Chapter I: Part 1

DARK POWER

ELISABETH SANXAY HOLDING

NEW YORK THE VANGUARD PRESS

[COPYRIGHT]

COPYRIGHT, 1930, BY THE VANGUARD PRESS

CONTENTS

I.--A RESCUE II.--DI BREAKS A PROMISE III.--DI MAKES UP HER MIND TO LEAVE IV.--DI MAKES A PROMISE V.--MRS. FRICK’S GENTLEMAN VI.--A DISAPPEARANCE VII.--THE MONSTROUS NIGHT VIII.--THE CANDID EXPLANATION IX.--“DO NOT LEAVE THIS HOUSE” X.--THE FORBIDDEN ROOM XI.--DI GETS ANOTHER LETTER XII.--“YOU ARE LIKE HER” XIII.--A WILL IS MADE XIV.--MILES CONFESSES XV.--A WHITE FIGURE XVI.--“IT’S OVER”

DARK POWER

Chapter One. A Rescue

Once more Di went through the house. Everything was in immaculate order, yet it had somehow the look of a place that had been savagely looted and was now abandoned and forlorn. All the bureau tops were swept bare, all the tables; in every room there were great gaps, where Angelina’s flamboyant things had been.

Angelina’s own room was simply horrible. Standing in the doorway, Di felt the tears rise in her eyes at the sight of that desolate neatness where only yesterday there had been such wild and joyous disorder.

“I’m--tired,” she said to herself, to excuse her weakness.

And she had reason to be tired. Angelina’s wedding had been like a cyclone, and Di had been whirled along like a leaf in the gale. She had done everything for Angelina; she had seen the caterers and arranged for the wedding breakfast, she had sent out the invitations, had listed the presents and engaged detectives to keep an eye on them. She had stood for hours while Angelina’s dresses were fitted upon her, she had packed Angelina’s trunks and bags. And she had interviewed the reporters.

There had been plenty of reporters, for Angelina’s wedding had been sensational, like everything else she did. The newspapers recalled to their readers the past exploits of the beautiful Angelina Herbert, her marriage at eighteen to Hiram Herbert, a millionaire of sixty, her suit for divorce three years later, charging her husband with artful “mental cruelty,” her trip through Borneo all alone--except for a cousin, a secretary, a camera-man and one or two others--her attempt to fly in her own plane to Mexico that had ended in a crash near Asheville.

This second marriage of hers was very satisfactory for newspapers. She had married young Porter Blessington, another millionaire, who had spent six months in prison for assaulting an officer in the discharge of his duties, during a little fracas in a night club. She had gone in her car to meet him as he came out of jail and they were married the next week.

Set down in black and white, these things did not appeal to Di; if she had merely read about her in the newspapers, she would have thought Angelina a pretty objectionable type. But in actual life she had loved her.

“She just--forgot,” she said to herself.

Just a little oversight on the part of the beautiful Angelina, to go off and leave Di without a penny. She had meant to do something regal, to make a lavish gift, but she had forgotten even to write the promised letter of recommendation that would help in getting another job.

With a sigh, she was closing the door of that desolately neat room, when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror of the dressing-table. That image depressed her. She was pretty enough in a way, but it was not a way that anyone noticed; a slender, fair-haired girl with blue eyes and a detached, absent-minded air. She had exactly suited Angelina, because she was intelligent and well-bred, and marvelously patient, but there was only one Angelina. Other people would require different qualities in a secretary, more skill in shorthand and typing, a more business-like presence; other people would dislike her queer, cool little air of reserve. She knew, because before she had come to Angelina a year ago, she had gone about looking for a job.

“I’ve had more experience now,” she thought. “I’m not _quite_ such a fool now.”

Only, in her heart, she wasn’t so sure of that. Would anyone but a hopeless fool be in a situation like this? Another secretary would have reminded Angelina of the salary due her, of the letter of recommendation.

“Perhaps she’ll remember and send me a check,” thought Di.

In her own room she put on her hat and coat and went downstairs. Her trunk stood there, and her bag, and on the hall-table was a great mass of flowers which had yesterday decorated the drawing-room.

“Connor’s late,” she thought.

Naturally Connor, Angelina’s superb chauffeur, would not put himself out for Di. He was stopping for her as a favor; his term of service was over, and the car was to be put into storage that afternoon. But she had to wait for him, because in her purse there was only one solitary quarter, not enough to get her trunk expressed.

“I’ll find _something_ to do to-morrow,” she told herself.

But though she was resolute enough, she was not too hopeful. So many things had happened to her; she had known so many anxieties and sorrows. Even as a child, care had weighed upon her. Her father had been a clever and remarkably unsuccessful man, and she had had to share his vicissitudes.

“I make a _friend_ of you, Di,” he often said. “I don’t put myself on a pedestal, like the average father. We’re friends--pals.”

Only, she had been such a very young friend, such a bewildered pal. It had been rather hard to hear about troubles which she could not help or even quite understand. Worst of all, he had sometimes talked to Di about her mother, in a tone of noble generosity.

“She was a fine woman, Di,” he would say, “but she never understood me. Well--it was probably my own fault. I never could plead my own cause… I tell you, Di, a good woman can be pretty hard. _Damned_ hard, sometimes.”

Di had not enjoyed this. Her mother had died when she was four, but she had not forgotten her. And it was then, in those troubled childhood days, that she had developed her aloof reserve. She had learned to listen and to say nothing.

Her father had, apparently, intended never to die. For he had loved his child, in his way, and he would surely not have wanted to leave her without a penny, with no friends, with no preparation for life but a queer, patchy education from various small private schools. But he had died, and here she was.

“Plenty of girls are alone in the world,” said Di to herself. “They almost always are, in books… I’ll get a job to-morrow, all right.”

