IN THE ATTIC
THE high wind sweeping around the Porter mansion in ever increasing
volume found an echo under the eaves, and the attic in consequence
resounded with dismal noises. Much of the space under the sloping roof
had been given up to the storage of trunks and old furniture, but on
the side facing the Potomac River wooden partitions divided that part
of the attic into rooms for servants.
The south wall of the attic was lined with pine book shelves which ran
up to the wooden rafters. There old Judge Erastus Porter had stored
his extensive law library, and there his great-niece, little Millicent
Porter, had made her playhouse when she visited him. The nook used in
childhood had retained its affection in Millicent’s maturer years and,
the trunks forming an effectual barricade, she had converted it into
a cozy corner, placed pretty curtains in the dormer window, a rug on
the bare boards, wheeled an easy-chair, a highboy, and a flat-top
desk into their respective places, and, last but not least, a large
barrel stood near at hand filled with out-of-print books and a paper
edition of Scott’s novels. Mrs. Porter on her first tour of inspection
of the attic had remonstrated against the barrel, stating that it
spoiled the really handsome pieces of furniture which Millicent had
converted to her own use, but her daughter insisted that the barrel
added a touch of picturesqueness, and that she still enjoyed munching
an apple and reading “Ivanhoe,” a statement that drew the strictured
comment from Mrs. Porter that Millicent had inherited all her father’s
peculiarities, after which she was left in peace and possession.
Bundled up in a sweater, Millicent sat cross-legged before a small
brass-bound, hair-covered trunk, another companion of her childhood,
for she had first learned to print by copying the initials of her
great-great-grandfather outlined in brass tacks on the trunk lid. The
trunk still held a number of childish treasures, as well as cotillion
favors, invitations, photographs, and a bundle of manuscripts. But
contrary to custom, Millicent made no attempt to look at the neatly
typewritten sheets; instead she sat contemplating the open trunk, her
head cocked on one side as if listening.
Finally convinced that all she heard was the moaning of the wind under
the eaves, she lifted out the tray, and, pushing aside some silks and
laces, removed the false bottom of the trunk and took from it a ledger.
Propping the book against the side of the trunk she turned its pages
until she came to an entry which made her pause:
Dined with Mrs. Seymour. Bruce Brainard took me out to dinner. He was
very agreeable.
And apparently from the frequency with which his name appeared in her
“memory book,” Bruce Brainard continued to be “agreeable.” Millicent
turned page after page, and for the first time read between the lines
of her stylish penmanship what her mother, with the far-sighted eyes
of experience, had interpreted plainly. Flattered by the attentions
of a polished man of the world, years older than herself, Millicent
had mistaken admiration for interest and liking for love. Brainard’s
courtship of the debutante had been ardent, and what she termed an
engagement and her mother “an understanding” had followed. Brainard
had pleaded for an early wedding, but business had called him away
to Brazil, and on Millicent’s advice, who knew her mother’s whims
and fancies, he had postponed asking Mrs. Porter’s consent to their
engagement until his return.
Millicent read on and on in her ledger; accounts of parties gave place
to comments about her brother, Craig, then he absorbed the entire
space allotted to each day, and the progress of his trip home was duly
recorded, and the items:
October 5th--Thank God, Craig is home again, but, oh, what a wreck!
It’s agony to see him lying in bed unable to move hand or foot,
unable to speak, unable to recognize us. But he’s _home_, not lying
in an unknown grave somewhere in Europe. I’ve just met Dr. Alan
Noyes, who accompanied Craig to this country, and to whose skill
Craig owes his slender hold on life. The doctor is painfully shy.
October 7th--Saw more of Dr. Noyes today; he improves on
acquaintance. Mother says he is not shy, only reticent.
Millicent did not linger over the next few entries, but paused and
scanned the words:
October 15th--Vera Deane has replaced the night nurse for Craig. She
reminds me so of Dorothy, yet they are not a bit alike. Persuaded
Dr. Noyes to talk about his experiences in the field hospitals
abroad. Must write Bruce tonight without fail.
Millicent skipped several pages, then came the entry:
December 15th--I had no idea Alan Noyes had such a temper; we
quarreled most awfully. He announced his creed is never to forget a
friend and never to forgive an enemy. Well, I can be stubborn, too.
Millicent sighed drearily and jumped to the date:
December 24th--Alan Noyes has been exceptionally nice today. Our
quarrel has blown over. I wish I had told him about Bruce when we
first met.
A tear rolled down Millicent’s white cheek and splashed upon the paper,
then suddenly she bowed her head and gave way to the grief consuming
her. The minutes lengthened, and at last she sat up and dried her
eyes. The outburst had brought physical relief, for during the past
twenty-four hours she had fought off every inclination to allow her
feelings sway, had suppressed all sign of emotion, and had refused to
discuss Bruce Brainard’s mysterious death, even with her mother.
[Illustration: “Who’s there?” she called, as heavy steps approached.]
