_The Silent Intruder._
The storm ceased with the coming of day, and when Betty awoke a
glistening expanse of diamond-encrusted snow met her gaze between the
parted curtains of her window. Softened by sleep, her face was flushed
and girlishly winsome as she lay with the cruel scar pressed deep into
her pillow, her bewildered eyes roving the unfamiliar room. Then,
with returning consciousness, the shadow descended once more and her
expression perceptibly hardened.
Rising, she walked to the window and flung the curtains wide. The view
of park and clustering, frost-spangled cedars was intersected sharply
with vertical bars of iron and she gave a little involuntary gasp of
dismayed surprise at the discovery that the narrow balcony beyond her
windows was stoutly enclosed, like a huge cage.
The same trapped look of terror which had leaped to the girl's eyes
on the previous day when she faltered at the door of the limousine
returned anew, but she steeled herself against the sudden tide of
emotion which all but overwhelmed her and moved resolutely to her
mirror. The birthmark flamed back angrily at her, but she touched it
almost caressingly as if the knowledge of it gave her strength, and an
enigmatic smile wreathed her lips.
She breakfasted alone in the sunny morning room, attended by Welch,
whose scrutiny of her at her arrival seemed to have satisfied him, for
his bearing was that of a mere well-trained automaton. Betty observed
him surreptitiously as he moved about the room, his heavy-jowled face
and massive bulk incongruous with the light, springing, silent tread
and his shifting eyes obsequiously lowered.
"If you please, miss," he coughed apologetically, as she rose, "Mrs.
Atterbury will see you in the library."
Betty submissively followed him to a door at the left of the entrance
hall. A voice bade her enter and she found her employer seated at an
official-looking desk, already deeply engrossed in her correspondence.
Her dress was severely plain, her hair coiffed low over the lobeless
ears and to the girl's shy morning greeting she turned a face waxen in
its pallor but inscrutable as on their first meeting.
"You are not late, my dear," she responded to Betty's contrite query.
"I rose unusually early and have been sorting my mail in order to show
you just what your task will be."
She motioned to a chair by the desk, and Betty eyed with inward
misgiving the formidable heap of unopened envelopes which still
remained.
"Any letters which may be marked with a small cross in the corner,
like this, for instance," Mrs. Atterbury held one out for inspection,
"you may put aside. The rest you are to open and read, dividing them
into two separate piles, business and purely social, for me to glance
over later. Begging letters, even from personal friends for charity
subscriptions, belong in the financial stack. Do you think you can
manage now with these?"
"Yes, Mrs. Atterbury. Do you wish me to reply to them?"
"At my dictation. I will come back in an hour and we can go over them
together." Mrs. Atterbury rose. "My seamstress will be here this
afternoon to measure you for some new frocks."
When the door had closed behind her, Betty applied herself to her task.
The social letters were few and formal in tone without intimate detail.
Four of the remainder bore crosses and these she laid obediently aside.
The others were palpably business communications and from their tenor
it would have appeared that Mrs. Atterbury's financial interests were
amazingly varied, and of a magnitude which even the luxury of her
environment had not conveyed.
Mines, oil wells, railroads, stock companies and enterprises of every
sort were represented in the heterogeneous collection, from the latest
invention to live stock on the hoof. One letter, evidently concerning
the latter, made Betty pause with a puzzled frown. It began without
any form of address and was unsigned, its few lines being hurriedly
scrawled, but unmistakably legible, although they conveyed no sense to
the girl.
"Five thousand sheep no go," she read. "Bulls instead. Pink wash fed.
Clearing den. Tail comet yellow."
In bewilderment she took up the envelope; the superscription was in the
same irregular hand, and it was postmarked Laramie, Wyoming.
The desk telephone rang as she laid it aside, and hesitatingly she
picked up the receiver.
