THE TWO CARS
"It is highly improper on my part to come here and meet you," said
Winifred. "What can it be that you have to say to me of such 'high
importance'?"
The two were in the lane behind the church, at seven that same evening.
Winifred, on some pretext, had escaped the watchful eyes of Rachel
Craik, or fancied that she had, and came hurriedly to the waiting
Carshaw. She was all aflutter with expectancy not untinged by fear, she
knew not of what. The nights were beginning to darken early, and it was
gloomy that evening, for the sky was covered with clouds and a little
drizzle was falling.
"You are not to think that there is the least hint of impropriety about
the matter," Carshaw assured her. "Understand, please, Winifred, that
this is no lovers' meeting, but a business one, on which your whole
future life depends. You cannot suppose that I have followed you to
Fairfield for nothing."
"How could you possibly know that I was here?"
"From the police."
"The police _again_? What a strange thing!"
"Yes, a strange thing, and yet not so strange. They are keenly
interested in you and your movements, for your good. And I, of course,
still more so."
"You are wonderfully good to care. But, tell me quickly, I cannot stay
ten minutes. I think my aunt suspects something. She already knows about
the note dropped to-day into my lap."
"And about the boy in the fit. Does she suspect that, too?"
"What, was that a ruse? Good gracious, how artful you must be! I'm
afraid of you--"
"Endlessly artful for your sake, Winifred."
"You are kind. But tell me quickly."
"Winifred, you are in danger, from which there is only one way of escape
for you--namely, absolute trust in me. Pray understand that the dream in
which you heard some one say, 'She must be taken away from New York' was
no dream. You are here in order to be taken. This may be the first stage
of a long journey. Understand also that there is no bond of duty which
forces you to go against your will, for the shrewdest men in the New
York police have reason to think you are not who you imagine you are,
and that the woman you call your aunt is no relative of yours."
"What reason have they?" asked Winifred.
"I don't care--I don't know, they have not told me. But I believe them,
and I want you to believe me. The persons who have charge of your
destiny are not normal persons--more or less they have done, or are
connected with wrong. There is no doubt about that. The police know it,
though they cannot yet drag that wrong into the light. Do you credit
what I say?"
"It is all very strange."
"It is _true_. That is the point. Have you, by the way, ever seen a man
called Voles?"
"Voles? No."
"Yet that man at this moment is somewhere near you. He came in the same
train with you from New York. He is always near you. He is the most
intimate associate of your aunt. Think now, and tell me whether it is
not a disturbing thing that you never saw this man face to face?"
"Most disturbing, if what you say is so."
"But suppose I tell you what I firmly believe--that you _have_ seen him;
that it was _his_ face which bent over you in your half-sleep the other
night, and his voice which you heard?"
"I always thought that it was no dream," said Winifred. "It was--not a
nice face."
"And remember, Winifred," urged Carshaw earnestly, "that to-day and
to-morrow are your last chances. You are about to be taken far
away--possibly to France or England, as surely as you see those clouds.
True, if you go, I shall go after you."
"You?"
"Yes, I. But, if you go, I cannot be certain how far I may be able to
defend and rescue you there, as I can in America. I know nothing of
foreign laws, and those who have you in their power do. On that field
they may easily beat me. So now is your chance, Winifred."
"But what am I to do?" she asked in a scared tone, frightened at last by
the sincerity blazing from his eyes.
"Necessity has no rules of propriety," he answered. "I have a car here.
You should come with me this very night to New York. Once back there, it
is only what my interest in you gives me the right to expect that you
will consent to use my purse for a short while, till you find suitable
employment."
Winifred covered her face and began to cry. "Oh, I couldn't!" she
sobbed.
"Don't cry," said Carshaw tenderly. "You must, you know, since it is the
only way. You cry because you do not trust me."
"Oh! I do. But what a thing it is that you propose! To break with all my
past on a sudden. I hardly even know you; last week I had not seen
you--"
"There, that is mistrust. I know you as well as if I had always known
you. In fact, I always did, in a sense. Please don't cry. Say that you
will come with me to-night. It will be the best piece of work that you
ever did for yourself, and you will always thank me for having persuaded
you."
"But not to-night! I must have time to reflect, at least."
"Then, when?"
"Perhaps to-morrow night. I don't know. I must think it over first in
all its bearings. To-morrow morning I will leave a letter in the office,
telling you--"
"Well, if you insist on the delay. But it is dangerous, Winifred--it is
horribly dangerous!"
"I can't help that. How could a girl run away in that fashion?"
"Well, then, to-morrow night at eleven, precisely. I shall be at the end
of this lane in my car, if your letter in the morning says 'Yes.' Is
that understood?"
"Yes."
"Let me warn you against bringing anything with you--any clothes or a
grip. Just steal out of the inn as you are. And I shall be just there at
the corner--at eleven."
"Yes."
"I may not have the chance of speaking to you again before--"
But Carshaw's pleading stopped short; from the near end of the lane a
tall form entered it--Rachel Craik. She had followed Winifred from the
hotel, suspecting that all was not well--had followed her, lost her, and
now had refound her. She walked sedately, with an inscrutable face,
toward the spot where the two were talking. The moment Carshaw saw this
woman of ill omen he understood that all was lost, unless he acted with
bewildering promptness, and quickly he whispered in Winifred's ear:
"It must be to-night or never! Decide now. 'Yes' or 'No.'"
"Yes," said Winifred, in a voice so low that he could hardly hear.
"At eleven to-night?"
"Yes," she murmured.
Rachel Craik was now up to them. She was in a vile temper, but contrived
to curb it.
"What is the meaning of this, Winifred? And who is this gentleman?" she
said.
