Chapter IV: Part 4

He was standing with one foot on the bottom step, and Di stood on the kitchen porch above him, very uneasy at this unexpected examination. There were so many things she did not wish to mention.

“Now, what time did you have dinner?” asked Rogers.

“About quarter to seven.”

“And after dinner, what did you do?”

“We went to the lounge.”

“How long did you stay there?”

“I--I went out--at nine o’clock for--a little walk.”

“How far did you walk?”

“Just to a little clearing, down the hill.”

“How long did that take you?”

“Five or ten minutes.”

“Then you went back to the house?”

“No. I stayed there for a while.”

“How long? Ten minutes?”

“Longer than that.”

“Twenty minutes?”

“I--I think it was longer than that. I don’t know. I didn’t see the time.”

“We’ll call it half an hour. Thirty minutes then, ten minutes walk each way, that’d bring you back to the house about 9.40. Then what did you do?”

“I was chilly. I sat in the kitchen a little while.”

“Ten minutes?”

“I--don’t know.”

“And after that?”

“I--went to bed.”

“You were asleep when Wren knocked at the door?”

“Yes…”

“Well,” said Rogers. “I guess we’ll have to let the time go. What did Wren say to you?”

“He asked me to let him in.”

“What did you answer?”

“I--think I asked him what was the matter?”

“What did he say?”

“He asked again for me to let him in. Then he stopped talking--suddenly.”

“Did you hear him walk away?”

“No.”

“You say you found blood under the door?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

“I--think I fainted.”

“When you came to yourself, I suppose you called for help?”

“My aunt was there. I was--rather ill, feverish…”

“I see…” said Rogers. “Now what dealings had you had with Wren?”

“I never had any ‘dealings.’”

“Any idea why he came to you?”

“No.”

“That afternoon Wren brought you a private message from a man called Fennel?”

“It wasn’t a ‘private’ message. He just told me that Mr. Fennel wanted to see me.”

“You met Fennel in the wood?”

“Yes.”

“What did you know about Fennel?”

“He brought me a letter from a friend.”

“What’s the name and address of the friend?”

Reluctantly she gave him Mrs. Frick’s address.

“You’re personally acquainted with Fennel?”

“I hadn’t met him before, but--”

“Can you describe him?”

“Why?” she demanded. “He has nothing to do with this.”

“Don’t be too sure of that!” said Rogers. “Now, was this Fennel a man of medium height, slender, dark complexion and mustache, nice gentlemanly ways?”

“That description would apply,” said Aunt Emma from the doorway.

“That’s ‘Smoky’ all right,” said Rogers. “That’s just the way he works, too. What they call one of these society burglars.”

“He’s not a burglar,” said Di, briefly. “It’s ridiculous--”

“Now, I understand that while you were talking to this Fennel, your uncle came, and there were words.”

“He was angry because I’d left him alone. There weren’t any ‘words,’ except his own.”

“But just the same he got so excited he had some sort of fit?”

“Attack. Heart attack,” said Aunt Emma.

“Attack,” said Rogers. “You then went to the house, leaving Fennel alone with your uncle? And Fennel was presently joined by Wren?”

“Yes. But--”

“Did you, at any time subsequent to this, see Fennel and Wren together?”

“I did,” said Aunt Emma. “After I’d invented a plausible reason for getting Fennel out of the house, I found him out on the drive, talking to Wren. He went away at once as soon as I appeared.”

“Yes,” said Rogers. “That’s how he works. When he was alone with the old gentleman, he found that money in his pockets. But he was too smart to lift it then. No… He gets Wren to do the dirty work--”

“That’s ridiculous!” cried Di. “Mr. Fennel--”

“He always makes a good impression,” said Rogers. “No. He’s ‘Smoky,’ all right. Depend on it! Now, if I can just use your telephone--”

“It’s out of order,” said Aunt Emma.

“Too bad! Well, I’ll just take a look around the house… Old gentleman able to answer any questions?”

“It’s not advisable for him to talk much,” said Aunt Emma. “But he’s so disturbed about the loss of the money, it may do him good to see that steps are being taken. If you’ll be careful to excite him as little as possible.”

“Trust me!” said Rogers.

Aunt Emma addressed herself to Di.

“I’ve just put your breakfast ready in here,” she said. “You won’t mind eating in the kitchen, my dear? And there’s a letter for you, that came this morning. I’ll go with Rogers while he questions your Uncle Rufus.”

As soon as they were out of sight, Di took the letter from the table, and tore it open.

“Dear Miss Leonard:

“_I was very sorry indeed to fail you at our little rendezvous last night. Believe me, it was a great disappointment to me. But circumstances prevented it. Please accept the enclosed as a little mark of my admiration--and my regret that we cannot meet again._

“_Yours most sincerely,_
“James Fennel.”

She unfolded the enclosed paper, and found in it a fifty-dollar bill.

Her knees trembled under her, and she sank into a chair by the table.

“Oh, no!” she said, half aloud. “Oh, no!”

It seemed to her that she was mortally stricken by this blow, that she could never get over it. Not only the revelation that Fennel was a thief, but the insult of his sending her this money, the tone of his note…

“I liked him,” she thought, “I liked him--better than any other man I’ve ever met.”

She poured herself a cup of coffee, cooled it with milk and drank it. And remembered Fennel, his steady dark eyes, his quick, vivid smile…

“It can’t be true!” she cried to herself.

Then she thought that perhaps other women had said that of him. “That was the way he worked…” Other credulous women were charmed by that smile, by that quiet, serious, almost stiff manner…

But he had come with a letter from Mrs. Frick.

