_The_
MOVING FINGER
By NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN
The Moving Finger
The Nameless Man
The Official Chaperon
The Lost Despatch
I Spy
C. O. D.
The Man Inside
The Trevor Case
D. APPLETON & COMPANY, NEW YORK
[Illustration: “Object--matrimony,” he retorted.
[PAGE 168]]
_The_
MOVING FINGER
BY
NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN
AUTHOR OF “THE NAMELESS MAN,” “I SPY,” “C. O. D.,”
“THE LOST DESPATCH,” “THE TREVOR CASE,” ETC.
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATED BY
CHARLES L. WRENN
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK LONDON
1918
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY THE FRANK A. MUNSEY COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
TO
MR. AND MRS. THOMAS E. NEWBOLD
THIS YARN IS SPUN WITH INFINITE AFFECTION
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. VISIONS 1
II. TRAGEDY 8
III. TESTIMONY 23
IV. MORE TESTIMONY 40
V. DOROTHY DEANE, “SOCIETY EDITOR” 66
VI. THE WALL BETWEEN 81
VII. AT THORNEDALE LODGE 98
VIII. MANY INVENTIONS 114
IX. IN THE ATTIC 138
X. THE BLACK-EDGED CARD 154
XI. MRS. PORTER GROWS INQUISITIVE 170
XII. DETECTIVE MITCHELL ASKS QUESTIONS 186
XIII. THE RED HERRING 205
XIV. PRO AND CON 224
XV. EDGED TOOLS 243
XVI. HARE AND HOUNDS 259
XVII. VERA RECEIVES A LETTER 279
XVIII. THE COUNTERFEIT BANK NOTE 293
XIX. THE FIRST SHOT 313
XX. KA 322
XXI. BLIND MAN’S BUFF 329
XXII. “THE MOVING FINGER WRITES--” 344
XXIII. OUT OF THE MAZE 352
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
“Object--matrimony,” he retorted _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
“Yes, I heard,” Millicent could hardly articulate 16
“Who’s there?” she called, as heavy steps approached 142
“Hush!” he whispered. “No noise. Look----” 256
THE MOVING FINGER
CHAPTER I
VISIONS
THE swish of starched skirts caused the man in the bed to roll slowly
over, and for the first time patient and nurse regarded each other. The
silence grew protracted.
“Well?” The man’s tone was husky and the short interrogation was almost
lost among the pillows. He made a second attempt, and this time his
voice carried across the room. “What--what do you want?”
The nurse’s eyes, pupils dilated, shifted from his white face to the
glass in her outstretched hand, and the familiar sight of the medicine
and her starched uniform drove away her temporary loss of composure.
“Here is your medicine,” she announced, and at the sound of her low,
_traînante_ voice the patient clutched the bedclothes spasmodically.
He made no effort to take the glass.
“Put it on the table,” he directed and, reading correctly the look that
crept into her eyes, his voice rose again harshly. “Put it down, I
say--”
A rap at the closed hall door partly drowned his words, and without
replying Nurse Deane placed the glass on the table by the bed, and a
second later was looking out into the hall. She drew back at sight of
a tall man standing somewhat away from the entrance to the room, then
thinking better of her hesitancy she stepped into the hall and drew the
door shut behind her.
“What is it, Mr. Wyndham?” she inquired.
“I came up to ask if there is anything I can do for you?” Hugh Wyndham
moved over to her side, and Nurse Deane’s preoccupation prevented her
becoming conscious of his scrutiny. “I think Noyes exceeded matters
when he asked you to undertake the care of another patient.”
Vera Deane’s face lighted with one of her rare smiles. “Oh, no,” she
protested. “We nurses are always glad to assist in emergencies. Dr.
Noyes came in to see Mr. Porter and he explained that one of your
aunt’s dinner guests had been taken ill, and requested me to make him
comfortable for the night.”
“Still, with all you have to do for poor Craig it’s putting too much on
you,” objected Wyndham. “Let me telephone into Washington for another
night nurse, or, better still, call Nurse Hall.”
Vera laid a detaining hand on his arm. “Mrs. Hall was ill herself when
she went off duty; she needs her night’s rest,” she said earnestly. “I
assure you that I am quite capable of taking care of two patients.”
