That was the first question, and I felt quite sure that it was the
Bullard girl's voice. That is, looking back from the safety of the next
day, I so decided. At the time I had no thought whatever.
"There is nothing wrong," I replied. I do not know why I said it. Surely
there was enough wrong, with Willie chasing an armed intruder through
the garden.
I thought the connection had been cut, for there was a buzzing on the
wire. But a second or so later there came an entirely different voice,
one I had never heard before, a plaintive voice, full, I thought, of
tears.
"Oh, please," said this voice, "go out and look in your garden, or along
the road. Please--quickly!"
"You will have to explain," I said impatiently. "Of course we will go
and look, but who is it, and why--"
I was cut off there, definitely, and I could not get "central's"
attention again.
Willie's voice from the veranda boomed through the lower floor. "This is
I," he called, "No boiling water, please. I am coming in."
He went into the library and lighted a lamp. He was smiling when I
entered, a reassuring smile, but rather a sheepish one, too.
"To think of letting him get by like that!" he said. "The cheapest kind
of a trick. He had slammed the door before to make me think he had gone
out, and all the time he was inside. And you--why didn't you scream?"
"I thought it was you," I told him.
The library was in chaos. Letters were lying about, papers, books. The
drawer of the large desk-table in the center of the room had been drawn
out and searched. "The History of Bolivar County," for instance, was
lying on the floor, face down, in a most ignoble position. In one place
books had been taken from a recess by the fireplace, revealing a small
wall cupboard behind. I had never known of the hiding-place, but a
glance into it revealed only a bottle of red ink and the manuscript of a
sermon on missions.
Standing in the disorder of the room, I told Willie about the
telephone-message. He listened attentively, and at first skeptically.
"Probably a ruse to get us out of the house, but coming a trifle late
to be useful," was his comment. But I had read distress in the second
voice, and said so. At last he went to the telephone.
"I'll verify it," he explained. "If some one is really anxious, I'll get
the car and take a scout around."
But he received no satisfaction from the Bullard girl, who, he reported,
listened stoically and then said she was sorry, but she did not remember
who had called. On his reminding her that she must have a record, she
countered with the flat statement that there had been no call for us
that night.
Willie looked thoughtful when he returned to the library. "There's a
queer story back of all this," he said. "I think I'll get the car and
scout around."
"He is armed, Willie," I protested.
"He doesn't want to shoot me, or he could have done it," was his answer.
"I'll just take a look around, and come back to report."
It was half-past three by the time he was ready to go. He was, as he
observed, rather sketchily clad, but the night was warm. I saw him off,
and locked the door behind him. Then I went into the library to wait and
to put things to rights while I waited.
The dawn is early in August, and although it was not more than half-past
four when Willie came back, it was about daylight by that time. I went
to the door and watched him bring the car to a standstill. He shook his
head when he saw me.
"Absolutely nothing," he said. "It was a ruse to get me out of the
house, of course. I've run the whole way between here and town twice."
"But that could not have taken an hour," I protested.
"No," he said. "I met the doctor--what's his name?--the local M.D.
anyhow--footing it out of the village to a case, and I took him to his
destination. He has a car, it seems, but it's out of order. Interesting
old chap," he added, as I led the way into the house. "Didn't know me
from Adam, but opened up when he found who I was."
I had prepared the coffee machine and carried the tray to the library.
While I lighted the lamp, he stood, whistling softly, and thoughtfully.
At last he said:
"Look here, Aunt Agnes, I think I'm a good bit of a fool, but--some time
this morning I wish you would call up Thomas Jenkins, on the Elmburg
road, and find out if any one is sick there."
But when I stared at him, he only laughed sheepishly. "You can see how
your suspicious disposition has undermined and ruined my once trusting
nature," he scoffed.
He took his coffee, and then, stripping off his ulster, departed for
bed. I stopped to put away the coffee machine, and with Maggie in mind,
to hang up his motor-coat. It was then that the flashlight fell out. I
picked it up. It was shaped like a revolver.