FLINDERS
If Halsey had only taken me fully into his confidence, through the
whole affair, it would have been much simpler. If he had been
altogether frank about Jack Bailey, and if the day after the fire he
had told me what he suspected, there would have been no harrowing
period for all of us, with the boy in danger. But young people refuse
to profit by the experience of their elders, and sometimes the elders
are the ones to suffer.
I was much used up the day after the fire, and Gertrude insisted on my
going out. The machine was temporarily out of commission, and the
carriage horses had been sent to a farm for the summer. Gertrude
finally got a trap from the Casanova liveryman, and we went out. Just
as we turned from the drive into the road we passed a woman. She had
put down a small valise, and stood inspecting the house and grounds
minutely. I should hardly have noticed her, had it not been for the
fact that she had been horribly disfigured by smallpox.
“Ugh!” Gertrude said, when we had passed, “what a face! I shall dream
of it to-night. Get up, Flinders.”
“Flinders?” I asked. “Is that the horse’s name?”
“It is.” She flicked the horse’s stubby mane with the whip. “He didn’t
look like a livery horse, and the liveryman said he had bought him from
the Armstrongs when they purchased a couple of motors and cut down the
stable. Nice Flinders—good old boy!”
Flinders was certainly not a common name for a horse, and yet the
youngster at Richfield had named his prancing, curly-haired little
horse Flinders! It set me to thinking.
At my request Halsey had already sent word of the fire to the agent
from whom we had secured the house. Also, he had called Mr. Jamieson by
telephone, and somewhat guardedly had told him of the previous night’s
events. Mr. Jamieson promised to come out that night, and to bring
another man with him. I did not consider it necessary to notify Mrs.
Armstrong, in the village. No doubt she knew of the fire, and in view
of my refusal to give up the house, an interview would probably have
been unpleasant enough. But as we passed Doctor Walker’s white and
green house I thought of something.
“Stop here, Gertrude,” I said. “I am going to get out.”
“To see Louise?” she asked.
“No, I want to ask this young Walker something.”
She was curious, I knew, but I did not wait to explain. I went up the
walk to the house, where a brass sign at the side announced the office,
and went in. The reception-room was empty, but from the consulting-room
beyond came the sound of two voices, not very amicable.
“It is an outrageous figure,” some one was storming. Then the doctor’s
quiet tone, evidently not arguing, merely stating something. But I had
not time to listen to some person probably disputing his bill, so I
coughed. The voices ceased at once: a door closed somewhere, and the
doctor entered from the hall of the house. He looked sufficiently
surprised at seeing me.
“Good afternoon, Doctor,” I said formally. “I shall not keep you from
your patient. I wish merely to ask you a question.”
“Won’t you sit down?”
“It will not be necessary. Doctor, has any one come to you, either
early this morning or to-day, to have you treat a bullet wound?”
“Nothing so startling has happened to me,” he said. “A bullet wound!
Things must be lively at Sunnyside.”
“I didn’t say it was at Sunnyside. But as it happens, it was. If any
such case comes to you, will it be too much trouble for you to let me
know?”
“I shall be only too happy,” he said. “I understand you have had a fire
up there, too. A fire and shooting in one night is rather lively for a
quiet place like that.”
“It is as quiet as a boiler-shop,” I replied, as I turned to go.
“And you are still going to stay?”
“Until I am burned out,” I responded. And then on my way down the
steps, I turned around suddenly.
“Doctor,” I asked at a venture, “have you ever heard of a child named
Lucien Wallace?”
Clever as he was, his face changed and stiffened. He was on his guard
again in a moment.
“Lucien Wallace?” he repeated. “No, I think not. There are plenty of
Wallaces around, but I don’t know any Lucien.”
I was as certain as possible that he did. People do not lie readily to
me, and this man lied beyond a doubt. But there was nothing to be
gained now; his defenses were up, and I left, half irritated and wholly
baffled.
Our reception was entirely different at Doctor Stewart’s. Taken into
the bosom of the family at once, Flinders tied outside and nibbling the
grass at the roadside, Gertrude and I drank some home-made elderberry
wine and told briefly of the fire. Of the more serious part of the
night’s experience, of course, we said nothing. But when at last we had
left the family on the porch and the good doctor was untying our steed,
I asked him the same question I had put to Doctor Walker.
“Shot!” he said. “Bless my soul, no. Why, what have you been doing up
at the big house, Miss Innes?”
“Some one tried to enter the house during the fire, and was shot and
slightly injured,” I said hastily. “Please don’t mention it; we wish to
make as little of it as possible.”
There was one other possibility, and we tried that. At Casanova station
I saw the station master, and asked him if any trains left Casanova
between one o’clock and daylight. There was none until six A.M. The
next question required more diplomacy.
“Did you notice on the six-o’clock train any person—any man—who limped
a little?” I asked. “Please try to remember: we are trying to trace a
man who was seen loitering around Sunnyside last night before the
fire.”
He was all attention in a moment.
“I was up there myself at the fire,” he said volubly. “I’m a member of
the volunteer company. First big fire we’ve had since the summer house
burned over to the club golf links. My wife was sayin’ the other day,
‘Dave, you might as well ’a’ saved the money in that there helmet and
shirt.’ And here last night they came in handy. Rang that bell so hard
I hadn’t time scarcely to get ’em on.”
“And—did you see a man who limped?” Gertrude put in, as he stopped for
breath.
“Not at the train, ma’m,” he said. “No such person got on here to-day.
But I’ll tell you where I did see a man that limped. I didn’t wait till
the fire company left; there’s a fast freight goes through at four
forty-five, and I had to get down to the station. I seen there wasn’t
much more to do anyhow at the fire—we’d got the flames under
control”—Gertrude looked at me and smiled—“so I started down the hill.
There was folks here and there goin’ home, and along by the path to the
Country Club I seen two men. One was a short fellow. He was sitting on
a big rock, his back to me, and he had something white in his hand, as
if he was tying up his foot. After I’d gone on a piece I looked back,
and he was hobbling on and—excuse me, miss—he was swearing something
sickening.”
“Did they go toward the club?” Gertrude asked suddenly, leaning
forward.
“No, miss. I think they came into the village. I didn’t get a look at
their faces, but I know every chick and child in the place, and
everybody knows me. When they didn’t shout at me—in my uniform, you
know—I took it they were strangers.”
So all we had for our afternoon’s work was this: some one had been shot
by the bullet that went through the door; he had not left the village,
and he had not called in a physician. Also, Doctor Walker knew who
Lucien Wallace was, and his very denial made me confident that, in that
one direction at least, we were on the right track.
The thought that the detective would be there that night was the most
cheering thing of all, and I think even Gertrude was glad of it.
Driving home that afternoon, I saw her in the clear sunlight for the
first time in several days, and I was startled to see how ill she
looked. She was thin and colorless, and all her bright animation was
gone.
“Gertrude,” I said, “I have been a very selfish old woman. You are
going to leave this miserable house to-night. Annie Morton is going to
Scotland next week, and you shall go right with her.”
To my surprise, she flushed painfully.
“I don’t want to go, Aunt Ray,” she said. “Don’t make me leave now.”
“You are losing your health and your good looks,” I said decidedly.
“You should have a change.”
“I shan’t stir a foot.” She was equally decided. Then, more lightly:
“Why, you and Liddy need me to arbitrate between you every day in the
week.”
Perhaps I was growing suspicious of every one, but it seemed to me that
Gertrude’s gaiety was forced and artificial. I watched her covertly
during the rest of the drive, and I did not like the two spots of
crimson in her pale cheeks. But I said nothing more about sending her
to Scotland: I knew she would not go.