Young Rossiter did not like the task. The more he thought of it as he
whirled northward on the Empire State Express the more distasteful it
seemed to grow.
"Hang it all," he thought, throwing down his magazine in disgust, "it's
like police work. And heaven knows I haven't wanted to be a cop since we
lived in Newark twenty years ago. Why the dickens did old Wharton marry
her? He's an old ass, and he's getting just what he might have expected.
She's twenty-five and beautiful; he's seventy and a sight. I've a notion
to chuck the whole affair and go back to the simple but virtuous
Tenderloin. It's not my sort, that's all, and I was an idiot for mixing in
it. The firm served me a shabby trick when it sent me out to work up this
case for Wharton. It's a regular Peeping Tom Job, and I don't like it."
It will require but few words to explain Sam Rossiter's presence in the
north-bound Empire Express, but it would take volumes to express his
feelings on the subject in general. Back in New York there lived Godfrey
Wharton, millionaire and septuagenarian. For two years he had been husband
to one of the prettiest, gayest young women in the city, and in the latter
days of this responsibility he was not a happy man. His wife had fallen
desperately, even conspicuously, in love with Everett Havens, the new
leading man at one of the fashionable playhouses. The affair had been
going on for weeks, and it had at last become the talk of the town. By
"the town" is meant that vague, expansive thing known as the "Four
Hundred." Sam Rossiter, two years out of Yale, was an attachment to, but
not a component part of, the Four Hundred. The Whartons were of the inner
circle.
Young Rossiter was ambitious. He was, besides, keen, aggressive, and
determined to make well for himself. Entering the great law offices of
Grover & Dickhut immediately after leaving college, he devoted himself
assiduously to the career in prospect. He began by making its foundation
as substantial as brains and energy would permit. So earnest, so
successful was he that Grover & Dickhut regarded him as the most promising
young man in New York. They predicted a great future for him, no small
part of which was the ultimate alteration of an office shingle, the name
of Rossiter going up in gilt, after that of Dickhut. And, above all,
Rossiter was a handsome, likable chap. Tall, fair, sunny-hearted, well
groomed, he was a fellow that both sexes liked without much effort.
The Wharton trouble was bound to prove startling any way one looked at
it. The prominence of the family, the baldness of its skeleton, and the
gleeful eagerness with which it danced into full view left but little for
meddlers to covet. A crash was inevitable; it was the _clash_ that
Grover & Dickhut were trying to avert. Old Wharton, worn to a slimmer
frazzle than he had ever been before his luckless marriage, was determined
to divorce his insolent younger half. It was to be done with as little
noise as possible, more for his own sake than for hers. Wharton was proud
in, not of, his weakness.
It became necessary to "shadow" the fair débutante into matrimony. After
weeks of indecision Mr. Wharton finally arose and swore in accents
terrible that she was going too far to be called back. He determined to
push, not to pull, on the reins. Grover & Dickhut were commanded to get
the "evidence"; he would pay. When he burst in upon them and cried in his
cracked treble that "the devil's to pay," he did not mean to cast any
aspersion upon the profession in general or particular. He was annoyed.
"She's going away next week," he exclaimed, as if the lawyers were to
blame for it.
"Well, and what of it?" asked Mr. Grover blandly.
"Up into the mountains," went on Mr. Wharton triumphantly.
"Is it against the law?" smiled the old lawyer.
"Confound the law! I don't object to her going up into the mountains for
a rest, but--"
"It's much too hot in town for her, I fancy."
"How's that?" querulously. "But I've just heard that that scoundrel
Havens is going to the mountains also."
"The same mountain?"
"Certainly. I have absolute proof of it. Now, something has to be done!"
And so it was that the promising young lawyer, Samuel W. Rossiter, Jr.,
was sent northward into the Adirondacks one hot summer day with
instructions to be tactful but thorough. He had never seen Mrs. Wharton,
nor had he seen Havens. There was no time to look up these rather
important details, for he was off to intercept her at the little station
from which one drove by coach to the quiet summer hotel among the clouds.
She was starting the same afternoon. He found himself wondering whether
this petted butterfly of fashion had ever seen him, and, seeing him, had
been sufficiently interested to inquire, "Who is that tall fellow with the
light hair?" It would be difficult to perform the duties assigned to him
if either she or Havens knew him for what he was. His pride would have
been deeply wounded if he had known that Grover & Dickhut recommended him
to Wharton as "obscure."
