AT THE FORK OF THE ROAD
Gretchen looked at the panting woman before her with concern.
“Plees, Mees Hull, sit awhile,” she begged, pointing to one of the
comfortable wicker chairs on the side veranda of Ten Acres. Gretchen had
caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hull toiling up the brick walk, which led from
the Rockville Turnpike into the grounds, and, by a circuitous route
through the trees, up to the old mansion, and skirted it on either side.
She had left the pantry window to open the little-used north door to
admit her. Mrs. Hull subsided into the nearest chair with thankfulness.
“I declare, Gretchen,” she gasped, “this is a fearful place to reach
from the city, unless you have a car.”
Gretchen’s smile, while expansive, was a trifle vague. It showed her
pretty dimples to advantage. “Plees, I get you a drink—”
“Of water,” firmly. “I never touch anything stronger, Gretchen,” and the
chambermaid vanished inside the house.
Mrs. Hull was grateful for the cool breeze which fanned her hot cheeks,
and she drew her breath with more regularity and ease after a few
minutes of absolute quiet. From where she sat she had an extended view
of the old-fashioned garden, with its box-hedge maze, one of the
historic features of the place, and the pergola almost completely hidden
under its cover of rambler roses. As she sat waiting in patience for
Gretchen’s return, she saw three men emerge from the pergola and go
toward the lodge gates. By his height and the use of his cane she judged
the outside man to be David Curtis; Sam Hollister she recognized at
once; but the man nearest to her was a stranger.
Gretchen’s return and her glass of water diverted Mrs. Hull’s attention
from the three men, and when she looked again in the direction they had
taken they were not in sight.
“How pretty you have grown, Gretchen,” commented Mrs. Hull, regarding
her admiringly. “You are stouter than when you arrived here from Europe
with Miss Lucille, and it is becoming to you,” hastily, observing that
Gretchen evidently considered her last remark a doubtful compliment.
“Thank you, madame!” Gretchen dropped a pretty curtsy—one of her foreign
ways, as Herman termed it; his attentions to the little Dutch girl had
early been discouraged, and his liking had, as in many similar cases,
changed to dislike. He had resumed “keeping company” with Susanne,
hoping that the astute French girl had not observed his inclination to
stray from her side. If she had noticed his sudden ardor for the pretty
stranger, Susanne gave no sign, and domestic affairs at Ten Acres had
settled down into their well-oiled, accustomed groove.
“You like it here, Gretchen?” asked Mrs. Hull, transferring her gaze
from the girl to the view over the garden. The varying shades of green
of the late spring were restful to the eyes, and Mrs. Hull was unmindful
of the lengthy pause before her question was answered.
“But, yes, madame; it’s ver’ nice,” replied Gretchen. “Would madame like
annudder drink?”
“No, no more, thanks.” Mrs. Hull took her handkerchief out of her bag.
“If ever you decide to leave here, and there may be changes now,
remember, you must come to us, Gretchen. I shall always keep a place for
you.”
“You are mos’ kind, madame.”
“Not a bit; Miss Lucille is devoted to you, we all are,” finished Mrs.
Hull. “Is that Fernando coming out of the maze?” As she put the
question, Mrs. Hull handed the empty glass to Gretchen and her eyes
rested full on the girl’s face. Gretchen’s eyes were fixed upon the man
Mrs. Hull had seen a moment before and a rich carmine dyed her cheeks a
deep red. Astonished at the effect of her question, Mrs. Hull repeated
it.
“No, no, madame; it is Damason,” stammered Gretchen. “Will madame come
inside?”
“Is Miss Lucille at home?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Then run along and ask her to come out here,” directed Mrs. Hull. “And,
Gretchen, you need not mention to Mrs. Meredith that I am calling upon
my daughter.”
Gretchen was saved a trip to Lucille’s bedroom, for she met her at the
foot of the circular staircase. Her shoes were dusty, as from walking,
and Gretchen concluded that she must have entered only a moment before
by the front door. A second more and Lucille was with her mother on the
veranda.
