During these days Dick Ferguson thought a good deal and said very
little. Like the rest of his world he wondered over the unsolved mystery
of the Janney robbery, but his wonderings contained an element of
discomfort. He heard the subject discussed everywhere and often the name
of Esther Maitland came up in the discussions. Not that any one ever
suggested she might be involved;—it was more a sympathetic appreciation
of her position. Every one spoke very feelingly about it:—poor girl, so
uncomfortable for her, knowing the combination and all that sort of
thing—the Janneys had stood by her splendidly, but still it _was_
trying.
It tried _him_ a good deal, made inroads on his temper, until it lost
its sunny evenness and he was sometimes short and surly. The day after
Molly and Esther went to town he had been called to a conference in the
Fairfax house on the bluff. A gang of motor boat thieves had been
operating along the Sound, had already stolen two launches, and the
owners of water-front property had convened to decide on a course.
Ferguson, with a small fleet to his credit, had taken rather a high
hand, and shown an unwonted irritation at the indecision of his
associates. If they wanted their boats protected it was up to them to do
it, establish a shore police patrol financed by themselves. That was
what he intended to do and they could join with him or not as they
pleased. He left them, ruffled by his brusqueness and remarking grumpily
that "Ferguson was beginning to feel his money."
He went from the meeting to his own beach and on the way met Suzanne
returning with Bébita from the morning bath. They stopped for a chat in
the course of which Suzanne made a series of remarks not calculated to
soothe his perturbed spirit. They were apropos of Miss Maitland, who had
taken an early morning swim, all alone, refusing to wait and go in with
them. Suzanne said it was a pity Miss Maitland kept so much to
herself—the girl seemed depressed and out of spirits lately, didn’t he
think so? Quite different to what she had been earlier in the season,
seemed to be troubled about something. Too bad—every one liked her so
much, and people _did_ talk so. Then with an artless smile she went off
under her white parasol.
There was no smile on Ferguson’s face as he walked to his boat houses.
He told his men of the police patrol—to operate along the shore after
nightfall—gave a few gruff orders and disappeared into a bath house.
When he emerged, stripped for a swim, he stalked silently by them and
dove from the end of the wharf. They were surprised at his manner,
usually so genial, and wondered among themselves watching his head,
sleek as a wet seal’s, receding over the shining water.
The head was full of what Suzanne had said. Though he had offered no
agreement to her suggestions, he _had_ noticed the change in Esther. He
had noticed it soon after the robbery, in fact before that, for it had
dated from the evening when she dined at his house, the night the jewels
were taken. Disturbance grew in him as he thought:—if so shallow a
creature as Suzanne could see it, others could. And Suzanne had no
sense, no realization of the weight of words. She might go round
chattering like a fool and get the girl talked about. It would be the
decent thing to give Esther a hint, put her wise to the fact that she
ought to brighten up—not give any one a chance to say she was not as she
had been.
As his long, muscular body slid through the water he decided to go over
and have a talk with her. The decision cheered him, for to be with
Esther Maitland was the keenest pleasure he knew.
Suzanne had told him she and her mother would be out that afternoon, so
at three—the hour they were to leave—he set out for Grasslands by the
wood path. As he crossed the garden his questing glance met an
encouraging sight—Esther Maitland sitting under a group of maples at the
end of the terrace. She was alone, an empty chair beside her, her head
bowed over a book.
Her welcoming smile was very sweet; his eye noticed a faint color rise
in her cheeks as he came up. These signs were so agreeable that he would
like to have sat there, placidly enjoying her presence, but he was a
person who once possessed by an idea "had to get it out of his system."
This he proceeded to do, advancing on his subject with what he thought
was a crafty indirectness:
"You know, Miss Maitland, you’re not a credit to Long Island."
She raised her brows, deprecating, also amused:
"What have I done?"
"It’s what you haven’t done. We expect people to come here worn and
weary and then blossom like the rose. You’ve gone back on the
tradition."