"They say she is a howling beauty as well as a swell," reflected
Rossiter, as the miles and minutes went swinging by. "And that's something
to be thankful for. One likes novelty, especially if it's feminine. Well,
I'm out for the sole purpose of saving a million or so for old Wharton,
and to save as much of her reputation as I can besides. With the proof in
hand the old duffer can scare her out of any claim against his bank
account, and she shall have the absolute promise of 'no exposure' in
return. Isn't it lovely? Well, here's Albany. Now for the dinky road up to
Fossingford Station. I have an hour's wait here. She's coming on the
afternoon train and gets to Fossingford at eleven-ten to-night. That's a
dickens of a time for a young woman to be arriving anywhere, to say
nothing of Fossingford."
Loafing about the depot at Albany, Rossiter kept a close lookout for Mrs.
Wharton as he pictured her from the description he carried in his mind's
eye. Her venerable husband informed him that she was sure to wear a white
shirt-waist, a gray skirt, and a Knox sailor hat, because her maid had
told him so in a huff. But he was to identify her chiefly by means of a
handsome and oddly trimmed parasol of deep purple. Wharton had every
reason to suspect that it was a present from Havens, and therefore to be
carried more for sentiment than protection.
A telegram awaited him at Fossingford Station. Fossingford was so small
and unsophisticated that the arrival of a telegraphic message that did not
relate to the movement of railroad trains was an "occasion." Everybody in
town knew that a message had come for Samuel Rossiter, and everybody was
at the depot to see that he got it. The station agent had inquired at the
"eating-house" for the gentleman, and that was enough. With the eyes of a
Fossingford score or two upon him, Rossiter read the despatch from Grover
& Dickhut.
"Too bad, ain't it?" asked the agent, compassionately regarding the
newcomer. Evidently the contents were supposed to be disappointing.
"Oh, I don't know," replied Rossiter easily. But just the same he was
troubled in mind as he walked over and sat down upon his steamer trunk in
the shade of the building. The telegram read:
"She left New York five-thirty this evening. Stops over night Albany.
Fossingford to-morrow morning. Watch trains. Purple parasol. Sailor hat.
Gray travelling suit.
"G. and D."
It meant that he would be obliged to stay in Fossingford all night--but
where? A general but comprehensive glance did not reveal anything that
looked like a hotel. He thought of going back to Albany for the night, but
it suddenly occurred to him that she might not stop in that city, after
all. Pulling his wits together, he saw things with a new clearness of
vision. Ostensibly she had announced her intention to spend the month at
Eagle Nest, an obscure but delightful hotel in the hills; but did that
really mean that she would go there? It was doubtless a ruse to throw the
husband off the track. There were scores of places in the mountains, and
it was more than probable that she would give Eagle Nest a wide berth.
Rossiter patted his bump of perceptiveness and smiled serenely until he
came plump up against the realization that she might not come by way of
Fossingford at all, or, in any event, she might go whisking through to
some station farther north. His speculations came to an end in the shape
of a distressing resolution. He would remain in Fossingford and watch the
trains go by!
After he had dashed through several early evening trains, the cheerful,
philosophical smile of courage left his face and trouble stared from his
eyes. He saw awkward prospects ahead. Suppose she were to pass through on
one of the late night trains! He could not rush through the sleepers, even
though the trains stopped in Fossingford for water.
Besides, she could not be identified by means of a gray suit, a sailor
hat, and a purple parasol if they were tucked away in the berth. At eleven
o'clock he was pacing the little depot platform, waiting for the
eleven-ten train, the last he was to inspect for the night. He had eaten
a scanty meal at the restaurant nearby, and was still mad about it. The
station agent slept soundly at his post, and all the rest of the town had
gone to bed.
The train pulled in and out again, leaving him at the far end of the
platform, mopping his harassed brow. He had visited the chair-cars and had
seen no one answering the description. A half-dozen passengers huddled off
and wandered away in the darkness.
"I'll bet my head she's in one of those sleepers," he groaned, as he
watched the lights on the rear coach fade away into the night. "It's all
off till to-morrow, that's settled. My only hope is that she really
stopped in Albany. There's a train through here at three in the morning;
but I'm not detective enough to unravel the mystery of any woman's berth.
Now, where the deuce am _I_ to sleep?"
