back to the four.
Immediately, as if nothing but her eye had prevented it theretofore,
the search was instituted.
She heard drawers opened and closed, sounds of rummaging. She
trembled violently with impotent exasperation. It was intolerable, yet
it must be endured. There was one satisfaction: they would find
nothing, and presently Mrs. Gosnold would reappear and their insolence
be properly punished.
She could not believe that Mrs. Gosnold would let it pass unrebuked.
And yet . . .
Of a sudden it was borne in upon the girl that she had found this
little island world a heartless, selfish place, that she had yet to
meet one of its inhabitants by whom her faith and affection had not
been betrayed, deceived and despised.
Remembering this, dared she count upon even Mrs. Gosnold in this hour
of greatest need?
Had that lady not, indeed, already failed her protegee by indulging in
the whim of this unaccountable disappearance?
Must one believe what had been suggested, that she, believing her
confidence misplaced in Sally, was merely keeping out of the way until
the unhappy business had been accomplished and the putative cause of
it all removed from Gosnold House?
Behind her back the futile business of searching her room, so
inevitably predestined to failure and confusion, was being vigorously
prosecuted, to judge by the sounds that marked its progress. And from
the shifting play of shadows upon the walls she had every reason to
believe that Miss Pride was lending the detective a willing hand. If
so, it was well in character; nothing could be more consistent
with the spinster's disposition than this eagerness to believe the
worst of the woman she chose to consider her rival in the affections
of Mrs. Gosnold. A pitiful, impotent, jealousy-bitten creature: Sally
was almost sorry for her, picturing the abashment of the woman when
her hopes proved fruitless, her, fawning overtures toward forgiveness
and reconciliation. Possibly she had been one of the two to accuse
Sally on the cards.
The other? Not Mrs. Standish. She would hardly direct suspicion
against the girl she despised when by so doing she would imperil her
own schemes. She was too keenly selfish to cut off her nose to spite
her face. Sally could imagine Mrs. Standish as remaining all this
while conspicuously aloof, overseeing the search with her habitual
manner of weary toleration, but inwardly more than a little tremulous
with fear lest the detective or Mercedes chance upon that jewel-case
and so upset her claim against the burglary-insurance concern.
Lyttleton, too, would in all likelihood be standing aside, posing with
a nonchalant shoulder against the wall, his slender, nicely manicured
fingers stroking his scrubby moustache (now that he had discarded the
beard of Sir Francis, together with his mask) and not quite hiding the
smirk of his contemptible satisfaction--the satisfaction of one who
had lied needlessly, meanly, out of sheer spite, and successfully,
since his lie, being manufactured out of whole cloth, could never be
controverted save by the worthless word of the woman libelled.
More than probably Lyttleton had been the other anonymous informant.
And whatever the outcome of this sickening affair (Sally told herself
with a shudder of disgust) she might thank her lucky stars for this
blessing, that she had been spared the unspeakable ignominy of not
finding Mr. Lyttleton out before it was too late.
Trego, too; though she could consider a little more compassionately
the poor figure Trego cut, with his pretensions to sturdy common sense
dissipated and exposing the sentimentalist so susceptible that he was
unable to resist the blandishments of the first woman who chose to set
her cap for him. Poor thing: he would suffer a punishment even beyond
his deserts when Mrs. Artemas had consummated her purpose and bound
him legally to her.
For all that, Sally felt constrained to admit, Trego had been in a
measure right in his contention, though it had needed his folly to
persuade her of his wisdom. She was out of her element here. And now
she began to despair of ever learning to breathe with ease the
rarefied atmosphere of the socially elect. The stifling midsummer air
that stagnated in Huckster's Bargain Basement was preferable, heavy
though it was with the smell of those to whom soap is a luxury
and frequently a luxury uncoveted; there, at least, sincerity and
charity did not suffocate and humbler virtues flourished.
Bitterly Sally begrudged the concession that she had been wrong. All
along she had nourished her ambition for the society of her betters on
the conviction that, with all her virtues, she was as good as anybody.
To find that with all her faults she was better, struck a cruel blow
at her pride.
A low whistle interrupted at once her morose reflections and the mute
activity of the search.
Immediately she heard the detective exclaim: "What's this?"
Miss Pride uttered a shrill cry of satisfaction; Mrs. Standish said
sharply: "Aunt Abby's solitaire!"
To this chorus Mr. Lyttleton added a drawl: "Well, I'm damned!"
Unable longer to contain her alarm and curiosity, Sally sprang from
her chair and confronted four accusing countenances.
"What do you know about this?" the detective demanded.
Clipped between his thumb and forefinger a huge diamond coruscated in
the light of the electrics.
Momentarily the earth quaked beneath Sally's feet.
