The next morning was of crystal. It was after nine when Carmichael
drove his electric-phaeton down the leaf-littered street, where the
country wagons and the decrepit hacks were already meandering
placidly, and out along the highroad, between the still green fields.
It seemed to him as if the experience of the past night were "such
stuff as dreams are made of." Yet the impression of what he had seen
and heard in that firelit chamber--of the eyes, the voice, the hand of
that strangely lovely lady--of her vision of sudden death, her
essentially lonely struggle with it, her touching words to him when
she came back to life--all this was so vivid and unforgettable that he
drove straight to Castle Gordon.
The great house was shut up like a tomb: every door and window was
closed, except where half of one of the shutters had broken loose and
hung by a single hinge. He drove around to the back. It was the same
there. A cobweb was spun across the lower corner of the door and tiny
drops of moisture jewelled it. Perhaps it had been made in the early
morning. If so, no one had come out of the door since night.
Carmichael knocked, and knocked again. No answer. He called. No reply.
Then he drove around to the portico with the tall white pillars and
tried the front door. It was locked. He peered through the half-open
window into the drawing-room. The glass was crusted with dirt and the
room was dark. He was trying to make out the outlines of the huddled
furniture when he heard a step behind him. It was the old farmer from
the nearest cottage on the road.
"Mornin', doctor! I seen ye comin' in, and tho't ye might want to see
the house."
"Good morning, Scudder! I do, if you'll let me in. But first tell me
about these automobile tracks in the drive."
The old man gazed at him with a kind of dull surprise as if the
question were foolish.
"Why, ye made 'em yerself, comin' up, didn't ye?"
"I mean those larger tracks--they were made by a much heavier car than
mine."
"Oh," said the old man, nodding, "them was made by a big machine that
come in here las' week. You see this house 's bin shet up 'bout ten
years, ever sence ol' Jedge Gordon died. B'longs to Miss Jean--her
that run off with the Eye-talyin. She kinder wants to sell it, and
kinder not--ye see--"
"Yes," interrupted Carmichael, "but about that big machine--when did
you say it was here?"
"P'raps four or five days ago; I think it was a We'nsday. Two fellers
from Philadelfy--said they wanted to look at the house, tho't of
buyin' it. So I bro't 'em in, but when they seen the outside of it
they said they didn't want to look at it no more--too big and too
crumbly!"
"And since then no one has been here?"
"Not a soul--leastways nobody that I seen. I don't s'pose you think o'
buyin' the house, doc'! It's too lonely for an office, ain't it?"
"You're right, Scudder, much too lonely. But I'd like to look through
the old place, if you will take me in."
The hall, with the two chairs and the table, on which a kitchen lamp
with a half-inch of oil in it was standing, gave no sign of recent
habitation. Carmichael glanced around him and hurried up the stairway
to the bedroom. A tall four-poster stood in one corner, with a
coverlet apparently hiding a mattress and some pillows. A
dressing-table stood against the wall, and in the middle of the floor
there were a few chairs. A half-open closet door showed a pile of
yellow linen. The daylight sifted dimly into the room through the
cracks of the shutters.
"Scudder," said Carmichael, "I want you to look around carefully and
tell me whether you see any signs of any one having been here lately."
The old man stared, and turned his eyes slowly about the room. Then he
shook his head.
"Can't say as I do. Looks pretty much as it did when me and my wife
breshed it up in October. Ye see it's kinder clean fer an old
house--not much dust from the road here. That linen and that bed's bin
here sence I c'n remember. Them burnt logs mus' be left over from old
Jedge Gordon's time. He died in here. But what's the matter, doc'? Ye
think tramps or burglers----"
"No," said Carmichael, "but what would you say if I told you that I
was called here last night to see a patient, and that the patient was
the Miss Jean Gordon of whom you have just told me?"
"What d'ye mean?" said the old man, gaping. Then he gazed at the
doctor pityingly, and shook his head. "I know ye ain't a drinkin' man,
doc', so I wouldn't say nothin'. But I guess ye bin dreamin'. Why,
las' time Miss Jean writ to me--her name's Mortimer now, and her
husband's a kinder Barrin or some sorter furrin noble,--she was in
Paris, not mor'n two weeks ago! Said she was dyin' to come back to the
ol' place agin, but she wa'n't none too well, and didn't guess she c'd
manage it. Ef ye said ye seen her here las' night--why--well, I'd jest
think ye'd bin dreamin'. P'raps ye're a little under the weather--bin
workin' too hard?"
"I never was better, Scudder, but sometimes curious notions come to
me. I wanted to see how you would take this one. Now we'll go
downstairs again."
The old man laughed, but doubtfully, as if he was still puzzled by the
talk, and they descended the creaking, dusty stairs. Carmichael
turned at once into the dining-room.
The rubbish was still in the fireplace, the chairs ranged along the
wall. There were no dishes on the long table; but at the head of it
two chairs; and at the foot, one; and in front of that, lying on the
table, a folded bit of paper. Carmichael picked it up and opened it.
It was his prescription for the nitrite of amyl.
He hesitated a moment; then refolded the paper and put it in his
vest-pocket.
Seated in his car, with his hand on the lever, he turned to Scudder,
who was watching him with curious eyes.
"I'm very much obliged to you, Scudder, for taking me through the
house. And I'll be more obliged to you if you'll just keep it to
yourself--what I said to you about last night."
"Sure," said the old man, nodding gravely. "I like ye, doc', and that
kinder talk might do ye harm here in Calvinton. We don't hold much to
dreams and visions down this way. But, say, 'twas a mighty interestin'
dream, wa'n't it? I guess Miss Jean hones for them white pillars,
many a day--they sorter stand for old times. They draw ye, don't
they?"
"Yes, my friend," said Carmichael as he moved the lever, "they speak
of the past. There is a magic in those white pillars. They draw you."