_The Game Continues_
It was almost noon, which made it eight hours since Wilson was carried
out of the house. He had had less than four hours' sleep and only the
slight nourishment he had received at the hospital since he and the
girl dined at midnight, yet he was now fairly strong. His head felt
sore and bruised, but he was free of the blinding ache which so
weakened him in the morning. An austere life together with the rugged
constitution he inherited from his Puritan ancestors was now standing
him in good stead. He turned into the narrow street which ran along
the water front in the rear of the Beacon Street houses and began his
search for the gate which had admitted him to so many unforeseen
complications. The river which had raged so turbulently in the dark
was now as mild and blue as the sky above. A few clouds, all that were
left of the threatening skies of the morning, scudded before a
westerly breeze. It was a fair June day--every house flooded with
sunshine until, however humble, it looked for the moment like a
sultan's palace. The path before him was no longer a blind alley
leading from danger into chaos.
He found that nearly a third of the houses were closed for the summer,
and that of these at least one half had small doors leading into
fenced courtyards in the rear. There was not a single mark by which he
might identify that one which he had battered down. He had only forced
the lock so that the door when held closed again would show no sign of
having been touched. The priest, or whoever it was who had entered
after him, must have taken the same precaution, for every gate was now
fast shut. It seemed a hopeless search. Then he happened to remember
that the policeman had said that there was glass atop this particular
wall. He retraced his steps. The clue was a good one; he discovered
with a bounding heart that one alone of all the entrances was so
protected. He tried the door, and found to his further relief that it
gave readily. He stepped within and closed the gate behind him. He saw
then that it had been held by the same piece of joist he himself had
used, but had been so hastily and lightly fixed as merely to hold the
door shut. He ran across the yard and in another minute was through
the window and once again in the lower hall. It was fairly light there
now; he did not feel as though this was the same house. This was the
third time that he had hurried along this passage on his way to
unknown conditions above, and each time, though within a period of
less than a full day, had marked a crisis in his life.
As he sprang up the stairs it did not occur to him that he was unarmed
and yet running full ahead into what had proven a danger spot. It
would have mattered nothing had he realized this. He had not been
long enough in such games to value precaution. To reach her side as
quickly as possible was the only idea he could grasp now. At the top
of the second flight he called her name. He received no reply.
He crossed the hall and pushed aside the curtains which before had
concealed his unknown assailant. The blinds were still closed, so that
the room was in semi-darkness. The fire had gone out. There was no
sign of a human being. Wilson shouted her name once again. The silence
closed in upon him oppressively. He saw the dead hearth, saw the chair
in which she had curled herself up and gone to sleep, saw the rug upon
which Sorez had reclined, saw the very spot where she had sat with the
image in her lap, saw where she had stood as she had thrust the
revolver into his hand and sent him on his ill-omened errand. But all
these things only emphasized her absence. It was as though he were
looking upon the scene of events of a year past. She had gone.
He hurried into the next room--the room where Sorez, fainting, had
fumbled at the safe until he opened it--the room where he had
first seen the image which had really been the source of all his
misfortunes. The safe door was closed, but about the floor lay a
number of loose papers, as though the safe had been hastily
ransacked. The ebony box which had contained the idol was gone. Some
of the papers were torn, which seemed to show that this had been
done by the owner in preparing for hasty flight rather than by a
thief, who would merely rummage through them. Wilson picked up an
envelope bearing a foreign postmark. It was addressed to Dr. Carl
Sorez, and bore the number of the street where this house was located.
The stamp was of the small South American Republic of Carlina and
the postmark "Bogova." Wilson thrust the empty envelope in his
pocket.
Coming out of here, he next began a systematic examination of every
room on that floor. In the boudoir where he had found clothes for the
girl, he discovered her old garments still hanging where she had
placed them to dry. Her dress was spread across the back of a chair,
her stockings were below them, and her tiny mud-bespattered shoes on
the floor. They made him start as though he had suddenly come upon the
girl herself. He crossed the room and almost timidly placed his hands
upon the folds of the gown. These things were so intimate a part of
her that it was almost like touching her hand. It brought up to him
very vividly the picture of her as she stood shivering with the cold,
all dripping wet before the flames. His throat ached at the
recollection. It had never occurred to him that she might vanish like
this unless, as he had half feared, he might return to find Sorez
dead. This new turn left him more bewildered than ever. He went into
every room of the house from attic to cellar and returned again to the
study with only this fact of her disappearance to reward him for his
efforts of the last three hours.
Had this early morning intruder abducted them both, or had they
successfully hidden themselves until after he left and then, in a
panic, fled? Had the priest, fearing for Wilson's life, thrown him
into the carriage rather than have on his hands a possible murder? Or
after the priest had gone did Sorez find him and take this way to rid
himself of an influence that might destroy his power over the girl?