“If only I hadn’t lost that letter!” she thought. “But I’ll see Mrs. Frick this afternoon. I’ll ask her about him. Perhaps--”

Perhaps he was not a thief. But he had written this insolent note, had sent her money.

“But maybe he didn’t realize,” she thought. “Maybe he only--wanted to be--kind…” Kind? “My regret that we cannot meet again…”

The profound instinct of her nature was loyalty. She had a quick, and remarkably sound intuition in the reading of character; she saw people’s virtues, and forever cherished them; she saw their weaknesses and could excuse them. And she had seen in that man something strong and fine, something which her heart refused to discredit. She was cruelly affronted by his letter, profoundly troubled by the suspicion that Rogers had evoked, but she _could not_ dismiss Fennel as utterly worthless.

“I don’t understand!” she thought, in despair. “I’ll put him out of my mind. I’ll forget him. I must forget him.”

But she did not. A leaden oppression weighed upon her. That Rogers seemed so confident, so resolute; suppose he found Fennel, arrested him, sent him to prison?

“I’ll have to be a witness,” she thought. “Against him… I’ll have to admit that I left him alone with Uncle Rufus… And this letter--”

She jumped up, went to the dining-room door, listened, and when she was sure she was not seen, set fire to the letter and burnt it to ashes in a plate, then threw the ashes out of the window and rinsed the plate.

Now she was finished with Fennel.

She was still trying to eat the excellent breakfast set out for her when her aunt re-entered the room.

“Not very satisfactory,” she observed, with a sigh. “Your Uncle Rufus is difficult to handle. And this detective… Their one idea is to see these men in jail. _I_ don’t want Wren in jail. I want him here, in the kitchen. He was very useful to me. As for his theft, it didn’t surprise me. Naturally not. I knew he’d been in jail before. Only here, until Uncle Rufus came, there was nothing for him to steal.” Again she sighed. “Now there’ll be all the stupidity and bother of a trial… Of course they’ll catch Fennel and Wren.”

Fennel and Wren bracketed together.

“They may not,” said Di.

“Uncle Rufus told this detective that every one of the missing bills was marked, with two crosses in green ink on the corners. That will make it much easier to trace them.”

She took a packet of cigarettes from her overall pocket and lit one.

“You’ll want to see Uncle Rufus,” she said. “And then Miles will drive you in to New York.”

Di remembered her promise.

“I think Uncle Rufus expects me to stay…” she said.

“You can ask him,” said Aunt Emma. “Now, while we’re here, undisturbed, I want to have a little talk with you. It’s not going to be very pleasant for either of us, but I’m afraid it can’t be avoided.”

“It’s about Fennel,” thought Di, and clasped her hands together under the table.

“I am in need of money,” Aunt Emma went on, “desperately in need of money to carry on my work. Neither Peter nor Miles are able--or willing--to help me. I have no one else. That is why I am going to tell you--what it would be kinder not to tell you.”

Di waited, very pale.

“You know, of course, what your father was like,” Aunt Emma went on. “But you can’t remember your mother. She was one of the very few persons--she was perhaps the only person who was ever really fond of me. I don’t know why. There is nothing natural about affection. Certainly when Harvey was first married, I felt nothing but disgust and annoyance. I knew he couldn’t support a wife and I knew he’d ask me to help him. He did. At that time, I had all the money I needed for the rest of my life. I wasn’t by any means rich, but my father had left me enough money to live on, so that I could work without troubling about my daily bread. When Harvey came to me for money, I refused him. I had nothing whatever to spare and he knew it.

“Then he sent his wife. She was a pretty girl… Very pretty, very gallant and honest…” she was silent for a moment.

“Poor little Inez…” she said.

It seemed to Di that this was intolerable, beyond her powers of endurance.

“She came, like you, and offered to help me with my work, for a small salary--any salary… She was quick and intelligent, but pitiably unfit for scientific work. And not strong. She tired easily. I was glad to lend her small sums of money from time to time, but I couldn’t let her work for me. I don’t know how they managed to live. It must have been hard for her. I have never seen anyone change so… Then one day she came to me. She was ill then, very ill and desperate. Your father was seriously involved in some discreditable business. I admit that he was more of a fool than a knave; he hadn’t realized what he was doing. But that wouldn’t have helped him, in court. Inez literally didn’t have a penny. She came here, with you… And I was sorry for her. I helped your father out of his difficulty, and I set them on their feet again. To do this, I had to sell some of my holdings, and my income was cut in half. And I’ve never had one day free from financial anxiety since then.”

She rose.

“That’s all,” she said. “I have no proofs. It never occurred to me to demand any sort of written acknowledgment from your father. I knew he’d never be able to repay me. If you choose to do so, when you come into Uncle Rufus’s money--”

“I’ll sign--a note--or something--” said Di, unsteadily.

“It wouldn’t be worth the paper it was written on,” said Aunt Emma.

“Then I’ll give you--my word--that if I ever do get any money--”

“Very well!” said Aunt Emma. “I know you mean that--now. But when you’ve left here, you’ll begin to think. ‘Why should I believe Aunt Emma. She has no proof. It’s very much more agreeable not to believe her.’”

“Then what _can_ I do?”

“Nothing,” said Aunt Emma. “Except remember. Now you’d better come and see your Uncle Rufus.”

Di rose and followed her.

“I wish I’d never been born,” she thought.

