Her initial rush carried Eleanor well round the front of the building.
Then, as suddenly as she had started off, she stopped, common-sense
reasserting itself to assure her that there was nothing to be gained by
running until exhausted; her enemy was not pursuing her. It was evident
that she was to be left to her own devices as long as they did not impel
her to attempt an escape--as long as she made herself supple to his
will.
She stood for a long minute, very erect, head up and shoulders back,
eyes closed and lips taut, her hands close-clenched at her sides. Then
drawing a long breath, she relaxed and, with a quiet composure admirably
self-enforced, moved on, setting herself to explore and consider her
surroundings.
The abandoned hotel faced the south, overlooking the greater breadth of
Long Island Sound. In its era of prosperity, the land in front of it to
the water's edge, and indeed for a considerable space on all sides had
been clear--laid out, no doubt, in grassy lawns, croquet grounds and
tennis courts; but in the long years of its desuetude these had reverted
to the primitive character of the main portion of the island, to a
tangle of undergrowth and shrubbery sprinkled with scrub-oak and stunted
pines. In one spot only, a meagre kitchen-garden was under cultivation.
Southward, at the shore, a row of weather-beaten and ramshackle
bath-houses stood beside the rotting remnants of a long dock whose
piles, bereft of their platform of planks, ran out into the water in a
dreary double rank.
Westward, a patch of woodland--progenitor by every characteristic of the
tangle in the one-time clearing--shut off that extremity of the island
where it ran out into a sandy point. Eastward lay an extensive acreage
of low, rounded sand dunes, held together by rank beach-grass and
bordered by a broad, slowly shelving beach of sand and pebbles. To the
north, at the back of the hotel, stretched a waste of low ground finally
merging into a small salt-marsh. Across this wandered a thin plank walk
on stilts which, over the clear water beyond the marsh, became a rickety
landing-stage. At some distance out from the latter a long, slender,
slate-coloured motor-boat rode at its moorings, a rowboat swinging from
its stern. In the larger craft Eleanor could see the head and shoulders
of a man bending over the engine--undoubtedly Mr. Ephraim Clover. While
she watched him, he straightened up and, going to the stern of the
motor-boat, began to pull the dory in by its painter. Having brought it
alongside, he transshipped himself awkwardly, then began to drive the
dory in to the dock. Eleanor remarked the fact that he stood up to the
task, propelling the boat by means of a single oar, thrusting it into
the water until it struck bottom and then putting his weight upon it.
The water was evidently quite shallow; even where the motor-boat lay
moored, the oar disappeared no more than half its length.
Presently, having gained the landing-stage, the man clambered upon it,
threw a couple of half-hitches in the painter round one of the stakes,
shouldered the oars and began to shamble toward the hotel: a tall,
ungainly figure blackly silhouetted against the steel-blue sky of
evening.
Eleanor waited where she was, near the beginning of the plank walk, to
get a better look at him. In time he passed her, with a shy nod and
sidelong glance. He seemed to be well past middle-age, of no pretensions
whatever to physical loveliness and (she would have said) incurably lazy
and stupid: his face dull and heavy, his whole carriage eloquent of a
nature of sluggish shiftlessness.
He disappeared round the house, and a moment later she heard Mrs. Clover
haranguing him in a shrill voice of impatience little resembling the
tone she had employed with the girl.
For an instant Eleanor dreamed wildly of running down to the dock,
throwing herself into the rowboat and casting it off to drift whither it
would. But the folly of this was too readily apparent; even if she might
be sure that the tide would carry her away from the island, the water
was so shallow that a man could wade out to the motor-boat, climb into
it and run her down with discouraging ease. As for the motor-boat--she
hadn't the least idea of the art of running a motor; and besides, she
would be overhauled before she could get to it; for she made no doubt
whatever that she was being very closely watched, and would be until the
men had left the island. After that ... a vista of days of grinding
loneliness and hopeless despair opened out before her disheartened
mental vision.
She resumed her aimless tour of inspection, little caring whither she
wandered so long as it was far from the house, as far as possible
from ... _him_.
Sensibly the desolate spirit of the spot saturated her mood. No case
that she had ever heard of seemed to her so desperate as that of the
lonely, helpless girl marooned upon this wave-bound patch of earth and
sand, cut off from all means of communication with her kind, her destiny
at the disposal of the maleficent wretch who called himself her father,
her sole companions two alleged criminals whose depravity, if what she
had heard were true, was subordinate only to his.