She stretched a hand for a bundle of knitting—a soldier’s muffler—on the
table beside her:
"I don’t feel worn or weary and I’m sorry I look so."
"Oh, you always _look_ lovely," he hastily assured her. "I didn’t mean
that it wasn’t becoming. But—er—er—what I wanted to say was—er—why is
it?"
Miss Maitland began to knit, her face bent over the work, her dark head
backed by the green distances of the lawn. Ferguson thought she had the
most beautifully shaped head he had ever seen. He would like to have
leaned back in his chair studying its classic outline. But he was there
for a purpose and he held himself sternly to it, looking at her profile
and trying to forget that it was as fine as her head.
"I don’t know why it is," she answered, "but I do know that you’re not
very complimentary."
"If you give me a dare like that I’ll show you how complimentary I _can_
be. But I’ll put that off until later. What I think is that you’re
worrying—that the robbery has got on your nerves."
"Why should it get on my nerves?"
He was aware of her eyes—diverted from the knitting—looking curiously at
him:
"Why, it’s been so—so—unpleasant, all this fuss and publicity. It’s been
a shock."
Her hands with the knitting dropped into her lap. She was now staring
fixedly at him:
"Do you mean that I’m worrying because I think I may be suspected of
it?"
He was shocked to angry repudiation.
"Good Lord, no! What a thing to say!"
She took up her work, and answered with cool composure:
"Nevertheless I _have_ wondered if anybody ever thought it. You see I’m
the only one in the house—the only one who knows the combination—who
_is_ a sort of stranger. Dixon and Isaac are like members of the
family."
"Don’t talk such rubbish," he protested, then leaning nearer, "Have you
had _that_ on your mind all this time? Is _that_ what’s made the
change?"
She looked up at him, startled:
"Change—what change?"
"Change in you. Yes," in answer to the disturbed inquiry of her glance,
"there is one. I’ve noticed it; other people have."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, you’re different, you’ve lost your good spirits. You’re not like
you were before this happened."
Her response came with something combative in its countering quickness:
"I’m busier than I used to be. Since the robbery I’ve taken over a good
deal of the housekeeping. Mrs. Janney has been much more upset than you
guess."
"And you’re so withdrawn, keep more to yourself. I used to find you
about when I came over; now I almost never see you."
The interview had taken on the character of a verbal duel, he thrusting,
she parrying, both earnest and insistent.
"I’ve just told you; I have more work, I’ve not the leisure I used to
have."
"So busy you have to shun people?"
"That’s absurd, you imagine it. I’ve never shunned any one and there’s
no reason why I should."
"I agree with you but let me ask one more question. You say your work is
harder and you _do_ look tired and worn out. Why don’t you take a decent
rest on your holidays? Last year you spent them here, out of doors,
loafing about. Now you go to town. I’ve been over twice on Thursdays and
when I ask for you, always hear you’re in the city. And you’ve been at
other times too—Mrs. Janney told me so. It’s the most fatiguing thing
you can do in this hot weather. Why do you go?"
He saw her color suddenly deepen. She had let the knitting drop to her
lap and now she took it up again and began to work, very fast, the
needles flashing in her white hands. She smiled as she answered:
"You seem to have kept rather a sharp look-out on me, Mr. Ferguson. Did
it never occur to you that a woman _might_ need clothes, or might want
to see a friend who happened to be staying in town for the summer?"
The young man had been admiring the white hands. As she spoke something
in their movements caught and held his eye—they were trembling. He was
so surprised that he made no answer, his glance riveted on them trying
to hold the needles steady to their task. Miss Maitland made an effort
to go on, then dropped the knitting in a bunch on her knees and clasped
the hands over it. Neither speaking, their eyes met. The expression of
hers, furtively apprehensive like a scared child’s pierced his heart and
he leaned toward her, his sunburned face full of concern:
"Miss Maitland, what’s wrong? Something is—tell me."