As he looked about dismally, disconsolately, his hands deep in his
pockets, his straw hat pulled low over his sleepy eyes, the station agent
came up to him with a knowing grin on his face.
"'Scuse me, boss, but she's come," he said, winking.
"She? Who?"
"Her. The young lady. Sure! She's lookin' fer you over in the
waitin'-room. You mus' 'a' missed her when she got off--thought she
wasn't comin' up till to-morrer. Mus' 'a' changed her mind. That's
a woming all over, ain't it?"
Rossiter felt himself turn hot and cold. His head began to whirl and his
courage went fluttering away. Here was a queer complication. The quarry
hunting for the sleuth, instead of the reverse. He fanned himself with his
hat for one brief, uncertain moment, dazed beyond belief. Then he
resolutely strode over to face the situation, trusting to luck to keep him
from blundering his game into her hands. Just as he was about to put his
foot upon the lamp-lit door-sill the solution struck him like a blow. She
was expecting Havens to meet her!
There was but one woman in the room, and she was approaching the door
with evident impatience as he entered. Both stopped short, she with a look
of surprise, which changed to annoyance and then crept into an nervous,
apologetic little smile; he with an unsuppressed ejaculation. She wore a
gray skirt, a white waist, and a sailor hat, and she was surpassingly good
to look at even in the trying light from the overhead lamp. Instinctively
his eye swept over her. She carried on her arm the light gray jacket, and
in one hand was the tightly rolled parasol of--he impertinently craned his
neck to see--of purple! Mr. Rossiter was face to face with the woman he
was to dog for a month, and he was flabbergasted. Even as he stopped,
puzzled, before her, contemplating retreat, she spoke to him.
"Did that man send you to me?" she asked nervously, looking through the
door beyond and then through a window at his right, quite puzzled, he
could see.
"He did, and I was sure he was mistaken. I knew of no one in this
God-forsaken place who could be asking for me," said he, collecting his
wits carefully and herding them into that one sentence. "But perhaps I
can help you. Will you tell me whom I am to look for?"
"It is strange he is not here," she said a little breathlessly. "I wired
him just what train to expect me on."
"Your husband?" ventured he admirably.
"Oh, dear, no!" said she quickly.
"I wish she'd wired me what train to expect her on," thought he grimly.
"She doesn't know me. That's good. She was expecting Havens and he's
missed connections somehow," shot rapidly through his brain. At the same
time he was thinking of her as the prettiest woman he had seen in all his
life. Then aloud: "I'll look on the platform. Maybe he's lost in this
great city. What name shall I call out?"
"Please don't call very loudly. You'll wake the dead," she said, with a
pathetic smile. "It's awfully good of you. He may come at any minute, you
know. His name is--is"--she hesitated for a second, and then went on
determinedly--"Dudley. Tall, dark man. I don't know how I shall thank you.
It's so very awkward."
Rossiter darted from her glorious but perplexed presence. He had never
seen Havens, but he was sure he could recognize an actor if he saw him in
Fossingford. And he would call him Dudley, too. It would be wise. The
search was fruitless. The only tall, dark object he saw was the mailcrane
at the edge of the platform, but he facetiously asked if its name was
Dudley. Receiving no answer, he turned back to cast additional woe into
the heart of the pretty intriguer. She was standing in the door, despair
in her eyes. Somehow he was pleased because he had not found the wretch.
She was so fair to look upon and so appealing in her distress.
"You couldn't find him? What am I to do? Oh, isn't it awful? He promised
to be here."
"Perhaps he's at a hotel."
"In Fossingford?" in deep disgust. "There's no hotel here. He was to
drive me to the home of a friend out in the country." Rossiter leaned
against the wall suddenly. There was a long silence. He could not find his
tongue, but his eyes were burning deep into the plaintive blue ones that
looked up into his face.
"I'll ask the agent," he said at last.
"Ask him what?" she cried anxiously.
"If he's been here. No, I'll ask if there's a place where you can sleep
to-night. Mr. Dudley will surely turn up to-morrow."
"But I couldn't sleep a wink. I feel like crying my eyes out," she wailed.
"Don't do that!" exclaimed he, in alarm. "I'll take another look outside."
"Please don't. He is not here. Will you please tell me what I am to
do?"--very much as if it was his business to provide for her in the hour
of need.
Rossiter promptly awoke the agent and asked him where a room could be
procured for the lady. Doxie's boarding-house was the only place,
according to the agent, and it was full to overflowing. Besides, they
would not "take in" strange women.