The bell rang and she opened the door. It was Connor with a cigarette between his lips, sign of his perfect independence.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Di. “Can you manage my trunk?”

“Sure!” he said, with lofty good-humor.

It was certainly not very large or very heavy; he got it down the steps and strapped it on behind the car.

“Come on, Miss!” he called.

Di was still in the hall.

“I thought we could just leave these flowers at St. Vincent’s Hospital,” she said.

“Haven’t got time,” said Connor.

She was in no position to argue the point just then, so she left the flowers, taking only a small bouquet for herself, and started down the steps. And met a young man running up.

He stopped at the sight of her, and took off his hat.

“Hello!” he said. “Am I too late? Show all over?”

“I don’t quite--” she began, puzzled.

“The wedding,” he explained. “Angelina’s wedding.”

“It was yesterday,” said Di, looking at him with considerable curiosity. For he had not the appearance of one of those casual, careless people who forget dates or come late. He was a good-looking young fellow, dark, very erect, very neat, and there was about him a remarkable air of cool, composed energy.

“Sorry!” he said. “May I have one of these? Little souvenir…” And stooping, he took a gardenia from the bouquet she carried. For a moment their eyes met; then, with a smile he turned and ran down the steps again and set off along the street at a rapid, easy pace.

“I wonder who _he_ was?” thought Di, and forgot him as soon as she got into the car.

She had telephoned that morning to the landlady of the rooming-house where she had spent a horrible month before she had got her job with Angelina, and the landlady had said there was a vacant room she could have, at seven dollars a week. She had highly unpleasant memories of that house, but she did not know where else to go.

“And Mrs. Frick knows me,” she thought. “If I went to a strange place, I’d be expected to pay in advance.”

The house was downtown in Greenwich Village, but there was nothing Bohemian about it, a dingy old house and very respectable. Mrs. Frick was looking out of the window, and saw Di arrive, in a Rolls-Royce driven by a chauffeur in uniform, and carrying the most expensive sort of flowers.

“Hm--…” said Mrs. Frick to herself.

She opened the front door, with a faint, faint smile, and Connor brought in the trunk.

“Top floor!” said Mrs. Frick.

Connor immediately hated her.

“Is zat so?” he said. “Then you better call a couple o’ butlers. Good-bye, Miss Leonard!”

The door banged after him.

“Well,” said Mrs. Frick. “_I_ haven’t got anyone here to take that trunk up all those stairs.”

“I’ll--find someone,” said Di. “Top floor, did you say?”

Mrs. Frick led the way upstairs, three long flights, and opened a door. It was the meanest little room, the chilliest, most depressing little room in the gray light of a February morning.

“I hope I shan’t have to stay here long,” thought Di.

Mrs. Frick was standing in the doorway.

“There’s a clean towel,” she said.

“Yes, I see, thank you,” said Di, longing to shut the door.

“I told you on the telephone, didn’t I?” said Mrs. Frick. “This room is seven dollars a week.”

“Yes, you did,” said Di.

Mrs. Frick stood there. And, in desperation, Di said what so many other people had said to Mrs. Frick.

“I’m--expecting a check. If you don’t mind waiting a few days--”

Mrs. Frick remembered the Rolls-Royce and the chauffeur and was not moved to pity.

“If you’ll make a deposit--” she said.

And it was impossible for Di to appeal to her. Her old habit of reserve kept her silent, her sorry experience of life made her expect no kindness and ask for none.

A bell rang downstairs.

“Excuse me a moment!” said Mrs. Frick. “I’ll be right back.”

As her footsteps died away, Di closed the door quietly, laid the flowers on the bureau and clenched her hands.

“_Think_, you idiot!” she said to herself. “Hurry up! It’s your last chance!… I’ll tell her she can keep the trunk until I get some money. I couldn’t get it away from her, anyhow, without paying someone to move it.”

Then Mrs. Frick might want to look in the trunk and would find there some of Angelina’s discarded dresses, some photographs, a few books--not a collection likely to appeal to her.

“I’ll help with the housework,” thought Di. “Make the beds--sweep--anything she wants, until I get a check from Angelina, or a job.”

She heard Mrs. Frick coming up the stairs now, and she went out to meet her.

“Mrs. Frick,” she began, “I’ve been--”

“There’s a gentleman to see you,” said Mrs. Frick. “Your uncle.”

“My uncle?”

“That’s what he _says_. Your uncle,” Mrs. Frick repeated, frigidly.

“But it’s a mistake!” said Di.

Mrs. Frick smiled faintly.

“He can’t mean me--”

“He asked for Miss Leonard, and I told him,” said Mrs. Frick, “that you were just leaving.”

“Look here!” said Di.

“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Frick, “but I just remembered I’d promised this room to somebody else. You might try at 280. They sometimes--”

“All right,” said Di, briefly, and went past Mrs. Frick, down the stairs. There in the lower hall stood her trunk.

“What can I do with it?” she thought. “If I leave it here, nobody will let me come without paying in advance. And I can’t get it moved for a quarter…”

And at that moment she learned a new fact. She saw that shelter was more important than food. If she only had a room, she could have faced hunger with fortitude; it seemed to her that she could even starve without complaining if only she had decent privacy for it.

“There must be places…” she thought, “but I’ve never heard of them. Perhaps I could ask--a policeman--”

She heard Mrs. Frick coming down behind her, and she moved toward the front door; her hand was on the knob before she remembered that uncle. He was so obviously mistaken that it did not seem worth the trouble to go into the parlor and explain to him that she was the wrong Miss Leonard. She went, only because it meant a little delay in leaving the house.

Opening the door, she found a man in there, a little oddity in a checked suit too large for him, and yellow shoes and a bright tie, a sporting outfit that accorded well with his lean, nutcracker face. He jumped up nimbly and stared at her.

