Chapter V: Part 5

The sun was beginning to set; another day was ending, and still she was not free. Going back there again…

“If you’ll drive to the East Hazelwood Station,” she told the chauffeur, “someone there can tell you how to reach a house called ‘The Châlet.’”

It seemed to her a surprisingly long drive.

“But of course Miles came so terribly fast,” she thought. “And perhaps he came a shorter way, too. Now I must make up my mind what to do.”

She leaned back in the cab and shut her eyes, but, instead of the clearly defined plan she wanted, trivial and aimless little thoughts drifted through her mind.

“Paying for this taxi is going to make an awful hole in my ten dollars,” she thought. “But Mrs. Frick’s turned so amiable… He remembered that day he saw me on the steps of Angelina’s house… He must be a friend of hers… He must have plenty of friends. He couldn’t just disappear… But some people do… I’ve read in the newspapers…”

She opened her eyes and sat up straight.

“I know that he came that night. I must find out why I didn’t see him. What happened to him? Miles knows. And almost certainly Aunt Emma knows. But if she won’t tell me, if I can’t find out anything, I shall have to go to the police.”

She tried to marshal in her mind the facts she had to lay before the police. That letter that had fallen from Miles’s pocket? That, combined with the fact that Fennel had disappeared, ought to be enough. But suppose he hadn’t really disappeared, but had only gone somewhere about his own affairs? It was possible that Fennel had left that letter for her, had given it to Wren, and Miles had got hold of it. That might be his only offense, the purloining of a letter. His remorse, his wild talk, might so easily be without foundation. Suppose after all that nothing had happened to Fennel?

But there was that other letter she had had, signed with his name, enclosing the marked fifty-dollar bill. She was sure that letter was a forgery, done for the purpose of discrediting Fennel. Perhaps the whole story of the robbery was sheer fabrication, with Wren and Fennel the victims.

“I don’t know!” she cried to herself. “I can’t think it out. There are so many little things--that don’t seem to fit together… Only there’s something horribly wrong… And Mr. Fennel came that night, and I didn’t see him.”

She realized with dismay that she was not thinking clearly. She was worn out, almost exhausted by her terrible struggle with Miles, coming close upon the heels of so many other shocking and inexplicable things.

“If I could wait and rest--before I went back…” she thought. “Maybe it’s simply idiotic to go back. But it seems to me now the only decent thing to do. Mr. Fennel came on my account. I ought at least to try to find out what happened. And now, of course, it’s very different. I was--almost a prisoner before, but I’ve got out, and I’ll take care not to be trapped again.”

They were going up the hill now, along the woodland road. The sun was gone, the sky was drained of color; here among the trees there was a somber twilight. The Châlet was a house easy to get into, but not so easy to leave.

“I’ll see to that!” she thought, and leaning forward, spoke to the driver.

“Please wait for me,” she said. “And if I don’t come out in half an hour, please go to the door and ask for me.”

He turned round to look at her, and in the gathering dusk his swarthy face had, she thought, a strange, secret look.

“No!” she said to herself. “That’s ridiculous…” And aloud: “Please--don’t go away without me,” she said. “No matter what anyone says… Even if someone comes out and pays you and says I’m not coming. I--I _am_ coming…” She stopped, ashamed and half-frightened by the tremor in her voice, the unmistakable note of appeal. “You see,” she said, “I’ve--left my bag there… I--they--they’d like me to stay longer--but I can’t… So if you’ll please wait…”

“Why don’t yez leave me go and ask for yer bag?” he asked.

The kindness in his voice nearly unnerved her.

“Thanks ever so much, but I’ve--got to--go in.”

“I’ll wait,” he said. “And if they won’t leave yez come out, will I tell some friends of yours?”

“Yes!” she cried. “I’ll give you an address--if you have a pencil.”

He stopped the cab, halfway up the hill and not yet in sight of the house, and on a bit of paper she wrote Mrs. Frick’s address.

“If you’ll please let her know…”

Putting the paper in his pocket, he turned away again.

“Well…” he said. “Maybe they got a right to keep your bag, but they got no right to keep _you_. That’s agin the law.”

“Oh--” she began, and stopped. Evidently he thought this was an affair of unpaid board; better let him go on thinking that.

“I’ll wait, aw’ right,” he added. “Don’t you worry!”

But she did worry! As they turned the corner, and she saw the house again, so desolate, and bleak, such a fear swept over her that for a moment she was paralyzed.

“I can’t!” she said, half aloud.

“What?” asked the driver.

“Nothing,” she said, and tried to reason with herself.

There was nothing really to be afraid of; the cab would be waiting for her and the driver had Mrs. Frick’s address. And even without that no one would want to hurt her, for only through her could they get Uncle Rufus’s money.

“I’ll tell Aunt Emma the whole thing,” she thought. “How Miles acted and about Mr. Fennel’s letter. I’ll tell her that if she doesn’t let me know at once what happened to Mr. Fennel, she needn’t expect me to help her out with any money ever. I’ve got the upper hand. I _must_ remember that.”

Light was shining from the windows of the lounge. But all the other dark rooms…

“I have the upper hand!” she said to herself. “Perhaps I’m the only person who can find out what happened to Mr. Fennel. Perhaps they’ve done something--horrible…”

It was very easy to believe that, when she stood again in the shadow of that house.

“And Uncle Rufus!” she thought, with a shock. “I promised not to leave him!”

She stopped outside the door, appalled. How was it possible that she had forgotten that? For a moment, despair seized her. Then she began to think sanely and lucidly.

