_Ten Thousand Sheep._
For several days thereafter Betty was kept closely confined to the
house. Mrs. Atterbury had accepted her statement that she lost her way
in attempting a short cut through the park as the explanation of her
late return and attributed her own agitation to anxiety over the young
girl's welfare. The mask was lifted for an instant, however, and Betty
had a glimpse of the sullen fury which seethed beneath her employer's
calm austerity.
She was in no sense made to feel like a virtual prisoner once more, but
Mrs. Atterbury made constant demands upon her which practically filled
her hours of daylight, and no further errands were broached.
The evenings were usually her own, however, and she spent them in
fascinated study of the Egyptian translation. Her enthusiasm grew with
its development, but she resolutely banished it from her mind during
the daily routine, for fear her abstraction be noticed and questioned.
Yet always, with every hour of freedom from espionage, she continued
her protracted search. Whatever her object she sought it in every
place of concealment which suggested itself to her. Betty learned
quickly to know when the servants' tasks would lead them to various
parts of the house, and managed skilfully to elude them. It was from
her employer herself that she most feared discovery, but in this
eventuality fortune had so far been with her.
Mrs. Atterbury's correspondence continued to prove negative and devoid
of interest, but one morning she dictated a letter which caught Betty's
wandering attention. It was evidently in reply to one which had not
passed through the girl's hands, and the oddity of its phrasing
impressed her so acutely that when her employer went to receive a
caller, she sorted it from the pile of envelopes and read it again:
"My dear Shirley:
Your letter received. Send me ten of the thousand circulars quoting
sheep prices for March. Home market good this week for forty or
fifty and even more points rise if my brokers handled the situation
properly. State Senator Laramie advocates strict game laws now
up before house. Comet, my horse, sold. Speranza invited us last
Thursday out for week-end to see her pink hothouse roses bud. The
frost killed them, however. Her sister is safe from submarines
on the northern way home from Japan. Demon won red ribbon show
held last month in Littleton, near Denver. Mrs. Ardmore's 'Alibi'
beat him straight. John will meet your friend Professor Blythe, of
Chicago University, on Saturday at eight. He says he has obeyed
your instructions about buying new machinery; to substitute old
endangers success. He fears block contracts will head off buyers,
but he is conscientious. There is no longer any danger of piracy,
discovery now patented so you can use the invention this year.
Unwritten code among manufacturers in America is letting unions
ruin us. Do you know what the result was out West in the Cote vs.
Williams affair? Was the end satisfactory to all concerned?
Write soon.
Sincerely,
Marcia Atterbury."
The abrupt change of subject matter throughout, the short sentences and
inconsistent style of the missive--now terse with telegraphic brevity,
then verbose in unexpected and seemingly irrelevant detail--was utterly
unlike her employer's usual concise mode of expression, and Betty's
wonderment grew.
What had game laws to do with the market value of sheep, and who were
"Professor Blythe," and "John" and the mysterious "Shirley" to whom
the puzzling letter was addressed? The girl had not known that Mrs.
Atterbury owned horses, or Mme. Cimmino a country residence; surely the
latter had no conservatory in which to raise hothouse roses connected
with her stuffy, overcrowded town apartment!
A minor point, too, stood out in challenging mendacity; Betty was too
discriminating a judge of dogs to credit Demon with having taken a
ribbon at any show. He might possess many traits which would render him
invaluable as a watchdog, but his mixed breeding was too evident to
admit of his qualifying on points.
As she further analyzed the letter two coincidences sprang to her mind,
which brought back vividly the mysterious communication in code that
she had opened on the first morning of her secretarial work. That, too,
had contained a reference to sheep, but the number mentioned had been
five thousand. The last sentence contained the word "comet," and Mrs.
Atterbury had made use of it also in her present letter.
Another code! Betty stifled an exclamation as the truth burst upon her.
It would be compatible with her employer's imperturbable daring to
dictate a private and possibly incriminating letter to her unconscious
amanuensis, secure in the belief that it would never occur to her to
question its superficial meaning or seek to solve it without the key.
Then, too, it might be that for certain cogent reasons, Mrs. Atterbury
did not wish her own handwriting to appear in the communication,
although she had said she would address the envelope herself. Betty had
even signed the former's name, at her request.
If only she might hit upon the key! Concentration was impossible with
the imminent fear of discovery before her, but she felt that she could
not relinquish this rare opportunity to pierce the web of mystery
without at least an effort.
Transcribing the letter hastily, she thrust the copy in her blouse, and
when her employer returned she found the girl apparently deep in a book.
That afternoon, for the first time since her recent escapade, a
suggestion was made that she go for a walk, and Betty eagerly availed
herself of the permission.
