Just what I might have expected,” he said aloud.
“Did you speak ter me, mister?”
He swung round to find a freckled, bare-legged urchin gazing up at him.
“I didn't. Who are you?”
“A caddy from them links over there.” He pointed a grubby finger along
the road to where, half a mile away, the level of the seashore swept up
into a bold, green headland.
“Then I guess you're the sort of boy I'm looking for. Who lives in this
house?”
“A Madam Something or other. 'Er name sounds Russian.”
“What does she look like?”
“Dunno. She's a widder and covers 'erself up. Not but what she 'as
gentlemen friends as visits 'er.”
“You seem a sharp boy. Can you tell me how long she's lived here?”
“Maybe a year; off and on that's ter say. I don't recolleck.”
“Is she by herself?”
“There's an old woman in the garden sometimes as looks a 'undred. She
wears a white hanky tied round 'er 'ead.”
“I think that's all I want to ask you. Here's something for you. Oh yes,
do you happen to know about the trains to London?”
“The last one's gorn, mister, if that's what yer means. It's the one
that our gents at the golf-links aims ter catch.”
“Then I'm out of luck. Good evening, sonny, and thank you for your
information.”
The bare legs showed no signs of departing; the freckled face still
gazed up.
“What's interesting you. My way of speaking? I'm American.”
The boy shook his head. “We 'ad Canadian soldiers 'ere during the war;
they're pretty near Americans.”
“Then what is it?”
“It's that you're the second gent to-day to slip me a shilling for
telling 'im about this 'ouse. And it's something else.” He sank his
voice to a whisper. “Don't look round. There's been some one a-peeking
from be'ind a bedroom winder most of the time as we've been talkin'. I'd
best be goin'. Good evenin', mister.”
Not to attract attention by loitering, Hindwood set off at a
businesslike pace down the road toward the headland. As he drew further
away from the house, he walked more slowly; he was trying to sort out
his facts. The woman who lived there had a Russian name. Santa Gorlof!
She dressed like a widow. That would be to disguise herself. The news
about the gentlemen friends who visited her was quite in keeping with
the character which the Major had bestowed on her, but not at all
welcome. She had lived there for a year, off and on. Her companion was
an old woman, nearly a hundred--the Little Grandmother! But who was
this man who earlier in the day had bribed the boy that he might obtain
precisely the same information? He reminded himself that the police were
hunting for her. The man might be a detective. If justice had already
run her to earth, Seafold was the last place in which he ought to be
found. If the boy had been accurate about the trains, there was no
escape till the morning. Even though he were to hire an automobile, he
would be placing his visit to Seafold on record. Self-preservation rose
up rampant. What a fool he'd been to involve himself in so perilous an
affair!
And yet, once more and for the last time, he longed to see Santa's face.
Why was it? Was it because her hearsay wickedness fascinated him? It
was not because he loved her. It was not to gratify morbid curiosity--at
least not entirely. Perhaps it was because he pitied her and, against
his will, discovered a certain grandeur in her defiance. She had played
a lone hand. Like a beast of prey in the jungle, she was surrounded; at
this moment she must be listening for the stealthy tread of those who
were encompassing her destruction, yet she had not lost her cunning. She
was fighting to the end. Probably this time, as when the firing-squad
waited for her in the woods of Vincennes, she was planning to employ
a man as her substitute--_himself_. The fact remained that in her
desperate need, she had appealed to him for help. There was the barest
chance that she was innocent--a victim of false-appearing circumstances.
He wanted to judge her for himself by tearing aside the widow's veil and
gazing on her destroying beauty.
Turning off the road, he struck across the links, climbing toward the
towering headland. The wind, coming in gusts, rustled the parched gorse
and brittle fronds of bracken. Behind his back the sun was setting,
flinging a level bar of gold across the leaden sea. In sudden lulls,
when the wind ceased blowing, the air pulsated with the rhythmic
cannonading of waves assaulting the wall of cliffs. When he listened
intently, he could hear the _ha-ha_ of their cheering and their sullen
moan as they were beaten back. It was strange to think that two weeks
ago he had been in New York, intent on nothing but acquiring a fortune.