“I’ll stand by him. I won’t desert him. But I will not--I _cannot_ live in that house. I must see him and explain it. There must be some sort of hotel in the village. I’ll stay there, and come to see him every day until he’s well enough to leave. I’ll beg him to insist upon having a nurse for the nights. I’ll do it all quite openly. I have the upper hand. I will not be cowardly. I will not be underhand and secret. I have the upper hand.”

She glanced back at the cab that stood square and solid in the driveway, its lights shining out clearly. Then she opened the door and entered the lounge.

“Ah!” said a bland voice, and Mr. Purvis rose from his chair. “Miss Diana… We’ve been waiting for you!”

In her condition of nervous fatigue she was ready to believe even the respectable Mr. Purvis a sinister figure.

“Waiting for me?” she repeated.

“Sit down!” he said. “Yes… Yes… It is your uncle’s wish that you should be informed… Yes… Your uncle sent for me again this afternoon, my dear young lady, and he has at last made his will… He wishes you to know--‘So that she will stay here with me’--those were his words. He is leaving you practically his entire estate of seven hundred thousand dollars.”

His pleased smile died on his lips.

“Are you ill?” he cried.

“No,” she said, faintly. “Only, naturally… I… I want to see Uncle Rufus, please.”

“Quite natural and proper!” said Mr. Purvis. “Perhaps I was somewhat too abrupt… And mind you, I don’t by any means intend to suggest that your uncle’s condition is worse. By no means! In fact--” He smiled almost archly, “it’s a curious thing, but well attested--that very often a patient takes a turn for the better after making a will. There’s no cause for immediate alarm, my dear young lady. Doctor Coat assures me…”

“May I see him, please?” asked Di. “Uncle Rufus, I mean.”

Because, before anything else, she must see that old man who had, in spite of his malice and unkindness, trusted her and so greatly rewarded her; she must assure him that she would return to-morrow morning; that she would look after him and protect him.

“I don’t know…” said Purvis. “Your aunt and Doctor Coat are with him now. They may not think it advisable--”

“I’ll just go up and see,” said Di. And all the way up the stairs she said to herself: “I have the upper hand. I’ll _insist_ upon seeing him. And I’ll say what I want to say. I’ll see him alone. Aunt Emma wouldn’t dare refuse, with Doctor Coat there.”

As she reached the top of the stairs, she was startled to hear her aunt laugh, a low, cheerful chuckle, answered by another laugh, a man’s. It seemed to her that this sound came from the corridor that branched off from the main one, and she went very quietly in that direction.

There they were, Aunt Emma and Doctor Coat; Doctor Coat leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, Aunt Emma standing facing him, smoking, looking up at him with a glance that was coquettish and gay.

“And what did you do then, Emma?” Doctor Coat was asking, with evident admiration.

“I told him that for every remark like that, the price of the article would increase one hundred dollars,” said she.

Di turned away, astounded by this new aspect of Aunt Emma.

“But now’s my chance!” she thought, hastening to Uncle Rufus’s room.

The door was open, and Uncle Peter was sitting in there, half asleep. But at the sight of her he came wide awake in an instant.

“Hello!” he said, jauntily.

She looked past him, to the bed where the old man lay.

“Uncle Rufus!” she said.

“Come here!” he answered, in a voice so hoarse and faint she could scarcely hear it. She went toward the bed, but Uncle Peter sprang up and barred the way.

“Look here!” said Di. “I won’t have this! Uncle Rufus wants to speak to me--and if you won’t let him, I’m going to tell Doctor Coat and Mr. Purvis.”

The room was lighted only by a small lamp with a green shade; outside that bright circle it was in darkness. Uncle Peter’s face was little more than a pale blur, the old man on the bed was lost in the shadows.

“Stand out of the way, please!” she said.

“No!” said Uncle Peter.

“And what’s this?” asked Aunt Emma’s voice from the doorway, where she had appeared, with Doctor Coat.

At the sound of her voice, the old man on the bed half-raised himself.

“Don’t go…” he said, in that hoarse, extinguished voice. “They’ll kill me. Stay…”

He sank back, turned his head, still wearing the grotesque fez, to the wall, with the covers drawn up to his chin. Diana faced Doctor Coat.

“Did you hear?” she asked.

“Most unfortunate…!” he murmured.

She was indignant at so weak a word. She stepped out into the hall, where she could speak without Uncle Rufus hearing.

“Don’t you see--?” she demanded, in a sort of despair.

“He doesn’t ‘see,’” Aunt Emma interrupted, and, addressing Doctor Coat: “I must warn you, Matthew, that Diana takes this all very seriously. I believe she’s convinced that we’re all engaged in a conspiracy--to murder Uncle Rufus Leonard.”

“Come, come, Emma!” said Doctor Coat, shocked. “I’m sure she thinks nothing of the sort.” He glanced at Di, and smiled; no doubt he meant it for a benign, and reassuring smile, but it was not; it was nervous, apprehensive. “The important point,” he went on, “is that Rufus doesn’t believe in this--this conspiracy himself. He’s been expressing these--unpleasant suspicions for years, yet he never stopped coming here. And only this afternoon, when I suggested moving him to a hospital, he refused. That is pretty conclusive proof that this is not a genuine delusion.

“Now, the most marked characteristic of the genuine delusion, such as can be observed in the paranoiac, for instance, is not the irrationality of the fixed idea, but the tenacity with which the patient clings to it. I emphatically deny that Rufus shows any symptoms of a genuine delusion. These--suspicions are simple willful assertions, made with the clear intention of annoying, as opposed to the perfectly involuntary belief of a paranoiac. I am willing at any time to testify to the fact that Rufus is of sound mind. A little crochety, perhaps, but as sane as you or me. He--”

“It’s no use, Matthew!” Aunt Emma interrupted. “I’d like a word with her, if you’ll excuse me. Come here, please!”