"She can sleep here in the waiting-room," suggested the agent. "They'll
let you sleep in the parlor over at Doxie's, mister--maybe."
Rossiter did not have the heart to tell her all that the agent said. He
merely announced that there was no hotel except the depot waiting-room.
"By the way, does Mr. Dudley live out in the country?" he asked
insidiously. She flushed and then looked at him narrowly.
"No. He's visiting his uncle up here."
"Funny he missed you."
"It's terribly annoying," she said coldly. Then she walked away from him
as if suddenly conscious that she should not be conversing with a
good-looking stranger at such a time and place and under such peculiar
circumstances. He withdrew to the platform and his own reflections.
"He's an infernal cad for not meeting her," he found himself saying, her
pretty, distressed face still before him. "I don't care a rap whether
she's doing right or wrong--she's game. Still, she's a blamed little fool
to be travelling up here on such an outlandish train. So he's visiting an
uncle, eh? Then the chances are they're not going to Eagle Nest. Lucky I
waited here--I'd have lost them entirely if I'd gone back to Albany. But
where the deuce is she to sleep till morn--" He heard rapid footsteps
behind him and turned to distinguish Mrs. Wharton as she approached dimly
but gracefully. The air seemed full of her.
"Oh, Mr.--Mr.--" she was saying eagerly.
"Rollins."
"Isn't there a later train, Mr. Rollins?"
"I'll ask the agent."
"There's the flyer at three-thirty A. M.," responded the sleepy agent a
minute later.
"I'll just sit up and wait for it," she said coolly. "He has got the
trains confused."
"Good heavens! Till three-thirty?"
"But my dear Mr. Rollins, you won't be obliged to sit up, you know.
You're not expecting any one, are you?"
"N-no, of course not."
"By the way, why _are_ you staying up?" He was sure he detected
alarm in the question. She was suspecting him!
"I have nowhere to go, Miss--Mrs.--er--" She merely smiled and he said
something under his breath. "I'm waiting for the eight o'clock train."
"How lovely! What time will the three-thirty train get here, agent?"
"At half-past three, I reckon. But she don't stop here!"
"Oh, goodness! Can't you flag it--her, I mean?"
"What's the use?" asked Rossiter. "He's not coming on it, is he?"
"That's so. He's coming in a buggy. You needn't mind flagging her, agent."
"Well, say, I'd like to lock up the place," grumbled the agent. "There's
no more trains to-night but Number Seventeen, and she don't even whistle
here. I can't set up here all night."
"Oh, you wouldn't lock me out in the night, would you?" she cried in such
pretty despair that he faltered.
"I got to git home to my wife. She's--"
"That's all right, agent," broke in Rossiter hastily. "I'll take your
place as agent. Leave the doors open and I'll go on watch. I have to stay
up anyway."
There was a long silence. He did not know whether she was freezing or
warming toward him, because he dared not look into her eyes.
"I don't know who you are," she said distinctly but plaintively. It was
very dark out there on the platform and the night air was growing cold.
"It is the misfortune of obscurity," he said mockingly. "I am a most
humble wayfarer on his way to the high hills. If it will make you feel any
more comfortable, madam, I will say that I don't know who you are. So, you
see, we are in the same boat. You are waiting for a man and I am waiting
for daylight. I sincerely trust you may not have as long to wait as I.
Believe me, I regard myself as a gentleman. You are quite as safe with me
as you will be with the agent, or with Mr.--Mr. Dudley, for that matter."
"You may go home to your wife, Mr. Agent," she said promptly. "Mr.
Rollins will let the trains through, I'm sure."
The agent stalked away in the night and the diminutive station was left
to the mercy of the wayfarers.
"And now, Mr. Rollins, you may go over in that corner and stretch out on
the bench. It will be springless, I know, but I fancy you can sleep. I
will call you for the--for breakfast."
"I'm hanged if you do. On the contrary, I'm going to do my best to fix a
comfortable place for you to take a nap. I'll call you when Mr. Dudley
comes."
"It's most provoking of him," she said, as he began rummaging through his
steamer trunk. "What are you doing?"
"Hunting out something to make over into a mattress. You don't mind
napping on my clothes, do you? Here's a soft suit of flannels, a heavy
suit of cheviot, a dress suit, a spring coat, and a raincoat. I can rig up
a downy couch in no time if--"
"Ridiculous! Do you imagine that I'm going to sleep on your best clothes?