All her past was clouded with the sorrow of her mother, with disgrace and misery. The present was beyond measure bitter, and lonely; she had no friends, no home, no money, and that letter from Fennel was to her like a personal disgrace.

“There must be something--wrong in me,” she thought, “or he wouldn’t have dared to do that. He must have been sure I wouldn’t show the letter or the money to the police. He must have seen…”

They mounted the stairs and went to Uncle Rufus’s room. She remembered that she had believed she found it dark and empty the other evening, but, with so many empty rooms, it would be very easy to make a mistake. It was not empty now, Uncle Rufus lay in the bed, and Uncle Peter sat beside him, sprawled out in a chair. The blind was drawn down, and the room looked singularly gloomy and depressing for a sick-room.

Uncle Peter sprang up as they entered.

“Morning!” he said to Di, in a muffled, embarrassed voice. “I hope you’re well?”

“Yes, thanks,” she answered, curtly enough.

“Uncle Rufus,” said Aunt Emma, mildly. “Here’s Diana. Do you want to talk to her?”

“No!” said the old man, curtly.

He was, she thought, a remarkably unpleasant object, sitting propped up with pillows, wrapped in a voluminous dressing-gown, and wearing on his head a red Turkish fez with a jaunty black tassel. And the room was so dim, so close, so horribly depressing… She went nearer to the bed.

“Would you like me to stay here--in the house--?” she asked, in a low voice. “Until you’re feeling better, Uncle Rufus?”

“I don’t care what you do,” he answered, and flounced over on his side, with his back to her.

She waited for a moment and then turned away. Aunt Emma was still in the doorway, with a faint smile on her lips.

“We’re not a demonstrative family,” she observed. “Now… Do you want to go at once or wait until after lunch?”

“I’d like to help you--wash the dishes--or something,” said Di.

“There’s a woman coming from the village to do all that, thanks.”

“Then I’ll pack now,” said Di, and went to her own room.

Locking her door she took the fifty-dollar bill out of her pocket and examined it. On two corners there were tiny crosses made in green ink.

“What shall I do with it?” she thought. “I ought to get it back to Uncle Rufus somehow. It’s his…”

She stood looking at it, feeling to the fullest extent all her desolation, her grief, her disappointment. She was going--to what? To no other friend than Mrs. Frick, and going back in immeasurably worse condition than she had left, saddened by the knowledge of her mother’s past suffering, worn out by the horrible experiences she had had here, humiliated by her betrayed trust in Fennel, still half-sick from her recent fever, defeated…

Then, suddenly, her spirit rose in arms. She _would not_ be defeated and humiliated.

“I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of!” she said to herself. “I’m going to go back to New York and forget all this. As if it were a nightmare. I have all my life before me. I _won’t_ be miserable! I won’t!”

She opened her trunk briskly and the sight of the dresses that Angelina had given her was balm to her.

“Angelina will come back some day,” she thought. “Lord! It’s good to remember that there are people like her in the world--happy people, full of life and courage. This house isn’t the world. Once I get away, I’ll see everything differently. I’m afraid my family isn’t very--wholesome.”

She looked out of the window, and saw the blue April sky, and her spirits rose and rose.

“Even if Miles is pretty awful, driving in,” she thought, “it’ll soon be over. To-night--this very night--I’ll be at Mrs. Frick’s! I’ll go out to an Italian restaurant and have a nice little dinner. Perhaps I’ll take Mrs. Frick to the movies. It’ll be like Heaven, after this!”

She powdered her nose and put on her hat, and the very sight of herself in a hat was a delight. At last she was going. She picked up her bag and turned toward the door.

On the carpet, near the door, was a white square of paper. She stooped and picked it up. There were some words written on it in pencil:

“Do not leave this house. If you go they will kill me. Burn this. For God’s sake, do not leave this house.”

Chapter Ten. The Forbidden Room

There was no one to turn to, no one to consult, no one to help her.

She read and re-read those words, scrawled on what seemed a scrap torn from a paper bag.

“I think--it’s Wren…” she said to herself. “He tried to tell me something before. He’s still here…”

She thought of Rogers. If Wren were really in danger…? But Rogers would find him and arrest him, send him to prison. She was not asked to give any assistance, only not to go away, as if only her presence here prevented a crime.

“Aunt Emma wants me to go,” she thought.

After all, was it Wren who had written? It might be someone else. Uncle Rufus, perhaps? He had told her plainly enough that he believed his life to be in danger, and had asked her to remain here. Perhaps he had been somehow intimidated, and dared not urge her to stay while those people were in the room.

But whoever had written, and whatever the cause, she could not go until she had discovered the meaning of that note. She took off her hat and almost laughed.

“I can’t go,” she thought. “I’ll _never_ be able to leave--”

That was a bad thought to entertain. Never be able to leave? Had she known that the first day she came here? Something had weighed so heavily upon her then… As if she had known that she could never get away, never get back to the cheerful outside world, that here was the end…

“No!” she said to herself. “I cannot think--things like that. I have no one but myself to depend on now. I’ve got to keep cool. I’ve got to be sensible.”

She tore the note into fragments, and putting them into the wash-basin, let the water run on them until they were washed down the drain.

What helped her was the thought that some other human creature had appealed to her.

“I’ve got to find out,” she said to herself. “I’ve got to use my wits.”

There was, first of all, the ordeal of telling Aunt Emma that she had changed her mind about going. She discovered then that she was afraid of Aunt Emma; Uncle Peter had been brutal, Uncle Rufus not much better, Miles was dangerously uncertain, yet of all the inmates of this house, Aunt Emma, who had tended her kindly when she was ill, who had brought up her meals, Aunt Emma was the one she feared most.