Di followed her into the next room; not until the door was closed behind them did she realize what room this was. It was almost in darkness; through the window she could see the pines black as ink against the pallid sky.

“I should like to prevent you from making any more of a fool of yourself than is necessary,” said Aunt Emma. “Are you able to realize that if you persist in taking this notion of your Uncle Rufus’s seriously you are tending to invalidate his will?”

“I don’t care!” said Di. “I can’t--I won’t--see him--like this. He’s--frightened.”

“My God!” said Aunt Emma, with a sigh. “Very well! I’ll admit that he’s frightened. And that he had a genuine delusion. It’s a well-defined case. He has the paranoiac delusion of persecution. Technically, he’s insane. Like your father.”

“My father!” cried Di.

“Like your father,” Aunt Emma repeated. “_He_ believed he was persecuted. He--”

“He wasn’t insane!” cried Di. “That’s not--”

“The stock is tainted,” Aunt Emma went on, tranquilly. “You must have observed it. Peter’s a high-grade moron. Rufus is a paranoiac. Miles, just at present, is a borderline case. But alcoholism will very shortly send him over the line. A somewhat difficult household to deal with.”

Di was silent for a moment.

“My father--” she began, in an unsteady, defiant voice.

“Naturally,” Aunt Emma interrupted, “you want to deny that he was unbalanced. It’s a quite instinctive reaction with you to deny anything that’s unpleasant to you. It’s time you faced facts with a little courage. This inclination of yours to build fantasies is dangerous. It was just that refusal to accept reality that destroyed your unfortunate mother.”

“Don’t--_talk_ about her!” said Di.

“I think,” said Aunt Emma, slowly, “that she’d be glad if I were to tell you now. It’s time… I’ve kept it from you, until now, because you are so remarkably ill-adapted to hear any unpleasant truths. But now… Here, in this room…”

In this room? Where her mother’s name was printed on the window-sill…

“I don’t--want to hear…” she said.

“But you’re going to hear,” said Aunt Emma. “It was in this room that I last saw her alive. She came here, to me, in a lamentable condition. She had found out for herself what your father was. She realized that he could never make a living for her, and her own health was too much impaired for her to contemplate any sort of work. I was fond of Inez, but I had seen from the beginning that she was pitiably maladjusted. Like you, she was incapable of facing reality. Like you, she believed that she ‘needed’ things that do not exist. She demanded a love and loyalty from other people which is never given. She wanted to be ‘happy.’ You are like her.”

Her voice stopped; the dark room was silent. Then in a moment she went on:

“She was in despair because she couldn’t ‘do anything’ for you. She was perfectly convinced that she had been born for the express purpose of ‘doing’ things for other people. And because her ill-health made that impossible…”

Her strong fingers closed upon the girl’s arm.

“Come here!” she said, and led her to the window. “She wrote her name, here, on the sill. It is too dark for you to see it, but her name is here. You see those three pines, standing together? That is where she died.”

Diana could only look, with dilated eyes, at those three black trees.

“Here, from this spot where you are standing,” said Aunt Emma, “she threw herself out of the window. Because she could not face life as it is.”

Her grasp on the girl’s arm relaxed.

“Now perhaps you understand,” she said, “why I warned you against this room.”

“No…” said Diana.

“You’re like her,” said Aunt Emma. “Too much--like her.”

Chapter Thirteen. A Will Is Made

Diana remained silent, motionless, infinitely withdrawn from the woman beside her. A measureless sorrow weighed upon her, something beyond the natural grief and pity she must feel at hearing the story of her mother’s death. This was bleak, hopeless woe; it was as if she, too, had come to the end of all dear and pleasant things: before her lay the garden, somber, in the dusk; behind her the empty room, haunted by that poor spirit…

“Am I--like that?” she thought. “Not able to face life as it really is?… I’ve managed to get on--without very much, but I’ve always thought there was something better round the next corner… And suppose there isn’t? Suppose there’s never going to be any more for me--than this?”

Aunt Emma had said the stock was tainted. Was she, too, tainted with some fatal instability, some moral weakness that would leave her always friendless, poor, a failure? She had nothing--and from him who hath not, even that which he hath should be taken…

All the anxieties, the bewildered distress of her childhood, came back upon her now; her school-days, when she had been sent to one little private school after another, always trying to adjust herself, always aware that disastrous changes might come at any moment, never knowing that feeling of security and permanence so vital to a child. And as a young girl, there had been no dances, no pretty clothes, no good times; she had had to be her father’s “pal,” he had taken her with him where he wanted to go, had lived as it suited him.

Only those months with Angelina had been happy, in spite of the strange and varied duties. She had loved Angelina; she had been alive there, energetic, alert, gaining every day in self-confidence.

But evidently Angelina had not cared at all about her; she had gone off and forgotten Di.

“I don’t think anyone could ever care much for me,” she thought.

“Now!” said Aunt Emma’s voice, startling her in her bitter reverie. “Don’t stay in here any longer, Diana.”

Di did not answer or move.

“Come!” said Aunt Emma. “For a suggestible mind, the scene of a tragedy is not wholesome. In a room like this. But never mind! Now that I have explained, I think you’ll keep your ideas about Uncle Rufus to yourself. He’s not legally competent to make a will--but it would be extremely difficult to prove that. There would be only your word against Doctor Coat and Purvis and myself and others. And the word of a hysterical person isn’t worth much. No… He’s done as he wanted to do with his money, and it’s to your benefit. You need money more than an ordinary person would. You’re not capable of earning your own living. You’re hysterical and unstable, badly educated and trained.”