“Gretchen must wear Mercury wings,” said Mrs. Hull, after kissing her
warmly. “I just saw Damason crossing the garden and mistook him for
Fernando, and Gretchen nearly blushed her head off when I called her
attention to him.”
Lucille’s pale, set face relaxed into a sunny smile. “That is a budding
romance,” she explained. “We are all wondering which brother Gretchen
will marry.”
“It must be very uncomfortable to be courted by a twin.” Mrs. Hull swung
her chair with ponderous grace toward the one her daughter was occupying
close at hand. “I hope Gretchen makes a wise choice.” Then in an altered
voice: “Why are you remaining here?”
“Because it is best.” Lucille was careful to speak low. “Have you seen
father?”
“No, not since breakfast. Why?” And there was unmistakable anxiety in
Mrs. Hull’s usually expressionless voice.
“He was here just after luncheon and made a most unfortunate scene—”
“About what?”
“Hush!” Lucille’s firm hand closed over her mother’s bare wrist with a
force which made her wince. “He was present when Sam Hollister read
Cousin John’s will. By the terms of that will Anne inherits this place
and one million dollars.”
“And you—”
“A paltry one hundred thousand dollars.” The bitterness in her voice cut
Mrs. Hull and she involuntarily laid her hand over her heart as if in
actual physical pain. Her daughter was oblivious of her emotion as she
continued her account of the scene in the library. “Father declared the
codicil Cousin John signed Sunday night, revoking Anne’s bequest in my
favor, had been purposely mislaid or stolen outright—”
“Lucille!”
“Let me finish, mother.” Lucille had inherited her father’s intolerance
of interference, even in trivial matters. “Father plans to contest the
will.”
Mrs. Hull stirred unhappily in her chair. “Why will Julian act without
thought!” she exclaimed.
“He wished to protect my rights—”
Mrs. Hull appeared silenced, if not convinced. It was fully five minutes
before she spoke again.
“And you still wish to remain here as Anne’s guest?” she asked.
Lucille colored warmly. “You never look ahead, mother,” she complained.
Mrs. Hull dropped her eyes that Lucille might not see the sudden tears
which filled them. She played nervously with her handkerchief before
addressing her again.
“Where is your father now?” she inquired.
“He returned to Washington.” Lucille sighed. “I presume he is at the
office.”
A troubled look crossed Mrs. Hull’s face. “He spends too much time
there,” she said. “Julian is no longer a young man. I cannot help but
think, as much as I like Gerald Armstrong, that he shirks his
obligations to your father, Lucille.”
“Please, mother, no criticism of Gerald.” Lucille laid a warning finger
across her mother’s lips.
Mrs. Hull stared at her daughter in silence. Mother love sharpened her
usually abstracted gaze, and she saw with a dull ache in her heart the
dark circles under Lucille’s handsome eyes and the paleness of her
usually rosy cheeks. Impulsively she leaned forward and threw her arms
about the girl.
“Is all well between you and Gerald?” she asked wistfully.
“Yes, mother,” but Lucille looked elsewhere than into her mother’s
kindly eyes as she withdrew from her embrace. “Here comes Cousin Belle.
Pull yourself together.”
Mrs. Meredith’s unexpected appearance through the north door took away
what little wits Mrs. Hull had remaining to her. She stood in awe of her
husband’s cousin, a feeling which she had never been able to conquer in
the passing years and which had always prevented any degree of intimacy.
“I saw your arrival some time ago, Claire,” said Mrs. Meredith, with a
perfunctory kiss on both cheeks. “And I waited in the library for you.”
“My dear, I was so out of breath.” Mrs. Hull shook her head
pathetically. “When you reach my age and, eh, circumference, you will
understand, Belle, that I had to rest in the nearest chair.”
Mrs. Meredith prided herself on her figure, and her smile at Mrs. Hull’s
remark was pitying.