“But I have the advantage now,” she told herself. “Aunt Emma expects to get money from me. She can’t afford to antagonize me. I’ve got to use that advantage.”

She opened her door and went out into the corridor. There was no reason why that long red-carpeted hall should seem horrible to her; no reason to think the silence here was sinister… A door opened behind her, and Aunt Emma came out.

“Ready?” she asked. “If you are, I’ll call Miles.”

“I’ve been thinking--” said Di. “While I was dressing I felt--quite miserable… If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay here, in the country, for another day or so, until I feel better.”

Aunt Emma made no answer for a time.

“I think you’re making a mistake,” she said at last. “This house isn’t good for you.”

A threat, was that?

“The country’s so pretty, this time of the year,” said Di.

“You’re highly nervous and impressionable,” Aunt Emma went on. “If I’d realized that before, I’d never have let you come here. There’s something about this house…”

She came quickly down the hall, and turned the knob of the door next to Uncle Rufus’s room. It opened, she looked at the lock, looked down at the floor, and then closed the door again.

“Let me try your key!” she said, and Di gave it to her.

“No, it doesn’t fit,” she said. “Very well! If you’re going to stay here, let me earnestly warn you against going into that room.”

“That--sounds like Bluebeard,” said Di, with a pretty poor attempt at lightness.

Aunt Emma stood with her back to the door, looking at the girl with a faint smile.

“After Bluebeard was dead,” she said, “and the unlucky wives removed, do you think the family ever cared much for that little room?”

Di looked back at her, not understanding, yet uneasy.

“I imagine,” Aunt Emma proceeded, “that no one would ever use that room again. Even when the sun shone into it. Even if the castle were pulled down, one stone from the walls of that room, built into some other wall, would bring dreams…”

“Well, but Bluebeard never lived here,” said Di, more and more disturbed.

“I believe you went in there once, by mistake, thinking it was Uncle Rufus’s room,” said Aunt Emma. “Perhaps you felt then that it wasn’t--” she paused--“a good room for you to be in,” she added, with the grim shadow of a smile. “If you’re going to stay here, I warn you, for your own peace of mind. There’s nothing there. See!” She flung open the door, and Di saw a neat bare room with the usual hotel furnishings. Aunt Emma closed the door again. “Don’t go in there--_if you can help it_.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult,” said Di, smiling herself.

For she was, to the best of her ability, defying Aunt Emma. She knew she must do this, for the good of her soul. She must not be repressed or dismayed.

“Can I help you with the lunch?” she asked.

Aunt Emma accepted the offer, and they went downstairs together. And all the way, Di was thinking “Why mustn’t I go into that room? And why should I want to?”

She tried to forget that room.

“I’ve stayed here to find out who wrote me that note,” she told herself. “That’s the important thing. That’s what I must think of.”

But she kept on thinking about the room. She remembered going into it that night, finding it empty and dark, with the wind blowing into it. And hadn’t she, even then, felt something there, something terrible…?

“No!” she said to herself. “And anyhow, it doesn’t matter. That’s not the important thing.”

She moved about the kitchen, working under Aunt Emma’s directions, beating eggs for an omelette, making cocoa for Uncle Rufus.

“Did she mean that something had happened in that room? Well, what of it? Nothing to do with me! I _must_ think about that note. I must do something.”

With no little effort, she forced herself to return to that subject.

“It must have been written either by Wren or Uncle Rufus. The first thing is, to find out if Uncle Rufus wrote it. If he didn’t, then Wren must be somewhere in the house…”

That was not an agreeable thought, that someone was hidden in this house, among all these empty rooms.

“If I find that Uncle Rufus wrote it, I’m going to tell that detective,” she thought. “But if it was Wren--I can’t. He did all he could for me. I won’t help to send him to jail.”

“Diana,” said Aunt Emma, “will you take this tray up to your Uncle Rufus? Then come down, and we’ll have our own lunch.”

Di took the tray and went toward the door.

“The back stairs,” said Aunt Emma, opening a door, “It saves a good many steps.”

Di had not known before of this back stairway leading up from the kitchen. It was dark, with a closed door at the top, and darker still as Aunt Emma closed the kitchen door behind her. And at once, as that door shut, she began thinking again of the forbidden room.

“Oh, how stupid and disgusting of me!” she cried to herself, in a sort of despair. “Exactly like Bluebeard’s wife! Just because Aunt Emma said not to go into it… She probably did that on purpose--one of her horrible psychological experiments… Perhaps she wants to divert my mind from other things…”

She reached the door at the top, and had to set down the tray, to open the door.

“If only I can get a word alone with Uncle Rufus… And I’ll look into that room, just to prove to myself…”

She came out into an unfamiliar corridor, that branched off from the main one; this one, too, was lined with closed doors.

“There must be at least twenty-five empty rooms in this floor,” she thought. “And I don’t know what’s upstairs. There’s the cellar, too. It’s all very well for me to talk about ‘searching the house,’ but it’s not going to be an easy job. Especially without being seen…”

Uncle Rufus’s door was closed, and she knocked. There was no answer, and presently she knocked again. The silence alarmed her; she tried the handle, and found the door locked.

“Uncle Rufus!” she called.

A door across the corridor opened and Uncle Peter appeared.

“Ah!” he said, jauntily. “A little refreshment! I can do with that!”

“It’s for Uncle Rufus,” said Di, indignantly. “His door’s locked--”

“I know,” said Uncle Peter, with his old apologetic air. “He was asleep, and I just stepped into my own room for a smoke--”

“Please unlock the door!”