She could have wept, but wouldn't; the emotion that oppressed her was
not one that tears would soothe, her plight not one that tears could
mend.
Her sole comfort resided in the fact that she was apparently to be let
alone, free to wander at will within the boundaries of the island.
Sunset found her on a little sandy hillock at the western end of Wreck
Island--sitting with her chin in her hands, and gazing seawards with
eyes in which rebellion smouldered. She would not give in, would not
abandon hope and accept the situation at its face value, as
irremediable. Upon this was she firmly determined: the night was not to
pass unmarked by some manner of attempt to escape or summon aid. She
even found herself willing to consider arson as a last resort: the hotel
afire would make a famous torch to bring assistance from the mainland.
Only ... she shrank from the attempt, her soul curdling with the
sinister menace of vitriol.
The day was dying in soft airs that swept the face of the waters with a
touch so light as to be barely perceptible. With sundown fell stark
calm; the Sound became a perfect mirror for the sombre conflagration in
the west. The slightest sounds reverberated afar through the still,
moveless void. She could hear Mrs. Clover stridently counselling her
Ephraim at the house, the quarter of a mile away. Later, she heard the
hollow tramp of two pair of feet, one heavy and one light, on the
plank-walk; the creak of rowlocks with the dip and splash of oars; and,
after a little pause, the sudden, sharp, explosive rattle of a motor
exhaust, as rapid, loud and staccato as the barking of a Gatling, yet
quickly hushed----almost as soon as it shattered the silences, muffled
to a thick and steady drumming.
Eleanor rose and turned to look northward. The wood-lot hid from her
sight both dock and mooring--and all but the gables of the hotel, as
well--but she soon espied the motor-boat standing away on a straight
course for the mainland: driven at a speed that seemed to her nearly
incredible, a smother of foam at its stern, long purple ripples widening
away from the jet of white water at the stem, a smooth, high swell of
dark water pursuing as if it meant to catch up and overwhelm the boat
and its occupants. These latter occupied the extremes of the little
vessel: Ephraim astern, beside the motor; the slighter figure at the
wheel in the bows.
Slowly the girl took her path back to the hotel, watching the boat draw
away, straight and swift of flight as an arrow, momentarily dwindling
and losing definite form against the deepening blue-black surface of the
Sound....
Weary and despondent, she ascended the pair of steps to the kitchen
porch. Mrs. Clover was busy within, washing the supper dishes. She
called out a cheery greeting, to which Eleanor responded briefly but
with as pleasant a tone as she could muster. She could not but distrust
her companion and gaoler, could not but fear that something vile and
terrible lurked beneath that good-natured semblance: else why need the
woman have become _his_ creature?
"You ain't hungry again?"
"No," said Eleanor, lingering on the porch, reluctant to enter.
"Lonely?"
"No...."
"You needn't be; your pa'll be home by three o'clock, he says."
Eleanor said nothing. Abruptly a thought had entered her mind, bringing
hope; something she had almost forgotten had recurred with tremendous
significance.
"Tired? I'll go fix up your room soon 's I'm done here, if you want to
lay down again."
"No; I'm in no hurry. I--I think I'll go for another little walk round
the island."
"Help yourself," the woman called after her heartily; "I'll be busy for
about half an hour, and then we can take our chairs out on the porch and
watch the moon come up and have a real good, old-fashioned gossip...."
Eleanor lost the sound of her voice as she turned swiftly back round the
house. Then she stopped, catching her breath with delight. It was
true--splendidly true! The rowboat had been left behind.
It rode about twenty yards out from the end of the dock, made fast to
the motor-boat mooring. The oars were in it; Ephraim had left them
carelessly disposed, their blades projecting a little beyond the stern.
And the water was so shallow at the mooring that the man had been able
to pole in with a single oar, immersing it but half its length! An oar,
she surmised, was six feet long; that argued an extreme depth of water
of three feet--say at the worst three and a half. Surely she might dare
to wade out, unmoor the boat and climb in--if but opportunity were
granted her!
But her heart sank as she considered the odds against any such attempt.
If only the night were to be dark; if only Mrs. Clover were not to wait
up for her husband and her employer; if only the woman were not her
superior physically, so strong that Eleanor would be like a child in her
hands; if only there were not that awful threat of vitriol ...!