"Marcia!" It was unmistakably the voice of Wolvert, but the bantering
derisive note was gone, and stark fear rasped in every syllable. "Some
one has squealed! He's got the dope and it's all--"
"I beg your pardon." Betty's tones were cool and steady, but her heart
stood still, for her quick ear had caught the rustle of a skirt just
behind her. "This is Mrs. Atterbury's secretary. To whom did you wish
to speak?"
There was a smothered exclamation at the other end of the wire, and
Mrs. Atterbury snatched the receiver from the girl's hand.
"What is it?" she demanded in a voice which she strove in vain to
control.
"I-I don't know," Betty murmured. "The person spoke so quickly I could
not distinguish a word." "Mrs. Atterbury speaking.... Oh, the market
has broken? Well, sell the shares I hold in that company at whatever
price you can obtain, do you understand? At whatever price! There will
be no panic, tell your partner not to lose his head. It must be made
clear that I will trade no more in that stock.... It will be enough, it
must be. Remember, I look to you to settle the matter absolutely. Let
me have an accounting by tonight."
She hung up the receiver and turned with a shrug but Betty saw that her
lips were white.
"My broker," she remarked, with studied carelessness. "Conscientious
man, but not resourceful. By the way, my dear, I neglected to tell you
that you need never answer this telephone. It is my own private wire.
Call me if it rings when I am at home, but pay no attention to it if I
am not here."
"I am sorry--" began Betty, but the other silenced her.
"It is of no consequence. We will take up the letters now. You did not
find them difficult?"
"No-o," Betty responded hesitatingly. "There is one, however, which I
could not understand at all. It seems to be a business matter, but the
wording doesn't make any sense; it's something about sheep."
"Sheep?" Mrs. Atterbury's level tones sharpened. "Where is the
envelope? Was there no cross upon it?"
"No. At least I didn't see any, and I am quite sure I looked carefully.
This is the one."
"Idiot!" The ejaculation was clearly not intended for the girl, as Mrs.
Atterbury looked vainly for the distinguishing mark, and filliped the
envelope angrily aside. "Give me the letter, please."
She glanced over it rapidly, without comment or change of expression
and put it on the little heap of private letters.
"We will get rid of the social ones first--" she was beginning, when
Betty suddenly interrupted her.
"There is a motor car coming up the drive."
"Ah, it is Mme. Cimmino." Mrs. Atterbury arose, her glance following
the trim little electric brougham as it lurched over the hillocks of
snow. "She will probably stay to lunch, and that means the letters will
have to be held over until tomorrow. Amuse yourself as well as you can,
my dear. You'll find plenty of books here and there is a phonograph in
the corner."
But Betty did not turn to the well-filled bookcases which lined the
walls. Instead she sat with the strange letter spread out before her,
reading and re-reading it as if to memorize every word. That it was a
code of some sort she did not doubt, and without the key it would seem
a hopeless task to attempt to decipher it, yet the young girl pored
over it as eagerly as though its possible solution contained a message
of vital import to herself as well as her employer.
Welch brought her lunch upon a tray and the afternoon was well advanced
before the summons came for her to go to the sewing room. She spent the
intervening hours in a searching examination of the library itself, but
it yielded nothing of seeming interest or import to her. There was no
sign of Mme. Cimmino, but her car had not left the drive and a subdued
murmur as of several voices came from behind the tightly-closed door
of the drawing-room as the girl passed. Welch ushered her to a large
sunny room at the top of the house where she found Mrs. Atterbury deep
in consultation with a faded little woman of indeterminate age who
fluttered nervously on being presented.
"Miss Pope knows what you require, I think," observed Mrs. Atterbury.
"Everything must be as simple as possible, you know."
Miss Pope nodded, her mouth full of pins which she was sticking with
mathematical precision into the little flat cushion that hung from her
belt. When the last was in place, she took up her tape measure.
"Now, miss, if you please."
Betty stood patiently, marvelling at the odd tremulousness of the
withered hands which fumbled about her. Could it be merely nerves, or
was the worn, pallid, little creature under the spell of some emotion
too strong to be wholly controlled?
