Part 8

She went on down the hall. Anne, on the stairs, waited till she heard the sound of the opening door and Miss Pinkney’s welcoming voice, then she stole upward very softly. She did not go to her room as Mrs. Cornell had advised, but tiptoed to the end of the hall where the staircase led to the top story.

She ascended with delicate carefulness letting her weight come gradually on each step. Despite her precautions the boards creaked. The sounds seemed portentously loud in the deep quiet and she stopped for the silence to absorb them, and then, with chary foot, went on. At the top she stood, subduing her deep-drawn breaths, looking, listening.

The middle of the floor was occupied by a spacious central hall furnished as a parlor and lit by a skylight. Giving on it were numerous small bedrooms, the doors open. They were like rows of neat little cells, all the same, bed, dresser, rocking-chair, with a white curtained window in the outer wall. The windows were open, the sashes raised half-way, and the fresh sweet air passing through fanned the muslin curtains back and forth in curved transparencies. Anne remembered Miss Pinkney saying something about opening the top-floor windows to air the servants’ quarters before the house was closed for the season.

The stirrings of the curtains, billowing out and drooping, were the only movements in the place. She moved to the middle of the room and sent her voice out in a whisper:

“Joe, Joe--are you here? It’s Anne.”

Her ears were strained for an answering whisper, her eyes swept about for a shape creeping into view, but the silence was unbroken, the emptiness undisturbed. She entered the rooms, peered about, opened cupboards, looked for signs of occupation. Again nothing--vacancy, dust in a film on the bureau tops, beds untouched in meticulous smoothness.

One door was closed, near the stair-head. Opening this she looked into a store-room, a large, dark interior lit by two small windows. They were dust grimed, and the light came in dimly, showing upturned trunks and boxes, pieces of furniture, lines of clothes hanging on the walls.

“Here,” she thought, and with her heart leaping in her throat, crossed the threshold:

“Joe, it’s Anne. I’ve come to help you.”

Nothing stirred in the encumbered space, no stealthy body detached itself from the shadows.

“Oh, answer me if you’re there!” Her voice rose the shade of a tone. It came back from the raftered roof in smothered supplication; the silence it had severed closed again, deep and secretive.

She feared to stay longer and slipped, wraith-like, down the stairs. In her room she sat down and considered. He must have been there. Where else could he be unless in one of the unoccupied apartments in the lower floors. But he hardly would have dared that with people coming and going. He had been afraid, doubted her as he had always done, or possibly found a hiding-place too shut away for her whisper to penetrate. To-night she would have to get food to him, take it up when the men were in the library and the others safe in their rooms.

She could do nothing more and went down-stairs in the hope of seeing Bassett. Since morning she had longed for a word with him. Through the darkling obsession of her fears he loomed as the one loved and familiar being in a world where she fared in solitary dread. Not that she had any idea of telling him, the direful secret was hers alone to be confessed later on some awful day of reckoning and retribution. But she wanted to see him, get courage from his presence, feel the solace of his arm about her. She was so lonely with her intolerable burden.

The living-room was empty, but listening at the hall door she heard the murmur of men’s voices in the library. They were in conference again and might be long. She passed out into the garden and sank down on one of the benches. The air had grown chilly and a little wandering breeze was abroad. It moved among the flowers and sent shivers down the great wisteria vine trained up the house wall and ascending to the chimneys. She looked at it, its drooping foliage; stirred by a quivering unrest, showing the fibrous branches intertwined like ropes--an old vine such as city dwellers seldom see. She tried to fix her attention on it, picturing it when the blossoms hung in lilac cascades, a riot of color from ground to roof. But her mind was like the needle in the compass, inevitably swinging back to the same point.

There were clouds in the sky, hurrying white masses driving inland and carrying the breath of fog. They had blotted out the sun and were sweeping their torn edges over the blue. If they kept on it would be dark to-night--no moon--but there was the man at the causeway.

She sat with drooped head immersed in thought, her hands thrust into the pockets of her sweater. It was thus that Bassett found her. Life leaped into her face at his voice and she stretched a hand toward him.