“Certainly!” he said. “Certainly!” He took the key from his pocket, put it into the lock and flung open the door.

Uncle Rufus was not asleep; he was sitting bolt upright in the bed in that dark, close room.

“Are you feeling better?” Di asked, stirred to pity and concern for him.

He only shook his head.

“Here’s some nice hot cocoa,” she went on. “Will you let me--?”

“I’ll have to feed him,” whispered Uncle Peter.

“Let me!” said Di.

“No,” protested Uncle Peter. “I understand his ways, y’know.” Di went nearer to the bed, but Uncle Peter blocked the way. “Please don’t get him worked up!” he whispered.

Di looked over her shoulder at the old man and saw him looking at her sidelong.

“Uncle Rufus!” she cried. “Please--just tell me how you feel?”

“Better!” he croaked, in a hoarse voice.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Don’t go till I’m better--” he said, in that same hoarse, painful voice.

“I won’t!” she said. “Wouldn’t you like--?”

“He’s hungry,” Uncle Peter explained, and at once began feeding him with the cocoa. “When you go down, would you mind telling your Aunt Emma that _I’m_ hungry too? She keeps me shut up here… Least she can do is to remember my food.”

“Uncle Rufus,” said Di, looking steadily at the old man. “I’ll stay. I’ll be here--all the time--if you want anything. I’ll come back after lunch and see you.”

The room was too dim for her to see his face clearly at that distance, but she hoped that he understood.

“He wrote that note,” she thought. “He’s afraid. Something horrible is going on.”

As she left the room, Uncle Peter closed the door behind her, and she heard the key turn in the lock. The impulse seized her to bang on the door and make him open it again. She could not endure the thought of the old man locked in there, helpless and frightened. And in spite of her previous experience with him, she had no fear of Uncle Peter, only contempt.

“But that wouldn’t do any good,” she thought. “I’ll have to handle this thing better than that. Somehow, I’m going to get away this afternoon and find that detective.”

She had almost reached the head of the front stairs when something checked her. That room… Now was her chance to look at it, to rid herself, once and for all, of this preposterous obsession.

She turned back, she hesitated; she listened.

“Perhaps that’s just what Aunt Emma wants,” she thought. “For me to go in there. Perhaps there’s something--I won’t like…”

Better to see it, though, whatever it was; better to go, and be done with it. She went softly past Uncle Rufus’s door, to that other door, put her hand on the knob. And again she hesitated.

“Perhaps I’ll be sorry…” she said to herself.

But she turned the knob, and opened the door.

Nothing there, surely, to trouble the most timid. Through the window she could see the blue sky, the tree tops, inside, only a dusty neatness. She stepped over the threshold.

Then she felt it. A strange tingling in her veins, a dread, an excitement, that made her heart beat fast. But there was nothing there; nothing at all…

She looked toward the door of the clothes-closet.

“All right!” she said, aloud, and with a sort of rush, went over to it and flung it open. Nothing there but empty shelves and hooks. She closed the door again, and looked about her. Nothing anywhere.

Yet somehow this blankness did not reassure her. Her oppression, her feeling of dread and excitement was increasing; she could not believe there was really nothing here; she felt only that she had not found--what there was to find. She opened the drawers of the bureau; all empty.

And her fear grew. There was something here, something in the very air that stifled her. She hurried to the window, to open it, and stopped there, with her face grown white as chalk.

For printed on the window-sill in neat black letters was a name:

“Inez.”

Her mother’s name… Why was that here?

Ever since she had come into this house, she had been hearing of her mother, had been led back to her vague, childish memories of her. It had always saddened her to think of her mother, and now with that sorrow there was something else, something dark and dreadful. She looked and looked at that name on the window-sill until suddenly she turned and ran out of the room, shutting the door behind her. Tears were running down her cheeks; she was shaken to the soul by an emotion she could not comprehend.

“What is it?” she said to herself. “Oh, what is this…?”

Chapter Eleven. Di Gets Another Letter

In her own room she bathed her eyes in cold water, and then went down by the front stairs to the kitchen. And her heart sank at the sight of Miles there, slouched in a chair, smoking a cigarette.

“How ill he looks!” she thought, shocked by his pallor, his haggardness.

He glanced up as she entered, without a smile, without a word.

“We’ll eat in here,” said Aunt Emma. “Get up, Miles, and bring your chair to the table.”

He obeyed, still in silence, still smoking. Aunt Emma set on the table a savory little ham omelette, fried potatoes and a pot of tea; she seemed very pleased with her skill in cooking--and with reason--but she had, apparently, no ideas at all about attractive serving. They ate upon the bare table, from the coarse kitchen china.

Miles did not eat at all; Aunt Emma paid no attention to this; she sat at the end of the table with a pleased and cheerful expression upon her healthy face, but Di was troubled.

“Miles, do eat!” she said.

He pushed back his chair and rose.

“I can’t,” he said. “My head aches…”

“You can drive down to the drug-store,” said Aunt Emma, “and get a little prescription filled for me. The fresh air will do you good. Take Diana with you.”

The prospect of a drive with Miles was by no means pleasant, especially in his present condition.

“Let’s walk instead,” said Di.

“I can’t,” said Miles, briefly.

He began walking up and down the kitchen; then abruptly he stopped beside her chair.

“Di,” he said. “_Won’t_ you come?”

She looked up at him; their eyes met, and she was dismayed by the anguish she saw.