Her eyes were fixed on the ring and blank with terror; her mouth
dropped witlessly ajar; there was no more colour in her face than in
this paper; never a countenance spelled guilt more damningly than
hers.
"Yes!" Miss Pride chimed in triumphantly.
"_What_ have you to say to this, young woman?"
Sally heard, as if remotely, her own voice ask hoarsely: "What--what
is it'?"
"A diamond ring," Mason responded obviously.
"Aunt Abby's," Mrs. Standish repeated.
Mason glanced at this last: "You recognise it?"
The woman nodded.
"Where did you find the thing?" Sally demanded.
"Rolled up inside this pair of stockings." Mason indicated the limp,
black silk affairs which he had taken from a dresser-drawer. "Well,
how about it?"
"I don't know anything about it. I tell you I never saw it before."
The detective grinned incredulously. "Not even on Mrs. Gosnold's
finger?"
"No--never anywhere."
"Mrs. Gosnold seldom wears the ring." Mrs. Standish put in; "but it is
none the less hers."
"Well, where's the rest of the stuff'?" Mason insisted.
"I don't know. I tell you, I know nothing about that ring. I
have no idea how it got where you found it. Somebody must have put it
there." Sally caught her distracted head between her hands and tried
her best to compose herself. But it was useless; the evidence was too
frightfully clear against her; hysteria threatened.
"Mrs. Standish gave me the stockings," she stammered wildly, "rolled
up as you found them. Ask her."
"Oh, come, Miss Manwaring; you go too far!" Mrs. Standish told her
coldly. "If you are possibly innocent, compose yourself and prove it.
If you are guilty, you may as well confess and not strain our patience
any longer. But don't try to drag me into the affair; I won't have
it."
"I guess there isn't much question of innocence or guilt," Mason
commented. "Here's evidence enough. It only remains to locate the rest
of the loot. It'll be easier for you," he addressed Sally directly,
"if you own up--come through with a straight story and save Mrs.
Gosnold trouble and expense."
He paused encouragingly, but Sally shook her head.
"I can't tell you anything," she protested. "I don't know anything.
It's some horrible mistake. Or else--it's a plant to throw suspicion
on me and divert it from the real thief."
"Plant?" Miss Pride queried with a specious air of bewilderment.
"Thieves' jargon--manufactured evidence," Lyttleton explained.
"Ah, yes," said the old maid with a nod of satisfaction.
"If it's a plant, it's up to you to show us," Mason came back. "If it
isn't, you may as well lead us to the rest of it quick."
"You've looked everywhere, I presume?" Lyttleton inquired casually.
"Everywhere I can think of in this room and the bath-room," the
detective averred; "and I'm a pretty good little looker. That's my
business, of course. I'm willing to swear there's no more jewelry
concealed anywhere hereabouts."
"Unless, perhaps, she's got it on her person."
"That might be, of course," Mason allowed, eying the girl critically.
"But somehow I don't think so. If she had, why would she have left
this one piece buried here? No; you'll find she's hidden the rest of
the stuff somewhere--about the house or grounds, maybe--or passed it
on to a confederate, the guy you saw her talking to last night, as
like as not and held out this ring to make sure of her bit when it
comes to a split-up."
"Still," Lyttleton persisted, "ought you to take any chances?"
"Well . . ." The detective shuffled with embarrassment. "Of course," he
said with brilliant inspiration, "if these ladies will undertake the
job . . ."
Miss Pride stirred smartly. "It's not what I want to do," she
insisted, "but if you insist, and on dear Abigail's account . . ."
With a tremendous effort Sally whipped her faculties together and
temporarily reasserted the normal outward aspect of her forceful self.
"I will not be searched," she said with determination. "With Mrs.
Gosnold present--yes, anything. Find her, and I'll submit to any
indignity you can think of. But if Mrs. Standish and Miss Pride think
I will permit them to search me in her absence . . ."
She laughed shortly. "They'd better not try it--that's all!" and on
this vague threat turned away and threw herself back into the chair.
"I'm sure," Miss Pride agreed, "I'd much rather not, for my part. And
dear Abigail is so peculiar. Perhaps it would be best to wait till she
gets back."
"Or hunt her up," Lyttleton amended.
"I guess you're right," Mason agreed, a trace dubiously.
"But what will you do with the girl in the meantime? Take her to
jail?"
"No; I guess not yet--not until we see what Mrs. Gosnold thinks,
anyway. She ought to be safe enough here. That door locks; we'll take
the key. She can't get out of the window without risking her neck--and
if she did make a getaway uninjured, she can't leave the Island before
morning. Let's move along, as you say, and see if we can't find Mrs.
Gosnold."