“Julian should engage a chauffeur and permit you the use of his car,”
she stated. “Come inside, Claire, and remove your coat and hat. You must
stay to dinner.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“But you must.” Mrs. Meredith’s tone held just the right shade of
cordiality, and Mrs. Hull looked hopelessly at her quick-witted
daughter. But Lucille failed her by taking Mrs. Meredith’s side.
“Do stay, mother,” she urged, slipping her arm about her waist as they
walked through the north door, through the reception hall and into the
library. “It will be so nice to have you.”
But Mrs. Hull did not accept the chair her daughter led her to; instead
she turned and faced Mrs. Meredith with simple dignity.
“Lucille has just told me of what transpired after Cousin John’s will
was read this afternoon,” she began. “Do you think it proper that
Lucille and I remain as guests at Ten Acres?”
A swift change passed over Mrs. Meredith’s handsome face, but one that
neither of her guests could interpret. Advancing she laid her hand for
an instant on Mrs. Hull’s ample shoulder.
“Whatever is done about the probating of John’s will, will be decided by
our lawyers,” she said. “If the will _is_ contested, it will be a
friendly suit in law. Personally I believe that Julian will reconsider
and withdraw his hot-tempered threat. You know, Claire, that he is a
creature of impulse.”
Whatever reply Mrs. Hull would have made was checked by the entrance of
Anne. She was a favorite with Mrs. Hull, and the latter kissed her with
tender warmth.
“You don’t look a bit well, Anne,” she announced, with customary candor,
holding the girl at arm’s length. “Why don’t you send her away for a
change, Belle? This atmosphere of gloom,” looking about the somber room,
“is enough to depress the stoutest heart.”
Anne smiled as she pressed her hand, then turned to her mother.
“Sam Hollister has just telephoned Herman that neither he nor Doctor
Curtis will be here for dinner,” she said.
“Indeed!” Mrs. Meredith raised her eyebrows in displeasure. “And where
have they gone?”
“I don’t know, mother.”
Mrs. Meredith selected her favorite chair. “Switch on the lights, Anne,”
she directed. “We might as well make ourselves comfortable until dinner
time.”
Two hours later Anne slipped away from the dining room, and telephoned
to the garage. A few words to Damason sufficed and she went to the hall
closet and took down her sport coat. The dinner had been shorter than
usual and, for which Anne was devoutly thankful, had passed off more
cheerfully than other meals since the death of her uncle. Gerald
Armstrong had appeared just before dinner was announced, looking
extremely well groomed in his evening clothes. Mrs. Hull attributed his
conversational powers to her presence, but Herman might have contributed
another reason for his sudden loquaciousness had he told of an empty
cocktail shaker reposing in Armstrong’s bedroom.
All day long Anne’s head had ached with a dull throbbing pain which made
her long for forgetfulness—oblivion, even. A desire to be by herself, to
get out in the air possessed her, and snatching the first opportunity
she had stolen away, hoping that her absence would not be noticed until
she had gotten into her roadster and driven off.
She opened the front door cautiously and hurried down the veranda steps
and along the driveway toward the lodge. A taxicab turned in at the
lodge gates and deposited a passenger and then drove off. But Anne’s
attention was centered on her car parked close to the central driveway,
and she did not observe a man walking slowly toward her. Her foot was on
the running board when a hand was laid on her shoulder.
“Anne!” Gerald Armstrong’s hot breath was unpleasantly close to her
face. “Where are you going?”
“For a drive.”
“Then I’ll go with you,” and his dictatorial manner sent a chill down
her spine.
“Hop in.”
She was in her place in an instant, her foot on the starter, but the
engine was cold. Another second and Armstrong would be by her side. Why
hadn’t she told Damason to leave the engine running?
In her haste Anne had switched on her headlights and in their glare she
saw a man approaching. He walked with assured tread, his cane tapping
time to his footsteps, his sightless eyes looking full at the
headlights. Anne stopped her engine and turned to Armstrong standing on
the running board.
