Shirley's sense of direction had always been keen. Even as a child she
could tell her way home when others were lost. It was some minutes,
however, before she suddenly became aware that the car was being driven
in an entirely different direction from the place she had just left Mr.
Barnard. For a moment she looked around puzzled, thinking the man was
merely taking another way around, but a glance back where the white
dome of the Capitol loomed, palace-like, above the city, made her sure
that something was wrong. She looked at the buildings they were
passing, at the names of the streets--F Street--they had not been on
that before! These stores and tall buildings were all new to her eyes.
Down there at the end of the vista was a great building all columns.
Was that the Treasury and were they merely seeing it from another
angle? It was all very confusing, but the time was short, why had the
man not taken the shorter way?
She looked at her small wrist watch anxiously and watched eagerly for
the end of the street. But before the great building was reached the
car suddenly curved around a corner to the right,--one block,--a turn
to the left,--another turn,--a confusion of new names and streets! New
York Avenue! Connecticut Avenue! Thomas Circle! The names spun by so
fast she could read but few of them, and those she saw she wanted to
remember that she might weave them into her next postal. She opened
her bag, fumbled for her little silver pencil in the pocket of her coat
and scribbled down the names she could read as she passed, on the back
of the bundle of postal cards, and without looking at her writing. She
did not wish to miss a single sight. Here were rows of homes, pleasant
and palatial, some of them even cozy. The broad avenues were
enchanting, the park spaces, the lavish scattering of noble statues.
Bah the time was hastening by and they were going farther and farther
from the station and from the direction of the offices where she had
been. She twisted her neck once more and the Capitol dome loomed soft
and blended in the distance. A thought of alarm leaped into her mind.
She leaned forward and spoke to the driver:
"You understood, didn't you, that I am to return to the office where
you took me with the gentleman?"
The man nodded.
"All right, lady. Yes, lady!" And the car rushed on, leaping out upon
the beautiful way and disclosing new beauties ahead. For a few minutes
more Shirley was distracted from her anxiety in wondering whether the
great buildings on her right belonged to any of the embassies or not.
And then as the car swerved and plunged into another street and darted
into a less thickly populated district, with trees and vacant lots
almost like the country, alarm arose once more and she looked wildly
back and tried to see the signs; but they were going faster still now
upon a wide empty road past stretches of park, with winding drives and
charming views, and a great stone bridge to the right, arching over a
deep ravine below, a railroad crossing it. There were deer parks
fenced with high wire, and filled with the pretty creatures.
Everything went by so fast that Shirley hardly realized that something
really must be wrong before she seemed to be in the midst of a strange
world aloof.
"I am sure you have made a mistake!" The girl's clear voice cut
through the driving wind as they rushed along. "I must go back right
away to that office from which you brought me. I must go _at once_ or
I shall be too late for my train! The gentleman will be very angry!"
She spoke in the tone that always brought instant obedience from the
employees around the office building at home.
But the driver was stolid. He scarcely stirred in his seat to turn
toward her. His thick voice was brought back to her on the breeze:
"No, lady, it's all right, lady! I had my orders, lady! You needn't
to worry. I get you there plenty time."
A wild fear seized Shirley, and her heart lifted itself as was its
habit, to God. "Oh, my Father! Take care of me! Help me! Show me
what to do!" she cried.
Thoughts rushed through her brain as fast as the car rushed over the
ground. What was she up against? Was this man crazy or bad? Was he
perhaps trying to kidnap her? What for? She shuddered to look the
thought in the face. Or was it the notes? She remembered the men in
the office and what they had said about keeping still and
"spying-enemies." But perhaps she was mistaken. Maybe this man was
only stupid, and it would all come out right in a few minutes. But no,
she must not wait for anything like that. She must take no chance.
The notes were in her keeping. She must put them where they would be
safe. No telling how soon she would be overpowered and searched if
that was what they were after. She must hide them, and she must think
of some way to send word to Mr. Barnard before it was toe late. No
telling what moment they would turn from the main road and she be
hidden far from human habitation. She must work fast. What could she
do? Scream to the next passer-by? No, for the car was going too fast
for that to do any good, and the houses up this way seemed all to be
isolated, and few people about. There were houses on ahead beyond the
park. She must have something ready to throw out when they came to
them. "Oh God! Help me think what to do!" she prayed again, and then
looking down at her bag she saw the postal cards. Just the thing!
Quickly she scribbled, still holding her hand within the bag so that
her movements were not noticeable:
"Help! Quick! Being carried off! Auto! Connecticut Ave.! Park.
Deer. Stone bridge. Phone Mr. Clegg. Don't tell mother! Shirley."
She turned the card over, drew a line through her mother's name and
wrote Carol's in its place. Stealthily she slipped the card up her
sleeve, dropped her hand carelessly over the side of the car for a
moment, let the card flutter from her fingers, and wrote another.