I'm going to sit up."
"You'll have to do as I say, madam, or be turned out of the hotel," said
he, with an infectious grin.
"But I insist upon your lying down. You have no reason for doing this for
me. Besides, I'm going to sit up. Good-night!"
"You are tired and ready to cry," he said, calmly going on with his
preparations. She stood off defiantly and watched him pile his best
clothes into a rather comfortable-looking heap on one of the long benches.
"Now, if you don't mind, I'll make a pillow of these negligée shirts.
They're soft, you know."
"Stop! I refuse to accept your--" she was protesting.
"Do you want me to leave you here all alone?" he demanded. "With the
country full of tramps and--"
"Don't! It's cowardly of you to frighten me. They say the railroads are
swarming with tramps, too. Won't you please go and see if Mr. Dudley is
anywhere in sight?"
"It was mean of me, I confess. Please lie down. It's getting cold. Pull
this raincoat over yourself. I'll walk out and--"
"Oh, but you are a determined person. And very foolish, too. Why should
you lose a lot of sleep just for me when--?"
"There is no reason why two men should fail you to-night, Mrs.--Miss--"
"Miss Dering," she said, humbled.
"When you choose to retire, Miss Dering, you will find your room quite
ready," he said with fine gallantry, bowing low as he stood in the
doorway. "I will be just outside on the platform, so don't be uneasy."
He quickly faded into the night, leaving her standing there, petulant,
furious, yet with admiration in her eyes. Ten minutes later he heard her
call. She was sitting on the edge of the improvised couch, smiling
sweetly, even timidly.
"It must be cold out there. You must wear this."
She came toward him, the raincoat in one hand, the purple parasol in the
other. He took the parasol only and departed without a word. She gasped
and would have called after him, but there was no use. With a perplexed
frown and smile she went slowly, dubiously toward the folded bed.
Rossiter smoked three cigars and walked two miles up and down the
platform, swinging the parasol absent-mindedly, before he ventured to look
inside the room again. In that time he had asked and answered many
questions in his mind. He saw that it would be necessary to change his
plans if he was to watch her successfully. She evidently gave out Eagle
Nest to blind her husband. Somehow he was forgetting that the task before
him was disagreeable and undignified. What troubled him most was how to
follow them if Havens--or Dudley--put in an appearance for the
three-thirty train. He began to curse Everett Havens softly but potently.
When he looked into the waiting-room she was sound asleep on the bench.
It delighted him to see that she had taken him at his word and was lying
upon his clothes. Cautiously he took a seat on the door-sill. The night
was as still as death and as lonesome as the grave. For half an hour he
sat gazing upon the tired, pretty face and the lithe young figure of the
sleeper. He found himself dreaming, although he was wide awake--never more
so. It occurred to him that he would be immensely pleased to hear that
Havens's reason for failing her was due to an accident in which he had
been killed.
"Those clothes will have to be pressed the first thing to-morrow," he
said to himself, but without a trace of annoyance. "Hang it all, she
doesn't look like that sort of woman," his mind switched. "But just think
of being tied up to an old crocodile like Wharton! Gee! One oughtn't to
blame her!"
Then he went forth into the night once more and listened for the sound of
buggy wheels. It was almost time for the arrival of the belated man from
the country, and he was beginning to pray that he would not appear at all.
It came to his mind that he should advise her to return to New York in the
morning. At last his watch told him that the train was due to pass in five
minutes. And still no buggy! Good! He felt an exhilaration that threatened
to break into song.
Softly he stole back into the waiting-room, prepared to awaken her before
the train shot by. Something told him that the rumble and roar would
terrify her if she were asleep. Going quite close to her he bent forward
and looked long and sadly upon the perfect face. Her hair was somewhat
disarranged, her hat had a very hopeless tilt, her lashes swept low over
the smooth cheek, but there was an almost imperceptible choke in her
breathing. In her small white hand she clasped a handkerchief tightly,
and--yes, he was sure of it--there were tear-stains beneath her lashes.
There came to him the faint sob which lingers long in the breath of one
who has cried herself to sleep. The spy passed his hand over his brow,
sighed, shook his head and turned away irresolutely. He remembered that
she was waiting for a man who was not her husband.
Far down the track a bright star came shooting toward Fossingford. He
knew it to be the headlight of the flyer. With a breath of relief he saw
that he was the only human being on the platform. Havens had failed again.