Nevertheless, in the face of these frightful deterrents, she steeled her
resolution. Whatever the consequences, she owed it to herself to be
vigilant for her chance. She promised herself to be wakeful and
watchful: possibly Mrs. Clover might nap while sitting up; and the girl
had two avenues by which to leave the house: either through the kitchen,
or by the front door to the disused portion of the hotel. She need only
steal noiselessly along the corridor from her bedroom door and down the
broad main staircase and--the front door was not even locked. She
remembered distinctly that _he_ had simply pulled it to. Still, it would
be well to make certain he had not gone back later to lock it.
Strolling idly, with a casual air of utter ennui--assumed for the
benefit of her gaoler in event she should become inquisitive--Eleanor
went round the eastern end of the building to the front. Here a broad
veranda ran from wing to wing; its rotting weather-eaten floor fenced in
by a dilapidated railing save where steps led up to the front door; its
roof caved in at one spot, wearing a sorry look of baldness in others
where whole tiers of shingles had fallen away.
Cautiously Eleanor mounted the rickety steps and crossed to the doors.
To her delight, they opened readily to a turn of the knob. She stood for
a trifle, hesitant, peering into the hallway now dark with evening
shadow; then curiosity overbore her reluctance. There was nothing to
fear; the voice of Mrs. Clover singing over her dishpan in the kitchen
came clearly through the ground-floor corridor, advertising plainly her
preoccupation. And Eleanor wanted desperately to know what it was that
the man had hidden in the socket of the newel-post.
Shutting the door she felt her way step by step to the foot of the
staircase. Happily the floor was sound: no creaking betrayed her
progress--there would be none when in the dead of night she would break
for freedom.
Mrs. Clover continued to sing contentedly.
Eleanor removed the knob of the post and looked down into the socket. It
was dark in there; she could see nothing; so she inserted her hand and
groped until her fingers closed upon a thick rough bar of metal.
Removing this, she found she held a cumbersome old-fashioned iron key of
curious design.
It puzzled her a little until she recalled the clang of metal that had
prefaced the man's appearance in the hall that afternoon. This then, she
inferred, would be the key to his private cache--the secret spot where
he hid his loot between forays.
Mrs. Clover stopped singing suddenly, and the girl in panic returned the
key to its hiding place, the knob to its socket.
But it had been a false alarm. In another moment the woman's voice was
again upraised.
Eleanor considered, staring about her. He had come into sight from
beneath the staircase. She reconnoitred stealthily in that direction,
and discovered a portion of the hall fenced off by a railing and
counter: evidently the erstwhile hotel office. A door stood open behind
the counter. With some slight qualms she passed into the enclosure and
then through the door.
She found herself in a small, stuffy, dark room. Its single window,
looking northwards, was closely shuttered on the outside; only a feeble
twilight filtered through the slanted slats. But there was light enough
for Eleanor to recognise the contours and masses of a flat-topped desk
with two pedestals of drawers, a revolving chair with cane seat and
back, a brown paper-pulp cuspidor of generous proportions and--a huge,
solid, antiquated iron safe: a "strong-box" of the last century's middle
decades, substantial as a rock, tremendously heavy, contemptuously
innocent of any such innovations as combination-dials, time-locks and
the like. A single keyhole, almost large enough to admit a child's hand,
and certainly calculated to admit the key in the newel-post,
demonstrated that this safe depended for the security of its contents
upon nothing more than its massive construction and unwieldy lock. It
demonstrated something more: that its owner based his confidence upon
its isolation and the loyalty of his employees, or else had satisfied
himself through practical experiment that one safe was as good as
another, ancient or modern, when subjected to the test of modern methods
of burglary.
And (Eleanor was sure) the Cadogan collar was there; unless, of course,
the man had taken it away with him; which didn't seem likely, all things
considered. A great part of the immense value of the necklace resided in
its perfection, in its integrity; as a whole it would be an exceedingly
difficult thing to dispose of until long after the furore aroused by its
disappearance had died down; broken up, its marvellously matched pearls
separated and sold one by one, it would not realise a third of its
worth.
And the girl would have known the truth in five minutes more (she was,
in fact, already moving back toward the newel-post) had not Mrs. Clover
chosen that moment to leave the kitchen and tramp noisily down the
corridor.
What her business might be in that part of the house Eleanor could not
imagine--unless it were connected with herself, unless she had heard
some sound and was coming to investigate.