Di listened to this without protest. Perhaps it was true… She thought of her mother, who had stood here, where she herself was standing; her mother who had found life too hard, and had put an end to it. Perhaps it had been dark, twilight, as it was now, and when she had died out there, under the pines, perhaps she had seen a sky like this, soft, merciful, with one silver star… And then had closed her eyes, and drifted away into peace… Death was beautiful and blessèd, and life was so hard… To close her own eyes and die--like her mother… She raised her eyes to the sky, and sighed…

Then, suddenly and sharply, something awoke in her; something that had brought her gallantly through all her young life. She straightened her shoulders, and sighed again, a long sigh, as if she were waking from a dream.

After all, it didn’t matter whether life were hard or not, whether it were lonely and anxious.

“I don’t have to be happy,” she thought. “I’ve just got to do the best I can. I’m not down and out yet! I’ll--”

There was a knock at the door.

“Emma!” said Uncle Peter’s voice, apologetically. “There’s a taxi-driver here, asking for ‘a young lady.’ Shall I pay him--?”

“No!” said Di. “He won’t go, anyhow. I told him to wait.”

“Very well!” said Aunt Emma. “Then you’d better go.”

She crossed the room, and opened the door, and Di followed her.

“Please wait a moment, Aunt Emma!” she said. “I want to speak to you.”

“Peter, tell the driver she’ll be down in a few moments,” said Aunt Emma. “Now!”

The door was open and the dim light in the corridor shone into the room. She heard Uncle Peter running down the stairs.

“Well?” asked Aunt Emma.

For a moment Di was silent, struggling with a too rapid flow of thoughts. As if that terrible depression had been actually a dream, she felt a little dazed. It was difficult to come back; to remember all at once…

But she knew now that the blackest hour of her life had passed, and that she had conquered some nameless, formless horror.

“I want to ask you--” she said, “where Mr. Fennel is.”

“I’m sorry I can’t tell you,” Aunt Emma answered. “But no doubt the police will find him before very long.”

“No. I don’t believe that,” said Di, briefly. “Something’s happened to him.”

“Is this a presentiment?” inquired Aunt Emma. “People of your type are very fond of presentiments and strange, occult feelings. Do you ‘just _know_’ that something’s happened to Fennel?”

“It’s not very occult,” said Di. “I’ve got some pretty definite information.”

“Then take it to the police,” said Aunt Emma. “You’d better do that, anyhow. You’ll feel easier. Tell the police that we’ve murdered Fennel. And Wren, too, isn’t it? And that we are now engaged in murdering Uncle Rufus. And any others you feel worried about.”

Diana reflected for a moment.

“She let that detective come and search the house. She’s not afraid of the police. She feels sure that they can’t find out. And what can I really tell them? There’s no proof of any crime--anything having happened to Mr. Fennel. Only that letter, and that could be explained. I’m the only one who can find out. I have the upper hand. This is my chance. The taxi is waiting outside.”

She chose her words with care.

“Aunt Emma,” she said, “if I’m to have Uncle Rufus’s money, and you want to share it, I’ll have to know about Mr. Fennel.”

“You’ve already promised me a share,” said Aunt Emma. “But no doubt you are always able to find satisfactory justification for breaking your word.”

Her cool contempt was having its usual effect, sapping the girl’s self-confidence, making her feel weak, petty, contemptible.

“All right!” she said to herself, “I don’t care! I’m going to see this through, anyhow.” And aloud:

“I’ll make a bargain with you,” she said.

“I’m afraid,” said Aunt Emma, “that making a bargain with you is rather uncertain.”

“Then you _could_ make a bargain?” said Di, quickly. “You _do_ know what’s happened to him?”

“That’s quite intelligent!” said Aunt Emma, in a tone of pleased surprise. “You must be considerably interested in this man, to wake up so.”

“I am,” said Di.

“And what bargain do you propose?”

“If you’ll tell me where he is and what happened to him, I’ll sign some sort of paper, giving you a certain sum.”

“Unfortunately you haven’t a penny.”

“When I get it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Aunt Emma, “but I’m afraid that won’t quite do. A very short time ago you were moved by an impulse of gratitude to offer me a share of any money you might get. This gratitude has apparently evaporated now. You are now, as far as I can see, actuated by an infatuation for this man you scarcely know. If this infatuation should--not be requited, you would resent giving me anything. And you would no doubt find excellent reasons for repudiating this ‘paper’ you are always speaking of. I suppose that idea comes from your father. Probably he signed a good many ‘papers’ in his time.”

“Very likely,” said Di. “But I don’t quite see…” She paused a moment, then she went on, deliberately. “You said you asked me here so that Uncle Rufus would take a liking to me and leave me his money. But if you can’t trust my word, and it’s no good signing a paper, how did you expect to get any of it?”

“Really,” said Aunt Emma, “you have more intelligence than I gave you credit for.”

“I’m just beginning to think…” said Di, half to herself.

It seemed to her of vital importance that she should think, that she should remain quiet and cool, unmoved by the elder woman’s scorn, unconfused by the darkness gathering about her. She had no one but herself to depend upon now.

“I’d like to know,” she said.

“I had,” said Aunt Emma, “three well-considered plans for obtaining a share of that money. One of them has failed. But one of the other two will succeed.”

“What is it?”

Aunt Emma did not answer, and looking at her, Di saw by the dim light an expression that horrified her. For those blue eyes were regarding her with a monstrous sort of pity, as one might look at the last struggles of a trapped animal.

“What are--your plans?” she asked.