“Well!” he said. “This Diana…? Poor old Harvey’s girl…”

She was too much surprised to speak.

“I’m your uncle Peter,” he continued. “You’ll have heard your father speak of me.”

Di colored a little. She had heard her father speak of his family as a unit--“the most contemptible, heartless crew that ever breathed”--remarks like that. She had even heard him mention a brother, but not by the name of “Peter”! He had used other names…

The sporting little man sighed.

“Yes…” he said. “Poor Harvey… Well! When we heard that he’d passed away, we wanted to get in touch with you, but we couldn’t find you. Only yesterday we saw in the papers all about the wedding of this Mrs. What’s-Her-Name--mentioned a secretary--Miss Diana Leonard. That’s poor Harvey’s girl, says I, so I telephoned the house half an hour ago and I was told you’d just left, to come here. So…!”

He smiled and she smiled back at him.

“I see you’ve got your hat on,” he said. “In a hurry? No? Well, your Aunt Emma--her idea was--perhaps you’d come to us--act as her secretary, with the usual financial arrangement, y’know. Scientific work, y’know.”

“Yes, thank you. I _should_ like it very much,” said Di.

He seemed a little startled by this very prompt acceptance.

“Well!” he said. “That’s excellent! Excellent!… Now, when could you come? Next week?”

“I can come--before that,” said Di, a little unsteadily.

“Any day that suits you--”

“I can come--to-day,” said Di. “I was just leaving here, anyhow, and I hadn’t exactly decided where to go. I--”

“Excellent!” he said, with a quick glance at her. “You wouldn’t care to come at once, would you? If you would, I could drive you down. Got my li’l’ car outside.”

“Yes, I _could_,” said Di.

“Excellent,” said he. “I’ll wait while you pack.”

“Everything’s packed. I have a bag… My trunk can wait.”

She did not care what happened to the trunk. Let Mrs. Frick throw it down the steps into the street; nothing mattered as long as she could get away from here, could have a roof over her head until she had time to breathe.

“If it’s not too big I can take it,” he said.

“Here it is--in the hall.”

“I can manage that!” said he.

Di took up her bag; then she remembered the flowers.

“Just a moment, please!” she said, and ran up the stairs.

On the first landing she almost collided with Mrs. Frick. With a hasty apology she was about to go on up, when Mrs. Frick stopped her.

“Miss Leonard! You’re never going off with that man!”

“Yes, I am,” said Di. “He’s my uncle.”

“You said he couldn’t be. You said it was a mistake.”

“Well, it wasn’t, after all.”

“Now, see here!” said Mrs. Frick earnestly. “Don’t you do it, Miss Leonard! I’m sorry I was so hasty. You just forget what I said and stay on here.”

Di was startled and touched by this tone.

“That’s awfully nice of you!” she said. “But, you see, I might not get my check for some time, and I might not find a job, either, for weeks. I was--pretty worried. I only have twenty-five cents--”

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me that?” cried Mrs. Frick.

“No use bothering you about it,” said Di. “And anyhow, it’s all right now. I’m going to stay with my Aunt and Uncle--”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask.”

“Don’t you go!” said Mrs. Frick. “I don’t believe he’s your uncle?”

“Oh, but he is!” said Di. “He knows all about me and my father… And why on earth should he pretend to be, if he isn’t? I’m not exactly an heiress.”

“Don’t you go!” repeated Mrs. Frick. “You’re young. You don’t know what people there are in this world.”

“But nobody could possibly have any reason--He’s taking my trunk now. I hear him.”

They both looked over the bannisters and saw the sporting little man handling the trunk with surprising ease.

“Oh, dear!” cried Mrs. Frick. “I don’t like this! Stay here--”

“I’m awfully sorry, but you see--”

“Then ring me up!” said Mrs. Frick. “Promise to ring me up as soon as you get there, and give me the address.”

“I promise!” said Di.

Chapter Two. Di Breaks a Promise

It was a good car, and this uncle was a good driver.

“And I’m afraid I’ve got soft,” thought Di. “Demoralized. For I really don’t care much where I’m going if only I don’t have to struggle for a while. Or perhaps I’m just tired.”

Whatever it was, she was well content to sit back in the little car, to feel the Spring wind in her face, to look at the streets in the bright morning sun.

“Poor Mrs. Frick!” she thought. “So suspicious… _What_ would she have thought of Angelina?”

Her uncle did no talking in the city traffic, but after they were out of that, and headed toward Pelham, he began:

“Your Aunt Emma,” he said. “Y’know--very remarkable woman. Very!”

“Is she?” said Di, politely.

“Very!” he assured her. “She’s a professor. And a doctor.”

“Oh!”

“Psychology,” he said. “And so on. It’s all too deep for me… But…” He was silent for a time. “Did your father ever tell you anything about her?”

“I think I remember his mentioning her,” said Di, who remembered very well that her father had occasionally mentioned a sister who was, he had said, “hard as nails.”

“Too bad!” her uncle continued. “But poor old Harvey couldn’t seem to hit it off with the rest of us. Always _was_ like that. I hope he never said anything to set you against us?”

“Oh, no!” said Di.

“Well…” he said. “I hope you’ll be happy now--with your own people.”

He spoke kindly enough, yet, she thought, with a curious lack of warmth. An odd little man altogether; looking at him now in the bright sunlight, she saw that his weather-beaten face was deeply lined with a net of little wrinkles at the corners of his blue eyes.

“Is he old?” she thought. “Or just--battered?” And aloud she asked: “Are you--Father’s younger brother?”

“Eh? Yes. Two or three years. Now, I almost hate to ask this--but did you ever hear your father speak of Uncle Rufus?”

“Yes,” said Di. “Several times.”