“Oh, I’ve been hoping to see you,” she breathed, already trained to a low wariness of tone.

The words, the gesture, pierced his heart. She looked so disconsolate, so wan, her face the pallor of ivory, her black hair always shining smooth, pushed back from her brow in roughened strands. He had charged himself to keep from her any knowledge of the interest in Joe, but had he been of the loose-tongued sort that unburdened itself, the sight of her devastated beauty would have sealed his lips.

He sat down beside her and took her hand in his. In her turn she had been shocked by his appearance, worn, his ruddy firm-fleshed face riven with lines.

“I thought I was never going to get a word with you,” he said. “This is the first moment I’ve had. How are you?”

She asserted her well-being, and he studied her face with anxious eyes.

“Dear Anne,” he murmured, and lifting her hand, pressed it to his lips. The two hands remained together, the woman’s upcurled inside the man’s enveloping grasp.

“That faint feeling last night, I suppose that will bleach you out for a while?”

“Oh, I’m all over that. It was a crazy thing for me to do, going down and then knocking the lamp over. They didn’t think anything of it, did they?”

“Anything of it? Why no, what would they think? You explained it to them and they were satisfied with what you said. And afterward I told Williams that he could absolutely trust your word.”

“I gave a great deal of trouble and----” Her voice was husky and she cleared her throat. He was worried by the coldness of her hand and sought to warm it by enclosing it more tightly in his. After a moment she went on:

“I suppose you can’t tell me anything--anything of what they’re doing?”

“No. It’s all a mess so far--feeling about in the dark--nothing sure.”

“But they must be feeling about after some one?”

“Darling, what’s the good of talking about it? It’s only going round and round the same subject like a squirrel in a cage. We don’t get many minutes together and we don’t want to spoil them. Let’s try to forget just while we’re here.”

“Forget!” she exclaimed. “Nothing would make me do that but being dead myself.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder and drew her hand from his to clasp it round his arm. He said nothing for a moment, perturbed by her words and tone. He had thought of getting her away, having her moved to Hayworth. Now he felt he must do it at once, the shadow of the tragedy was too dark on her spirit.

“I’ve got to get her out of here if I go to jail for it,” he said to himself. “She can’t stand much more of this.”

She too was silent for a space, stilled by the attack of a sudden temptation. His tenderness had weakened her, the gulf between them seemed too much to bear when the way was so perilous to travel alone. She wanted to be close to him again, break down the barriers and extend her arms to him for succor and support. He would calm the upwellings of terror that rose in her, perhaps have some man’s solution for her desperate problem. The desire to tell him gripped her, undermined her will like a disintegrating drug. She did not dare to broach it suddenly, sense enough remained in her to go carefully, step by step.

“I wonder if any one here _does_ know something and is keeping it back.”

“It may be--too frightened to speak.”

“Well, if they did--I mean something that looks suspicious, might be a help--they’d be expected to tell, wouldn’t they?”

“If it were anything definite. Just to take up their time with a lot of vague surmises is the last thing they want. People get stampeded in a case like this, butt in with all sorts of silly leads and theories.” He gave her an uneasy side glance. “Are you imagining that you know something you ought to tell?”

“No, oh, no. But I keep thinking of it, all kinds of possibilities.”

“Can’t you stop thinking of it? I wish you would.”

“Oh, Hugh, how can any one? It fills up your mind so that nothing else can get in. It would be so terrible to have to confess something against another person.”

He nodded and murmured, “Terrible, all right.”

“I don’t see how one could do it. Now, you, if you were in that position--had suspicions of some one?”

“I don’t tell them, that’s not my province. I’m here to assist, not to direct them.”

“Just say what you’re sure of?”

“Exactly. What I know, what I can vouch for as fact. I wish to God I _could_ furnish some that would lead us in the right direction.”

She said nothing, her cheek against his shoulder, her head bent down till her face was hidden from him. He looked at the grass at his feet in harassed survey of his obligation:

“I’m the only person here they know anything about, that they care to trust. It’s a devilish position, trying to hide what you think, trying to state only what you know, fairly, without personal feeling or prejudice. But it’s up to me to do it till we round up something. I don’t want to get anybody in wrong, but, good lord, if I knew any one was--didn’t guess, was _sure_ of it--I’d give the information up just as quick as I could get across to that library.”