This last would have been impossible of accomplishment if the girl
herself knew of it. The other theories seemed improbable. At any rate,
there was little use in sitting here speculating, when the problem
still remained of how to locate the girl.
He made his way back to the safe and examined some of the torn
letters; they were all in Spanish. A large part of them bore the same
postmark, "Bogova, Republic of Carlina." The sight of the safe again
recalled to him the fact that he still had in his possession the
parchment which had dropped from the interior of the idol. It was
possible that this might contain some information which would at any
rate explain the value which these two men evidently placed upon it.
He took it out of his pocket and looked at it with some curiosity. It
was very tightly rolled in a covering of what appeared to be oilskin.
He cut the threads which held it together and found a second covering
sewed with sinew of some sort. This smelled musty. Cutting this, he
found still a third covering of a finely pounded metal looking like
gold-foil. This removed revealed a roll of parchment some four inches
long and of about an inch in thickness. When unrolled Wilson saw that
there were two parchments; one a roughly drawn map, and the other a
document covered with an exceedingly fine script which he could not in
this light make out at all. Without a strong magnifying glass, not a
word was decipherable. He thrust it back in his pocket with a sense of
disappointment, when he recalled that he could take it to the Public
Library which was not far from there and secure a reading glass which
would make it all clear. He would complete his investigation in the
house and then go to the reading room where he had spent so much of
his time during the first week he was in Boston.
He picked up several fragments of the letters scattered about, in the
hope of obtaining at least some knowledge of Sorez. The fact that the
man had stopped to tear them up seemed to prove that he had made plans
to depart for good, sweeping everything from the safe and hastily
destroying what was not valuable. Wilson knew a little Spanish and saw
that most of the letters were of recent date and related to the death
of a niece. Others mentioned the unsettled condition of government
affairs in Carlina. At one time Sorez must have been very close to the
ruling party, for several of the letters were from a man who evidently
stood high in the ministry, judged by the intimacy which he displayed
with affairs of state. He spoke several times of the Expedition of the
Hills, in which Sorez had apparently played a part. But the most
significant clause which Wilson found in his hasty examination of the
remnants was this reference:
"There is still, I hear, a great bitterness felt among the
Mountain tribes over the disappearance of the idol of their
Sun God. They blame this on the government and more than half
suspect that you were an important factor in its vanishing.
Have a care and keep a sharp lookout. You know their priest is
no ordinary man. They have implicit faith that he will charm
it back to them."
This was dated three months before. Wilson put the few remaining bits
of this letter in his pocket. Was it possible that this grinning idol
which already had played so important a part in his own life was the
one mentioned here? And the priest of whom Sorez spoke--could it be he
who ruled these tribes in the Andes? It was possible--Lord, yes,
_anything_ was possible. But none of these things hinted as to where
the girl now was.
He came back into the study and took a look into the small room to the
left. He saw his own clothes there. He had forgotten all about them.
They were wrinkled and scarcely fit to wear--all but his old slouch
hat. He smiled as he recalled that at school it was thought he showed
undue levity for a theological student in wearing so weather-beaten
and rakish a hat. He was glad of the opportunity to exchange for it
the one he now wore. He picked it up from the chair where it lay.
Beneath the rim, but protruding so as to be easily seen, was a note.
He snatched it out, knowing it was from her as truly as though he had
heard her voice. It read:
"DEAR COMRADE:
I don't know what has become of you, but I know that if you're
alive you'll come back for me. We are leaving here now. I
haven't time to tell you more. Go to the telephone and ring up
Belmont 2748.
Hastily, your comrade,
JO MANNING."
Wilson caught his breath. With the quick relief he felt almost
light-headed. She was alive--she had thought of him--she had trusted
him! It deepened the mystery of how he had come to be carried from the
house--of where they succeeded in hiding themselves--but, Lord, he was
thankful for it all now. He would have undergone double what he had
been through for the reward of this note--for this assurance of her
faith in him. It cemented their friendship as nothing else could. For
him it went deeper. The words, "You'll come back here for me," tingled
through his brain like some sweet song. She was alive--alive and
waiting for him to come back. There is nothing finer to a man than
this knowledge, that some one is waiting his return. It was an emotion
that Wilson in his somewhat lonely life had never experienced save in
so attenuated a form as not to be noticeable. He lingered a moment
over the thought, and then, crushing the old hat--now doubly
dear--over his bandaged head, hurried out of this house in which he
had run almost the gamut of human emotions. He went out by the laundry
window, closing it behind him, across the courtyard, and made the
street without being seen. That was the last time, he thought, that he
would ever set foot within that building. He didn't find a public
telephone until he reached Tremont Street. He entered the booth with
his heart beating up in his throat. It didn't seem possible that when
a few minutes ago he didn't know whether she was dead or alive, that
he could now seat himself here and hope to hear her voice. His hand
trembled as he took down the receiver. It seemed an eternity before he
got central; another before she connected him with Belmont. He grew
irritable with impatience over the length of time that elapsed before
he heard,
"A dime, please."
