A VISIT FROM LOUISE
That day was destined to be an eventful one, for when I entered the
house and found Eliza ensconced in the upper hall on a chair, with Mary
Anne doing her best to stifle her with household ammonia, and Liddy
rubbing her wrists—whatever good that is supposed to do—I knew that the
ghost had been walking again, and this time in daylight.
Eliza was in a frenzy of fear. She clutched at my sleeve when I went
close to her, and refused to let go until she had told her story.
Coming just after the fire, the household was demoralized, and it was
no surprise to me to find Alex and the under-gardener struggling
down-stairs with a heavy trunk between them.
“I didn’t want to do it, Miss Innes,” Alex said. “But she was so
excited, I was afraid she would do as she said—drag it down herself,
and scratch the staircase.”
I was trying to get my bonnet off and to keep the maids quiet at the
same time. “Now, Eliza, when you have washed your face and stopped
bawling,” I said, “come into my sitting-room and tell me what has
happened.”
Liddy put away my things without speaking. The very set of her
shoulders expressed disapproval.
“Well,” I said, when the silence became uncomfortable, “things seem to
be warming up.”
Silence from Liddy, and a long sigh.
“If Eliza goes, I don’t know where to look for another cook.” More
silence.
“Rosie is probably a good cook.” Sniff.
“Liddy,” I said at last, “don’t dare to deny that you are having the
time of your life. You positively gloat in this excitement. You never
looked better. It’s my opinion all this running around, and getting
jolted out of a rut, has stirred up that torpid liver of yours.”
“It’s not myself I’m thinking about,” she said, goaded into speech.
“Maybe my liver was torpid, and maybe it wasn’t; but I know this: I’ve
got some feelings left, and to see you standing at the foot of that
staircase shootin’ through the door—I’ll never be the same woman
again.”
“Well, I’m glad of that—anything for a change,” I said. And in came
Eliza, flanked by Rosie and Mary Anne.
Her story, broken with sobs and corrections from the other two, was
this: At two o’clock (two-fifteen, Rosie insisted) she had gone
up-stairs to get a picture from her room to show Mary Anne. (A picture
of a _lady_, Mary Anne interposed.) She went up the servants’ staircase
and along the corridor to her room, which lay between the trunk-room
and the unfinished ball-room. She heard a sound as she went down the
corridor, like some one moving furniture, but she was not nervous. She
thought it might be men examining the house after the fire the night
before, but she looked in the trunk-room and saw nobody.
She went into her room quietly. The noise had ceased, and everything
was quiet. Then she sat down on the side of her bed, and, feeling
faint—she was subject to spells—(“I told you that when I came, didn’t
I, Rosie?” “Yes’m, indeed she did!”)—she put her head down on her
pillow and—
“Took a nap. All right!” I said. “Go on.”
“When I came to, Miss Innes, sure as I’m sittin’ here, I thought I’d
die. Somethin’ hit me on the face, and I set up, sudden. And then I
seen the plaster drop, droppin’ from a little hole in the wall. And the
first thing I knew, an iron bar that long” (fully two yards by her
measure) “shot through that hole and tumbled on the bed. If I’d been
still sleeping” (“Fainting,” corrected Rosie) “I’d ’a’ been hit on the
head and killed!”
“I wisht you’d heard her scream,” put in Mary Anne. “And her face as
white as a pillow-slip when she tumbled down the stairs.”
“No doubt there is some natural explanation for it, Eliza,” I said.
“You may have dreamed it, in your ‘fainting’ attack. But if it is true,
the metal rod and the hole in the wall will show it.”
Eliza looked a little bit sheepish.
“The hole’s there all right, Miss Innes,” she said. “But the bar was
gone when Mary Anne and Rosie went up to pack my trunk.”
“That wasn’t all,” Liddy’s voice came funereally from a corner. “Eliza
said that from the hole in the wall a burning eye looked down at her!”
“The wall must be at least six inches thick,” I said with asperity.
“Unless the person who drilled the hole carried his eyes on the ends of
a stick, Eliza couldn’t possibly have seen them.”