“Hm. I’m afraid Harvey didn’t care much for the old man.”

“I’m afraid he didn’t,” said Di.

She remembered a letter her father had got from Uncle Rufus, and what he had said about it.

“I simply asked him to make me a little loan,” he had cried to his child, “and the damned old skinflint treats me as if I were a beggar!”

He had also spoken of Uncle Rufus quite often as “that damned old hyena.”

“Of course,” Uncle Peter went on, apologetically, “the old man’s got his little weakness… But he’s a very remarkable man. Writes books, and so on. Very remarkable!”

“Is he at your house?”

“Not now. But he’ll be coming, for a visit. Y’know, I think you’ll like him. You’re clever, aren’t you? Fond of books and so on?”

“I’m fond of books,” said Di, “but I’m afraid I’m not clever at all.”

“I bet you are!” he said, and added, sadly. “I’m the fool of the family.”

She murmured some polite contradiction, and then, to change the subject:

“It was awfully nice of you to look me up,” she said. “I really do appreciate it.”

“Oh, rats!” said he, cheerfully, and they both laughed.

The countryside was beautiful that April morning, and the girl’s spirits rose and rose. She asked so very little of life, expected so very little; a chance of earning a moderate living, and a morning like this were enough. She was not even especially curious. She was going off bag and baggage, with this man she had never set eyes on before, to a house unknown, unknown people, and she had scarcely asked a question. That was her way. Since childhood, she had had to depend upon her own fortitude, and there was, beneath her half-shy manner, a fine, careless spirit of adventure, an odd little recklessness.

In those days with her father there had been so many disasters.

“I don’t know where the money’s coming from for the next meal!” he often said.

But it had come. He had often said he was ruined, but somehow they had gone on. And somehow Di, with her patchy education, her one-sided experience, had been able to keep on after she was left alone. No one else had been able to suit the beautiful Angelina, but she had. She had done impossible things; she, who had never had two dollars in her purse, had somehow managed to keep Angelina’s chaotic check-book balanced. She, who was so diffident, had been able to talk to the strangest people, to give orders to servants, to confront tradesmen with exorbitant bills.

“I seem to fall on my feet!” she thought. “Look at this! If Uncle Peter hadn’t come… But he _did_ come!”

He turned the car now up a road so lovely that she gave a cry of delight. It was a road in the very heart of a wood of birches and pines and oaks; only the pines were dark, the other trees, just budding, were exquisitely delicate against the pure, blue sky. There were no houses, nothing to disturb the sun-dappled peace.

“Nice, isn’t it?” said Uncle Peter. “Belongs to me… One of these days, I’m going to develop it--cut down most of the trees, and put up some nice little houses--what d’you call ’em?--that stucco, y’know, with timbers--Elizabethan, isn’t it?”

It seemed to Di that “developing” was hardly the word for this place, but she said nothing. They were going up a gentle rise now, and as they rounded a curve, she saw before her a very peculiar house, a large, wooden building, lavishly ornamented with little balconies and gables, a forlorn old place, with uncurtained windows, weather-beaten and in great need of paint.

“It’s a nice house,” said Uncle Peter. “The Swiss style…”

She glanced at him to see if he were laughing, but he looked melancholy.

“It’ll have to come down,” he said. “Nobody’ll buy a place like that, nowadays.”

The road led under a portico before the front door; he jumped out nimbly, and held out his hand to assist Di. Then he ran up the steps and knocked at the door, which was opened almost at once by a dismal little man with red hair.

The interior of the house surprised Di. They entered what was obviously a hotel lounge, furnished with wicker chairs and settees, and with a counter at one end, behind which were pigeon-holes for mail. It was all very neat, and quite empty, no clerk at the desk, not a sound to be heard.

“I didn’t know…” she began, but her own voice sounded too loud here. She turned to her uncle and found him whispering to the red-haired man. And she could not help hearing what he said.

“Then _eggs_, you damned fool!”

The red-haired man raised his eyebrows sadly, and went off through a door at the right, and Uncle Peter took up her bag.

“This way!” he said, and began to mount the stairs.

“I suppose they run the hotel,” thought Di. “But it doesn’t seem very popular. Or perhaps this isn’t the season.”

At the top of the first flight they came upon the usual hotel corridor, long, narrow, red-carpeted.

“Still,” she thought, “it’ll be rather nice to be in a hotel. More lively…”

Her uncle had stopped, and now turned toward her, with an anxious frown.

“I don’t know…” he said. “Maybe I should… Your aunt… Very remarkable woman!”

As he spoke, a door at the end of the corridor opened, and a woman in a surgeon’s white overall came out, and behind her, single file, came two children.

“Emma!” said Uncle Peter. “Here she is--”

The woman had stopped, and was looking at him with a sort of steady scorn. Then she turned and pushed the two children gently back into the room they had come out of, closed the door on them, and advanced to Diana.

“So this is Diana!” she said.

She was a sturdy, solid, little gray-haired woman, very erect, and she was smiling pleasantly now. But Di was incapable of answering at that moment. She had caught a glimpse of those children’s faces--pasty, yellowish faces, with blank, dull eyes, and loose mouths, hanging open…

“They’re idiots!” she thought, appalled.

“I wish I had known Peter was bringing you to-day,” Aunt Emma went on. “We could have made some little preparations. Why didn’t you telephone, Peter?”

“Never thought of it…” he muttered, apologetically. “Sorry, Emma.”

“I’m afraid it’s my fault,” said Di, making an effort to speak brightly. “I accepted your kind offer so very quickly.”

Aunt Emma held out her hand, and Di took it, felt her fingers caught in a strong grasp. This aunt was shorter than herself, a rather dumpy little woman, with a plain enough face, yet there was something unusual about her, an assurance that was curiously impressive. Her blue eyes were fixed upon the girl’s face in candid appraisal; she was studying her, with a disconcerting keenness.