“All right!” she said, with a sigh. “First let’s help Aunt Emma--”

“The woman from the village will be here in half an hour,” said Aunt Emma. “Run along! I don’t need you.”

Di went upstairs to get her hat and coat, went almost mechanically. Her mind felt blank, her heart numbed, as if she had exhausted her capacity for thinking and feeling. Only that sorrow stirred her as she passed the forbidden door, sorrow, formless as a dream.

“I’m tired,” she thought. “I don’t care very much now--about anything… I ought to do something about Uncle Rufus, though.”

It was such an effort to think. Again she put on her hat, remembering with a sort of wonder how happy she had been this morning, thinking that at last she was free.

“I can’t go,” she thought, “until I’m sure that Uncle Rufus is getting proper care. He wants me here… Something horrible is going on, and I’ve got to stop it. And I’ve got a chance now… I can telephone from the drug-store. To whom?”

She could not think. Somebody must come now to help her. She must tell someone now--but who was there? Uncle Rufus had not a friend on earth and neither had she. There was no possible use in telling Mrs. Frick about this. Then who?

“Doctor Coat? No. He thinks Aunt Emma’s a wonderful person. Mr. Purvis? He’s a lawyer. If I tell him about the note--about the other things… It’s got to be Mr. Purvis. When we go to the drug-store, I’ll ring him up. I don’t care if Miles hears me.”

She came downstairs again, and found Miles waiting outside in the car.

“You’ll drive carefully, won’t you, Miles?” she asked.

“No,” said Miles.

That was not a promising beginning. He started the car with a jerk and went down the hill at a reckless speed, swung round the corner and into the main road.

“Miles!” she cried. “You’ll be arrested!”

“I don’t care!” he answered.

“Miles! There’s a policeman on a motor-cycle--”

That was a lie, but it checked him; he slowed down considerably.

“God!” he said. “I wish I had enough courage to crash into a wall and finish.”

“Isn’t that just a little inconsiderate?” she said.

“No,” said Miles. “You’d be better off dead.”

“I suppose I have something to say about that, though.”

Now that he was driving more moderately, his wild talk did not very greatly disturb her. She had heard that sort of thing before. Her father, in his bad hours, had used to tell her gloomily it would have been better if she had never been born; he had used to say that life was no more than a curse. Even as a child, her native courage, her wholesome sanity, had rebelled against that, and she rebelled now. It might be that she herself had very little, but life was good. It was beautiful out here, in the Spring sun; there was a place for her in the world, work for her to do, happiness for her, somewhere, and for everyone.

“He’s sick,” she thought. “In body and mind. And I’m afraid I can’t help him. I’m so tired--it’s hard to think of anything at all to say.”

But it was impossible for her not to try.

“Miles,” she said. “Why don’t you get a job?”

“What for?”

“You’d be much happier--”

He laughed, a theatrical and bitter laugh.

“You would!” she persisted. “I’m going back to New York presently to look for a job myself. And if you find something to do--we can have nice times together. We can have little dinners together, and go places…”

Even while she was speaking, she didn’t believe in it; that cheerful, normal world outside had lost reality for her. But she went on, valiantly.

“We’ll have such nice times… On Saturday afternoons we’ll--”

“Di!” he cried. “You don’t know…!”

“Yes, I do, Miles. You’re--upset now. You’re not feeling well. You don’t see things as they really are. Why, Miles, think how young you are! Everything still before you--”

“If you knew--what was behind me!”

“It doesn’t matter, Miles. If there’s anything you’re sorry for, or ashamed of--”

“Sorry for!” he cried. “Oh, God!”

“Then look ahead, Miles. Make up your mind that things will be different in the future.”

“There’s no possible future for me.”

In her fatigue and depression, it seemed almost unendurable to be obliged to keep this up. But no one else would bother with Miles, no one else would try to help, and she could see how sorely he was in need of help.

“There is, Miles.”

As he turned to look at her, the car swerved a little.

“Diana,” he said. “Do you really care what happens to me?”

“Yes,” she answered, promptly. “I do.”

“Even if I’ve done something… something…”

“Yes, Miles,” she said, steadily.

He turned the car to the side of the road and stopped it.

“Do you care enough--to save my life?”

“Of course,” she said, uneasily.

“Then will you marry me?”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miles.”

“Look here, Diana! I’ve got a little money--enough for us to get away somewhere… We’ll go to South America, Di. I’ll start all over again. I’ll be anything you want, Di, I’ll do anything you want, Di, Di, my darling! If you’re with me, Di, I’ll be all right! Di, I _can’t_ live without you!”

“You don’t need to, Miles,” she said. He had seized both her hands, and she made no attempt to withdraw them. She had to be careful now, very careful, if she was to help him. “Only, we’ve got to learn to know each other.”

“I won’t live without you!” he cried. “I won’t try!”

“You’re not going to be without me. We’re going to see lots of each other--and have such good times together--”

“That won’t do,” he interrupted. “It’s all or nothing. Either you’ll marry me and come away with me--or--”

“Nothing of the sort, Miles,” she said, almost sternly. “We’re going to be the best of friends--”

“Will you marry me?” he demanded.

“Miles, I can’t--”

He started the car again, driving not recklessly now, but steadily as if with a purpose.

“This isn’t the way to the drug-store,” she said.

“No,” he said. “It’s not. We’re going somewhere else.”

“Please tell me, Miles!”

He would not answer her; he drove on and on, through a little town, through pleasant roads lined with old trees and comfortable houses, past woods, past fields. His face was set and grim; there was certainly some purpose now in his tormented heart. Time and again she tried to divert him, but he would not answer her. And she grew afraid. Was this to be the end, a sickening crash, perhaps hours of suffering, and then death…?