“We’ll leave that for the present,” said Aunt Emma; “and discuss this bargain of yours. You wish to know what happened to Fennel. And I’m not at all disposed to tell you. He was a very unwelcome intruder. What’s more, if I do tell you, I have no sort of guarantee that you won’t go off and never communicate with me again.”

“If you won’t tell me,” said Di, “I’m sure to do that.”

“Perhaps it’s better so,” said Aunt Emma.

Di paid no attention to this fencing.

“What do you want me to agree to?” she asked.

“Whatever you agree to will have to be in public,” said Aunt Emma. “Purvis is a lawyer--”

“But you don’t want me to go to him and promise to pay you anything?”

“That would be somewhat crude,” said Aunt Emma. “Even Purvis would find that--peculiar. After all, it’s really your affair, to find some way of satisfying my not unreasonable demands without arousing suspicion. I am certainly entitled to some of that money. From any point of view. I am a nearer relation than you of Rufus Leonard. I should use the money in an excellent cause. And it is due to me alone that you are going to get it. I can’t make you give me anything, and, apparently, the sole claim I have upon you is my knowledge of this Fennel’s whereabouts. Naturally, I shall not relinquish my one advantage without excellent security.”

“What do you suggest?”

“It’s for you to suggest,” said Aunt Emma. “I can think of nothing, except that you might make a will in my favor--”

“A--will? But--”

“Oh, I see the drawbacks to that perfectly well!” said Aunt Emma, with a frown. “In the first place, your Uncle Rufus may live for another five years. And in the second place, there’s nothing to prevent you from making another will to-morrow. The only value would be, that you would be making a public declaration of your no doubt excellent intentions. If you were to declare, in the presence of Purvis and Coat that gratitude impelled you to assign me a share of your legacy, you’d hesitate, after that, to refuse me a loan, when you inherit. It’s a very poor plan--for me. I hope you can think of a better one.”

“I could tell Mr. Purvis that you’d lent money to my parents, and that I considered it my duty--”

“No, thanks!” said Aunt Emma. “That puts me in a very unpleasant light.”

Di was silent, thinking this over in her own characteristic way. She was not cautious, not patient; she wanted to learn about Fennel in a hurry, and be gone. She was certain now that he had been sent away by some chicanery. An attempt had been made to discredit him in her eyes, and probably something had been done to make her seem contemptible to him. And she wanted to find him, and explain.

A new thought struck her, a thought that frightened her. Was it likely that Aunt Emma would willingly let her meet Fennel, to compare notes? He was not likely to let matters rest… No. Aunt Emma must somehow feel herself quite safe from any future interference on the part of Fennel. And what could make her feel safe?

“You--_promise_ to tell me where he is?” she asked.

“If I don’t,” said Aunt Emma, “you can very easily destroy any paper you’ve signed, if my information doesn’t suit you.”

“That’s true,” thought Di. “Suppose I do make a will… She can’t very well be planning to murder me. In the first place, as she said, Uncle Rufus is still alive, that Mr. Purvis and Doctor Coat are here, and the driver’s waiting. Even if she tells me a lie, there’s no harm done. I’ll get away at once, and find some of his friends. And if she’s lied, I’ll destroy the will--make another… No… I don’t see what possible harm it can do, to agree to that now. I want to hear what she has to say about Mr. Fennel.”

She glanced up.

“All right!” she said. “I’ll make a will. And you promise to tell me, as soon as I’ve done that?”

“I promise. But it’s going to be very awkward for me. Purvis may refuse to draw up a will for you. And if he makes any objections, if he appeals to me, I shall certainly uphold him. I don’t intend to appear in the light of a blackmailer, I assure you. You’ll have to make your impulse plausible. And you’ll have to assure him that I know nothing about it.”

“All right!” said Di, again.

“And even when you’ve done that,” said Aunt Emma, “the will won’t be worth the paper it’s written on. I’m obliged to trust you to deal honorably with me. I’m going to give you information that you can use against me. I admit that there was a certain amount of misrepresentation involved in getting Fennel away. I can count only upon whatever sense of honor you have to prevent any further trouble for me. And also upon your disinclination for a family scandal.”

“Misrepresentation…” What had Fennel been told to make him go away?

“I must know,” she thought; and aloud: “I’ll see Mr. Purvis now--”

“I doubt if you can manage him,” said Aunt Emma.

But Di, for all her honesty, her carelessness, was not without subtlety. She made up her mind to “manage” Purvis, and to manage quickly. And she did remarkably well. She found Purvis in the lounge, reading, and she went up to him with an air of urgency.

“Mr. Purvis!” she said. “I’ve got to go back to New York at once, and I don’t want to leave this house until I’ve made a will.”

“A will! But my dear young lady--!”

“Please let me!” she said. “Aunt Emma’s my nearest relation. And she asked me here when it meant--a lot to me. I’d like to feel that if anything should happen to me--a train accident, or anything--”

“But my dear young lady, at the present time… Your Uncle Rufus is--is improving--”

“I know,” she said. “But you never can tell what might happen. And I’d like to feel, before I go away, that I’d done that.”

He began to argue. But Di maintained her attitude of an illogical and impulsive young creature, and that seemed to him perfectly natural. What is more, as the heiress of Rufus Leonard, she had a new importance to him.

And she was assisted by an interruption. There was a knock at the door, and when she ran to open it, the taxi-driver spoke.

“Everything aw’ right?” he asked.

“Please keep on waiting!” she said, very low. “Don’t go away, please. And if I’m not out in half an hour, please knock again and insist on speaking to me.”

“_Aw_’ right!” said he, in a reassuring whisper, and closing the door she turned to Purvis.