Women had not troubled him. Why should he now permit this woman,
chance-met on ship-board, to divert him--a woman who could never be
closer to him?
He had reached the summit of the promontory. Etched against the
sky-line, his figure must be visible for miles. The sun sank lower and
vanished. Gazing through the clear atmosphere, far below him he could
discern every detail of the house to which he had been tempted. It
looked a fitting nest for an old poet. It held no hint of terror. At the
same time it was strategically well situated for occupants who wished to
keep an eye on all approaches.
He had been watching for any sign of movement, when a curious thing
happened. Though no figure appeared, from one of the upper windows a
white cloth fluttered. He shaded his eyes with his hand. The signal was
repeated. He tapped his breast and pointed, as much as to say, “Shall I
come?” The cloth was shaken vigorously. On repeating the experiment,
he obtained the same result. When he nodded his head in assent, the
fluttering ended.
So every step of his progress had been observed by some one spying
through a telescope from behind the curtained windows! The first moment
he had afforded an opportunity by looking back, the signaling had
commenced. That so much secrecy should be employed seemed to betoken
that Santa's case was desperate. That she should have run the risk of
tempting him down from London must mean that he possessed some peculiar
facility for rendering her a much needed service.
The imminence of the danger, both to her and to himself, was emphasized
by this latest precaution. She had not dared to admit him to the house
or even to acknowledge his presence, until she had made certain that he,
in his turn, was not followed.
This thought, that he might be followed, filled him with an entirely
new sensation; it peopled every clump of gorse and bed of bracken
with possible unseen enemies. The rustling of the wind, the cry of a
sea-bird, made him turn alertly, scanning with suspicion every hollow
and mound of the wild, deserted landscape. It seemed unwise to allow his
actions to announce his intentions too plainly. What his intentions were
he was not very certain. His immediate inclination was to shake himself
free from the whole mysterious complication.
Continuing his ramble, he assumed a careless gait, descending the
further side of the promontory and bearing always slightly inland, so
that his course might lead back eventually to the road from which he had
departed. As dusk was gathering, he found himself entering an abandoned
military camp. The bare hutments, with their dusty windows and padlocked
doors, stretched away in seeming endless avenues of ghostly silence.
The Maple Leaf, painted on walls and sign-boards, explained the village
boy's reference to Canadian soldiers. He had reached the heart of it,
when he was possessed by the overpowering sensation that human eyes were
gazing at him. Pulling himself up, he glanced back across his shoulder,
crooking his arm to ward off a blow. Realizing what he was doing, he
relaxed and stared deliberately about him. Nothing! No sign of life! Yet
the certainty remained that human eyes were watching.
“Nerves!” he muttered contemptuously.
It was dark when, leaving the camp, he struck the road. Stars were
coming out. Far away along the coast the distant lights of a harbor
blinked and twinkled. He hurried his steps. His mind was made up. He
would get something to eat in Seafold, discover a garage, hire a car and
be back in London by midnight. To confirm his will in this decision, he
began making plans for the morrow.
To enter the town he had to pass the house. As its bulk gathered shape,
his feet moved more slowly. Long before he came opposite it, he had
caught the fragrance of the myrtle in its hedges. The windows which
looked his way were shrouded. He paused for a moment outside the rustic
gate. He was saying good-by to adventure. He was too old. His season for
pardonable folly was ended. The prose of life had claimed him.
Prolonging the pretense of temptation, he pushed open the gate. A
hand touched his--a woman's. The desire to play safe faded. Weakly
capitulating, he allowed himself to be led up the path and across the
shadowy threshold. The door of the darkened house closed behind him. She
was slipping the bolts into place.