Stopping only long enough to send a telegram to my partner in New York,
(for which purpose I had to walk along the tracks to the main station) I
returned by the short cut to Homewood. My purpose in doing this was
twofold. I should have a chance of seeing if the men were still at work
in the river, and I should also have the added opportunity of quietly
revisiting the bungalow, on the floor of which I had noted some
chalk-marks, which I felt called for a closer examination than I had
given them. As I came in view of the dock, I saw that the men were still
busy, but at a point farther out in the river, as if all hope had been
abandoned of their discovering anything more inshore. But the
chalk-marks in the bungalow were almost forgotten by me in the interest
I experienced in a certain adventure which befell me on my way there.
I had just reached the opening in the hedge communicating with Mrs.
Carew's grounds, when I heard steps on the walk inside and a woman's
rich voice saying:
"There, that will do. You must play on the other side of the house,
Harry. And Dinah, see that he does so, and that he does not cross the
hall again till I come back. The sight of so merry a child might kill
Mrs. Ocumpaugh if she happened to look this way."
Moved by the tone, which was one in a thousand, I involuntarily peered
through the outlet I was passing, in the hope of catching a glimpse of
its owner, and thus was favored with the sight of a face which instantly
fixed itself in my memory as one of the most enchanting I had ever
encountered. Not from its beauty, yet it may have been beautiful; nor
from its youth, for the woman before me was not youthful, but from the
extraordinary eloquence of its expression caught at a rare moment when
the heart, which gave it life, was full. She was standing half-way down
the path, throwing kisses to a little boy who was leaning toward her
from an upper window. The child was laughing with glee, and it was this
laugh she was trying to check; but her countenance, as she made the
effort, was almost as merry as his, and yet was filled with such solemn
joy--such ecstasy of motherhood I should be inclined to call it, if I
had not been conscious that this must be Mrs. Carew and the child her
little nephew--that in my admiration for this exhibition of pure
feeling, I forgot to move on as she advanced into the hedge-row, and so
we came face to face. The result was as extraordinary to me as all the
rest. Instantly all the gay abandonment left her features, and she
showed me a grave, almost troubled, countenance, more in keeping with
her severe dress, which was as nearly like mourning as it could be and
not be made of crape.
It was such a sudden change and of so complete a character, that I was
thrown off my guard for a moment and probably betrayed the curiosity I
undoubtedly felt; for she paused as she reached me, and, surveying me
very quietly but very scrutinizingly too, raised again that marvelous
voice of hers and pointedly observed:
"This is a private path, sir. Only the friends of Mrs. Ocumpaugh or of
myself pass here."
This was a speech calculated to restore my self-possession. With a bow
which evidently surprised her, I answered with just enough respect to
temper my apparent presumption:
"I am here in the interests of Mrs. Ocumpaugh, to assist her in finding
her child. Moments are precious; so I ventured to approach by the
shorter way."
"Pardon me!" The words did not come instantly, but after some
hesitation, during which she kept her eyes on my face in a way to rob me
of all thought save that she possessed a very strong magnetic quality,
to which it were well for a man like myself to yield. "You will be my
friend, too, if you succeed in restoring Gwendolen." Then quickly, as
she crossed to the Ocumpaugh grounds: "You do not look like a member of
the police. Are you here at Mrs. Ocumpaugh's bidding, and has she at
last given up all expectation of finding her child in the river?"
I, too, thought a minute before answering, then I put on my most candid
expression, for was not this woman on her way to Mrs. Ocumpaugh, and
would she not be likely to repeat what she heard me say?
"I do not know how Mrs. Ocumpaugh feels at present. But I know what her
dearest wish is--to see her child again alive and well. That wish I
shall do my best to gratify. It is true that I am not a police
detective, but I have an agency of my own, well-known to both Mrs. and
Mr. Ocumpaugh. All its resources will be devoted to this business and I
hope to succeed, madam. If, as I suspect, you are on your way to Mrs.
Ocumpaugh, please tell her that Robert Trevitt, of Trevitt and Jupp,
hopes to succeed."
"I _will_," she emphasized. Then stepping back to me in all the grace of
her thrilling personality, she eagerly added: "If there is any
information I can give, do not be afraid to ask me. I love children, and
would give anything in the world to see Mrs. Ocumpaugh as happy with
Gwendolen again as I am with my little nephew. Are you quite sure that
there is any possibility of this? I was told that the child's shoe has
been found in the river; but almost immediately following this
information came the report that there was something odd about this
shoe, and that Mrs. Ocumpaugh had gone into hysterics. Do _you_ know
what they meant by that? I was just going over to see."