The Greatest Works of Anna Katharine Green. Анна Грин
“Young ladies,” he explained, “of a refined if not over-prosperous appearance. They are the interesting residue of a family of some repute. Their father was a judge, I believe.”
“And do they live there alone,” I asked,—“two young ladies in a house so large and in a neighborhood so full of mystery?”
“Oh, they have a brother with them, a lout of no great attractions,” he responded carelessly—too carelessly, I thought.
I made a note of the house A in my mind.
“And who lives in the house marked B?” I now queried.
“A Mr. Trohm. You will remember that it was through his exertions the services of the New York police were secured. His place there is one of the most interesting in town, and he does not wish to be forced to leave it, but he will be obliged to do so if the road is not soon relieved of its bad name; and so will Deacon Spear. The very children shun the road now. I do not know of a lonelier place.”
“I see a little mark made here on the verge of the woods. What does that mean?”
“That stands for a hut—it can hardly be called a cottage—where a poor old woman lives called Mother Jane. She is a harmless imbecile, against whom no one has ever directed a suspicion. You may take your finger off that mark, Miss Butterworth.”
I did so, but I did not forget that it stood very near the footpath branching off to the station.
“You entered this hut as well as the big houses?” I intimated.
“And found,” was his answer, “four walls; nothing more.”
I let my finger travel along the footpath I have just mentioned.
“Steep,” was his comment. “Up, up, all the way, but no precipices. Nothing but pine woods on either side, thickly carpeted with needles.”
My finger came back and stopped at the house marked M.
“Why is a letter affixed to this spot?” I asked.
“Because it stands at the head of the lane. Any one sitting at the window L can see whoever enters or leaves the lane at this end. And some one is always sitting there. The house contains two crippled children, a boy and a girl. One of them is always in that window.”
“I see,” said I. Then abruptly: “What do you think of Deacon Spear?”
“Oh, he’s a well-meaning man, none too fine in his feelings. He does not mind the neighborhood; likes quiet, he says. I hope you will know him for yourself some day,” the detective slyly added.
At this return to the forbidden subject, I held myself very much aloof.
“Your diagram is interesting,” I remarked, “but it has not in the least changed my determination. It is you who will return to X., and that, very soon.”
“Very soon?” he repeated. “Whoever goes there on this errand must go at once; to-night, if possible; if not, to-morrow at the latest.”
“To-night! to-morrow!” I expostulated. “And you thought——”
“No matter what I thought,” he sighed. “It seems I had no reason for my hopes.” And folding up the map, he slowly rose. “The young man we have left there is doing more harm than good. That is why I say that some one of real ability must replace him immediately. The detective from New York must seem to have left the place.”
I made him my most ladylike bow of dismissal.
“I shall watch the papers,” I said. “I have no doubt that I shall soon be gratified by seeing in them some token of your success.”
He cast a rueful look at his hands, took a painful step toward the door, and dolefully shook his head.
I kept my silence undisturbed.
He took another painful step, then turned.
“By the way,” he remarked, as I stood watching him with an uncompromising air, “I have forgotten to mention the name of the town in which these disappearances have occurred. It is called X., and it is to be found on one of the spurs of the Berkshire Hills.” And, being by this time at the door, he bowed himself out with all the insinuating suavity which distinguishes him at certain critical moments. The old fox was so sure of his triumph that he did not wait to witness it. He knew—how, it is easy enough for me to understand now—that X. was a place I had often threatened to visit. The family of one of my dearest friends lived there, the children of Althea Knollys. She had been my chum at school, and when she died I had promised myself not to let many months go by without making the acquaintance of her children. Alas! I had allowed years to elapse.
Chapter III.
I Succumb
That night the tempter had his own way with me. Without much difficulty he persuaded me that my neglect of Althea Burroughs’ children was without any excuse; that what had been my duty toward them when I knew them to be left motherless and alone, had become an imperative demand upon me now that the town in which they lived had become overshadowed by a mystery which could not but affect the comfort and happiness of all its inhabitants. I could not wait a day. I recalled all that I had heard of poor Althea’s short and none too happy marriage, and immediately felt such a burning desire to see if her dainty but spirited beauty—how well I remembered it—had been repeated in her daughters, that I found myself packing my trunk before I knew it.
I had not been from home for a long time—all the more reason why I should have a change now—and when I notified Mrs. Randolph and the servants of my intention of leaving on the early morning train, it created quite a sensation in the house.
But I had the best of explanations to offer. I had been thinking of my dead friend, and my conscience would not let me neglect her dear and possibly unhappy progeny any longer. I had purposed many times to visit X., and now I was going to do it. When I come to a decision, it is usually suddenly, and I never rest after having once made up my mind.
My sentiment went so far that I got down an old album and began hunting up the pictures I had brought away with me from boarding-school. Hers was among them, and I really did experience more or less compunction when I saw again the delicate yet daring features which had once had a very great influence over my mind. What a teasing sprite she was, yet what a will she had, and how strange it was that, having been so intimate as girls, we never knew anything of each other as women! Had it been her fault or mine? Was her marriage to blame for it or my spinsterhood? Difficult to tell then, impossible to tell now. I would not even think of it again, save as a warning. Nothing must stand between me and her children now that my attention has been called to them again.
I did not mean to take them by surprise—that is, not entirely. The invitation which they had sent me years ago was still in force, making it simply necessary for me to telegraph them that I had decided to make them a visit, and that they might expect me by the noon train. If in times gone by they had been properly instructed by their mother in regard to the character of her old friend, this need not put them out. I am not a woman of unbounded expectations. I do not look for the comforts abroad I am accustomed to find at home, and if, as I have reason to believe, their means are not of the greatest, they would only provoke me by any show of effort to make me feel at home in the humble cottage suited to their fortunes.
So the telegram was sent, and my preparations completed for an early departure.
But, resolved as I was to make this visit, my determination came near receiving a check. Just as I was leaving the house—at the very moment, in fact, when the hackman was carrying out my trunk, I perceived a man approaching me with every evidence of haste. He had a letter in his hand, which he held out to me as soon as he came within reach.
“For