Skirts rustled behind Sally's sullen back and feet shuffled. Then the
door closed softly and she heard the key rattle in the lock.
She sat moveless, stunned, aghast.
Strangely, she did not weep; her spirit was bruised beyond the
consolation of tears.
The wall upon which her vacant vision focused was not more blankly
white than her despair was blankly black. She was utterly bereft of
hope; no ray penetrated that bleak darkness which circumscribed her
understanding.
Now the last frail prop had been knocked from under her precarious
foothold in the faith and favour of Mrs. Gosnold.
As to the identity of the enemy who had done this thing Sally
entertained not a shadow of doubt, though lacking this proof she could
not have believed she owned one so vindictive, ruthless and fiendishly
ingenious.
But after what had happened it seemed most indisputable that
Lyttleton, not content with avenging his overnight discomfiture
by an unscrupulous lie, had deliberately plotted and planted this
additional false evidence against the girl to the end that she might
beat out her life against the stone walls of a penitentiary.
For who would not believe his word against hers? Lyttleton had stolen
the jewels: what else had he carried so stealthily down to the beach?
What else had those signals meant but that they had been left there in
a prearranged spot? For what else had the boat put in from the yacht
to the beach? As for the window of the signals, it might well have
been Lyttleton's, which adjoined the row of three which Sally had
settled upon; and she had delayed so long after seeing him disappear
on the beach that he must have had ample time to return to his room,
flash the electric lights, and come out again to trap the one he knew
had been watching him.
And if he hadn't stolen the jewels, what else was that "private
matter" which he had been so anxious to keep quiet that he was
resigned to purchase Sally's silence even at the cost of making love
to her? And if not he, who had been the thief whose identity Mrs.
Gosnold was so anxious to conceal that she had invented her silly
scheme for extracting an anonymous confession?--her statement to the
contrary notwithstanding that Lyttleton had not stolen the
jewels and that she knew positively who had! The man was a favourite
of Mrs. Gosnold's; she had proved it too often by open indulgence of
his nonsense. He amused her. And it seemed that in this milieu the
virtue of being amusing outweighed all vices.
Why else had Mrs. Gosnold refused to listen to the story Sally was so
anxious to tell her about her precious Don Lyttleton? She must have
known, then, that Sally was under suspicion. Miss Pride had known it,
or she would not have found the courage to accuse the girl under the
guise of fortune-telling; and what Mercedes knew her dear Abigail
unfailingly was made a party to. And knowing all this, still she had
sought to protect the man at the girl's expense.
And all the while pretending to favour and protect the latter!
Now, doubtless, the truth of the matter would never come out.
In panic terror Sally envisaged the barred window of the spinster's
prophecy.
To this, then, had discontent with her lowly lot in life brought her,
to the threshold of a felon's cell.
Surely she was well paid out for her foolishness. . . .
After some time she found that she had left her chair and was
ranging wildly to and fro between the door and window. She halted, and
the mirror of her dressing-table mocked her with the counterfeit
presentment of herself, pallid and distraught in all the petty
prettiness of her borrowed finery.
In a sudden seizure of passion she fairly tore the frock from her
body, wrecking it beyond repair.
Then, calmed somewhat by reaction from this transport, she reflected
that presently they would be coming to drag her off to jail, and she
must be dressed and ready.
Turning to her wardrobe, she selected its soberest garments--the blue
serge tailleur advised by Mrs. Standish--and donned them.
This done, she packed a hand-bag with a few necessities, sat down, and
waited.
The minutes of that vigil dragged like hours.
She began to realise that it was growing very late. The guests of the
fete had all departed. The music had long since been silenced. Looking
from her window, she saw the terrace and gardens cold and empty in the
moonlight.
And at this sight temptation to folly assailed her and the counsels of
despair prevailed.
There was none to prevent the attempt, and the drop from window-sill
to turf was not more than twelve feet. She risked, it was true, a
sprained ankle, but she ran a chance of escaping. And even if
she had to limp down to the beach, there were boats to be found
there--rowboats drawn up on the sand--and there was the bare
possibility that she might be able to row across the strait to the
mainland before her flight was discovered.
And even if overtaken, she could be no worse off than she was.
Everyone believed her guilty; there was no way for her to prove her
innocence.
She might better chance the adventure.
On frantic impulse, without giving herself time to weigh the dangers,
Sally switched off her light, sat down on the window-sill, swung her
legs over, and let herself down until she hung by both hands from the
sill.
And then she repented. She was of a sudden terribly afraid.
Remembering too late the high heels of her slippers, she discounted
the certainty of a turned ankle--which would hurt frightfully even if
it failed to incapacitate her totally. For the life of her she could
not release her grasp, though all ready the drag of her weight was
beginning to cause most perceptible aches in the muscles of her arms.