“It wasn’t that,” Hugh paused and reddened uncomfortably, started to
speak, then, thinking better of his first impulse, added lamely, “I
never doubted your ability, but--but--you’ve been under such a strain
with Craig--”
“Mr. Porter is improving,” interrupted Vera swiftly. “And as my new
patient is not seriously ill--”
“True,” Wyndham agreed, slightly relieved. “Just an attack of
vertigo--Noyes and I got him to bed without calling you.” He did not
think it necessary to add that he had stopped the surgeon sending for
her. “Noyes said you need only look in once or twice during the night
and see that he is all right.” A thought occurred to him, and he added
hastily: “Perhaps I can sit up with him--”
“That will hardly be necessary.” Vera’s tone of decision was
unmistakable. “I thank you for the offer,” raising grave eyes to his.
Wyndham bowed somewhat stiffly and moved away. “Just a moment, Mr.
Wyndham; what is the name of my new patient?”
Wyndham’s glance was a mixture of doubt and admiration.
“He is Bruce Brainard, a well-known civil engineer,” he said slowly,
halting by the head of the winding staircase. He looked thoughtfully
over the banisters before again addressing her. “Brainard is just
back from South America. I had no idea my aunt and Millicent knew him
so well, why”--in a sudden burst of confidence--“Brainard gave me to
understand before dinner that he and Millicent were engaged. Let me
know if I can assist you, Miss Deane. Good night,” and barely waiting
to hear her mumbled reply he plunged down the stairs.
Vera Deane’s return to the sick room was noiseless. She found her
patient lying on his side, apparently asleep, one arm shielding his
face and leaving exposed his tousled iron-gray hair. Vera glanced
at the empty medicine glass on the table by the bed, and a relieved
sigh escaped her; evidently Bruce Brainard had obeyed Dr. Noyes’
instructions and swallowed the dose prepared for him.
Making no unnecessary sound Vera arranged the room for the night,
screening the window so that a draught would not blow directly on
Brainard; lighted a night light and, placing a small silver bell on
the bed-table within easy reach of the patient, she turned out the
acetylene gas jet and glided from the room.
Entering the bedroom next to that occupied by Bruce Brainard Vera
smoothed the sheets for Craig Porter, lying motionless on his back, and
made the paralytic comfortable with fresh, cool pillows; then taking
a chair somewhat removed from the bed, she shaded her eyes from the
feeble rays of the night light and was soon buried in her own thoughts.
Dr. Noyes had made a professional call on Craig Porter earlier in the
evening, and he had forbidden Mrs. Porter or her daughter going to the
sick room after six o’clock.
As the night wore on sounds reached Vera of the departure of guests,
and first light then heavy footsteps passing back and forth in the
hall indicated that Mrs. Porter and her household were retiring for
the night. At last all noise ceased, and Vera, lost in memories of the
past, forgot the flight of time.
“Tick-tock, tick-tock”--Bruce Brainard’s dulled wits tried to count
the strokes, but unavailingly; he had lost all track of time. He was
only conscious of eyes glaring down at him. He dared not look up,
and for long minutes lay in agony, bathed in profuse perspiration.
His eyelids seemed weighed down with lead, but he could not keep his
cramped position much longer, and in desperation his eyes flew open
as he writhed nearer the bed-table. His breath came in easier gasps
as he became aware that the large bedroom was empty, and he passed a
feverish, shaking hand across his wet forehead. Pshaw! his imagination
was running away with him. But was it?
Again he glimpsed eyes gazing at him from a corner of the room--eyes
moving steadily nearer and nearer until even the surrounding darkness
failed to hide their expression. A sob broke from Brainard, and his
hand groped for the bell, only to fall palsied by his side.
Dawn was breaking and the faint, fresh breeze of early morning parted
the curtains before a window and disclosed to an inquisitive snow robin
a figure bending over a stationary washstand. Quickly the skilled
fingers made a paste of raw starch and, spreading it gently over the
stained linen, let it stand for a moment, then rinsed it in cold water.
With great patience the operation was repeated until at last the linen,
once more spotless, was laid across an improvised ironing-board, and an
electric iron soon smoothed out each crease and wrinkle. Leaving every
article in its accustomed place, the worker paused for an instant, then
stole from the bathroom and through the silent house.