In panic terror, Eleanor turned back into the little room and crouched
down behind the safe, making herself as small as possible, actually
holding her breath for fear it would betray her.
Nearer came that steady, unhurried tread, and nearer. The girl thought
her heart would burst with its burden of suspense. She was obliged to
gasp for breath, and the noise of it rang as loudly and hoarsely in her
hearing as the exhaust of a steam-engine. She pressed a handkerchief
against her trembling lips.
Directly to the counter came the footsteps, and paused. There was the
thump of something being placed upon the shelf. Then deliberately the
woman turned and marched back to her quarters.
In time the girl managed to regain enough control of her nerves to
enable her to rise and creep out through the office enclosure to the
hall. Mrs. Clover had resumed her chanting in the kitchen; but Eleanor
was in no mood to run further chances just then. She needed to get away,
to find time to compose herself thoroughly. Pausing only long enough to
see for herself what the woman had deposited on the counter (it was a
common oil lamp, newly filled and trimmed, with a box of matches beside
it: preparations, presumably, against the home-coming of the master with
a fresh consignment of booty) she flitted swiftly to and through the
door, closed it and ran down the steps to the honest, kindly earth.
Here she was safe. None suspected her adventure or her discovery. She
quieted from her excitement, and for a long time paced slowly to and
fro, pondering ways and means.
The fire ebbed from the heart of the western sky; twilight merged
imperceptibly into a night extraordinarily clear and luminous with the
gentle radiance of a wonderful pageant of stars. The calm held unbroken.
The barking of a dog on the mainland carried, thin but sharp, across the
waters. On the Sound, lights moved sedately east and west: red lights
and green and white lancing the waters with long quivering blades. At
times the girl heard voices of men talking at a great distance. Once a
passenger steamer crept out of the west, seeming to quicken its pace as
it drew abreast the island, then swept on and away like a floating
palace of fairy lamps. As it passed, the strains of its string orchestra
sounded softly clear through the night. Other steamers followed--half a
dozen in a widely spaced procession. But no boat came near Wreck Island.
If one had, Eleanor could almost have found courage to call for help....
In due time Mrs. Clover hunted her up, bringing a lantern to guide her
heavy footsteps.
"Lands sakes!" she cried, catching sight of the girl. "Wherever have you
been all this time?"
"Just walking up and down," said Eleanor quietly.
"Thank goodness I found you," the woman panted. "Give me quite a turn,
you did. _I_ didn't know but what you might be trying some foolish idea
about leaving us, like your pa said you might. One never knows when to
trust you nervous prostrationists, or what you'll be up to next."
Eleanor glanced at her sharply, wondering if by any chance the woman's
mind could be as guileless as her words or the bland and childish
simplicity of her eyes in the lantern-light.
"Wish you'd come up on the stoop and keep me company," continued Mrs.
Clover; "I'm plumb tired of sitting round all alone. Moon'll be up
before long; it's a purty sight, shining on the water."
"Thank you," said Eleanor; "I'm afraid I'm too tired. It must be later
than I thought. If you don't mind I'll go to my room."
"Oh, please yourself," said the woman, disappointment lending her tone
an unpleasant edge. "You'll find it hot and stuffy up there, though. If
you can't get comfortable, come down-stairs; I'll be up till the boss
gets home."
"Very well," said Eleanor.
She said good night to Mrs. Clover on the kitchen porch and going to her
room, threw herself upon the bed, dressed as she was.
For some time the woman down-stairs rocked slowly on the porch, humming
sonorously. The sound was infinitely soothing. Eleanor had some
difficulty in keeping awake, and only managed to do so by dint of
continually exciting her imagination with thoughts of the Cadogan collar
in the safe, the key in the newel-post, the dory swinging at its
moorings in water little more than waist deep....
In spite of all this, she did as the slow hours lagged drift into a
half-waking nap. How long it lasted she couldn't guess when she wakened;
but it had not been too long; a glance at the dial of her wrist-watch
in a slant of moonlight through the window reassured her as to the
flight of time. It was nearly midnight; she had three hours left, three
hours leeway before the return of her persecutor.
She lay without moving, listening attentively. The house was anything
but still; ghosts of forgotten footsteps haunted all its stairs and
corridors; but the girl could hear no sound ascribable to human agency.
Mrs. Clover no longer sang, her rocking-chair no longer creaked.