"Be sure you do not get lost again!" Mrs. Atterbury warned her, with a
smile which struck a chill to the girl's heart. "If you go beyond the
gates, turn only in one direction and when you are tired, retrace your
steps. I shall expect you home in an hour."
There was more than a hint of spring in the languorous, humid air, and
the sight of a venturesome robin preening his scarlet breast on the
lawn made the blood leap in her veins. In spite of the dark shadows
which surrounded her, and the problematic future looming ahead, the
youth in Betty responded joyously to the burgeoning year and she
quickened her pace as she passed out of the tall gate.
Chance led her to turn southward along the drive and at the corner
she came face to face with a man lounging against a lamp-post. He was
smooth shaven and respectable in appearance, but the cap pulled low
over his eyes gave him a furtive air and his burly figure and truculent
bearing made her think somehow of a policeman, although the clothes
he wore resembled those of an artisan. He glanced at her sharply and
moved on, but the trail of cigarette stubs about the lamp-post told of
a lengthy vigil, and Betty's heart contracted in sudden apprehension.
Could he be a detective watching the house? Had the law already found a
trail from that secluded spot on Vanderduycken Road to the place where
George Breckinridge had so mysteriously come to his end? Would swift
retribution descend and engulf her also, the innocent with the guilty,
while yet her position had availed her nothing?
She walked on quickly without looking back, conscious of the stranger's
scrutiny. Her step was still brisk, although the buoyancy had died out
of it as the momentary, carefree happiness was blotted from her face.
The future, black and uncertain, stretched forth tentacles of doubt and
dismay which dragged at her spirit and the bright day seemed suddenly
lowering and chill.
A half-mile further on, she came to a low, square, ivy-covered
gate-post, and paused almost wistfully to examine the springing green
of the new shoots, when a sedate step upon the stone flagging made her
glance upward.
A woman was coming toward her down the path which flanked the driveway
from the house; an erect, elderly woman with smooth, white hair beneath
her severe toque and a figure as trim as that of a girl. She was
peering about her with an alert, bird-like movement of her head as if
unaccustomed to viewing the world without artificial aid for her eyes
and she had evidently not as yet observed the girl at the gate.
For an instant Betty stood rooted to the spot, staring as though she
could scarcely credit the evidence of her senses. Slowly the blood
receded from her face, leaving it blanched and ghastly, and into her
eyes, dulled with introspection but a moment since, there crept a look
of livid fear.
She swayed, then with a sobbing gasp turned blindly and fled as if the
very fiends of darkness were pursuing her, back toward the doubtful
haven of the house among the cedars.
She had scarcely traversed a hundred yards, however, when she collided
violently with a young man whose approach she had not been conscious
of in her supreme agitation. She clutched at him instinctively as the
impact threatened to sweep her off her feet and he put out a steadying
arm.
"I beg your pardon--" His tone was conventionally contrite, but he
broke off in unfeigned surprise when she raised her head. "Why, Miss
Shaw!"
It was the young man from the museum!
"Mr. Ross!" she gasped. "How stupid of me! I must have run full tilt
into you."
"I'm not seriously injured," he assured her gravely, although his eyes
twinkled. "But you were going at a most extraordinary pace. Tell me
what villian was pursuing you and I will cheerfully annihiliate him."
Betty laughed with a note of sheer hysteria in her trembling tones.
"I have an appointment for which I am late." She lowered her tell-tale
eyes. "I did not see you coming and the long deserted avenue tempted me
to run for it. I--I cannot wait--"
"You are a long way from home." He had caught the dismayed, hunted
look which she cast involuntarily over her shoulder. "If anyone has
annoyed or frightened you, won't you allow me to walk with you to your
destination?"
"Oh, no!" Her alarm at the suggestion was unmistakable. "Thank you, but
I shall be quite all right, and I must go on alone. Nothing frightened
me, Mr. Ross, I was only surprised at meeting you so unexpectedly in
this part of town."
"And the Egyptian translation?" He was studying her face.
"I will bring it to you on Tuesday. Good bye."
Betty nodded in farewell, and turning, sped lightly off down the Drive,
the fear that he might follow lending wings to her feet. The broad
avenue stretched straight away for miles to the northward without a
curve or obstruction which would serve to screen her destination from
view, but she felt that in any event she could have gone no farther.
The close confinement of her position had ill prepared her for a
test of physical endurance and when she reached the gateway of home
her limbs were trembling beneath her and her panting breath came
in agonized strangling sobs. Reckless of the young man's possible
observation she turned in between the high gates, and staggering up
the side path to a little knoll ringed with low-growing holly bushes,
she sank breathlessly upon a stone bench, and crouched waiting, but
her solitude was undisturbed and no tread of an approaching footstep
sounded upon the graveled walk. Gradually her composure returned
and with the gathering of her scattered forces she remembered her
employer's final warning. Whatever the future held in store, she must
play the game.