Her hope was over and she saw now how wild it had been. With a heart like stone she sat by him, feeling the contact of his body, his arm pressed against her side, knowing herself as far removed from his comfort and help as though an ocean lay between them.

The light in the garden was fading, an even soft dusk was gathering. There were no splendors of sunset to-night, day was dying without ceremonial rites. The hurrying clouds had thickened and were a sagging gray pall with rays of fog drifting below. Suddenly the doorway of the living-room sprang into the dimness, an illumined square, and Miss Pinkney was visible moving about lighting the lamps.

“No moon to-night,” said Bassett, and getting up, drew her to her feet. “Come, let’s go in. It’s too chilly for you out here.”

It was not till they had gathered round the supper table that Rawson’s absence was revealed. Miss Pinkney, coming in with the teapot, saw the empty chair and frowned. Though subdued, her spirit was not broken, and she could not tamely submit to these minions of the law disregarding the meal hours.

“Is Mr. Rawson coming to his supper?” she remarked with an acid note.

“Mr. Rawson’s away on business,” Williams answered. “You can keep something for him.”

No more was said and the meal proceeded on its dismal way.

XIV

AFTER supper Bassett and Williams retired to the library. They were surprised and intrigued by the length of Rawson’s absence. He had been gone over two hours and what could have held him on the mainland so long was difficult to imagine unless a new lead had developed. This was Bassett’s idea, also his hope. To have suspicion lifted from Flora would be the first lightening of the grinding distress he had felt since the murder. Williams wondered if he could have come on anything about Joe Tracy; but Bassett shook the suggestion off with a shrug. He could check up on Joe in half an hour; besides, there was nothing to be looked for in that line. His confidence was not assumed, his mind was untroubled by any fears about Joe. That something had turned up which might head the chase in a new direction was so encouraging a thought, that, by contrast to his sensations for the last twenty-four hours, he felt almost cheerful.

In the relaxation of the strain he was conscious of fatigue for the first time. He threw himself on the sofa and in a moment had sunk into the deep deathlike sleep of exhaustion. Williams, sitting near the telephone also nodded, his big body sagged together in the chair, his chin embedded in his chest.

The group in the living-room, viewed by the uninformed spectator, might have been the usual evening gathering of an informal Gull Island house-party. They had shut the garden door against draughts and with the inland entrance open wide the place was scented with a sharp sea tang and cool with the breath of the ocean. The tide, full-brimming, lay a dark circle about them, no moonlit path or silvered eddies to-night, the channel a solid swath of black between them and the clustering shore lights.

They made a deceptively quiet picture, pleasant, agreeable-looking people resting in reposeful attitudes after a day in the open air. Shine was looking at a book of engravings spread on the end of the table. Mrs. Cornell had brought in Miss Pinkney after the business of washing up--Mrs. Cornell found Miss Pinkney’s society so fortifying that she sought it at all hours--and together they made a feint of playing a double solitaire. Anne and Flora sat near by reclining in armchairs, both silent, with the fixed eyes of preoccupation. Stokes was the sole member of the company whose inner unrest broke out in movement. He paced back and forth before the fireplace, quick long strides over the bear rug to the hall door and back again. Once or twice the edge of the rug caught his toe and he kicked it out of his way with a violent angry jerk of his foot.

When the minutes ticked away and no one came to overlook or overhear, a cautious trickle of talk began to flow. Question and answer crossed, low-toned, interrupted by warning looks at the hall door. Where had Rawson gone, what could he be after? That the question lay uppermost in all their minds was shown by the quick response to the first, murmured tentative, the comprehension of sentences left unfinished with only the query in the eyes to point their meaning. The drooping attitudes gave place to a tense eagerness of pose, heads thrust forward on craned necks. Shine forgot his book, the cards lay scattered beneath the hands of Mrs. Cornell and Miss Pinkney, and Flora edged her chair closer. Their voices, hushed by fears, were fused in a murmurous hum, rising as the subject swept their interest higher, checked in sudden minutes of listening alarm.