With infinite precautions she got up and slipped out of the room. Once
in the hallway she did hear a noise of which she easily guessed the
source; and the choiring of angels could have been no more sweet in her
hearing: Mrs. Clover was snoring.
Kneeling at the head of the staircase and bending over, with an arm
round the banister for support, she could see a portion of the kitchen.
And what she saw only confirmed the testimony of the snores. The woman
had moved indoors to read; an oil lamp stood by her shoulder, on the
table; her chair was well tilted, her head resting against its back; an
old magazine lay open on her lap; her chin had fallen; from her mouth
issued dissonant chords of contentment.
Eleanor drew back, rose and felt her way to the long corridor. Down this
she stole as silently as any ghost, wholly indifferent to the eerie
influences of the desolate place, spectrally illuminated as it was with
faded chequers of moonlight falling through dingy windows, alive as it
was with the groans and complaints of uneasy planks and timbers and the
_frou-frou_, like that of silken skirts, of rats and mice scuttling
between its flimsy walls. These counted for nothing to her; but all her
soul hung on the continuance of that noise of snoring in the kitchen;
and time and again she paused and listened, breathless, until sure it
was holding on without interruption.
Gaining at length the head of the stairs, she picked her way down very
gently, her heart thumping madly as the burden of her weight wrung from
each individual step its personal protest, loud enough (she felt) to
wake the dead in their graves; but not loud enough, it seemed, to
disturb the slumbers of the excellent, if untrustworthy, Mrs. Clover.
At length she had gained the newel-post and abstracted the key. The
foretaste of success was sweet. Pausing only long enough to unlatch the
front door, for escape in emergency, she darted through the hall, behind
the counter, into the little room.
And still Mrs. Clover slept aloud.
Kneeling, Eleanor fitted the key to the lock. Happily, it was well oiled
and in excellent working order. The tumblers gave to the insistence of
the wards with the softest of dull clicks. She grasped the handle, and
the heavy door swung wide without a murmur.
And then she paused, at a loss. It was densely dark in the little room,
and she required to be able to see what she was about, if she were to
pick out the Cadogan collar.
It was risky, a hazardous chance, but she determined to run it. The lamp
that Mrs. Clover had left for her employer was too convenient to be
rejected. Eleanor brought it into the room, carefully shut the door to
prevent the light being visible from the hall, should Mrs. Clover wake
and miss her, placed the lamp on the floor before the safe and lighted
it.
As its soft illumination disclosed the interior of the antiquated
strong-box, the girl uttered a low cry of dismay. To pick out what she
sought from that accumulation (even if it were really there) would be
the work of hours--barring a most happy and unlikely stroke of fortune.
The interior of the safe was divided into some twelve pigeon-holes, all
closely packed with parcels of various sizes--brown-paper parcels,
neatly wrapped and tied with cord, each as neatly labelled in ink with
an indecipherable hieroglyphic: presumably a means of identification to
one intimate with the code.
[Illustration: She turned in time to see the door open and the face and
figure of her father
_Page 274_]
But Eleanor possessed no means of telling one package from another; they
were all so similar to one another in everything save size, in which
they differed only slightly, hardly materially.
None the less, having dared so much, she wasn't of the stuff to give up
the attempt without at least a little effort to find what she sought.
And impulsively she selected the first package that fell under her hand,
with nervous fingers unwrapped it and--found herself admiring an
extremely handsome diamond brooch.
As if it had been a handful of pebbles, she cast it from her to blaze
despised upon the mean plank flooring, and selected another package.
It contained rings--three gold rings set with solitaire diamonds. They
shared the fate of the brooch.
The next packet held a watch. This, too, she dropped contemptuously,
hurrying on.
She had no method, other than to take the uppermost packets from each
pigeonhole, on the theory that the necklace had been one of the last
articles entrusted to the safe. And that there was some sense in this
method was demonstrated when she opened the ninth package--or possibly
the twelfth: she was too busy and excited to keep any sort of count.
This last packet, however, revealed the Cadogan collar.
With a little, thankful sigh the girl secreted the thing in the bosom of
her dress and prepared to rise.
Behind her a board creaked and the doorlatch clicked. Still
sitting--heart in her mouth, breath at a standstill, blood chilling with
fright--she turned in time to see the door open and the face and figure
of her father as he stood looking down at her, his eyes blinking in the
glare of light that painted a gleam along the polished barrel of the
weapon in his hand.