Mrs. Porter had hoped that Millicent’s unnatural calm would give way
when unburdening herself to her old chum, Dorothy Deane, and she
had made opportunities to leave the girls together. But she was not
aware that Dorothy had shown an equal desire to avoid the topic of
the tragedy, and Millicent found to her secret relief that she was
not urged to confidences which she might later bitterly regret. But
that afternoon she had felt the need of being by herself, and had fled
upstairs, hoping her mother would not think of looking for her in the
attic.
Millicent pulled a chair close to her side and was on the point of
rising from her cramped position before the trunk when she heard
someone coming up the uncarpeted stairs. She slammed the ledger shut
and thrust it among the silks and laces in the trunk, and, pulling out
a vanity box, commenced powdering her nose and removing all traces of
recent tears.
“Who’s there?” she called, as heavy steps approached.
“Me, Miss Millicent.”
“Oh, Murray!” Her tone spoke her relief. “Have you brought the coffee
and sandwiches I told Selby to order for me?”
“Yes, miss.” And the footman emerged from behind the highboy which,
with a Japanese screen, partly blocked the view of the cozy corner from
the rest of the attic.
“Just put the tray on my desk,” directed Millicent. “Has mother gone
out?”
“Yes, miss; she took Miss Dorothy in to Washington.” Murray moved
several of the desk ornaments to make room for the tray. “These ladies
called just now, Miss Millicent, but I said you were out.” And he
handed her a number of visiting-cards.
She barely glanced at the names before tossing the cards aside. “I am
thankful you did, Murray; make my excuses to callers for the next week.
I can see no one.”
“Very good, miss.” But Murray lingered, a troubled look in his eyes.
“The ’tec, Mitchell, left word that he’d be back this evening, miss,
and that he’s got to see you.”
“Oh, he has?” Millicent’s eyes sparkled with anger. “Inform Mr.
Mitchell that I decline to see him.”
“Yes, miss,” and Murray smiled broadly. “Shall I throw him out, miss?”
“Heavens, no!” exclaimed Millicent. “You might get in serious trouble
with the law. He has, I suppose,” bitterly, “the right to hang about
the scene of a crime--detectives are sanctioned human vultures.”
“He is, miss; a regular troublesome, meddlesome busybody, getting
innocent people into trouble,” responded Murray feelingly. “He thinks
he’s so bright with his ideas--I’ll idea him.” And the footman,
forgetting his customary respectful attitude in his indignation,
doubled up his fists suggestively. “How is Miss Deane feeling, miss?”
“Who, Miss Vera? She is at last getting some rest; be sure, Murray, and
tell mother and Miss Dorothy not to disturb her when they return.”
“Certainly, miss.” The footman turned to leave. “Anything else I can
get you, miss?”
“Not a thing, thank you.” But as Murray stepped around the highboy she
asked: “Any telegrams or telephones?”
“No telegrams, miss; but the telephone is going every instant, ’most
all of them are reporters.”
“Don’t give out any information, Murray,” she cautioned.
“Certainly not, miss.” And he hurried away.
Millicent waited until she heard the door at the foot of the attic
stairs close, then bent over the trunk and again took out the ledger
and carefully tore out a handful of pages. Before replacing the ledger
in its hiding-place she felt about under the false bottom until
convinced that the article she sought was still there, after which she
put back the ledger and the false bottom, rearranged the silks and
laces, put in the tray, and locked the trunk.
“If you are not going to drink your coffee, I will,” announced a voice
to her left, and a man stepped out from behind the Japanese screen. A
low cry escaped Millicent, and her hands closed spasmodically over the
pages torn from her ledger.
“Hugh!” she gasped. “Where--where have you been?”
“In town.” Wyndham stopped by the tray and, picking up the plate of
sandwiches, handed it to Millicent. She shook her head. “No?” he
queried; “then I’ll eat your share.” He poured out a cup of coffee and
drank it clear, almost at a gulp. “That’s delicious,” he declared. “I
had no idea I was so cold and hungry. Can’t I help you get up?”
But Millicent declined his proffered assistance, and rose somewhat
clumsily, both hands engaged in pressing the torn sheets into the
smallest possible compass.
“Where have you been, Hugh?” she asked again.
“Sitting on a trunk behind that screen waiting for Murray to go
downstairs,” he responded, refilling his cup.
“Then you came up to the attic just after he did?”
“In his wake, so to speak.” He shot a questioning look at her.
“Everyone appears to be out this afternoon.”
“Yes.” Millicent carefully turned her back to the dormer window and sat
down on the arm of her easy-chair. “You haven’t answered my question,
Hugh--where have you been ever since the inquest?”
“At the club.” Wyndham helped himself to another sandwich. “Awfully
sorry I couldn’t get in touch with Dorothy Deane and deliver your
message. I was sorry to disappoint you.”
“But I wasn’t disappointed. She received the message in time and came
last night.”
Wyndham seemed to have some difficulty swallowing his coffee.
“Is she still here?” he inquired as soon as he could speak.
“Yes. Mother insisted that she could run her social column from here as
well as from her boarding-house. Most of the social news is gathered
over the telephone,” explained Millicent vaguely. “And mother promised
to motor in to the office every afternoon and bring her out again in
the evening.”