She had written three cards and dropped them in front of houses before
it suddenly occurred to her that even if these cards should be picked
up and mailed it would be sometime before they reached their
destination and far too late for help to reach her in time. Her heart
suddenly went down in a swooning sickness and her breath almost went
from her. Her head was reeling, and all the time she was trying to
tell herself that she was exaggerating this thing, that probably the
man would slow up or something and it would all be explained. Yes, he
was slowing up, but for what? It was in another lonely spot, and out
from the bushes there appeared, as if by magic, another man, a
queer-looking man with a heavy mustache that looked as if it didn't
belong to him. He stood alertly waiting for the car and sprang into
the front seat without waiting for it to stop, or even glancing back at
her, and the car shot forward again with great leaps.
Shirley dropped out the two cards together that she had just written
and leaned forward, touching the newcomer on the arm.
"Won't you please make this driver understand that he is taking me to
the wrong place?" she said with a pleasant smile. "I must get back to
an office two or three blocks away from the Treasury Building
somewhere. I must turn back at once or I shall miss my appointment and
be late for my train. It is quite important. Tell him, please, I will
pay him well if he will get me back at once."
The stranger turned with an oily smile.
"That's all right, Miss. He isn't making any mistake. We're taking
you right to Secretary Baker's country home. He sent for your man,
Mr.---- What's his name? I forget. Barnard? Oh, yes. He sent for
Mr. Barnard to come out there, sent his private car down for him; and
Mr. Barnard, he left orders we should go after you and bring you along.
It's something they want to change in those notes you was taking.
There was a mistake, and the Secretary he wanted to look after the
matter himself."
Shirley sat back with a sudden feeling of weakness and a fear she might
faint, although she had never done such a thing in her life. She was
not deceived for an instant now, although she saw at once that she must
not let the man know it. The idea that Secretary Baker would pause in
the midst of his multiplicity of duties to look into the details of a
small article of manufacture was ridiculous! It was equally impossible
that Mr. Barnard would have sent strangers after her and let her be
carried off in this queer way. He had been most particular that she
should be looked after carefully. She was horribly to blame that she
had allowed herself to be carried back at all until Mr. Barnard himself
appeared; and yet, was she? That surely had been the page from the
office who came with the message? Well, never mind, she was in for it
now, and she must do her best while there was any chance to do
anything. She must drop all those postals somehow, and she must hide
those notes somewhere, and perhaps write some others,--fake ones. What
should she do first?
"Father, help me! Show me! Oh, don't let me lose the notes! Please
take care of me!" Again and again her heart prayed as her hand worked
stealthily in her bag, while she tried to put a pleasant smile upon her
face and pretend she was still deceived, leaning forward and speaking
to the strange man once more:
"Is Secretary Baker's home much farther from here?" she asked, feeling
her lips draw stiffly in the frozen smile she forced. "Will it take
long?"
"'Bout ten minutes!" the man answered graciously, with a peculiar look
toward the driver. "Nice view 'round here!" he added affably with a
leering look of admiration toward her.
Shirley's heart stood still with new fear, but she managed to make her
white lips smile again and murmur, "Charming!"
Then she leaned back again and fussed around in her bag, ostentatiously
bringing out a clean handkerchief, though she really had been detaching
the pages which contained the notes from her loose-leaf note-book.
There were not many of them, for she always wrote closely in small
characters. But where should she hide them? Pull the lining away from
the edge of her bag and slip them inside? No, for the bag would be the
first place they would likely search, and she could not poke the lining
back smoothly so it would not show. If she should try to drop the tiny
pages down her neck inside her blouse, the men would very likely see
her. Dared she try to slip the leaves down under the linen robe that
lay over her lap and put them inside her shoe? She was wearing plain
little black pumps, and the pages would easily go in the soles, three
or four in each. Once in they would be well hidden, and they would not
rattle and give notice of their presence; but oh, what a terrible risk
if anything should happen to knock off her shoe, or if they should try
to search her! Still she must take some risk and this was the safest
risk at hand. She must try it and then write out some fake notes,
giving false numbers and sizes, and other phraseology. Or stay!
Wasn't there already something written in that book that would answer?
Some specifications she had written down for the Tillman-Brooks
Company. Yes, she was sure. It wasn't at all for the same articles,
nor the same measurements, but only an expert would know that. She
leaned down quite naturally to pick up her handkerchief and deftly
managed to get five small leaves slipped into her right shoe. It
occurred to her that she must keep her keepers deceived, so she asked
once more in gracious tones:
"Would it trouble you any to mail a card for me as soon as possible
after we arrive? I am afraid my mother will be worried about my delay
and she isn't well. I suppose they have a post office out this way."