“She’s looking right through me,” thought Di. “She sees that I’ve got a safety pin instead of a button in the back of my dress, and that I never remember dates.”

“See about lunch, Peter,” said Aunt Emma.

“I did, Emma,” he said. “I spoke to Wren.”

“Then show Diana a room,” she said. “You’ll understand, Diana, that I’m very busy… Make yourself at home!” And with a pleasant smile she went into the room again and closed the door.

“What does she--do?” Diana asked her uncle, in a whisper.

“Too deep for me!” he answered.

“But--those children--?”

“Don’t ask me! I don’t understand these things.”

“But I mean--” she went on, resolutely, “are they any--relation--?”

“Oh, Lord, no!” he said. “Emma’s adopted them, that’s all.”

He opened a door.

“Here’s a room,” he said, and hurrying on, opened another door. “And here’s one--and here’s one. Take your choice! They’re all pretty much alike.”

So they were; bare hotel bedrooms, close and dusty, with stripped beds.

“Well, this one, thank you!” she said, taking the one furthest from that in which those children were.

“Good!” said he, and hurried off down the corridor.

Di looked about her in dismay.

“I almost wish I hadn’t come,” she thought. “No, I don’t! That’s silly. It’s a wonderful piece of luck for me. And perhaps more people will come--perhaps there are people here already that I haven’t seen.”

A considerable noise outside brought her into the hall, and she saw Uncle Peter and the red-haired man bringing her trunk up the stairs. With a praiseworthy, but not very effectual, impulse to help, she stepped back into the room and opened the door wide, back against the wall. And as she stood there, out of sight, another door opened.

“What’s all this noise?” demanded Aunt Emma’s voice, sternly.

“We’re getting up the girl’s trunk,” said Uncle Peter, in his usual apologetic tone.

“Make less noise!” she said. “You disturb me. You shouldn’t have brought the girl like this, without warning me.”

“But you told me to make her come!”

“Very well. Now hold your tongue,” said Aunt Emma, and her door closed again.

The trunk was now carried past Di and set down, and without so much as a glance at her, Uncle Peter hurried off again. Wren, the little red-haired man, stood wiping his hands on his coat.

“I’ll make up the bed for you, Miss,” he said. “And air the room, while you’re down at lunch.”

He was such a subdued little man, so shabby, so forlorn in appearance, that Di suddenly gave him her last quarter.

“Thank you, Miss!” he cried. “I--thank you, Miss!”

Pocketing the coin, he stood before her, as if irresolute.

“I’ll bring you towels, Miss,” he said. “And if there’s anything else you want, there’s a bell here, Miss. Better ring several times, Miss, in case I’m not within hearing at the moment… Thank you, Miss.”

With his hand on the knob, he added:

“And if you’ll excuse me, Miss--I’d advise you to keep your door locked when you’re not in the room. Those--little ones is very _mischeevous_. Thank you, Miss!”

He went out, closing the door behind him.

“I certainly shouldn’t like those children to get in here,” she thought. “I--don’t think I like being here, very much.”

Then it occurred to her that it would be a matter of considerable difficulty to leave this house now. She had no money for train fare, no money at all.

“Of course if I asked him, Uncle Peter would drive me back to the city, I suppose,” she thought. “Only, it would be pretty awkward to say I’d changed my mind. Although they’re not very hospitable. ‘The girl’--I wonder why they asked me? Out of charity? No; because they couldn’t possibly have known how bad things were for me.”

The room seemed unbearably close to her; she went to the window and opened it. And there before her were the trees, the dark pines, the old oaks, so close to the house, too close, shutting out all the rest of the world…

Something stirred in her heart, a formless and nameless fear. Wasn’t this like a prison?

“What nonsense!” she said to herself. “I’m tired, that’s all. It’s been a worrying morning. After I’ve had some lunch--”

There was running water in the room; she washed, and brushed her hair, and then began to unpack her bag.

“There may be other people staying here,” she thought. “I hope so. And I must telephone to Mrs. Frick.”

She thought of Mrs. Frick with an unreasonable friendliness now. She was impatient to telephone to her.

There was a knock at the door, and opening it, she found Uncle Peter there.

“Lunch, if you’re ready,” he said.

Since they had reached the house, his manner was undeniably changed; there was a worried, absent-minded air about him now.

“I’m ready,” she said. “And, by the way, what’s the address here, please? I’d like to telephone it to a friend.”

“Well…” he said. “You’d better ask your Aunt Emma.”

She stared to him in astonishment.

“I mean--” he said. “She doesn’t like her work interfered with.”

“But that won’t interfere with her work, will it?”

“Better ask her!” he said, and stood aside to let her go down the stairs.

As they passed through the lounge, she turned her head to make sure that she had really seen a telephone on the desk, and she was curiously relieved to see that there was one.

At the end of the lounge were sliding doors, pushed a little open now and revealing a big dining-room. And her heart sank at the sight of it. The tables were drawn up against the walls, and the chairs stacked on top of them; near the window was one small table laid with cloth, and at which Aunt Emma was already seated.

“I suppose the season hasn’t begun yet,” said Di.

“What season?” asked Aunt Emma.

“I mean--don’t more people come here, in the Summer?”

“Nobody comes here unless by my invitation,” said Aunt Emma. “This isn’t a hotel any longer.”

“Just--you and Uncle Peter?”

“That’s all.”

“It’s--” said Di, glancing about the big, empty room. “It seems--such a large place.”

“It is a large place,” said Aunt Emma.

Silence fell. Presently Wren came in, bringing a remarkably meager and unappetizing lunch, a burnt and curdled little omelette, bread and margarine and tea, and one banana each.