“My taxi’s waiting!” she said, plaintively. “Please let me just dash off a will, leaving half the money to Aunt Emma. Even if it seems silly--I’d _like_ to do it.”

Mr. Purvis, like almost everyone else, was rendered nervous by the thought of a taxi-meter steadily ticking up a charge. He urged her to wait, to come to his office the next day and discuss the matter, but he was infected now with her sense of haste.

“I will come to your office,” she said. “This is just temporary--just to make my mind easy before I go. Please help me! That meter must be running up terribly!”

Very reluctantly he yielded, and took out his fountain pen.

“Just please say that half of anything I get is to go to Aunt Emma--”

“And the rest--?”

“Oh… I don’t know… To--Mrs. Frick.”

“Who is Mrs. Frick?”

“Oh, what does it matter!”

“It does matter,” said Purvis. “You don’t realize what you’re doing in the least. Who is this Mrs. Frick?”

“Oh, don’t bother about her. Just say--my heirs and assigns--or whatever they are.”

He argued again, and she became more and more obstinate.

“Well!” she said, with a sigh. “If you won’t, then I’ll have to find some sort of lawyer in the village, on my way to the train. I’m sure I have a legal right to make a will when I want.”

“Yes,” he said, shocked and distressed. “If you insist upon this--this most irregular and unreasonable proceeding. Your aunt--”

“Please don’t tell her!” said Di. “Now!”

He drew up for her a brief will, leaving half of any estate of which she might be possessed to her aunt Emma Leonard, and the remainder to her legal heirs and assigns.

“I’ll read it to you--”

“No, thanks, I’m sure it’s all right. I’m in such a hurry--”

“I insist upon your reading it,” he said, sternly. “You cannot sign a document you have not read.”

So she read it, or pretended to read it.

“Now,” he said. “We must have two witnesses. I’ll get Doctor Coat and your Uncle Peter. And remember, young lady, you are coming to my office to-morrow, to discuss the matter.”

As he began to mount the stairs, Di went to the window and looked out, the taxi stood there, its lights shining on the drive.

“Thank God for that taxi-driver!” she thought. “I’m not--cut off.”

In a few minutes Mr. Purvis descended again, followed by Uncle Peter, very jaunty, and Doctor Coat.

“State in the presence of these witnesses the nature of the document you are signing,” said Mr. Purvis, frigidly.

“This is my last will and testament,” said Di.

And as she spoke those words aloud, she began to realize what she was doing. As she took the pen in her hand, it seemed to her that she was about to sign her own death-warrant.

Chapter Fourteen. Miles Confesses

Doctor Coat signed, in a neat, small hand, and Uncle Peter added a scrawling, infantile signature.

“Will you keep it for me, please?” she said to Purvis. “Thank you all very much… Now, I’ll just run up to say good-bye…”

She ran up the stairs, and found Aunt Emma in the upper corridor.

“It’s done,” she said. “Signed and witnessed. Now please tell me--”

“Coat’s coming up!” said Aunt Emma. “I don’t care to be found talking alone to you just now. Go down in the kitchen and ask Miles. He’ll tell you all you want to know.”

“I don’t want--”

“Then you’ll have to want,” said Aunt Emma, and turning on her heel, walked into Uncle Rufus’s room just as Doctor Coat’s benevolent and stupid face appeared at the head of the stairs.

“I can’t wait!” thought Di. “I mustn’t be so cowardly about Miles. He can’t make any trouble here, with Doctor Coat and Mr. Purvis in the house--and that driver out there. I’ll go and ask him anyhow. And if he’s--impossible, I’ll insist upon Aunt Emma telling me at once. She can’t get out of it. I can threaten to tell Mr. Purvis to tear up the will.”

But she dreaded the thought of seeing Miles again.

“On the borderline,” Aunt Emma had said, and alcoholism would soon send him across it. Was that true? Her father “technically insane,” Uncle Rufus a paranoiac, Uncle Peter mentally deficient… all of them…? And she herself?

“I won’t think about that now,” she said to herself.

But she had thought of it, and the horrible shadow would not leave her. She went down the stairs and into the lounge, where Purvis and Uncle Peter stood talking together; she went past them without a word and into the dining-room that was in complete darkness.

“My last will and testament…”

“What have I done?” she asked herself, stopping halfway across the room. “I wish… I hadn’t…”

But even here, through the window, she could see the lights of the waiting taxi, her link with the world outside. She went on, resolutely, pushed open the swing-door, went through the pantry and into the kitchen.

Miles was sitting on the edge of the table, smoking. He glanced at her as she entered, but he did not speak or move. He was white as chalk, and on his handsome, wasted face was a queer, blank look.

“Miles!” she said, in as matter-of-fact a way as she could manage.

But he did not answer.

“Miles,” she said again. “Please tell me what happened to Mr. Fennel--”

He sprang to his feet, stood looking at her with dilated eyes.

“Aunt Emma said you’d tell me--” she went on, unsteadily.

Still he did not speak; she looked at him, and was appalled by the expression on his face.

Then suddenly anger flamed up in her.

“Miles!” she cried. “Stop--staring like that! Miles! Can’t you talk like a human being…? I--I’m sick and tired of all this… Where’s Mr. Fennel?”

“He’s in hell!” shouted Miles.

She caught him by the arm and tried to shake him.

“Tell me!” she said. “I _will_ know!”

“You’ll never see _him_ again,” said Miles, with a laugh.

That laugh brought her to her senses. This was not the way to handle Miles. Her hand dropped from his arm; she drew a long breath and began, in a friendly, easy tone.

“Please tell me all about it, Miles. Aunt Emma told me to come and ask you.”

“I can’t!” he groaned.