Without answering she shook her head, her lips tightly compressed. He
could see that she was shaken, that the clasped hands on her knee were
clenched together to control their trembling. He could see that, for a
moment, taken unawares, she did not trust herself to speak.
"Look here," he said, low and urgent, "be frank with me. I’ve seen for
some time something was troubling you—I told you so that night at my
place. Why not let me lend a hand? That’s what I want to do—that’s what
I’m _for_."
She had found her voice and it came with a high, light hardness, in
curious contrast to the feeling in his:
"You’re all wrong, Mr. Ferguson. You’re seeing what doesn’t exist." She
started to her feet, making a grab at her knitting as it slid toward the
ground. "Oh, my needle! I almost pulled it out. That _would_ have been a
calamity." She carefully pushed the stitches on to the needle as if her
whole interest lay in preserving the woven fabric. "There I’ve picked
them up, not lost one." Then she looked at them, smiling, her expression
showing a veiled defiance, "You ought to have been a novelist—your
imagination’s wasted. Here you are seeing me as a distressed damsel,
while I’m only a perfectly normal, perfectly common-place person.
Romantic fiction would have been your line."
She gave a laugh that brought the blood to the young man’s face, for its
musical ripple contained a note of derision:
"But for my sake please curb your fancy. Don’t suggest to my employers
that I’m weighted down by a secret sorrow. They mightn’t like a blighted
being for a secretary and I might lose my job, and then I really _would_
be worried."
He stood it unflinching, only the dark flush betraying his
mortification. He assured her of his reticence and ended by asking her
pardon. She granted it, even thanked him for his concern in her behalf
and with a smile that was still mocking, said she had notes to write,
gathered up her work, and bade him good-by.
Dick Ferguson walked back through the woods to Council Oaks. When the
first discomfort of the rebuff had passed he pondered deeply. He was
sure now beyond the peradventure of a doubt that Esther Maitland was in
trouble of some kind, and was ready to use all the weapons at her
command to keep him from finding it out.
Two nights after that he dined at Grasslands. It was just a family
party, and, being such, Miss Maitland was present. She met him with the
subdued quietness that he was beginning to recognize as her "social
secretary manner"—the manner of the lady employee, politely colorless
and self-effacing.
In the dining room, with its clustered lights along the walls, where
long windows framed the deep blue night, they looked a gay and goodly
party. To the unenlightened observer they might have stood for a typical
group of the care-free rich, waited on by obsequious menials, feeding
sumptuously in sumptuous surroundings. Yet each one of them was preyed
upon by secret anxieties.
When the ladies withdrew Mr. Janney and Ferguson sat on smoking and
sipping their coffee. If every member of the party had his hidden
distress, Mr. Janney’s was by no means the least. His problem was still
unsolved, still menacing. Kissam’s suggestion and his own fond hope,
that the jewels would be restored had not been realized, and he was
contemplating the day when he would have to face Suzanne with his
knowledge. Damocles beneath the suspended sword was not more
uncomfortable than he. Any allusion to the robbery made his heart sink,
and, as the allusions were frequent, conversation had become a thing
harkened to with held breath and sick anticipation.
Alone with Ferguson he was experiencing the usual qualms, but the young
man, instead of the customary questions, asked him his opinion of
Willitts, Chapman’s valet, whom he thought of engaging. Mr. Janney
brightened up, told Dixon to bring some of his own especial cigars, and
relapsed into tranquillity. He could recommend Willitts highly, smart,
capable and honest, but he thought he’d heard Dick say he couldn’t stand
a valet fussing about him. Dick had said it and was still of the same
mind, but most of his guests were men and he needed some one to look
after their clothes. They made a lot of bother, the servants had kicked,
and he’d thought of Willitts.