Di thought of past lunches, in Angelina’s house; she thought of broiled chicken, rice croquettes, mushrooms, crisp salads.

“I’m spoilt!” she thought. “This will do me good.”

At least there was plenty of bread; she ate three slices and drank the black bitter tea, and felt better.

“Aunt Emma,” she said. “Do you mind if I just telephone this address to a friend?”

“The telephone is disconnected,” said Aunt Emma.

Chapter Three. Di Makes Up Her Mind to Leave

Di was forced to admit that the situation was--uncomfortable. She could not go out anywhere to telephone because she hadn’t a penny.

“Well, I can write!” she thought. “There’s no such tearing hurry.”

And she also made up her mind that she must begin being Aunt Emma’s secretary at once, so that she could earn something.

“May I help you this afternoon, Aunt Emma?” she asked.

“We’ll see…” said Aunt Emma, with an enigmatic smile. “If you’re ready--?”

Di had now eaten everything in sight, and she rose as her aunt pushed back her chair. They went up the stairs together, along the corridor, to the room at the end. Aunt Emma took a key from the pocket of her overall and unlocked the door.

It was a profound relief to the girl that those children were not there. The room looked pleasantly business-like, with a large flat-topped desk, very neat, and a typewriter on a table, and the afternoon sun shining in at the window. Aunt Emma placed a chair before the desk for Di, and seated herself behind the desk, facing her.

“Well!” she said, looking steadily at the girl, “what do you know about cretinism?”

It was remarkably like being at school again, and Di felt the old sensation of defensive resentment.

“Not--very much,” she answered.

“How much? What would be your definition of cretinism?”

Di thought very hard.

“Well…” she said. “I think--it has something to do with the--excavations they’re making in the island of Crete.”

“Good--God!” said Aunt Emma.

She opened the drawer of her desk, took out a cigarette, lit it, and leaning back in her chair, stared at Di.

“A revelation of character,” she said. “You’re one of those persons who can’t say ‘I don’t know’… Cretinism is a form of idiocy. There are--” She paused, and smoked for a time. “There are,” she went on, “a great many varieties of idiocy in this world.”

Di grew red.

“The world is largely peopled by idiots,” said Aunt Emma. “Of different grades. Most of them attain a development sufficient for the demands of daily life. They can read and write and they can act upon the suggestions of superior minds.”

All this time she was steadily regarding Di with a faint smile, and Di began to grow angry.

“I dare say I’m an idiot myself,” she said, “but I hope I can be a little useful to you. I can type--”

“Can you read?”

“Read?” Di repeated.

“I mean, are you able to read a book which is not fiction?”

“Yes,” said Di.

“Then take this,” said Aunt Emma. “It’s written by your Uncle Rufus. Kindly read the first chapter and then give me a terse résumé.”

Hot and angry, Di took the big volume that was pushed across the desk to her.

_Some Observations Upon the Natural Limitations of National Cultures_, by Rufus Leonard.

She turned the pages, with a somewhat strained air of intellectual interest.

“I suggest that you begin at the beginning,” said Aunt Emma. “The first chapter will do for the present.”

“I _won’t_ lose my temper!” said Di to herself. “She has a perfect right to test me before she takes me as a secretary.”

She turned to the first page and began to read. But it was like a nightmare; she had to read sentences over and over, to understand them, and even then, the ideas were hazy to her. And all the time she was aware of Aunt Emma smoking and steadily regarding her. She turned a page.

“One may, for diversion, take a metaphysical view of the problem; one may play with the assumption that the ethos--”

It was no use. She felt that if she had time, and if Aunt Emma were not staring at her, she might manage something, but not in the present circumstances. She closed the book and glanced up, meaning to say that, frankly.

“I see!” said Aunt Emma. “I thought so. No… You are emotional, instead of intellectual. I do not assert that I can read a physiognomy. I consider that a preposterous claim. But give me fifteen minutes’ observation of anyone, of the involuntary gestures, the manner of walking, speaking, and so on, and I will know that person better than his own mother would.”

Di essayed an uncertain smile.

“I’m awfully sorry I can’t help you,” she said. “I hoped--”

“You can help me,” said Aunt Emma. “You say you can type. I’ll give you some work at once.”

“Thank you,” said Di.

“I shall be glad to have you here,” Aunt Emma proceeded. “Your father and I were never in harmony, but your mother was very agreeable. You’re very like her.”

Di turned her head away quickly. It was almost intolerable to her to hear that name mentioned. All through her lonely and troubled life she had held as her heart’s secret the tenderest image of that mother she could not remember. She had virtually needed something to cling to, some ideal, and she had found it there.

There was a considerable silence; when Aunt Emma spoke again, her voice was grave and kindly.

“You remember her at all?”

“No,” said Di, very low.

“Your father, no doubt, often talked to you of her.”

“No. Never. He--didn’t like to talk about--her.”

Aunt Emma pushed back her chair, rose, and coming out from behind the desk, laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“Work is the panacea,” she said. “Now, my dear! Here is a little article of mine which I’d like you to type. ‘Basic fallacies of the Montessori Method.’ The main fallacy is this. The Signora Montessori imputes to children a capacity for independent action which is so rare, even in adults, as to be remarkable.”

She lit another cigarette.

“The immense majority of human beings have no independence,” she said. “The suggestibility of the human race has never yet been fully realized. It is my intention to publish some observations in that field before long… And now, there is the typewriter, and here is paper.” With her hand on the door knob, she looked back at Di. “Knock on the door if you want to leave the room,” she said. “I shall be conducting experiments in the corridor, and a sudden interruption would be very disagreeable.” And she went out, closing the door behind her.

Di stood looking at the closed door.

“I--really don’t think I can stay here…” she said to herself.