Rawson must have got hold of some information, gone afield on a new clue. Then followed speculations, surmises, suggestions--wild, fantastic, probable. It might have been nothing Shine thought, simply a trip to the county-seat on business connected with the case. At this Anne crept into the circle of lamplight, nodding an avid agreement. Stokes coming forward caught his foot in the edge of the bear rug, stumbled and broke into a stream of curses. Miss Pinkney, who thought oaths anywhere reprehensible and on Gull Island profanation, grimly bade him lift his feet. He glared at her, more curses imminent, and Flora groaned, clutching the arms of her chair and rolling her eyes upward.

“For God’s sake don’t mind anything anybody says,” implored Mrs. Cornell slapping her hands down among the cards. “This is a murder case, not a social function.”

They calmed down and presently, with no more ideas to exchange, grew silent listening for the returning launch. It was a listening so wrapt that the room became as still as a picture and they as motionless as pictured figures. The ticking of the clock was audible, the sucking clinking sounds of the water along the shore. The significance of what they awaited grew with the minutes till the coming of the launch seemed an event of fearful import upon which their fates hung.

The entrance of Williams shook them from their terrors. If his face told them nothing, his manner was kindly gruff--they must be tired, best thing for them to go to bed. As they rose and trailed limply to the doors he beckoned Shine to remain. He would want him later, had a job for him, so he’d better go now and get some sleep. His room was on that floor, the butler’s? All right, he’d find him. Shine departed, grateful. He was half-dead with sleep, but had kept it hidden as he had his hunger, regarding both as unmanly weaknesses in the hour of calamity.

Williams went back to the library where Bassett still slept. He looked at his watch--a quarter to nine. He couldn’t understand it--what could Rawson have got hold of on the mainland when it was as plain as printing Mrs. Stokes was the guilty party. He started and moved to the window; the throbbing beat of an engine came through the silence, a low spark of light was advancing from the opposite shore.

When he heard the boat grinding against the wharf he waked Bassett.

“Rawson’s coming. And it’s nearly nine.”

Rawson came in by the window, his eyes blinking in the room’s brightness. He came briskly, with something of theatrical effect in his silent entrance, his purposeful walk to the desk. Bassett at once noticed a change in him, a suggestion of enhanced forces, of faculties recharged with energy. He tried to look stern but satisfaction shone in his eyes and lit his long lantern-jawed face. He was like the bearer of good tidings who would have worn the high smile of triumph if a smile were fitting.

“Well,” said Williams, “where the devil have you been?”

“Down the coast, twenty-five miles, on roads that would have put anything but a flivver out of commission.”

“You got something?”

“I did--this time. We’re on the right track now if I’m not much mistaken.”

Williams gave an incredulous grunt. He did not believe in new material and in advance placed himself in stubborn opposition:

“What did you go down the coast for?”

“To find a man called Gabriel Harvey.”

Bassett, about to sit down, stopped in surprise:

“Gabriel Harvey?-- That’s our launchman.”

“Exactly. And I had a devil of a time to find him. Down in a place called White Beach, hidden away with friends in a shack without a telephone.”

“But why----”

“I’ll tell you.” Rawson dropped into the desk chair, and, his elbows on the arms, leaned forward, his eyes behind their glasses traveling from one face to the other. “I went over there to look into Joe Tracy’s movements. I couldn’t find any one who’d seen him come ashore and learned that the man Gabriel who took him over, had gone to this place White Beach for deep-sea fishing. Not being able to get hold of him I went to the station to see if I could gather up anything. And I did. The baggage man told me Gabriel had been there before he left for White Beach leaving a suit-case and fishing-rod to be held till Tracy called for them. They’re there now. I saw them.”

Williams said nothing, not ready with argument till more was divulged. Bassett, in blank amazement, ejaculated:

“Why, that’s the most extraordinary thing----”

“Wait, Mr. Bassett,” Rawson raised a long commanding hand. “I hung round till the evening train came in; that’s the train Tracy was to take. I saw the conductor--it’s a small branch road and travel is light at that hour--and he remembered his passengers, two women and a child. Those were the only people who left Hayworth on the seven-fifteen, the last evening train. I went back to the village and made inquiries. Tracy had hired no vehicle at the garage or livery stable, nor had he been seen anywhere about the place. Then I got a car and went to White Beach. I was some time locating the old chap, but I finally ran him down. He said he had not taken Tracy across to the mainland last night.”

