I
THE face hung there against the darkness for a second; then the leaves
closed over it as it was stealthily withdrawn. In the utterness of his
astonishment, Hindwood all but gave himself away. It was not the face he
had expected.
Masking his excitement with a yawn, he turned his back on the window and
stepped toward the door, opening it sufficiently to thrust his head into
the passage, but not wide enough to permit the watcher in the bushes to
learn anything of the person with whom he talked. He found his captress
standing just beyond the threshold, carrying a tray, which accounted for
her awkwardness.
“You won't have to dine in the village,” she explained. Then, catching
his strange expression, “What has happened?”
“Some one was to come to-night,” he whispered: “the person who gave
orders for my kidnaping. Isn't that so? She was to enter through the
window from the lawn, while you held me prisoner at the revolver's
point.”
“Is she here?”
“No, but a man who is her enemy--a Major Cleasby. He's hiding directly
in her path. He supposed you were she when you tried the door. He showed
his face. Is there any way in which we can warn her?”
The widow set down her tray. Her eyes met his searchingly. “If the man
were there, you wouldn't want to save her.”
“Why not? You think I've invented the man in the bushes in order that
Santa may be scared away? I'm no more afraid of Santa than I was of you.
Besides, in your absence I've stolen your revolver. Ah, that convinces
you! The man's her husband and a secret service agent. I can feel his
eyes in my back. If you don't warn her, she'll be caught. There must
have been some prearranged signal. What was it?”
Instead of answering, she pressed nearer, glancing fearfully across
her shoulder into the unlighted hall. Her voice came so faintly that he
could only just hear her.
“She wouldn't spare us. Why should you and I--? You don't know what she
intended.”
He smiled grimly. “I can guess. I was to have been her scapegoat for the
Rogovich murder. She was staging a new version of what happened in the
woods of Vincennes. Whether she escaped or was brought to trial, I was
to have been arrested. By that time she would have clothed me with the
appearance of her guilt. I was to have figured as her lover and the
Prince's rival. The motive for my crime was to have been jealousy. The
old story--an innocent man dying in her stead!”
“If you think you know that, why should you, unless you are her lover?”
“Because she's a woman.”
Her hands seized his, coaxing him from the doorway into the darkened
passage. “For the love of God, go!” she implored. “I give you back your
parole.”
Drawing her to him, he held her fast. “Don't struggle. He might hear
you. You decoyed me. You trapped me. Why this change? What makes you so
concerned for my safety?”
“I didn't know,” she panted, “the kind of man you are.”
“What kind?”
Her heart beat wildly. She lay against him unstirring, her face averted.
The moment he released her, she burst forth into new pleading.
“For my sake. I beg of you.”
Into the grimness of his smiling there stole a gleam of tenderness. “And
leave you? I guess not. What's the signal?”
“The piano.”
“Come, then,” he said, “you shall play for me. While you play, if we
mask our expressions, we can talk of what we choose. Outwardly, to
deceive the man in the bushes, we must act a part. I'm an old friend.
I've dropped in unexpectedly. You've provided me with supper. While
I eat, we chatter and laugh. You sit at the piano and sing for me
occasionally. When the hour for Santa's arrival is past, I take my
leave. If you're brave, we can carry the farce through. Are you game?”
For answer she picked up the tray and stepped into the room, smiling
back at him as he followed.
“I'm your humble servant, as always, Mr. Hind-wood, but I have only two
hands and they're occupied. If you'll bring up that table--yes, set it
before the fire. That's right. You must be comfortable, if I'm to sing
for you.”