“Yes, you can, Miles!”

He flung himself into a chair, and covered his eyes with his arm, a childish and pitiable gesture.

“Oh, Di!” he said. “Oh, Di!”

She laid her hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, Miles!” she said, encouragingly.

Evidently he was filled with remorse for whatever part he had played in this affair, and she was sorry for him. But no doubt he was exaggerating as usual; she would have to sift out the truth from his words.

“I didn’t think--I _could_ do _that_,” he said, still with his eyes covered. “I didn’t mean to… But it was because I love you so… She promised to help me. She said you’d marry me. And you would have loved me, if he hadn’t come. You liked me at first. If he hadn’t come…”

He let his arm fall, and looked up at her, with a sort of anguished bewilderment.

“That night when we cooked the dinner together, Di… That was the happiest hour I ever had in my life… Then when you went upstairs to dress, she told me she’d heard you promise to meet that fellow at nine o’clock, in the clearing… She said I could stop it. She told me she’d keep you in the house as long as possible, and I could meet him. I was to tell him that you and I were secretly married and ask him to lend us enough money to get away, and ask him to clear out for a few days--for your sake--so that no one could question him. She said that would disgust him with the whole show, and that if he thought _you_ were mixed up in everything he’d simply drop it--anyhow, until you’d had a chance to get away… But when she couldn’t keep you in the house--when you ran out like that, Di, I--couldn’t stand it. To see you, hell-bent on meeting another man… I went after you. I only meant to stop you… But I missed you, in the dark. I couldn’t find you… I went to the clearing, and I saw him standing there… He had heard me coming… I found I had Uncle Rufus’s loaded stick in my hand. I don’t remember taking it. I swear I had no idea of--of _that_--when I left the house… But when I saw him… Di, I didn’t mean to do that! I swear I didn’t!”

Her hand had fallen from his shoulder; she was leaning against the table, looking and looking at him.

“What--was it--that you did?” she asked.

“I only struck once, Di I swear it…! And then I heard someone coming down the hillside, and I dragged him back, among the trees. It was you…! Oh, God, Di! You called him! You sat down there--and waited for him--you called him again… And he was lying there, not ten yards from you… all the time…”

She stood as if frozen with horror. He was still speaking, but she could not hear.

“Lying there…” she thought. “When I called to him… Dead--_murdered_…”

Suddenly she caught Miles’s sleeve.

“Miles!” she said. “No… Miles, perhaps it’s not true… Miles, you’re not--_sure_…?”

“I wish to God I wasn’t!” he said. “After you’d gone, I tried… But he--was gone…”

“Gone?” she echoed, catching at any straw. “You mean disappeared?”

“No!” he said. “Disappeared…? No. He lay there. I didn’t know what to do with--it… I thought--I’d go mad… I dragged him along--and pushed him into the old quarry… And--later… I went back again--and called him…” His hand covered hers that lay on his sleeve. “That’s why I wanted to kill myself,” he said. “But now--I don’t care. They’re sure to find him. I don’t care. I’m ready--to go.”

“No, Miles--” she protested, almost mechanically.

“I am, Di,” he said. “I’ll be glad to finish.”

He rose, stood looking down at the ground, with a look somber and austere.

“She’s told me, often enough, that I’m not to be trusted. And it’s true. I’ve never done anything but harm. I never could. I’m ready for the police, whenever they come…”

“Aunt Emma will help you,” she said, with the same mechanical kindness.

“She doesn’t know what I’ve done. I’m not going to tell her. She’d get me out of it. There’d be more lies and lies and lies… And there’s nothing ahead for me, Di. I’ve been thinking over--everything. My whole life… I’ve always done what she wanted. She was the only one who did anything for me. My father never had any money. She sent me to school and to college. I suppose she was good to me. But she always told me what a weak, good-for-nothing devil I was… It didn’t help much… But she was right… Di, there in the wood, something--happened to me--something sprang up inside me… I’m not fit to live.”

There was no instinct for revenge in the girl, no impulse to retaliate. The death of this wasted, broken boy could in no way compensate for the life he had taken; it could give her no possible satisfaction to see him punished. But she could not pity him. Not now. She was thinking of Fennel.

It seemed to her the greatest misfortune possible that she was never to know him better, never to see him again. It seemed to her as if the vital, the significant part of her own life had ended with him.

“He came to meet me,” she thought. “If it hadn’t been for me, he would be alive now.”

Miles was still talking, but she did not listen. Nothing mattered at all now; there was no object, no motive left. She could not care what she did, or what happened to her. She wanted to get away, alone and think.

“Well… Good-by, Miles!” she said, with a polite little smile.

She was not even aware that she had interrupted him in the middle of a speech.

“Di…” he cried. “Where are you going?”

“I’m just going back to New York, Miles. I’m--tired.”

“You’re going to _leave_ me, Di?”

“Miles,” she said, with a sort of despair. “I’ve got to go. I--can’t stand any more.” As she turned away, the swing-door was pushed open, and Mr. Purvis entered.

“This taxi-driver insists upon speaking to you,” he said, severely.

“I’ll come--” she answered, and followed him into the lounge, where she found the driver standing with his back to the door.

“I’m coming,” she told him, with that same polite little smile, and went toward the door.

“But--your bag?” he said.

“I don’t care. I’ll send for it later,” she said.

“My dear young lady!” protested Purvis. “Surely you’re going to say good-by to your uncle?”

Again she had forgotten Uncle Rufus. She was very reluctant to leave him like this, yet it seemed to her certain that if she went up those stairs, she would not easily come down again. She had her chance now to get away and she must take it.