“My fiance, Doctor Curtis, is going with me,” she said. “Kindly step
down and make room for him.” Leaning out of the car, she called:
“David!”
At sound of his name in her clear, soft tones Curtis felt his heart leap
and was conscious of an accelerated pulse as he increased his footsteps.
It was the first time she had ever called him “David.” For the first
time in his life he liked his given name!
“What is it—Anne?” he asked. “Where are you?”
“Keep to the right,” she exclaimed. “I am in my car waiting for you.”
She breathed more easily as Curtis, touching the fender, passed down the
side of the car and stopped by Armstrong.
“You win, doctor.” Armstrong laughed tolerantly, keeping his voice
pleasant with an effort. “If you had been a second later, I’d have gone
with Anne. I’ll explain to your mother, Anne. By-by.” And with a jaunty
wave of his hand, he sauntered back to the house.
Curtis placed his hand on the open door and swung inside the car. He had
no key to the situation, but Anne had called him—that was enough. Anne’s
foot was on the accelerator as he slammed the door; the next second the
gears slipped into place and the powerful roadster started down the
driveway and made the turn into the Rockville Pike. Not until then did
Anne break her silence.
“I had such a headache,” she said. “And it was so stuffy in the house I
stole away, and—and—”
“I came along.” Curtis laughed happily. “Thank God!”
Anne shot a half shy, half merry glance at him. She had been so long
immersed in bitter, unhappy thoughts that nature could stand no more.
Suddenly she gave way to unrestrained laughter.
“Oh!” she gasped, when she could make herself intelligible between gusts
of merriment. “If you had seen Gerald’s face! You came _just_ at the
right moment.”
“Thank you—”
“It is I who should thank you for rescuing me from an intolerable
situation.” She had sobered as quickly as she had given way to
irresistible mirth. “I have a great deal to thank you for.”
“Don’t!” Curtis laid his hand for an instant on hers. “I am happiest
when at your service.” His voice deepened with feeling. “I hope that you
believe me.”
“I do,” she said, and Curtis’ face lighted with a tender smile and his
heart pounded with unusual vigor against his ribs. He was too happy to
say more, and for a while they sped down the turnpike in silence.
Once and again she stole a glance at her silent companion, noting with
critical eyes his broad shoulders and deep chest. He had taken off his
hat and the breeze waved his naturally curly hair out of its severely
smooth lines. The stern repression which generally characterized his
features had relaxed in his enjoyment of the drive. He looked almost
boyish in the dim light from the dash lamp. There was that about Curtis
which inspired confidence in young and old, and Anne’s heart sang more
lightly as she drove the car at slower speed through Rockville and swung
into the road leading to Frederick, Maryland.
“Do you care where we go?” she asked. “Or do you want to return?”
“I should say not,” with honest vehemence. “Keep right ahead. It’s a
fine road.”
“And there are not many cars out to-night for a wonder.” Anne bent
forward and switched on the big lights. “No stars are visible. I
shouldn’t wonder if we had a storm.”
As they reached open country Anne pressed down on the accelerator and
the car raced ahead. They passed several other motorists and then Anne
saw that she had a clear stretch of road before them. The car tore
onward, gathering speed for the next hill. As they reached the crest she
saw that the ground dipped suddenly in a steep incline and she pressed
down on the brake. Instead of checking speed, the roadster gathered
momentum. Involuntarily a low cry escaped Anne as the car lurched
sideways, then righting itself, swept down the steep hill at breakneck
speed.
“What is it?” demanded Curtis quickly.
“The brakes won’t work,” she panted, tugging at the hand brake. “I’ve
lost control—”
“Go into second,” he shouted. He heard the noise of the shifting gears
as he set the hand brake. Leaning over he grasped the wheel. “I’ll hold
it steady; you guide.” He raised his voice. “Is there anything ahead?”