This time he approached the recumbent one determinedly. She was awake the
instant he touched her shoulder.
"Oh," she murmured, sitting erect and looking about, bewildered. "Is
it--has he--oh, you are still here? Has he come?"
"No, Miss Dering, he is not here," and added, under his breath, "damn
him!" Then aloud, "The train is coming."
"And he didn't come?" she almost wailed.
"I fancy you'd better try to sleep until morning. There's nothing to stay
awake for," although it came with a pang.
"Absolutely nothing," she murmured, and his pride took a respectful tumble.
As she began to rearrange her hair, rather clumsily spoiling a charming
effect, he remonstrated.
"Don't bother about your hair." She looked at him in wonder for an
instant, a little smile finally creeping to her lips. He felt that she
understood something. "Maybe he'll come after all," he added quickly.
"What are you doing with my parasol?" she asked sleepily.
"I'm carrying it to establish your identity with Dudley if he happens to
come. He'll recognize the purple parasol, you know."
"Oh, I see," she said dubiously. "He gave it to me for a birthday present."
"I knew it," he muttered.
"What?"
"I mean I knew he'd recognize it," he explained.
The flyer shot through Fossingford at that juncture, a long line of
roaring shadows. There was silence between them until the rumble was lost
in the distance.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to go out on the platform for awhile," she
said finally, resignation in her eyes. "Perhaps he's out there, wondering
why the train didn't stop."
"It's cold out there. Just slip into my coat, Miss Dering." He held the
raincoat for her, and she mechanically slipped her arms into the sleeves.
She shivered, but smiled sweetly up at him.
"Thank you, Mr. Rollins, you are very thoughtful and very kind to me."
They walked out into the darkness. After a turn or two in silence she
took the arm he proffered. He admired the bravery with which she was
trying to convince him that she was not so bitterly disappointed. When she
finally spoke her voice was soft and cool, just as a woman's always is
before the break.
"He was to have taken me to his uncle's house, six miles up in the
country. His aunt and a young lady from the South, with Mr. Dudley and me,
are to go to Eagle Nest to-morrow for a month."
"How very odd," he said with well-assumed surprise. "I, too, am going to
Eagle Nest for a month or so."
She stopped stock-still, and he could feel that she was staring at him
hardly.
"You are going there?" she half whispered.
"They say it is a quiet, restful place," he said. "One reaches it by
stage over-land, I believe." She was strangely silent during the remainder
of the walk. Somehow he felt amazingly sorry for her. "I hope I may see
something of you while we are there," he said at last.
"I imagine I couldn't help it if I were to try," she said. They were in
the path of the light from the window, and he saw the strange little smile
on her face. "I think I'll lie down again. Won't you find a place to
sleep, Mr. Rollins? I can't bear the thought of depriving you--"
"I am the slave of your darkness," he said gravely.
She left him, and he lit another cigar. Daylight came at last to break up
his thoughts, and then his tired eyes began to look for the man and buggy.
Fatigued and weary, he sat upon his steamer trunk, his back to the wall.
There he fell sound asleep.
He was awakened by some one shaking him gently by the shoulder.
"You are a very sound sleeper, Mr. Rollins," said a familiar voice, but
it was gay and sprightly. He looked up blankly, and it was a full
half-minute before he could get his bearings.
A young woman with a purple parasol stood beside him, laughing merrily,
and at her side was a tall, dark, very good-looking young man.
"I couldn't go without saying good-by to you, Mr. Rollins, and thanking
you again for the care you have taken of me," she was saying. He finally
saw the little gloved hand that was extended toward him. Her companion was
carrying her jacket and the little travelling-bag.
"Oh--er--good-by, and don't mention it," he stammered, struggling to his
feet. "Was I asleep?"
"Asleep at your post, sir. Mr. Dudley--oh, this is Mr. Dudley, Mr.
Rollins--came in ten minutes ago and found--us--both--asleep."
"Isn't it lucky Mr. Dudley happens to be an honest man?" said Rossiter,
in a manner so strange that the smile froze on the face of the other man.
The unhappy barrister caught the quick glance that passed between them,
and was vaguely convinced that they had been discussing him while he
slept. Something whispered to him that they had guessed the nature of his
business.
"My telegram was not delivered to him until this morning. Wasn't it
provoking?" she was saying.