Mrs. Atterbury had strolled to the window with a fashion book and the
seamstress dropped to her knees before Betty to measure the skirt
length. Glancing down, the girl met the tired eyes of the older woman
and found them fixed on hers with a mute insistent appeal in their
depths.
Involuntarily she started, and Miss Pope, with a warning gesture,
turned over the pincushion at her belt. Upon the under side worked out
in rough irregular letters formed by the pin heads, Betty read the
words, "Go away."
Her eyes sought those of the seamstress once more in puzzled
questioning, but the woman, after a vehement nod, evaded her glance,
and her quivering fingers plucked at the pins until the strange message
was obliterated.
"Have you finished?" Mrs. Atterbury's calm tones cut the pregnant
silence.
"Yes, ma'am. I will come tomorrow for the lining fitting." The
seamstress barely breathed the words, as she scrambled to her feet, but
there seemed a shade of significance as she added: "I-I hope the young
lady will be satisfied."
"_I_ shall be," Mrs. Atterbury responded with good-humored but
unmistakable emphasis. A faint flush mounted in Miss Pope's wan cheeks
and she did not glance again toward Betty, even as she bowed herself
out.
"My dear, I shall not need you again this afternoon. Would you care to
go out for a little while?"
Betty's eyes eagerly turned to the window were sufficient answer.
"You will find several paths leading around the grounds if you don't
mind the snow, but do not go beyond the gate." Mrs. Atterbury smiled,
but she watched the girl's face keenly. "You look pale, and the fresh
air will do you good. We must not keep you cooped up in the house too
much, but I do not want you to go about the city aimlessly until you
learn your way."
"I will not leave the grounds," promised Betty.
"One thing more," Mrs. Atterbury paused at the door. "Don't go near the
garage, for Demon may be unleashed. He is the watch dog and underfed to
keep him savage. Be sure you come in at dusk."
When Betty, as warmly clad as her meagre wardrobe would allow, slipped
out at the side door, the pale wintry sun was already sinking in the
West and the still air nipped her sharply, bringing a tingling glow to
her cheeks. She set out jauntily down the first path which led among
the cedars, her footsteps ringing on the hard packed snow and the
frosty vapor of her breath floating like a veil before her.
The events of the past twenty-four hours, culminating in the
inexplicable attitude of the seamstress, had wrought upon her nerves
and the sense of freedom and solitude was grateful, illusive though
she knew it to be. No doubt of Miss Pope's good will or sanity came to
her, but she wondered what part the faded little creature was called
upon to play in the strange scene of which she herself had become a
supernumerary.
What crisis had arisen in the mysterious affairs of her new employer
and why were her friends, Mme. Cimmino and the man Wolvert, so deeply
concerned for her? The voice of the latter over the telephone that
morning had revealed a frenzy of emotion which his debonair assurance
on the previous evening had utterly belied. Then his impetuous outburst
at the moment of her arrival returned to her mind. Who was the
mysterious "he?" The frantic telephone message of a few hours before
had concerned the same man. Who could he be, and through him what
menace threatened the quiet woman with the inscrutable face to whom her
services were bound?
So engrossed was Betty in her maze of thought, that she had followed
the path unheedingly and only paused when she found her way blocked
by a square granite post. She had reached the entrance gates beyond
which she might not stray. For a moment she lingered, her eyes turned
wistfully down the broad, bleak avenue, a mad, incomprehensible impulse
to escape surging up within her, as if tangible bonds held her to her
voluntarily assumed duty, and danger lurked for her in the house behind
the cedars. The next minute she had turned resolutely and started to
retrace her steps.
The early dusk was already descending and Betty quickened her pace lest
she prolong the hour of freedom beyond the time allotted her. Midway,
the path entered a thick clump of trees, and all at once she became
aware of the rapid thud of feet on the snow behind her. Someone was
running toward the house.