"Sure, Miss!" said the man again, with another leering smile that made
her resolve to have no further conversation than was absolutely
necessary. She took out her fountain pen and hurriedly wrote:
"Detained longer than I expected. May not get back to-night. S. H.,"
and handed the card to the man. He took it and turned it over, all too
evidently reading it, and put it in his pocket. Shirley felt that she
had made an impression of innocence by the move which so far was good.
She put away her fountain pen deliberately, and managed in so doing to
manipulate the rest of the leaves of notes into her left shoe. Somehow
that gave her a little confidence and she sat back and began to wonder
if there was anything more she could do. Those dropped postals were
worse than useless, of course. Why had she not written an appeal to
whoever picked them up? Suiting the action to the thought she wrote
another postal card--her stock was getting low, there were but two more
left.
"For Christ's sake send the police to help me! I am being carried off
by two strange men! Shirley Hollister."
She marked out the address on the other side and wrote: "To whoever
picks this up." She fluttered it to the breeze cautiously; but her
heart sank as she realized how little likelihood there was of its being
picked up for days perhaps. For who would stop in a car to notice a
bit of paper on the road? And there seemed to be but few pedestrians.
If she only had something larger, more attractive. She glanced at her
belongings and suddenly remembered the book she had brought with her to
read, one of the new novels from the cottage, a goodly sized volume in
a bright red cover. The very thing!
With a cautious glance at her keepers she took up the book as if to
read, and opening it at the flyleaf began to write surreptitiously much
the same message that had been on her last postal, signing her name and
home address and giving her employers' address. Her heart was beating
wildly when she had finished. She was trying to think just how she
should use this last bit of ammunition to the best advantage. Should
she just drop it in the road quietly? If only there were some way to
fasten the pages open so her message would be read! Her handkerchief!
Of course! She folded it cornerwise and slipped it in across the pages
so that the book would fall open at the fly leaf, knotting the ends on
the back of the cover. Every moment had to be cautious, and she must
remember to keep her attitude of reading with the printed pages
covering the handkerchief. It seemed hours that it took her, her
fingers trembled so. If it had not been for the rushing noise of wind
and car she would not have dared so much undiscovered, but apparently
her captors were satisfied that she still believed their story about
going to Secretary Baker's country house, for they seemed mainly
occupied in watching to see if they were pursued, casting anxious
glances back now and then, but scarcely noticing her at all.
Shirley had noticed two or three times when a car had passed them that
the men both leaned down to do something at their feet to the machinery
of the car. Were they afraid of being recognized? Would this perhaps
give her a chance to fling her book out where it would be seen by
people in an oncoming car? Oh, if she but had the strength and skill
to fling it _into_ a car. But of course that was impossible without
attracting the attention of the two men. Nevertheless, she must try
what she could do.
She lifted her eyes to the road ahead and lo, a big car was bearing
down upon them! She had almost despaired of meeting any more, for the
road was growing more and more lonely and they must have come many
miles. As soon as the two men in front of her sighted the car, they
seemed to settle in their seats and draw their hats down a little
farther over their eyes. The same trouble seemed to develop with the
machinery at their feet that Shirley had noticed before, and they
bobbed and ducked and seemed to be wholly engrossed with their own
affairs.
Shirley's heart was beating so fast that it seemed as though it would
suffocate her, and her hand seemed powerless as it lay innocently
holding the closed book with the knotted handkerchief turned down out
of sight; but she was girding herself, nerving herself for one great
last effort, and praying to be guided.
The big car came on swiftly and was about to pass, when Shirley half
rose and hurled her book straight at it and then sank back in her seat
with a fearful terror upon her, closing her eyes for one brief second,
not daring to watch the results of her act,--if there were to be any
results.
The men in the front seat suddenly straightened up and looked around.
"What's the matter?" growled the man who had got in last in quite a
different tone from any he had used before. "What you tryin' to put
over on us?"
Shirley gasped and caught at her self-control.
"I've dropped my book," she stammered out wildly, "Could you stop long
enough to pick it up? It was borrowed!" she ended sweetly as if by
inspiration, and wondering at the steadiness of her tone when blood was
pounding so in her throat and ears, and everything was black before
her. Perhaps--oh, perhaps they would stop and she could cry out to the
people for help.
The man rose up in his seat and looked back. Shirley cast one
frightened glance back, too, and saw in that brief second that the
other car had stopped and someone was standing up and looking back.
"Hell! No!" said her captor briefly, ducking down in his seat. "_Let
her out!_" he howled to the driver, and the car broke into a galloping
streak, the wheels hardly seeming to touch the ground, the tonneau
bounding and swaying this way and that. Shirley had all she could do
to keep in her seat. At one moment she thought how easy it would be to
spring from the car and lie in a little still heap at the roadside.
But there were the notes! She must not abandon her trust even for so
fearful an escape from her captors. Suddenly, without warning, they
turned a sharp curve and struck into a rough, almost unbroken road into
the woods, and the thick growth seemed to close in behind them and shut
them out from the world.
Shirley shut her eyes and prayed.