But how was she to get away, without money? The idea of borrowing from her aunt or her uncle was most distasteful, nor could she think of any decent excuse to make for a sudden departure.

“I was so willing to come,” she thought. “I can’t rush off and hurt their feelings, when they were kind enough to look me up and ask me here. I’ve just got to make the best of it.”

She uncovered the typewriter, and took up her aunt’s neat manuscript; it was easy to read, and she finished a page quickly. Then, as she was putting in a new sheet, she heard footsteps outside the door, shuffling up and down the corridor. There was no sound of voices; nothing but those dragging footsteps.

“It’s those children!” she thought, and the room grew stifling to her; it was like a prison. She got up in haste, and opened the window, leaned out, breathing with relief the cool Spring air. Then, beneath her, she heard a voice:

“Hello!”

She leaned further out. Directly beneath her was another window, open, and the voice, which was Uncle Peter’s, came from the room inside.

“Hello!” he cried again. “What’s the matter, Central? Well, try them again.”

“But he’s telephoning!” she thought. “Then the telephone _can’t_ be out of order--”

“Hello!” he said again. “Oh! So you’re there!… Now, see here, Miles! Your aunt wants you to come out at once… What?… I don’t care… No, I can’t!… No, I haven’t a damned cent… Oh, pawn your watch--do anything you want, but come out here at once, d’you understand?”

Di drew back into the room.

“That’s an idea!” she said to herself. “I’d forgotten that watch.”

She remembered now a wrist-watch Angelina had given her, an absurd little thing, no larger than a five-dollar gold piece and not much thicker. It had needed expensive repairs to set it working again, and Di had put it away and not given it another thought, until Uncle Peter’s words reminded her that it might at least provide a railway fare back to New York.

“And if I just had the money to go,” she thought, “If I felt that I _could_ go, then I shouldn’t mind staying. It’s simply this feeling that I can’t get away…”

Very well; but how to convert the watch into money? She thought that over for a time, and then, with a sudden inspiration, began to write a letter.

“Dear Mrs. Frick:

“_Here I am, safe and sound. The address is_ --” _Here she left a blank, to fill in later._ “_You were so friendly this morning that I feel encouraged to ask you to do me a favor. Enclosed is a little watch. If you could possibly--_” _She hesitated a moment. Mrs. Frick was probably too respectable for pawnshops_--“_manage to sell it for me, and send on the money, I should be very much obliged._

“_I have already started to work as my aunt’s secretary, and I am sure that in a little while everything will be all right. But just at the moment, I am pretty hard up. If you can get me three dollars for the watch, it would be a great help._” _In spite of her Bohemian upbringing, Di realized that this was an extraordinary letter._

“_I hope this won’t bother you_,” _she added._

“_Sincerely yours,_
“Diana Leonard.”

Then she addressed an envelope, put the letter into it, tucked it inside her blouse, and set to work upon her aunt’s manuscript with energy.

It was a nice job when she had finished; she was pleased with it. She sighed and stretched and, leaning back in the chair, with her hands behind her head, let her thoughts drift. The sun was going down, the sky was bright and calm… Angelina and her new husband would be at that inn in the Berkshires now. They would probably be having tea.

“I’d like tea myself,” she mused. “A _very_ large club-sandwich--and coffee éclairs--”

The door opened and Aunt Emma entered.

“Finished?” she said. “That’s very nice… Now, my dear, have you a pretty dress with you? Something light… I’m expecting your cousin for dinner.”

“What cousin?” asked Di, startled by the news and by the change in her aunt’s manner, so kindly and solicitous now.

“Your Uncle Peter’s son.”

“I didn’t know he was married.”

“You might have known,” said Aunt Emma, with a grim smile. “A man like Peter couldn’t help getting married. He’s a widower now, though… I think you’ll like Miles… Have you a pretty dress?”

“Yes,” said Di. “Angelina--Mrs. Herbert--Mrs. Blessington I mean--gave me lots.”

Aunt Emma smiled.

“Run along and put one on,” she said. “You’ll be glad of someone your own age to talk to.”

“She _is_ nice!” thought Di. “Asking this cousin on my account. Now if only there’s a good dinner!”

She dressed, in a green chiffon frock that suited her very well; she took pains to look her best, curiously excited at the prospect of meeting this cousin. Indeed, she was a little surprised by her own emotion.

“Silly!” she thought. “I suppose it’s because I haven’t any family.”

Coming out of her room a little before six, she found Uncle Peter in the hall, lounging against the wall, smoking a cigar. He still wore his jaunty checked suit and brown shoes, but he had a quieter necktie, a more subdued air.

“Hello!” he said. “How nice you look!”

“Oh, thanks!” she said. “Uncle Peter, can you lend me a stamp?”

“Haven’t such a thing!” he answered. “But if you have any letters to post, give ’em to me, and I’ll look after ’em.”

“Thanks! All right!” said Di.

But somehow she did not want to give him her letter to Mrs. Frick.

They went downstairs together, into the lounge. It looked very pleasant there now, with three shaded lamps glowing. Di seated herself in an armchair, by an artificial palm, and Uncle Peter stood beside her with his hands in his pockets, whistling under his breath. And an equable illusion took possession of her. Here she was, in a charming dress, sitting here in the house of her own people; this cousin was coming; nice, interesting things would happen.

“I’m an idiot,” she thought, “to imagine there’s anything--queer here. It’s heartless of me to feel this way about those poor little children. No doubt they’re getting the best sort of treatment--perhaps they’ll be even cured… No; there’s nothing here to be--silly about. It was kind and generous of them to ask me. I’m lucky to be here.”

Just then Uncle Peter sighed and stirred, and as she glanced up at him, a singularly disturbing thought came to her. He had been waiting outside her door… Was he guarding her?

