Chapter Nine.

“Do Not Leave This House”

“Well…” said Rogers, “it seems you were the last one to hear anything of this man. Now what time did he knock at your door?”

“I don’t know,” said Di.

“About what time?”

“I haven’t any idea what time it was.”

“Ten o’clock?”

“I really don’t know.”

“We’ll see if we can’t get at it,” said Rogers.

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.”