Rawson dropped back in his chair. In answer to Bassett’s expression he nodded soberly:

“Yes, it’s a pretty queer business. Gabriel said he’d told the boy to be on time; made it clear to him that he wouldn’t wait. When Tracy was not on the wharf he went to the house to look for him, saw his bag and fishing-rod in the doorway and took them. No one was about and he left--not sorry, I inferred from what he said, to give ‘the young cub’ as he called him, a lesson.”

Bassett got up:

“But it’s incomprehensible,” he exclaimed. “I can’t make head nor tail of it. No one ever questioned that he’d gone.”

“No one said they’d seen him go but his sister,” came from Williams.

Bassett wheeled on him:

“Yes, you asked her. Didn’t she say she’d seen him?”

“No.” Rawson’s voice was dryly quiet. “I’ve thought of that. What she said was that he went. In all fairness to her she probably thought so--took it for granted as you all did--that he’d gone.”

“But why? What’s the meaning of it? If he’d missed the boat he’d have turned up, he’d be here now.”

“Oh, he didn’t miss the boat,” said Rawson.

“Well, then, what was he doing? What made him stay?” In the turmoil of his amazement, this sudden precipitation of a new mystery, Bassett had not yet grasped the sinister trend of the other’s thoughts.

“Why,” said Rawson slowly, “he might have been staying for a purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“Can’t you imagine a purpose, Mr. Bassett?”

“Good God, you don’t mean to say you think he _did it_?”

“I’m not saying anything yet. But I’d like you to tell me how you explain it. He says he’s going, leads every one to think he’s going, makes all the preparations for his departure, then secretly, without divulging any change of plans, doesn’t go. Aren’t those actions--well to put it mildly--questionable?”

“Yes--the whole thing’s inexplicable as we see it now.”

“And note this. He had cause for anger against Miss Saunders--she’d given him away to you--and you yourself have told us that he had an ungovernable temper.”

“He had a devilish temper and a damned mean disposition and I make no doubt he was blazing mad with her. But that he’d go to work to kill her in cold blood, lay in wait for her--no--you can’t make me think that.”

“Same here,” said Williams. “You ain’t got enough provocation. With Mrs. Stokes you have--a woman jealous of her husband.”

“And you’ve got a man,” retorted Rawson, “moved by one of the passions that lead oftenest to murder--revenge.”

“Revenge?” echoed Williams.

“Miss Saunders’ accusation, if true,--and I think it was,--would ruin him in his profession. He learned what she’d done to him just before he was due to leave.”

A chill passed through Bassett--revenge was a word that fitted Joe. But he cast the thought out, moving away from the desk and exclaiming with angry repudiation:

“Oh, it’s unthinkable, preposterous.”

“What but an evil intention could have made him act as he did?”

“Any number of things. It may be a prank--a practical joke we’ll get an explanation of later. He may have invented the story of his fishing trip and gone off with a girl.”

“Had he a girl?”

“I don’t know--also he may have done something dishonest, got in wrong some way--he was capable of it, I’m not defending him--and been frightened and lit out.”

“How did he get off?”

Bassett’s voice was raised in his exasperation:

“Good lord, Rawson, we weren’t jailed here then. He could have had a boat hidden in one of the coves. This place wasn’t escape-proof till you turned up. He could have rowed ashore and landed anywhere, and that’s what he’s done.”

“Unless he’s here.”

“Here on the island?”

“That’s my opinion, in hiding on the island.”

Williams spoke with an air of patient reminder:

“Ain’t we gone over it with a fine-tooth comb?”

Rawson pointed to the ceiling:

“How about that top story? A person--we won’t say who--could have killed the woman, entered the house while the rest of you were on the beach, put back the pistol, and gone up-stairs.”

Williams made a motion to heave himself up from his chair.