The impulse seized her to find out, to make sure if she really were guarded, not permitted to go about alone in this house. And at the same time she was aware of a great reluctance to make this test. Better not. Better let well enough alone…

She sat very still for a few minutes, then she rose.

“I’ll just run up and get my handkerchief,” she said.

“I’ll send Wren,” said Uncle Peter.

“He wouldn’t know where to find it.”

“You can tell him,” said Uncle Peter, cheerfully.

“I’d rather go myself,” she said, a little unsteadily.

“I’ll hop along with you, then,” said Uncle Peter. “These lights have a way of going out, and you’d get lost in this barn of a place.”

She turned away her head, so that he might not see her face. A panic fear was rising in her; she wanted to get away; she must get away.

“Don’t--_bother!_” she cried, and ran toward the stairs. A bad thing, to run. One hears footsteps running behind, one shrinks from the dreaded touch of a hand on the shoulder… She fled up the stairs, darted into her room, slammed the door behind her and locked it, turned on the light and sank into a chair, her hand against her racing heart, and her eyes upon the locked door.

She began to grow a little quieter, her breathing less labored; she was ready to reason with herself, when the light went out.

She sprang up, all her fears redoubled. There was a soft knock at the door.

“I won’t answer!” she thought. “I won’t--I can’t…”

She stood motionless in the dark, staring before her. There was another knock.

“Miss!” came a hissing whisper. “It’s Wren, Miss.”

“What do you want?” she asked, whispering herself.

“I’ve got an electric torch here for you, Miss. If you’ll open the door--”

She did not answer. She thought if _anything happened_, if she called out for help, who in this house would hear or care? Her panic rose to a climax. And then, in an instant, she mastered it; she drew a long breath, and crossing the room, unlocked the door.

The light of a torch shone full in her eyes, dazzling her.

“Excuse me, Miss!” whispered Wren, covering the torch and holding out another one. “I thought… If you’ll excuse me, Miss. I appreciated your kindness to-day. If there’s anything I can do for you, Miss…”

By the light of her torch, she could see his pale face, his anxious eyes; she looked and looked at him, but she could not understand him. Was he honest and well-disposed to her, or was he furtive and treacherous?

“If there’s anything I can do, Miss--” he repeated.

She decided to take a chance.

“I wish you’d post a letter for me,” she said, with a fair attempt at a casual manner. “I haven’t any stamps just now, but--”

“Give it to me please, Miss,” he said.

“It’s not quite ready. If you’ll wait--”

“I’d better not, Miss. If you’ll leave it were I can get it--”

“How would one address a letter here?” she asked, quickly, infected by his air of haste.

“The Châlet, Miss. East Hazelwood. Just tell me where I’ll find it, Miss.”

“Under the bureau-scarf,” she began, but he had turned away.

“I’ll look after it, Miss,” he whispered and was gone.

She stood in the doorway, listening. There was nothing to hear; not a sound of any sort; not a light anywhere except the little beam of the torch she held. But her moment of panic was over; she had herself well in hand; a sort of anger filled her. She went along the corridor, and leaning over the bannister, directed her torch toward the lounge below. And the light fell upon Uncle Peter, stretched out in a wicker chair, smoking his cigar.

“Hello!” he cried. “Who’s that?”

“Diana,” she answered, and began to descend the stairs.

“I suppose that blamed idiot will have the wit to go down in the cellar and change the fuse,” he observed. “I don’t understand these things, but Wren does. Poor wiring in the house. I warned you!”

“Well, there’s no harm done,” she said, affably.

She sat down near him in another chair, and waited.

“I’ve made a fool of myself,” she thought. “Rushing upstairs like that and slamming the door. Uncle Peter was only good-natured. The lights _do_ go out. And he didn’t come after me. He just sat here, smoking. I don’t know what’s the matter with me--imagining all sorts of things.”

“Hark!” said Uncle Peter.

She started nervously.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Car coming,” he said, and now she heard it too, coming up the drive. What was coming? Who was coming?

There was a step on the veranda, and then an appallingly loud bang on the front door.

“Lend me your torch,” said Uncle Peter, and taking it, crossed the room and opened the door. But he let no one in; he stepped outside, closing it behind him.

She was left now in utter darkness. She heard a murmur of voices outside, and she was groping her way across the lounge to the door, when the lights came on. She hurried then, and looked through the uncurtained glass of the door. A car stood out there and the headlights shone along the drive. And she had a glimpse of two men, carrying between them a limp body; then they passed beyond the stream of light, and she could see them no more.

“This is too much…” she thought. “I can’t--”

Her knees were shaking; she sat down again. And presently the front door opened and Uncle Peter re-entered, dapper and cheerful.

“Was there an accident?” she cried.

“Accident?” he repeated, staring at her. “No. What made you think that?”

“I thought I saw…”

“Why, it was just a fellow looking for a room,” he said. “You know, this place used to be a hotel, and people still come now and then.”

Very cheerful and reassuring, Uncle Peter was. But on his cheek and on his shirt-front were two black smudges. Very like coal-dust. Very like the smudge one might get in a cellar. Smudges such as one might get in going down to turn off the current.

“I’m going,” she thought. “I’m going to leave here to-morrow, if I have to walk to New York. Perhaps it’s all--imagination--but I--don’t like to imagine things like that.”

Chapter Four. Di Makes a Promise

No cousin Miles appeared that night. She and Aunt Emma and Uncle Peter sat down to dinner by themselves; a very poor and insufficient dinner, and Wren waited upon them. There was little conversation; Aunt Emma seemed distrait, and directly they had finished she said “good-night” and went upstairs.

“What about a little game of cards?” asked Uncle Peter. “I’ll show you how to play Russian Bank, Diana.”