Mr. Janney could give no information as to Willitts’ whereabouts, but
Dixon, entering with the cigar box and lamp, could. Willitts was at
Cedar Brook where Mr. Price spent a good deal of time; he was still
disengaged and looking for a position, if Mr. Ferguson would like Dixon
would get word to him. Mr. Ferguson would like, and, the box presented
at his elbow, he took out a cigar and held its tip to the lamp. Mr.
Janney forgot Willitts and drew his guest’s attention to the cigar, a
special brand of rare excellence.
"We keep them in the safe," said the old man. "Only place that’s secure
against the damp. It was Chapman’s idea—the one thing in my acquaintance
with Chapman I’m grateful for."
It was an unfortunate remark, for Ferguson, leaning back in his chair
with the cigar between his lips, murmured dreamily:
"The safe—do you know I’ve been thinking over things lately. I can’t
understand one point. Why didn’t the thief take those jewels when the
house was virtually empty instead of waiting until it was full?"
Mr. Janney’s heart took a dizzying, downward dive. He had been looking
forward to his smoke, now all his zest departed, his old, veined hand
shaking as it felt in the box.
Ferguson went on:
"The fellow may have come in early and hidden himself—not got down to
business until every one was asleep."
Mr. Janney emitted an agreeing murmur and motioned Dixon to hold the
lamp nearer. As he bent toward it the young man was silent and Mr.
Janney began to hope that the obnoxious subject was abandoned. He sent a
side glance at his guest and the hope was strengthened. Ferguson had
taken his cigar from his lips and was looking at the paper band that
encircled it. He was looking at it so intently that Mr. Janney felt sure
his interest was diverted and sought to drive it into safer channels.
"Pretty fine cigar, eh?" he said. "This is the first of a new lot, just
come."
Ferguson drew the band off and laid it beside his plate:
"Excellent. That’s a good idea—keeping them in the safe. Do you always
do it?"
"Yes, it’s the only thing—much better than a humidor."
"I haven’t got a safe or I’d try it. Did you have any there the night of
the robbery?"
Mr. Janney felt that the gods had sought him out for a special vengeance
and murmured drearily:
"I believe so—a few. Dixon knows."
Dixon who was on his way to the door turned:
"Yes, sir, only one box, the last we had."
Ferguson laughed:
"If the thief had had time to try one he’d have taken the box along
too."
Dixon, who treated all allusions to the subject with a tragical
seriousness, said:
"I don’t think he touched them, sir. The box looked just the same. Mr.
Kissam was very particular to ask about it, but I told him I thought
they was intact, as you might say. Though if it was the loss of one or
two I couldn’t be certain."
Dixon left the room and Mr. Janney looked dismally at his plate, having
no spirit to fight against fate. Ferguson, with a glance at his
down-drooped face, picked up the band and slipped it in his pocket.
He did not stay long after dinner. As soon as his car came he left,
telling the chauffeur to hurry. At home he ran up the stairs to his
room, switched on the light over the bureau and opened the box with the
crystal lid. Under the studs and pins lay the band Esther had found the
night he walked with her through the woods. He compared it with the one
he took from his pocket and saw that they matched. The new one he threw
into the fireplace, but put the other back in the box—it was something
more than a souvenir. Then he sat down on the end of the sofa and
thought.
Mr. Janney could not have dropped it for he had driven both to and from
Council Oaks. Neither Dixon nor Isaac could have, for they had gone to
the village by the main road and come back the same way at midnight. He
had found it at half-past ten, untouched by the heavy shower, which had
lasted from about seven till half-past eight. Therefore, whoever had
thrown it there had passed that way between the time when the rain
stopped and the time when Esther had found it. It had been dropped
either by a man who had one of the cigars in his possession and had been
on the wood path between eight-thirty and ten-thirty, or by a man who
had taken a cigar from the safe between those hours.
Ferguson sat staring at the wall with his brows knit. If it had not been
for the light his own gardener had seen he would have felt that he had
struck the right road.