She panted with fright--and caught her breath on a sob to hear herself
called softly from below.
"Miss Manwaring! For the love of Mike--!"
Trego!
She looked down and confirmed recognition of his voice with the
sight of his upturned face of amazement. He stood almost immediately
beneath her. Heaven--or the hell that had brewed her
misadventures--alone knew where he had come from so inopportunely.
Still, there he was.
"What are you doing? What's the matter?" he called again--and again
softly, so that his voice did not carry far.
She wouldn't answer. For one thing, she couldn't think what to say.
The explanation was at once obvious and unspeakably foolish.
Her hands were slipping. She ground her teeth and kicked convulsively,
but decorously, seeking a foothold that wasn't there on the smooth
face of the wall.
At this his tone changed. He came more nearly under and planted
himself with wide-spread feet and outstretched arms.
"You can't hold on there any longer," he insisted. "Let go. Drop. I'll
catch you."
Only the mortification of that prospect nerved her aching fingers to
retain their grip as long as they did--which, however, was not
overlong.
She felt herself slipping, remembered that she mustn't scream,
whatever happened, experienced an instant of shuddering suspense, then
an instantaneous eternity wherein, paradoxically, part of her seemed
still to be clinging to the window-ledge while most of her was
spinning giddily down through a bottomless pit, saw the grinning moon
reel dizzily in the blue vault of heaven--and with a little shock
landed squarely in the arms of Mr. Trego.
He staggered widely, for she was a solidly constructed young person,
but he recovered cleverly--and had the impudence to seem amused.
Sally's first impression on regaining grasp of her wits was of his
smiling face, bent over hers, of a low chuckle, and then--to her
complete stupefaction--that she was being kissed.
He went about that business, having committed himself to it, in a most
business-like fashion; he kissed (as he would have said) for keeps,
kissed her lips hungrily, ardently, and most thoroughly; he had been
wanting to for a long time, and now that his time was come he made the
most of it.
She was at first too stunned and shocked to resist. And for another
moment a curious medley of emotions kept her inert in his arms, of
which the most coherent was a lunatic notion that she, too, had been
wanting just this to happen, just this way, for the longest time. And
when at length she remembered and felt her anger mounting and was
ready to struggle, he disappointingly set her down upon her feet.
"There!" he said with satisfaction. "Now that's settled--and a good
job, too!"
She turned on him furiously.
"How dared you-!"
"Didn't I deserve it, catching you the way I did?" he asked, opening
his eyes in mock wonder. "And didn't you deserve it for being so silly
as to try anything like that?" He jerked his head too ward that
window. "What on earth possessed you--?"
"Don't you know? Don't you understand?" she stormed. "I'm accused of
stealing Mrs. Gosnold's jewels--locked up. You knew that surely!"
"What an infernal outrage!" he cried indignantly. "No, I didn't know
it. How would I? I"--he faltered--"I've been having troubles of my
own."
That drove in like a knife-thrust the memory of the scene in the
garden with Mrs. Artemas. The girl recoiled from him as from something
indescribably loathsome.
"Oh!" she cried in disgust, "you are too contemptible!"
A third voice cut short his retort, a hail from above. "Hello, down
there!"
With a start Sally looked up. Her window was alight again, and
somebody was leaning head and shoulders out.
"Hello, I say! Is that the Manwaring woman '? Stop her; she's escaping
arrest!"
Trego barred the way to the gardens; and that was as well (she thought
in a flash) for now the only hope for her was to lose herself
temporarily in the shadows of the shrubbery.
The thought of the trees that stood between the grounds and the
highway was vaguely in her mind with its invitation to shelter when
she turned and darted like a hunted rabbit around the corner of the
house.
Before Trego regained sight of her she was on the lawns. Crossing them
like the shadow of a wind-sped cloud, she darted into the obscurity of
the trees and vanished. And Mr. Trego, observing Mr. Lyttleton emerge
from under the porte-cochere and start in pursuit, paused long enough
deftly to trip up that gentleman with all the good will imaginable and
sent him sprawling.
Frantic with fright, her being wholly obsessed by the one thought of
escape, Sally flew on down the drive until, on the point of leaving
the grounds by the gate to the highway, she pulled up perforce and
jumped back in the nick of time to avoid disaster beneath the wheels
of a motor-car swinging inward at a reckless pace.
Involuntarily she threw a forearm across her eyes to shield them from
the blinding glare of the headlamps. In spite of this she was
recognised and heard Mrs. Gosnold's startled voice crying out: "Miss
Manwaring! Stop! Stop, I say!"
With grinding brakes the car lurched to a sudden halt.
Weak, spent, and weary, the girl made no effort to consummate her
escape, realising that it had been a forlorn hope at best.