But the fact remained, and a visit to Eliza’s room proved it. I might
jeer all I wished: some one had drilled a hole in the unfinished wall
of the ball-room, passing between the bricks of the partition, and
shooting through the unresisting plaster of Eliza’s room with such
force as to send the rod flying on to her bed. I had gone up-stairs
alone, and I confess the thing puzzled me: in two or three places in
the wall small apertures had been made, none of them of any depth. Not
the least mysterious thing was the disappearance of the iron implement
that had been used.
I remembered a story I read once about an impish dwarf that lived in
the spaces between the double walls of an ancient castle. I wondered
vaguely if my original idea of a secret entrance to a hidden chamber
could be right, after all, and if we were housing some erratic guest,
who played pranks on us in the dark, and destroyed the walls that he
might listen, hidden safely away, to our amazed investigations.
Mary Anne and Eliza left that afternoon, but Rosie decided to stay. It
was about five o’clock when the hack came from the station to get them,
and, to my amazement, it had an occupant. Matthew Geist, the driver,
asked for me, and explained his errand with pride.
“I’ve brought you a cook, Miss Innes,” he said. “When the message came
to come up for two girls and their trunks, I supposed there was
something doing, and as this here woman had been looking for work in
the village, I thought I’d bring her along.”
Already I had acquired the true suburbanite ability to take servants on
faith; I no longer demanded written and unimpeachable references. I,
Rachel Innes, have learned not to mind if the cook sits down
comfortably in my sitting-room when she is taking the orders for the
day, and I am grateful if the silver is not cleaned with scouring soap.
And so that day I merely told Liddy to send the new applicant in. When
she came, however, I could hardly restrain a gasp of surprise. It was
the woman with the pitted face.
She stood somewhat awkwardly just inside the door, and she had an air
of self-confidence that was inspiring. Yes, she could cook; was not a
fancy cook, but could make good soups and desserts if there was any one
to take charge of the salads. And so, in the end, I took her. As Halsey
said, when we told him, it didn’t matter much about the cook’s face, if
it was clean.
I have spoken of Halsey’s restlessness. On that day it seemed to be
more than ever a resistless impulse that kept him out until after
luncheon. I think he hoped constantly that he might meet Louise driving
over the hills in her runabout: possibly he did meet her occasionally,
but from his continued gloom I felt sure the situation between them was
unchanged.
Part of the afternoon I believe he read—Gertrude and I were out, as I
have said, and at dinner we both noticed that something had occurred to
distract him. He was disagreeable, which is unlike him, nervous,
looking at his watch every few minutes, and he ate almost nothing. He
asked twice during the meal on what train Mr. Jamieson and the other
detective were coming, and had long periods of abstraction during which
he dug his fork into my damask cloth and did not hear when he was
spoken to. He refused dessert, and left the table early, excusing
himself on the ground that he wanted to see Alex.
Alex, however, was not to be found. It was after eight when Halsey
ordered the car, and started down the hill at a pace that, even for
him, was unusually reckless. Shortly after, Alex reported that he was
ready to go over the house, preparatory to closing it for the night.
Sam Bohannon came at a quarter before nine, and began his patrol of the
grounds, and with the arrival of the two detectives to look forward to,
I was not especially apprehensive.
At half-past nine I heard the sound of a horse driven furiously up the
drive. It came to a stop in front of the house, and immediately after
there were hurried steps on the veranda. Our nerves were not what they
should have been, and Gertrude, always apprehensive lately, was at the
door almost instantly. A moment later Louise had burst into the room
and stood there bareheaded and breathing hard!
“Where is Halsey?” she demanded. Above her plain black gown her eyes
looked big and somber, and the rapid drive had brought no color to her
face. I got up and drew forward a chair.
“He has not come back,” I said quietly. “Sit down, child; you are not
strong enough for this kind of thing.”
I don’t think she even heard me.
“He has not come back?” she asked, looking from me to Gertrude. “Do you
know where he went? Where can I find him?”