“Miles!” she entreated. “Please stop! Please tell me where you are going?”

“To hell!” he shouted.

They shot up a hill, and he stopped the car. Beside them was a little bridge over a railway cut.

“There’s a train coming now,” he said. “When it’s in sight, I’m going to jump.”

“No, you’re not!” she said, but he only laughed.

In despair she looked about her; there was not a living creature in sight, only the empty road, with a wood on one side and the bridge on the other. The distant train whistled.

“I shall try to hold you,” she said. “If you--struggle--you may kill me, Miles.”

“Then we’ll die together,” he said.

The sun was shining and the wind blew on this deserted hill-top. Again the train whistled. He got up, and she caught his coat-sleeve, but he was much stronger than she. He got out of the car, and she followed, pulling desperately, to prevent his setting foot on that bridge.

“You shan’t!” she cried. “Miles! Miles! If you really do care for me one bit--”

The train was in sight. He tried to wrench himself free, but she flung her arms about him; he tried to push her away, but she twisted her foot round his ankle; he stumbled and fell on his knees. And she pressed down on his shoulders with all her might. The train went by, shaking the little bridge.

She thought then that she was going to faint; she stepped back a pace--and she saw, at her feet a letter that had fallen from his pocket. A letter addressed to herself. She stooped and snatched it up.

“Give that to me!” he cried.

She began to run.

She ran downhill, and she heard his footsteps on the hard road behind her. She ran faster, faster than she would have believed possible, with the strength of desperation. He was close behind her. Nothing about but the empty road.

“Stop!” he shouted.

She ran and ran. Nothing ahead but that straight road, and her strength was beginning to fail her now; her breath was coming in gasps; her laboring heart sent all the blood pounding in her ears. Then at the foot of the hill she saw the level crossing of the railway, and a little hut where the guard sat. He was looking at her now… Such a long way…

Her second wind came to her now; she quickened her pace; she stumbled and recovered herself, flew down the rest of the hill, to the doorway of the little shelter. She could not speak, only stand there, panting, facing the astonished old man. Then she turned her head; she saw Miles, a few paces distant, standing in the middle of the road. They looked at each other, a strange look, then he turned round and started up the hill again.

“Miles!” she called after him. But she was still breathless, her voice was faint, either he did not hear, or he did not care. She wanted to tell the old man to hurry, to save Miles, but she could not say a word.

“Sit down, Miss!” said the old man, pushing forward his chair.

She pointed after Miles, and half fell into the chair.

“All right!” said the man. “He won’t bother you now, Miss. Just take it easy…”

“I’m afraid--” she gasped. “He’ll kill…”

Just then she saw his car coming down the hill; he shot past the little shelter, across the tracks and out of sight.

“You young ladies had ought to be more careful who you go out with, these days,” said the man. He was a solid, burly old fellow, with kindly eyes, beyond measure reassuring to her.

“But don’t you worry any more,” he continued. “He’s gone and he won’t come back, neither. He knows you’ve got a witness what could prove in a court of law how he was chasing you down the hill--”

“I was only afraid--he’d kill himself,” she answered. “He’s such a reckless--driver.”

The old man obviously did not believe a word of that. He brought her a glass of water, and stood watching her while she drank it.

“Live near here, Miss?” he asked.

“No,” she answered. “I… Perhaps I can get a taxi…”

“Ought to be some along in a few minutes,” he said. “Going down to the station, to meet the up train. Next one I see, I’ll stop it for you, if it’s got a driver I know.”

“You’re awfully kind,” she said.

“Pshaw!” said he.

She sat there in the doorway of the little shelter, with tranquil peace all about her; the railway tracks glinting like silver in the sunshine; she heard a robin singing nearby. And she held that letter tight in her hand. Someone in the world had been interested enough to write to her… There were, kind, ordinary human creatures; there were birds and sunshine…

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just read this letter,” she said to the old man.

This politeness somewhat surprised him.

“Go right ahead!” he said, and stepped outside.

The envelope had no stamp, and it had been torn open; she took the letter out of it.

“Dear Miss Leonard:

“_I am bringing this along, in case anything prevents me from seeing you this evening._

“_I think the letter I brought you from Mrs. Frick will have explained me pretty well. I hope you won’t think I am a meddlesome ass. But if you get this letter, it will mean that I have not been able to see you this evening, and that will be rather a bad job, because I am going to try every way I know to see you. There are a lot of things that need explaining. I don’t want to put them into a letter. I shall try to give this to Wren, to give to you. When you get it, please try to trust me. Clear out of that house the first moment you can. Put on your hat and walk out. Don’t say anything to anyone. If anyone comes along with you, go back to the house and try again. But get away. Take the first train back to New York, to Mrs. Frick’s. Things are going to happen, and you must be out of the way._ This is important.

“_I hope you will believe that ever since I saw you with those flowers I have been, and I always will be,_

“_Faithfully and respectfully your friend,_
“James Fennel.”

It was as if she heard him speaking, in his blunt and somewhat masterful way, as if she could see his face, unexpressive, except when that vivid smile crossed it. He, a professional thief?

“I never really believed it!” she thought. “I knew…! I knew…!”

She could have wept, with delight, with relief. He was her friend. He would come back--

“But what happened to him that night?” she thought. And the greatest fear she had ever known in her life seized her. Why had he not been able to see her?--“That will be rather a bad job, because I am going to try every way I know to see you.”--She had gone out, to meet him; she had waited… What had happened to him?