Wyndham set his coffee-cup back on its saucer with small regard for its
perishable qualities.
“I might have known that she would come,” he said, half to himself;
then louder: “Intimate friends don’t have to be told when they are
needed.”
“Dorothy has so much tact--”
“Discussing me?” And Dorothy Deane appeared at Wyndham’s elbow. There
was a distinct pause as she recognized Millicent’s companion, and her
cheeks, rosy from her long motor ride in the wind, paled. “Oh!” she
ejaculated, with an attempt at lightness which deceived but one of her
hearers. “The wanderer has returned.”
“Yes--returned to you,” was Wyndham’s quiet rejoinder, and his eyes
never left her. “It was very careless of you, Dorothy, not to leave
word at the office that you were coming out here last night.”
“If I had mentioned it the managing editor would have insisted that I
cover”--she stopped and colored painfully--“new developments for the
paper.”
Wyndham transferred his attention to his cousin. “New developments,” he
repeated. “Have there been any since I left last night?”
His question did not receive an immediate reply, for Millicent had
not paid strict attention to their conversation, being absorbed in
secreting the sheets torn from her diary inside her gown.
“Nothing new,” she responded dully. “The detectives are still looking
for clues, and under that pretense poking their noses into everyone’s
concerns.”
“Let them. Who cares?” But Wyndham did not look so care-free as his
words implied. “Brainard’s death is a seven days’ wonder in Washington,
Millicent; so be prepared for all sorts of sensational stories. Our
friends will talk themselves to a standstill after a time.”
“I suppose sensational stories are to be expected,” admitted
Millicent, and she moved restlessly away from her chair. “But what are
Bruce’s friends doing?”
Wyndham looked at her quickly. “I don’t understand you--”
“I mean what steps are Bruce’s friends taking to trace the--the
murderer?”
Wyndham took a newspaper from his pocket and unfolded it.
“Brainard’s brother has offered a reward of five thousand dollars for
the arrest of the criminal,” he stated, pointing to an article in the
paper.
Dorothy broke the silence with an impatient stamp of her foot. “The
fool!” she exclaimed. “He’d better have waited until it’s proven beyond
doubt that it was a murder and not a suicide.”
The newspaper crinkled in Millicent’s hand as she took it, and Wyndham,
his eyes roving about the cozy corner, stated quietly:
“The police have found that Brainard never shaved himself, but went
every morning to a barber shop just below his apartment house.
Apparently he never owned a razor, and the police seem to think that
evidence precludes all possibility of suicide.”
“I don’t see why,” protested Millicent, looking up from the paper. “If
Bruce contemplated suicide he could have purchased a razor.”
“True, but investigation proves that he did not buy a razor at any
of the dealers handling them in Washington, or at a pawnshop. I must
admit the police have been very thorough in their search,” acknowledged
Wyndham. “It’s all in the evening papers.” He stopped for a moment,
then added steadily, “I think, no matter how terrible we find the idea,
that we must accept the theory that Brainard was murdered.”
Millicent caught her breath. “I don’t agree with you,” she retorted
obstinately. “Are we meekly to consider ourselves murderers just
because Bruce never, apparently, owned a razor?”
“You are right,” declared Dorothy, but her manner, to Wyndham’s
watchful eyes, indicated that she was clutching at a straw rather
than announcing her convictions. “Some friend might have loaned him a
razor-- Heavens! what’s that?”
A loud hail sounded up the staircase. “Millicent! Millicent!” and they
recognized Mrs. Porter’s angry accents. “Why in the world are you
staying in that cold attic? Come down at once.”
“Yes, mother.” Millicent started for the staircase, casting an
appealing look at Dorothy as she passed her, and in mute response the
latter turned to follow, but at the top of the stairs Wyndham laid a
detaining hand on her shoulder.
“Wait,” he entreated, and as he met her wistful, frightened glance he
repressed with difficulty the emotion that threatened to master him.
“Dorothy, never forget I have your interests at heart to the exclusion
of all else.”
“Hush!” She raised a trembling hand to his lips, and seizing it he
pressed it against his cheeks.
“Dear, how cold you are!” he murmured fondly, caressing her hand.
“Hush!” she reiterated. “Hugh, you must not--this is not the time--”
“It is,” with obstinate fervor. “You cannot have forgotten--”
“Forgotten?” Dorothy started as if stung. “Would to heaven I could!”
“Then you understand?” She looked at him dumbly. “You are sure you
understand?”
Through a mist of tears Dorothy studied him, and as she met his
imploring gaze a wave of tenderness sent her other hand to meet his
eager clasp; then horror of herself, of her thoughts, checked her wild
longing to throw herself into his arms, and she drew back.
“It is because I understand,” she said, steadying her voice with an
effort, “that I shall never cease to reproach myself--”
“Stop!” Wyndham held up an imperative hand. “You must not reproach
yourself. Bruce Brainard deserved what he got. I tell you he did--”
noting her expression. “It was justifiable homicide.”