Herbert Ross had watched the girl until she disappeared within the
gates, then slowly proceeded on his way. The surprise in their meeting
had been mutual, but he made no attempt to fathom the reason for her
presence in the neighborhood. His thoughts were busied with the cause
of her evident terror. From whom or what was she flying when chance
precipitated her into his arms?
She had recovered herself quickly, but her attempt to dissemble had
been vain. The detective had read aright the hunted, cowering look in
her eyes. What had so changed her from the confident, self-assured
young woman of a few days previous to the trembling, terrified creature
who had shrunk from him in dismay and attempted so vainly to conceal
her consternation?
The solution of the enigma was approaching even as he cogitated, but
so unprepared was he for the revelation that it was with a distinct
sensation of shock he beheld Madame Dumois coming toward him down the
avenue. The full significance of the scene burst upon his brain and the
momentary flash of self-disgust for his stupidity was followed by the
exultation of achievement. He had solved the case!
With the slenderest of clues to work upon and the most difficult of
clients to handle; blindfold, knowing nothing of his subject's past or
her relations with the stern old woman who was so relentlessly running
her to earth, without even a name to guide him, he had found her!
Nothing remained but to produce her and take his fee.
Then, unaccountably, the girl's face, as he had last seen it, rose
before him, frightened, appealing in its very helplessness and
despair. What would be her fate at the hands of his grim client? She
was so young, with a sufficiently long future before her in which to
atone for any mistake of the past. He shrank even in thought from the
suggestion of crime in connection with her, and for the first time in
his professional career he hesitated in the face of his duty.
And the scar! If indeed it was a birthmark as he had concluded, why
had Madame Dumois not only eliminated it from her description, but
deliberately denied its existence when he himself had referred to it?
What had Betty Shaw to fear from her?
If he could only have felt assured of his client's motive in seeking
out the girl, his course would have been clearly defined, but his
experience forced him to conclude it could only be in a spirit of
retribution for some real or fancied offense. If she were trying to
find a missing relative, a daughter, perhaps, who had disappeared, her
anxiety would have been more marked in spite of her iron self-control,
and why would the other have flown from her? There could have been no
reason for her secrecy with one professionally bound to preserve her
confidence, save in the incredible contingency that the young girl was
a fugitive from justice.
An impulse came to him to turn and flee, even as the girl herself had
done; to put off the interview until he had made up his mind to face
the issue. The next moment he banished the thought resolutely and
stepped forward with extended hand.
"Madame Dumois! This is a fortunate meeting. I was just on my way to
call upon you, although I rather fancied you could not resist the lure
of this wonderful spring day!"
"It isn't the weather which has brought me out, young man." She spoke
dryly, but her sharp eyes softened and her smile was one of unalloyed
welcome. "When you reach my age you will remember your rheumatism and
think twice before you venture out in this wonderful humid atmosphere.
You have news?"
He shook his head.
"If you have an engagement, and I am detaining you----" he began
weakly, raging within himself in self-contempt at his irresolution, but
the old lady placed her hand upon his arm.
"No, Mr. Ross. I have no interests which supersede in importance the
case on which you are working. Come back to the house and tell me why
you wished to see me. Where is the young woman you mentioned? You have
not lost sight of her?"
Her voice trembled with eagerness and the angular gloved hand upon
his coat sleeve trembled too. It was the first sign of emotion she
had betrayed in the detective's presence, but whether anxiety or
vindictiveness actuated it, he was at a loss to determine.
"The resemblance can only be a casual one, on the strength of your
description." He evaded the direct question. "Then, too, remember that
the young woman whom I have seen bears a mark upon her face. That would
seem to prove my mistake, would it not?"
They had turned and were walking together up the path which led to the
house and for a short space the old lady maintained silence. When she
replied her voice was low, but quite steady once more.
"But as you suggested it might be a fresh scar." She gave him a shrewd
sidelong glance. "If my description of her appearance were so casual,
and the mark would seem to disprove it, you must have surer grounds on
which to base your theory."
He flashed one of his rare, winning smiles upon her.
"Madame Dumois, if you were not beyond the necessity of making a career
for yourself, permit me to say quite without impertinence that you
would have been an ornament to my profession."
A delicate flush tinted her cheeks like old ivory and a spark twinkled
in her eyes.
"You are a most refreshing young man!" She tapped his arm with a long
forefinger. "But you have not replied to my question."
"I have based my theory on more than the young woman's appearance,"
Herbert Ross admitted quietly. "Some of the data which you considered
irrelevant furnished me with a clue to work from. But that is beside
the point. I came this afternoon to find if you have been able to
secure the photograph we talked of."