Winifred, from the habit of a lifetime, stood in no small awe of that
austere woman. All the blood fled from the girl's face. She could only
say brokenly:
"I am coming, aunt," and went following with a dejected air a yard
behind her captor. In this order they walked till they arrived at the
door of the Maples Inn, neither having uttered a single word to the
other. There Miss Craik halted abruptly. "Go to your room," she
muttered. "I'm ashamed of you. Sneaking out at night to meet a strange
man! No kitchen-wench could have behaved worse."
Winifred had no answer to that taunt. She could not explain her motives.
Indeed, she would have failed lamentably had she attempted it. All she
knew was that life had suddenly turned topsy-turvy. She distrusted her
aunt, the woman to whom she seemed to owe duty and respect, and was
inclined to trust a young man whom she had met three times in all. But
she was gentle and soft-hearted. Perhaps, if this Mr. Rex Carshaw, with
his earnest eyes and wheedling voice, could have a talk with "aunty,"
his queer suspicions--so oddly borne out by events--might be dissipated.
"I'm sorry if I seem to have done wrong," she said, laying a timid hand
on Rachel Craik's arm. "If you would only tell me a little, dear. Why
have we left New York? Why--"
"Do you want to see me in jail?" came the harsh whisper.
"No. Oh, no. But--"
"Obey me, then! Remain in your room till I send for you. I'm in danger,
and you, you foolish girl, are actually in league with my enemies. Go!"
Winifred sped through the porch, and hied her to a window in her room on
the first floor which commanded a view of the main street. She could see
neither Carshaw nor Aunt Rachel, the one having determined to lie low
for a few hours, and the other being hidden from sight already as she
hastened through the rain to the small inn where Voles and Mick the Wolf
were located.
These worthies were out. The proprietor said they had hired a car and
gone to Bridgeport. Miss Craik could only wait, and she sat in the
lobby, prim and quiet, the picture of resignation, not betraying by a
look or gesture the passions of anger, apprehension, and impatience
which raged in her breast.
Voles did not come. An hour passed; eight struck, then nine. Once the
word "carousing"! passed Miss Rachel's lips with an intense bitterness;
but, on the whole, she sat with a stiff back, patient as stone.
Then after ten there came the hum and whir of an automobile driven at
high speed through the rain-sodden main street. It stopped outside the
inn. A minute later the gallant body of Voles entered, cigar in his
mouth, and a look of much champagne in his eyes.
"What, Rachel, girl, you here!" he said in his offhand way.
"Are you sober?" asked Rachel, rising quickly.
"Sober? Never been really soused in my life! What's up?"
He dropped a huge paw roughly on her shoulder, and her hard eyes
softened as she looked at his face and splendid frame, for Ralph "Voles"
was Rachel Craik's one weakness.
"What's the trouble?" he went on, seeing that her lips were twitching.
"You should have been here," she snapped. "Everything may be lost. A man
is down here after Winifred, and I've caught her talking to him in
secret."
"A cop?" and Voles glanced around the otherwise deserted lobby.
"I don't know--most probably. Or he may be that same man who was walking
with her on Wednesday night in Central Park. Anyway, this afternoon he
tried to hand her a note in offering her a newspaper. The note fell, and
I saw it. Afterward he managed to get it to her in some way, though I
never for a moment let her out of my sight; and they met about seven
o'clock behind the church."
"The little cat! She beat you to it, Rachel!"
"There is no time for talk, Ralph. That man will take her from us, and
then woe to you, to William, to us all. Things come out; they do, they
do--the deepest secrets! Man, man--oh, rouse yourself, sober yourself,
and act! We must be far from this place before morning."
"No more trains from here--"
"You could hire a car for your own amusement. Rush her off in that.
Snatch her away to Boston. We may catch a liner to-morrow."
"But we can't have her seeing us!"
"We can't help that. It is dark; she won't see your face. Let us be
gone. We must have been watched, or how could that man have found us
out? Ralph! Don't you understand? You must do something."
"Where's this spy you gab of? I'll--"
"This is not the Mexican border. You can't shoot here. The man is not
the point, but the girl. She must be gotten away at once."
"Nothing easier. Off, now to the hotel, and be ready in half an hour.
I'll bring the car around."
Rachel Craik wanted no further discussion. She reached the Maples Inn in
a flurry of little runs. Before the door she saw two glaring lights, the
lamps of Carshaw's automobile. It was not far from eleven. Even as she
approached the hotel, Carshaw got in and drove down the street. He drew
up on a patch of grass by the roadside at the end of the lane behind
the church. Soon after this he heard a clock strike eleven.
His eyes peered down the darkness of the lane to see Winifred coming, as
she had promised. It was still drizzling slightly--the night was heavy,
stagnant and silent. Winifred did not come, and Carshaw's brows puckered
with care and foreboding. A quarter of an hour passed, but no light
tread gladdened his ear. Fairfield lay fast asleep.
Carshaw could no longer sit still. He paced restlessly about the wet
grass to ease his anxious heart. And so another quarter of an hour wore
slowly. Then the sound of a fast-moving car broke the silence. Down the
road a pair of dragon-eyes blazed. The car came like the chariots of
Sennacherib, in reckless flight. Soon it was upon him. He drew back out
of the road toward his own racer.
Though rather surprised at this urgent flight he had no suspicion that
Winifred might be the cause of it. As the car dashed past he clearly saw
on the front seat two men, and in the tonneau he made out the forms of
two women. The faces of any of the quartet were wholly merged in speed
and the night, but some white object fluttered in the swirl of air and
fell forlornly in the road, dropping swiftly in its final plunge, like a
stricken bird. He darted forward and picked up a lady's handkerchief.
Then he knew! Winifred was being reft from him again. He leaped to his
own car, started the engine, turned with reckless haste, and in a few
seconds was hot in chase.