Now she remembered what Miles had said, his words that hinted at some desperate remorse. She had not paid much heed to them at the time; she had thought he referred to his drinking, to Heaven knows what episodes in his unhappy wasted life. She had not tried at all to account for his intention to kill himself; it had seemed so in keeping with his unstable, reckless nature. But now she could believe that there was something in his heart he could not endure. He had had Fennel’s letter in his pocket…

“Here’s a cab, Miss,” said the old man. “And a driver I know, and can vouch for. Nice, steady young man.”

She rose and managed to smile.

“You’ve been so nice--” she said. “Some day I’m coming back--to thank you. Only to-day--I’m--tired.”

“That’s right!” he said, seriously. “All upset. Well, you remember if you want a witness to these goings-on, here’s Joe Archer, that seen it all.”

She came out of the little shelter and found the taxi waiting. She glanced at the driver, a squat, swarthy young Italian, then she got in.

“Where to, lady?” he asked.

She looked at him, dazed; she needed time to think. Should she go back to Mrs. Frick’s at once? Not back to The Châlet. Not there again…

“First I’d like to go somewhere to telephone, please,” she said to the driver, and as the cab started, she took out her vanity-case, to see how she looked after all this. Angelina had given her that case.

“Oh, if only I could reach her!” she thought.

She had a vision of Angelina arriving at The Châlet, dashing up in a racing car, or arriving by airplane, sweeping in like a whirlwind, facing Aunt Emma with her sublime assurance.--“What do you people think you’re doing? Lord! What an awful old house! We’ll have a doctor and a nurse for that poor old man. Where’s Fennel? I’m going to look for him. I want to talk to that detective.”

Angelina wouldn’t care whether or not it was her business to interfere, or whether anyone wanted her. She would simply take possession of everything and everyone.

“Child, you’re simply exhausted! Go and lie down this instant, you poor little angel, and I’ll come up and have tea with you in your room.”

She had said that so often; she had been, for all her sensational exploits, so strong, so confident, and, for all her carelessness, so generous and kind.

But it was not possible to reach her; the itinerary of her honeymoon was a secret.

“There never seems to be anyone but Mrs. Frick,” thought Di.

The driver stopped at a little stationer’s and she got out to telephone. It seemed a little impossible, that she could really communicate freely with the outside world; she half expected that there would be no answer to her call, or that someone would stop her.

But the usual routine went forward and she actually heard Mrs. Frick’s voice; not very amiable.

“Well?”

“It’s Diana Leonard--”

“Miss Leonard!” cried Mrs. Frick. “Merciful Powers! I’ve been so worried and anxious about you. Especially not hearing a single word from that Mr. Fennel. Where are you now? Are you coming back to-night?”

“What about Mr. Fennel?” asked Di.

“Why, he promised to come right straight back here after he’d seen you, and tell me all about things. And he never did. I rang up the Ritz, where he’s living, and they said he hadn’t come back. I didn’t know if I ought to take any steps, but I thought I’d better not. Of course he has lots of friends. If anything was wrong, _they’d_ know. But tell me, dearie, when are you coming back here?”

“I--don’t exactly know,” said Di. “But very soon, Mrs. Frick.”

“But are you all right, dearie?” asked Mrs. Frick. “It seems to me your voice sounds sort of queer.”

“Perfectly all right, thanks.”

“Did you get the letter I sent by Mr. Fennel?”

There was a moment’s pause.

“Yes, thanks. He gave it to me,” said Di.

“I wish you’d come back!” said Mrs. Frick. “And I wish you’d tell me whatever has happened to Mr. Fennel.”

“I’m--going to try to find out,” said Di.

For she had made up her mind that she must go back to The Châlet at once.

Chapter Twelve. “You Are Like Her”

She had come to this decision rapidly, but quite deliberately.

“No one there would do me any real harm,” she thought. “They can’t afford to, because they’re hoping to get Uncle Rufus’s money through me. Aunt Emma was going to make Uncle Peter apologize. She’ll see that he doesn’t do anything like that again. And if Miles comes back, she’ll keep him in order. I’ve got to go back, and find out what’s happened to Mr. Fennel.”

She was perfectly sure that something had happened to Fennel, and that Miles was responsible for it; she was profoundly alarmed and troubled, yet in her heart there was still that unshakable confidence in Fennel. She could not imagine him defeated by Miles. He might have been deceived, sent away with some false message from herself; he might even have been taken by surprise, have been hurt, temporarily put out of the way. But if he had been deceived, he would soon find it out; if he had been hurt, he would recover. He would come back; she knew it.

Her chief motive was loyalty. Fennel had come entirely on her account; any misadventure that had befallen him was due to his wish to help her. And now she would help him.

“I can’t very well go to the police,” she thought. “I haven’t any evidence that anything’s happened. And Aunt Emma would know how to make things look all right. She called in that detective herself… I wish I’d kept that other letter--the one with the money in it. It was a forgery, of course. Who did it? Miles? Is that what he’s so wretched about?”

It was so difficult to evaluate Mile’s emotions. He was capable of being overcome with remorse for something pardonable, and equally capable of feeling not the least regret for some horrible act. His rudderless spirit knew no measure, no proportion; he did not know what he wanted or where he was going.

“If anyone had ever cared for him,” she thought, “had ever taken any trouble over him, he might have been--a decent man.”

And that, in a way, was her requiem for Miles. She had pitied him and had done what she could for him, and now she had finished with him.