He was forced to drop the receiver and go out for change. Every clerk
was busy, but he interrupted one of them with a peremptory demand for
change. The clerk, taken by surprise, actually obeyed the command
without a word. When Wilson finally succeeded in getting the number,
he heard a man's voice, evidently a servant. The latter did not know
of a Miss Manning. Who did live there? The servant, grown suspicious
and bold, replied,
"Never mind now, but if ye wishes to talk with any Miss Manning ye can
try somewheres else. Good-bye."
"See here--wait a minute. I tell you the girl is there, and I must
talk to her."
"An' I'm telling ye she isn't."
"Is there a Mr. Sorez there----"
"Oh, the man who is just after comin'? Wait a minute now," he put in
more civilly, "an' I'll see, sor."
Wilson breathed once more. He started at every fairy clicking and
jingle which came over the waiting line.
"Waiting?"
He almost shouted his reply in fear lest he be cut off.
"Yes! Yes! waiting. Don't cut me off. Don't----"
"Is this you?"
The voice came timidly, doubtingly--with a little tremor in it, but it
was her voice.
He had not known it long, and yet it was as though he had always known
it.
"Jo--comrade--are you safe?"
"Yes, and you? Oh, David!" she spoke his name hesitatingly, "David,
where did you go?"
"I was hurt a little. I lost consciousness."
"Hurt, David?"
"Not seriously, but that is why I couldn't come back. I was carried to
a hospital."
"David!"
Her voice was tender with sympathy.
"And you--I came back to the study for you. You were gone."
"We were hidden. There is a secret room where we stayed until
daylight."
"Then it was----"
"The priest. Sorez was so weak and frightened."
"He came for the image?"
"Yes, but he did not get it. Was it he who--who hurt you, David?"
"It must have been. It was just as I came into the study."
"And he carried you out?"
"Because he thought the house empty, I guess, and feared I was hurt
worse than I was."
"And you really are not badly hurt?"
"Not badly."
"But how much--in what way?"
"Just a blow on the head. Please not to think about it."
"I have thought so many horrible things."
"Where are you now?"
"Mr. Sorez did not dare to stay there. He really is much stronger, and
so he came here to a friend's. I did not dare to let him come alone."
"But you aren't going to stay there. What are you going to do now?"
He thought she hesitated for a moment.
"I can't tell, David. My head is in such a whirl."
"You ought to go back home," he suggested.
"Home? My home is with my father, and nowhere else."
"I want to see you."
"And I want to see you, David, but----"
"I'm coming out there now."
"No! no! not yet, David."
"Why not?"
"Because----"
"Why not? I must see you."
"Because," she said, as though with sudden determination, "because
first I wish to make up my mind to something. I must do it by myself,
David."
"I'll not disturb you in that. I just wish to see you."
"But you would disturb me."
"How?"
"I can't tell you."
There was a moment's pause. Then,
"David, I may go away a long distance."
"Where?"
"I can't tell you now, but I may go at once. This--this may be the
last time I can talk with you for--oh, for months."
He caught his breath.
"What do you mean by that? What has happened?"
"I have promised not to tell."
"But you must, girl. Why--you--this man Sorez has no right to exact
promises from you. He----"
"You don't understand, David. It--it has to do with my father and
with--with what I saw."
"In that cursed image?"
"Yes, the image. But it is not cursed, David."
"It is--it is if it takes you away."
"You see," she trembled, "you see, I can't discuss it with you."
"But I don't see. I think you ought--you must----"
"Must, David?"
"No--not that. I suppose I haven't the right, only--well, it sort of
takes my breath away, you see, to think of your going off--out of my
life again."
"It's odd that you should mind--I've been in it so short a time."
"You've been in it for years," he ran on impulsively. "You've been in
it ever since I learned to look between the stars and found you
there."
There was silence for a moment, and then he heard her voice,
"David."
"Yes."
"I have a feeling that I may come back into it again."
"You'll never go out of it. I'll not let you. I'll----"
"Don't be foolish, David. And now I must go. But, David--are you
listening, David?"
"Yes."
"Don't try to find me. Don't try to see me. I'm safe, but if I should
need you, I'll send for you. Will you come?"
"To the ends of the earth."
"You must not ring me up again. But before I go away, if I do go away,
I'll write to you and tell you where. I will write you in care of the
General Delivery, Boston--will that reach you?"
"Yes, but----"
"That is all, David. That _must_ be all now, for I must go.
Good-bye."
"Jo--comrade!"
"Good-bye."
"Just a minute, I----"
But he heard the little click of the receiver and knew that she had
gone.