The thought that she was being pursued flashed into her mind, but
she banished it, and turning hastily aside, concealed herself behind
a screen of tangled evergreens. Scarcely had she done so, when a
man appeared around a turn in the path, and passed her with almost
incredible speed.
The single fleeting glimpse she obtained of his gray, set face,
however, had sufficed for recognition. It was Wolvert, and some
unnameable terror sped with him through the eerie gloom.
Betty shivered and looked blindly about her for another way out of the
grove. She dared not enter the house on the heels of this visitor, nor
from the same direction in which he had come, lest she seem to have
been spying upon him, and she desired above all else to reach her own
room unobserved.
At length she discerned a break in the trees at her right and
approaching found a second path branching off in a curve which promised
to lead around the house. Mrs. Atterbury's warning had passed from
her memory and only when the low square bulk of the garage loomed up
before her and a rumbling growl assailed her ears, did she remember the
presence of the dog.
She hesitated, a new and very tangible fright gripping her, but it
was too late to turn back. Even as she paused, the growl changed to
a deep, full-throated cry, and a huge shape bounded toward her out
of the shadows. To attempt escape would only betray her fear to the
brute intelligence and precipitate an attack upon her. Betty knew and
understood canine nature and she realized that her safety depended on
coolness now.
Motionless, she waited until the dog was almost upon her, and then held
out her hand, palm uppermost. The great beast halted in his tracks, his
slavering jaws agape and every hair bristling on his neck.
"Demon! Good Demon!" she called softly. "Steady, old boy. Come here."
Slowly the fire died out of his gleaming eyes and he approached warily,
step by step, while her own eyes held his unwaveringly. He sniffed at
her hand, gazed up at her in mute question and reading confidence and
mastery in her face, dropped obediently in the snow at her feet.
The wave of relief which swept over her was checked by a fresh
disquieting thought. Was the dog merely guarding her until his keeper
appeared to relieve him of his charge? The slightest movement on her
part might bring him up with a spring at her throat, but to wait until
help came would mean the discovery of her disobedience.
Chance solved the problem for her before many minutes had passed. A
shrill whistle sounded from the direction of the garage, and the dog,
lifting his head, gave tongue in response. The whistle was repeated,
followed by a hoarse, blasphemous command. Demon rose reluctantly,
brushed against her knee in friendly farewell, and loped away in the
fast-gathering darkness.
"Oh, Demon!" The girl breathed a sobbing little cry after him.
"Remember me well, the sound of my voice and the scent of me. Sometime
I may need you!"
Then ashamed of the momentary, hysterical weakness, Betty turned and
fairly flew to the house. Slipping in at the side door by which she had
left, she reached her room, breathless, but unobserved, and sank into a
chair.
The house was oddly silent. No sound of voices had met her ears, but
a narrow streak of light had shone from under the library door as
she passed, and her overwrought imagination pictured for her a tense,
constrained group within. In spite of Mrs. Atterbury's specious
explanation, Betty knew beyond question whose voice had come to her
over the telephone, and no mere financial crisis could have brought to
Wolvert's face the look which she had seen upon it when he unwittingly
crossed her path among the trees.
A half-hour went slowly by and then the whirring of the electric
brougham broke the stillness and droned diminishingly into the
distance. Mme. Cimmino had evidently taken her belated departure. Had
Wolvert accompanied her? Betty shrank from encountering him at dinner
and the effort to meet his forced banter serenely, conscious of what
lay beneath it seemed beyond her power.
When she obeyed the gong's summons, however, she found the table laid
only for two, and Mrs. Atterbury already in her place.
"You enjoyed your walk, my dear?" The latter raised imperturbable eyes
to greet the girl. "You did not find it too cold?"
"Oh, no, the air was wonderfully bracing," Betty replied at random,
scarcely aware of what she was saying. "I very nearly lost my way,
though. There are so many paths and the trees quite hide the house."