“I’m coming back very soon,” she said, and, indifferent to Purvis’s shocked face, she followed the driver out of that accursed house. The Spring night was cool and fresh, she drew a deep breath.

“When I’ve had time to think,” she said to herself, “I’ll find some way to get him away from there. But I can’t think just now.”

The driver opened the door of the cab; she had her foot on the step, when a window on the floor above was opened and Doctor Coat’s voice called, in a tone of severe indignation:

“Miss Diana! One moment, if you please! Your uncle wishes to speak to you for a moment!”

She began to cry. Fatigued and miserable tears, like a child.

“I--can’t!” she called back.

But Doctor Coats had closed the window and retired, and she knew she had to go.

“Well, shall I keep on waiting?” asked the driver.

“Yes,” she said, and once more entered that house. After all, Doctor Coat was upstairs, Mr. Purvis was in the lounge, the driver was waiting. Nothing could happen to her. And in any case, she could not refuse to hear what the old man had to say.

Once more she mounted those stairs to the dimly-lit corridor above, and went to Uncle Rufus’s room.

But Doctor Coat was not there; the room was empty except for the old man lying on the bed with his face to the wall in the almost dark room. She went over to the bed.

“Uncle Rufus!” she said, softly.

He turned his head; she had a glimpse of something in his eyes that made her cry out. Then a hand pressed over her mouth, her wrists were caught behind her back. She struggled in vain, her wrists were tied, and her ankles; the hand over her mouth was supplanted in a flash by a handkerchief; she was jerked backward, someone lifted her feet, someone else her head.

It was Aunt Emma who held her bound ankles. She looked straight into those blue eyes. Then she was carried into the next room, laid on the bed; she saw Aunt Emma and Uncle Peter go out; she heard the key turn in the lock.

“The driver won’t go away,” she thought. “I must keep my head. I musn’t…”

She felt the world slipping away from her, there was a roaring in her head, a swirling blackness before her eyes. It seemed to her that the handkerchief over her mouth was smothering her; she tried to raise her bound hands, and fainted.

* * *

Mrs. Frick… Someone was speaking of Mrs. Frick. She tried to call out, and realized that she was gagged. It was Aunt Emma speaking in the corridor outside.

“No. I don’t know who this Mrs. Frick is. But if--she’s a friend of the poor child’s…”

“Well, then…” said Mr. Purvis’s voice. “I’d better tell that chauffeur, eh? Tell him to communicate with this Mrs. Frick? Apparently she gave him the address.”

“Yes,” said Aunt Emma, with a sigh. “He’d better advise Mrs. Frick to come out here to-morrow and see the poor child. It’s a little beyond me. I’ve knocked and knocked on her door, but she refuses to answer.”

Doctor Coat’s voice intervened.

“You don’t think, Emma…? We ought to--er--force an entrance?”

“No…” said Aunt Emma, with hesitation. “I’m afraid that would make her worse… An hysterical condition like hers is only intensified by attention. It seems to me, Matthew, that if she’s let alone, she’ll come to her senses more quickly. But if you advise--”

“No,” he said. “No, I agree with you, Emma. No… Most unfortunate…”

“I noticed,” said Purvis’s voice, “that she was distraught. As to that fantastic idea of making a will…”

“I’m sorry you humored her,” said Aunt Emma gravely.

“Yes,” said Doctor Coat, in the same grave tone. “A mistake, Purvis. She has this notion that she’s responsible for her uncle’s illness… Of course, in a way, she _is_. If she hadn’t run off like that to meet this man…”

“Fortunately,” said Aunt Emma, “Rufus seems to be doing very well. But it’s quite possible, of course, that he may take a turn for the worse. And if he should, I’m afraid it would completely unbalance her… She’d believe she had practically killed him. I can only hope that this Mrs. Frick will take her away.”

“You don’t consider her… er--?” said Doctor Coat.

“Insane?” said Aunt Emma. “Not at all. She is uneducated, impressionable, childish. But no more insane than nine people out of ten. Her father encouraged her to believe in her own importance. She’s capable of the most irrational actions, due to her faulty training and her lack of reasoning ability… If I had time and opportunity, I believe I could do a good deal with her. She’s attracted to me--as you’ve noticed. But I have my hands full, just now. I shall be glad if this friend, this Mrs. Frick--will come and take her away to-morrow.”

“Well!” said Purvis. “We’d better be going now, Emma. You’ll let us know, of course, if poor Rufus is worse…? I’ll explain to the driver then, that he’s to notify Mrs. Frick, as she told him to do… Very unfortunate.”

“Yes,” Aunt Emma agreed. “But to-morrow morning when she finds her uncle improved, she may be more reasonable. Good-night, Matthew! Good-night, Sam!”

In desperation, in a passion of helpless anger, Di had struggled to call out, to make any sort of sound that would attract their attention. And, as she heard their answered “Good-night, Emma!” she deliberately rolled off the bed on to the floor, with a thud that made her dizzy.

“What’s that?” asked Purvis.

“The children,” said Aunt Emma. “They’re in that room.”

The faint squeaking of someone’s shoes died away. For a few minutes there was absolute silence. Then Di heard voices below, in the driveway; the engine started, the door of the cab slammed, the tires crunched over the gravel. They were gone.

She had thought that nothing mattered, that she did not care what happened. But it was not so. Every valiant and healthy impulse of her soul rose in revolt against this ignominy, this defeat. She lay still, gathering her strength.

“Everything’s come out just as she wanted it,” she thought. “I’ve made my will. I’ve played into her hands perfectly… Now she thinks she’ll get rid of me. She has some plan all made, of course… Well, it won’t succeed! I’ll do something. I’ll find some way…”