They had mounted the steps and the old lady rang the bell before she
replied.
"Yes. I will get it for you at once."
While he waited in the gloom of the drawing-room he tried again to
force his mind to a decision, and once more the girl's face loomed
before his mental vision, but this time with a haunting entreaty in her
soft eyes, and the pitiful scar seemed to plead for at least a respite
from final judgment. He cursed himself for a soft-hearted weakling,
a susceptible fool to be swerved from his course by the girl's
unconscious appeal to the innate chivalry he had believed to have been
burned out long ago by the fire of his experiences and vicissitudes in
his chosen profession. If only the photograph would prove him mistaken!
The rustle of Madame Dumois' gown sounded upon the stair and in another
moment she had entered the room and silently placed in his hand a
cabinet size square of cardboard. He walked over to the lamp ostensibly
to obtain a better light, but he paused with his shoulder turned to
her. Trained as he was to disguise his own thoughts, he dared not trust
himself to the old lady's keen scrutiny.
The lower part of the photograph had been cut away, perhaps to destroy
a tell-tale inscription, but the upper portion disclosed the picture
of a young girl seated in a high cathedral-backed chair, with her head
turned sharply to the left, so that only her profile and the right side
of her face were visible.
Herbert Ross drew a long breath and Madame Dumois' voice grated
hoarsely upon the stillness.
"Well? Is it the girl?"
"I cannot tell." He turned and faced her squarely. "The scar I spoke of
is on the young lady's left cheek, which as you see, does not show in
this photograph. I only succeeded in obtaining a casual glimpse of her,
and although there is a general resemblance, the scar changes the whole
expression, and I cannot be certain until I have had an opportunity to
observe her more closely."
The old lady seated herself heavily in the nearest chair and the lines
seemed suddenly to deepen in her face.
"You're not sure?" She clenched her hands upon the chair arms until the
knuckles showed white beneath the soft lace frills which fell from her
sleeves. "But there is a resemblance, you say. It must be the girl I am
searching for! Go to her at once, Mr. Ross. I cannot endure the strain
of waiting longer!"
"One must have patience, Madame Dumois, in a case of this sort. If the
young woman knows of your search, and is hiding from you; if she has
committed a wrong and fears retribution----"
"That is beside the point!" She glared at him. "Never mind what I want
of the girl, Mr. Ross. That is not your province. Only produce her for
me and I will be responsible for the consequences."
Madame Dumois set her jaws with a snap, although her breath came
quickly and her old eyes flashed.
The detective rose.
"I will see the subject I have in mind at the earliest possible
opportunity, and if my suspicions are verified, I will bring her to
you."
* * * * *
Late that night, Betty, all unconscious of the meeting between the two
people who had so unexpectedly crossed her path that day, sat before
the fire in her room, with a paper spread out between her hands. It was
not the Egyptian translation tonight, however, which held her absorbed,
but the copy of Mrs. Atterbury's strange letter.
She knew nothing of codes or ciphers and racked her brains vainly for
a clue which would enable her to glean the hidden meaning from the
cryptic sentences. The word "sheep" she felt intuitively would prove
a starting point, since it had appeared in the first secret message;
"comet," too, must have been indispensable, for the wording of the
letter was obviously forced to give it space. But "ten of the thousand
circulars quoting sheep prices for March" read lucidly enough and
seemed devoid of any suggestion of ambiguity, yet----
All at once Betty started forward in her chair and with parted lips and
eyes shining with repressed excitement she scanned the page once more.
She had found it! The key which she had sought so vainly lay revealed
and the words of the hidden message leaped out at her as in letters of
fire.
Her mobile face in the light from the glowing hearth reflected each
successive emotion as she read, and her expression changed from avid
interest to a dawning horror. Then quite suddenly she threw back her
head and laughed silently, in a convulsion of ironic mirth which ended
in a little sob; and she sat staring at the name "Marcia Atterbury,"
which she herself had obediently signed to the note that morning, with
a slowly gathering menace in her eyes. As the firelight flared and died
again, the spreading birthmark upon her cheek seemed to move as if the
five curved tentacles which radiated from it were writhing to grasp
their prey and her small hands clenched until the paper tore.
At last she rose with a determined air, and thrusting the letter into
the bosom of her loose, dark robe, she took her electric torch from its
hiding place behind a loosened tile of the hearth.
Then extinguishing her lamp, she crept to the door, unbolted it softly
and stood for a moment listening with every nerve tense. No sound
echoed back to her from the sleeping house, no light pierced the
darkness save the thread-like ray which played from her hand, and with
cautious, silent footsteps she descended the stairs, and entering the
library, closed the door behind her.