“No.” Her fingers closed over his hands and he swung the car in the
direction she indicated, holding it with powerful grip straight in the
center of the road. She felt their terrific speed lessen as the car
reached the bottom of the steep grade and struck the level, and she shut
off the engine. The roadster coasted along for some distance and she
caught sight of a fork in the road ahead.
“Turn to the right,” she gasped. “We’ll park in the gutter.” As the car
came to a standstill Anne dropped limply back in her seat. Curtis’ voice
sounded miles away and there were dancing sparks in front of her eyes.
“There is a box of ammonia vaporoles in the right-hand pocket,” she
stammered weakly as her head drooped forward. “I am so ashamed—” her
voice died away entirely.
The box was tucked at the bottom of the leather pocket in the door, and
Curtis had some difficulty in finding it. With one of the little ampules
crushed in his hand, he bent over Anne and held it so that the fumes
reached her. She was still only partly conscious when he lowered his
hand to unfasten the high collar of her sport coat. As he dragged it
back his signet ring caught in a fine gold chain which she wore around
her neck and tucked under the front of her low-cut gown.
As Curtis strove to disengage his ring the chain swung back and its
pendant struck his hand. It was a key. Instinctively his fingers traced
the slightly raised lettering, “Yale,” and then slipped down the key.
Mechanically he counted each notch and groove. Curtis drew in his breath
sharply. The key was identically the same as the one marked “duplicate”
in Meredith’s safe deposit box. How came it to be in Anne’s possession?
A long-drawn sigh from Anne aroused Curtis. Without taking thought, he
pressed back the catch of the chain and released the key. As he secreted
it carefully in his pocket he slipped the chain inside Anne’s gown
again.
“Do you feel better?” he asked, as Anne raised her head.
“Yes.” She struggled upright. “It was silly of me to faint. I am
mortified—”
“You need not be,” quickly. “It was a ghastly run down that hill. It
won’t be possible to drive this car back. Do you know where we are?”
“We have passed Gaithersburg,” she replied. “There is a farmhouse back
in the field there. We have stopped almost in front of its gate—”
“Don’t get out,” exclaimed Curtis, as she half rose. She sank back
again, conscious that her knees were shaking under her. “I can make my
way to the house and will either telephone to Rockville for a car to run
us back, or get one of the inmates of this farmhouse to take us to
Washington. They probably have a car.”
“But what about my roadster?”
“I’ll call up the nearest service station and get them to send a trouble
wagon for it,” he said, stepping out of the car. “Don’t worry, I won’t
be long.”
Anne watched him make his way slowly across the long grass to the fence.
“Keep to the right,” she called, and he waved his hand to indicate that
he heard and understood. She was still watching him when a car, coming
from Rockville, dashed past and took the turn to the left.
The house was fully a quarter of a mile from the road and Curtis walked
with care. Anne stared after him anxiously until the darkness hid him
from view, then turned around in her seat—to find a masked man standing
on her running board.
Anne stared at him in paralyzed silence. Slowly his right hand came into
view and a revolver touched her breast.
“Make no noise,” he commanded, and his voice had a terrifying sound
coming from behind the black cloth which dropped below his chin. “Give
me that key.”
“The key!”
“The _key_!” with stern emphasis. “Be quick or I’ll—” And the revolver
pressed against her side.
Mechanically Anne dragged out her gold chain. It hung suspended in her
hand in the light from the dash lamp. Anne gazed at the empty ring of
the safety catch, where the key had been fastened, as if hypnotized.
“It’s—gone—_gone_!” And the horror in her eyes as she raised them to the
masked man was more convincing even than her words.
Raised voices coming down the walk from the farmhouse aroused the masked
man from his contemplation of Anne and the empty chain. As silently as
he had come, he vanished into the night.
Curtis’ hail met with no response and climbing into the car, assisted by
the farmer and his son, he found that Anne had fainted again.