_The Mysterious Visitor_
This same night that I was flying the patrol, father and Drake spent at
our home in a small Westchester town near New York. They knew in what
I was engaged. They were frequently connected by telephone with the
official Boston station to which Green was making our radio reports.
Our Westchester home was an unpretentious cottage, set on a quiet
street near the edge of the village. We kept only one servant. She was
away this night; Drake and father were alone in the house.
There came, just before midnight, a thumping on the front porch door.
They looked up, startled. The thump was repeated. Some one at the front
door, demanding admittance.
"Well," said Drake, "it's a wonder they wouldn't ring the bell! I'll
go, father."
We had an electric front doorbell, with the button prominently
displayed. And also, on the door for ornament, an old-fashioned
knocker. This summons was not even a knock; a thump, as though some one
were pounding with the flat of his fist. It began again and continued.
"What the deuce?" Drake muttered. He lighted the hall light; father
followed him. Drake, with his six feet two inches of brawn, was, at the
age of twenty-eight, afraid of no man. But a vague thrill of fear shot
through him nevertheless as he went to the door and jerked it open.
A man stood there; a tall, bulky figure, though not so tall as Drake--a
man in a long, dark overcoat, with a black felt hat pulled down over
his eyes. At first glance he was a rough-looking customer.
"What do you want?" Drake demanded. "We've got a doorbell."
"Does it--is Dr. Ferrule who lives here?" A soft voice; the queer
accent of a foreigner. But Drake could not place the nationality; the
voice and broken accent were like nothing he had ever heard before. The
light fell on the man's face, heavy-jawed, hairless. A man of perhaps
thirty-five.
"Yes," said Drake. "Dr. Ferrule is here." Father was behind him. "For
you, father."
The man stood at the threshold. "Then you are Drake Ferrule? Is that
true?"
Father advanced. "Come in. What is it? You want to see me? I am Dr.
Ferrule."
The man came in. Though the door opening was two feet higher than his
head, nevertheless he stooped as he passed it. He stood in the hall.
"Dr. Ferrule, I would like to speak to you--and to this your son. This
is Drake?"
Drake said impatiently: "That's my name. Who are you? What do you want?"
The visitor addressed father. "My name? You never heard it. My
business? You had a daughter--"
That electrified them. Drake caught father's warning glance and
remained silent. Father was trembling. "My daughter--Dianne?"
"Yes, Dianne."
"Come in," said father. He led the man to the library. Drake followed
behind, watchfully. He somehow sensed that this mysterious visitor was
no friend. An antagonist of some sort. In the library the fellow stood
with his hat on. He pushed back its brim as though it annoyed him. He
stood ill at ease; his gaze roved the room. To Drake, watching him
closely, it seemed that he was somehow expectant; and tense, afraid
perhaps of something which might at any moment occur.
"Sit down," said father.
He was more than mysterious, this visitor. Weird. He stood carefully
watching father sit down. Then he drew a chair forward and awkwardly
sat upon it. As though he had never seen a chair before. The thought
flashed to Drake.
"Well?" said father.
There was a brief silence. Drake remained standing. Father, by
temperament nervous, was visibly trembling. But he was no fool; he was
very cautious, alert.
"Well, what is it? About my daughter Dianne."
"Yes. She--you have not seen her for many years?"
"No."
"Not even heard from her?"
"No. Why?"
It seemed to have been an important question to the visitor. The shadow
of a triumphant smile came to his face. He said: "When you last saw
her--I understand that you lived on the Maine coast, Dr. Ferrule. But I
find you here now in New York--"
"Who the devil are you?" Drake put in.
"Wait, Drake! We live in Maine in the summer," said father. "What is it
you have to tell me?"
"I came," he said, "to warn you." The fellow's voice and words, for
all his awkward manner, were perfectly composed. He had, even, a queer
sort of dominance, as though in his own environment he were accustomed
to command. His hat seemed to continue to annoy him. He took it off.
He had a massive bullet head, with pale-gold hair close-clipped.
Slate-blue eyes; a high-bridged nose. A solidly square chin. Strange,
massive face! Queerly forceful, and, Drake thought, queerly evil. The
thin lips curved into a smile.
"I came," he repeated, "to warn you. I hear there are giants up near
your summer home."
Father said, more vehemently than he had spoken before: "What about
them? Do you know where they come from? Look here, hadn't you better
tell us who you are? You act very strange."
The man abruptly stood up. "I will go now."
It was too much for Drake. "The hell you will! Not till you've told us
your business! You come here, question us, and go--"
He seemed not disturbed by Drake's attack. "You excite yourself, young
fellow. Dr. Ferrule, I would suggest it, you stay away from your house
up there in Maine."
"Thank you," said father, with his quiet irony. "Drake, wait a minute!"
"Stay away because--there might be danger there for you."
"From what?" Drake demanded.
"From the giants."
"What about them? You know anything about them?"
He gestured deprecatingly. "No more than you. But I would say it, they
must be dangerous."
The fellow was trying to withdraw. He moved toward the door. Whatever
the purpose of his visit, he seemed to have accomplished it.
Father and Drake followed him. At the library doorway instinctively he
stooped again. He had put on his hat. Drake noticed that he had it on
backward.
In the hall father said: "Is this all you've got to say?"
"Yes."
"You--you mentioned my daughter."
He did not answer. He waited until the front door of the house was
open. He kept away from Drake. Then he said abruptly: "You will never
see Dianne again. Forget her."
He half ran, half leaped across the porch; leaped its steps, and darted
away.
Drake started in pursuit, but father called him back.
The running figure was in a moment lost in the shadows of the dark
street.