"Yes. I purchased the property mainly because of the privacy and
seclusion it promised. I am not a hermit," Mrs. Atterbury added, with
the shadow of a smile, "but the rush and turmoil of an active social
existence bore me. You will, perhaps, find it rather monotonous here,
Betty, but there will be more tasks for you to do when you have settled
down and learned your way about the city. I shall have many errands for
you."
"I am glad," Betty responded with nervous eagerness. "The thought of
the city doesn't frighten me any more, now that I feel anchored, Mrs.
Atterbury, and I want to do anything I can. You know I have been idle
all day and it does not seem as if I were earning my salary."
Mrs. Atterbury scrutinized the girl's face, and her own relaxed for
an instant and sagged into deeply graven lines of utter weariness and
exhaustion. The necessity for rigid self-command had faltered before
Betty's seemingly innocent candor; the mask had slipped momentarily
and from beneath it peered a shadow of the anxiety and dread which had
beset her unexpected guest of the afternoon.
With the next breath, however, she had herself again in hand.
"You will not complain of that tomorrow." Her voice was amusedly
tolerant. "We shall have a double amount of correspondence to attend
to, remember, and I will positively be at home to no one until it is
finished. I think I shall retire almost immediately after dinner, my
dear, for I have a slight headache."
The warmth of the house after the sharp, nipping atmosphere outdoors
brought an early drowsiness to Betty, who went directly to her room
after the meal. In spite of the puzzling events of the day, and the air
of mystery which seemed to envelop the household, a lassitude stole
over her and her heavy eyelids drooped and fell.
The dropping of coals in the tiny grate awakened her and she started up
to find that it was close on to midnight. Stumbling softly to the door
she opened it and listened, but the silence was unbroken.
Disrobing, she laid her dressing gown and slippers ready to hand,
extinguished the lamp and crept into bed. Her first deep sleep was over
and Betty lay wide-eyed, staring into the darkness. A vague sensation
of suspense set her brain a-tingle and she felt as if she were waiting
with every nerve taut for something which she could not name.
Gradually, however, the feeling was dispelled and she was sinking
into an uneasy slumber when all at once she started up in bed with a
shivering gasp, her heart leaping wildly and the very hair upon her
brow seeming to stir and rise as though an unseen hand were lifting
it. A sudden, muffled crash had pierced her consciousness and the very
air seemed to quiver with the jar of impact, although no further sound
broke the stillness. Betty listened with bated breath for a moment,
then rose, impelled by an impulse stronger than her power to combat.
Throwing her gown about her, she snatched the electric torch from the
drawer of her dressing-table and made her way to the door. Impenetrable
darkness greeted her as before, but it seemed to her overwrought fancy
that a shuddering tension filled the air and the ticking of the tall
clock beat like a tocsin upon her brain.
As one in a trance she moved mechanically to the stairs and down,
the thread of light which played from her hand guiding her cautious
footsteps. The doors of the library and drawing-room were closed, but
that of the dining-room was opened wide and a frigid draft blew through
it, whipping the gown about her bare ankles.
Betty flashed her light upon the aperture and the outline of the
heavily carved dining table leaped into view, while all about it on the
floor lay fragments of something which scintillated in the shaft of
radiance like scattered diamonds.
Slowly she approached the door, the darting rays from her torch
piercing the sinister darkness, the very breath hushed in her throat.
On the threshold she paused and stood transfixed.
The dining table had been slewed to one side, chairs were overturned,
draperies pulled from their rings and the great glass punch bowl lay
shattered on the floor.
But it was not upon these signs of violence that her eyes were fastened
in a glaze of horror. A man lay stretched before the hearth with
upturned face and arms flung wide, a man whose eyes stared with tragic
vacuity and from whose breast a sluggish crimson stream had flowed to
form a spreading pool upon the rug.
For a long minute the girl stood staring with eyes as fixed as those of
the dead. She opened her lips, but no sound issued from them to raise
an alarm or summon aid. Instead she lifted her hands jerkily to her
throat as if struggling to draw breath, and turning, fled silently for
her very life up the stairs.