"What time is it now?" asked Rossiter.
"Half-past seven," responded Dudley rather sharply. His black eyes were
fastened steadily upon those of the questioner. "Mr. Van Haltford's man
came in and got Miss Dering's telegram yesterday, but it was not delivered
to me until a neighbor came to the house with both the message and
messenger in charge. Joseph had drunk all the whisky in Fossingford.
"Then there's no chance for me to get a drink, I suppose," said Rossiter
with a wry smile.
"Do you need one?" asked Miss Dering saucily.
"I have a headache."
"A pick-me-up is what you want," said Dudley coldly.
"My dear sir, I haven't been drunk," remonstrated Rossiter sharply. His
hearers laughed and he turned red but cold with resentment.
"See, Mr. Rollins, I have smoothed out your clothes and folded them," she
said, pointing to her one-time couch. "I couldn't pack them in your trunk
because you were sitting on it. Shall I help you now?"
"No, I thank you," he said ungraciously. "I can toss 'em in any old way."
He set about doing it without another word. His companions stood over
near the window and conversed earnestly in words too low for him to
distinguish. From the corner of his eye he could see that Dudley's face
was hard and uncompromising, while hers was eager and imploring. The man
was stubbornly objecting to something, and she was just as decided in an
opposite direction.
"He's finding fault and she's trying to square it with him. Oh, my
beauties, you'll have a hard time to shake off one Samuel Rossiter.
They're suspicious--or he is, at least. Some one has tipped me off to
them, I fancy."
"I'm sorry they are so badly mussed, Mr. Rollins, but they did make a
very comfortable bed," she said, walking over to him. Her cheeks were
flushed and her eyes were gleaming. "You are going to Eagle Nest to-day?"
"Just as soon as I can get a conveyance. There is a stage-coach at nine,
Miss Dering."
"We will have room for you on our break," she said simply. Her eyes met
his bravely and then wavered. Rossiter's heart gave a mighty leap.
"Permit me to second Miss Dering's invitation," said Dudley, coming over.
The suggestion of a frown on his face made Rossiter only too eager to
accept the unexpected invitation. "My aunt and Miss Crozier are outside
with the coachman. You can have your luggage sent over in the stage. It is
fourteen miles by road, so we should be under way, Mr. Rollins."
As Rossiter followed them across the platform he was saying to himself:
"Well, the game's on. Here's where I begin to earn my salary. I'll hang
out my sign when I get back to New York: 'Police Spying. Satisfaction
guaranteed. References given.' Hang it all, I hate to do this to her.
She's an awfully good sort, and--and--But I don't like this damned Havens!"
Almost before he knew it he was being presented to two handsome,
fashionably dressed young women who sat together in the rear seat of the
big mountain break.
"Every cloud has its silver lining," Miss Dering was saying. "Let me
present you to Mr. Dudley's aunt, Mrs. Van Haltford, and to Miss Crozier,
Mr. Rollins."
In a perfect maze of emotions, he found himself bowing before the two
ladies, who smiled distantly and uncertainly. Dudley's aunt? That dashing
young creature his aunt? Rossiter was staggered by the boldness of the
claim. He could scarce restrain the scornful, brutal laugh of derision at
this ridiculous play upon his credulity. To his secret satisfaction he
discovered that the entire party seemed nervous and ill at ease. There was
a trace of confusion in their behavior. He heard Miss Dering explain that
he was to accompany the party and he saw the poorly concealed look of
disapproval and polite inquiry that went between the two ladies and
Dudley. There was nothing for it, however, now that Miss Dering had
committed herself, and he was advised to look to his luggage without delay.
He hurried into the station to arrange for the transportation of his
trunk by stage, all the while smiling maliciously in his sleeve. Looking
surreptitiously from a window he saw the quartet, all of them now on the
break, arguing earnestly over--him, he was sure. Miss Dering was
plaintively facing the displeasure of the trio. The coachman's averted
face wore a half-grin. The discussion ended abruptly as Rossiter
reappeared, but there was a coldness in the air that did not fail to
impress him as portentous.
"I'm the elephant on their hands--the proverbial hot coal," he thought
wickedly. "Well, they've got to bear it even if they can't grin." Then
aloud cheerily: "All aboard! We're off!" He took his seat beside the
driver. The events of the ensuing week are best chronicled by the
reproduction of Rossiter's own diary or report, with liberties in the
shape of an author's comments.