“For Heaven’s sake, Louise,” Gertrude burst out, “tell us what is
wrong. Halsey is not here. He has gone to the station for Mr. Jamieson.
What has happened?”
“To the station, Gertrude? You are sure?”
“Yes,” I said. “Listen. There is the whistle of the train now.”
She relaxed a little at our matter-of-fact tone, and allowed herself to
sink into a chair.
“Perhaps I was wrong,” she said heavily. “He—will be here in a few
moments if—everything is right.”
We sat there, the three of us, without attempt at conversation. Both
Gertrude and I recognized the futility of asking Louise any questions:
her reticence was a part of a role she had assumed. Our ears were
strained for the first throb of the motor as it turned into the drive
and commenced the climb to the house. Ten minutes passed, fifteen,
twenty. I saw Louise’s hands grow rigid as they clutched the arms of
her chair. I watched Gertrude’s bright color slowly ebbing away, and
around my own heart I seemed to feel the grasp of a giant hand.
Twenty-five minutes, and then a sound. But it was not the chug of the
motor: it was the unmistakable rumble of the Casanova hack. Gertrude
drew aside the curtain and peered into the darkness.
“It’s the hack, I am sure,” she said, evidently relieved. “Something
has gone wrong with the car, and no wonder—the way Halsey went down the
hill.”
It seemed a long time before the creaking vehicle came to a stop at the
door. Louise rose and stood watching, her hand to her throat. And then
Gertrude opened the door, admitting Mr. Jamieson and a stocky,
middle-aged man. Halsey was not with them. When the door had closed and
Louise realized that Halsey had not come, her expression changed. From
tense watchfulness to relief, and now again to absolute despair, her
face was an open page.
“Halsey?” I asked unceremoniously, ignoring the stranger. “Did he not
meet you?”
“No.” Mr. Jamieson looked slightly surprised. “I rather expected the
car, but we got up all right.”
“You didn’t see him at all?” Louise demanded breathlessly.
Mr. Jamieson knew her at once, although he had not seen her before. She
had kept to her rooms until the morning she left.
“No, Miss Armstrong,” he said. “I saw nothing of him. What is wrong?”
“Then we shall have to find him,” she asserted. “Every instant is
precious. Mr. Jamieson, I have reason for believing that he is in
danger, but I don’t know what it is. Only—he must be found.”
The stocky man had said nothing. Now, however, he went quickly toward
the door.
“I’ll catch the hack down the road and hold it,” he said. “Is the
gentleman down in the town?”
“Mr. Jamieson,” Louise said impulsively, “I can use the hack. Take my
horse and trap outside and drive like mad. Try to find the Dragon
Fly—it ought to be easy to trace. I can think of no other way. Only,
don’t lose a moment.”
The new detective had gone, and a moment later Jamieson went rapidly
down the drive, the cob’s feet striking fire at every step. Louise
stood looking after them. When she turned around she faced Gertrude,
who stood indignant, almost tragic, in the hall.
“You KNOW what threatens Halsey, Louise,” she said accusingly. “I
believe you know this whole horrible thing, this mystery that we are
struggling with. If anything happens to Halsey, I shall never forgive
you.”
Louise only raised her hands despairingly and dropped them again.
“He is as dear to me as he is to you,” she said sadly. “I tried to warn
him.”
“Nonsense!” I said, as briskly as I could. “We are making a lot of
trouble out of something perhaps very small. Halsey was probably
late—he is always late. Any moment we may hear the car coming up the
road.”
But it did not come. After a half-hour of suspense, Louise went out
quietly, and did not come back. I hardly knew she was gone until I
heard the station hack moving off. At eleven o’clock the telephone
rang. It was Mr. Jamieson.
“I have found the Dragon Fly, Miss Innes,” he said. “It has collided
with a freight car on the siding above the station. No, Mr. Innes was
not there, but we shall probably find him. Send Warner for the car.”
But they did not find him. At four o’clock the next morning we were
still waiting for news, while Alex watched the house and Sam the
grounds. At daylight I dropped into exhausted sleep. Halsey had not
come back, and there was no word from the detective.