The Corbin necklace
Bruce Applebury danced indefatigably. He always came back with his
partner and sat beside Judy during the intermissions. But Punch had
heard Judy tell him it was his duty to make the rounds of at least all
the bridesmaids, so he didn’t sit out many dances with her.
Punch was beginning to feel a little like a ghost. The mixture of cold
moonlight with the music and the odor of a great thicket of lilac
bushes in bloom at the corner of the house, was distilling a sort of
melancholy in him, when the voice of the one he had privately ticketed
as the nice bridesmaid roused him from the trance into which he was
drifting.
“Oh, but I’ve promised this dance to Punch,” he heard her say to the
man who, with his hand on her arm, was trying to lead her down from the
veranda to the lawn.
He’d approached them unconsciously in his irregular orbit--Judy was the
center of it--but on hearing this, he stopped before her and made her
his best bow. The man, with a laugh, relinquished her arm, said he’d
come back for the next, and strolled away, lighting a cigarette.
Punch didn’t know the girl’s name; their acquaintance had begun in a
spontaneous exchange of smiles at the tennis court, and they’d had a
lot of fun together in the pool.
“I _can_ dance,” he said, a little doubtfully, when they were left
alone, “but I’m not sure that mother doesn’t think I’ve gone to bed.”
The girl laughed and laid her hand on his arm. “We’ll go for a little
walk instead then,” she decided.
She was a nice girl, and Punch didn’t think she’d make the opening
remark which some of the others, earlier in the day, had devastated him
with, “Won’t you miss Judy horribly when she’s married?”
His confidence was justified. She didn’t. She talked about sensible
things: swimming strokes, and how it felt the first time you tried
a high dive; the probable delights of owning a motorcycle, and so
on. Eventually they got around to talking about the pleasures of not
traveling in Europe and the advantages of being an American.
When they heard the music stop, he said, with real regret, “I suppose
if you’re promised for the next dance I’d better take you back.” After
a ripple of applause they heard the dance go on again, but now they
were strolling back toward the house.
“I envy Judy,” she said suddenly. “I wish I had a nice young brother of
my own.”
“If you did,” Punch blurted out, “you’d probably just go and get
married.”
She withdrew her hand from his arm, where it had rested quite
comfortably all the while. He needed both his hands just then, for his
eyes were threatening him with disaster. She put her arm across his
shoulders and for a moment held him tight. Then she let him go, and
walked on.
“It’s funny how black the shadows are in the moonlight,” she said. “You
can’t see a thing. Do you know yet where you’re going to college?”
She _was_ a nice girl.
They came up into the veranda just as the dance was coming to an
end--really this time. The man she had left was waiting there to claim
her, and Punch turned for a look at Judy. He had an idea that he might
sit out the next dance with her.
She happened, just then, to be alone. A moment earlier, Punch was sure,
a man had been standing before her, bending over. Now he was gone, and
Judy was holding something in her hand. A letter, or what looked like
it. Not just a scrap of a note, for when she tried to fold it small it
offered some resistance.
This movement seemed half frightened, although this didn’t exactly
describe the look that was in her face. She started to tuck the thing
down inside her dress, suddenly desisted and, with an exasperated
laugh, snatched it out again. She glanced around, helplessly at a
loss. Then her hand darted out to a narrow-necked Chinese vase which
stood on the table beside her, and she pushed her letter down inside.
It wouldn’t be very easy to get out again, Punch reflected, for the
hastily folded paper would spring apart.
The next moment Bruce Applebury came out through the open French
window from the drawing-room and sat down beside her.
“Just on the minute,” she remarked to him. “Like a man in a play.”
Punch stood rooted where he was. He wouldn’t have gone to her even if
Bruce Applebury hadn’t come out. The fog of trouble which the nice
bridesmaid had for the while dissipated stole again over his spirit.
He didn’t know who the man was who had given Judy the letter--except,
of course, that it wasn’t Bruce. He’d barely glimpsed him out of the
corner of his eye. There was something secret and hasty about the whole
episode that didn’t go with his idea of Judy. What he hated worst about
it was the look in her face that disputed with the fright in it.
He was sunk so deep in a brown study that his mother caught him without
difficulty and sent him to bed.
But it wasn’t so easy to send him to sleep. The music went on and
on, floating in through his open window, nagging his jangled nerves.
It was punctuated, too, by disconcerting little fragments of talk
coming up astonishingly clear now and then from the strollers on the
lawn. Nothing that meant anything; just broken phrases, exclamations,
giggles. It annoyed him that people could be so horribly silly.
He must have drifted off, though, at last, for he sat up suddenly in
bed, bolt awake from an unreasonably unpleasant dream. The party must
be over and everybody gone to bed, for the house was silent, except,
he noted with disgust, for the grumble of conversation that was going
on in the adjoining bedroom. Bill Grant’s it was, and he imagined he
identified the other voice, that was doing most of the talking, as
Bruce Applebury’s. He couldn’t hear what they were saying. He was
afraid though that if they talked any louder he might hear.
He lay down again and turned and tossed. No hope of getting asleep
till they stopped. Finally, in desperation he got up, padded softly
out through the billiard room to a near-by bathroom, got himself a
drink and splashed his hot face with cold water. This refreshed him
somewhat, but he didn’t want to go back to his room. The big davenport
in the hall, one flight down, occurred to him as a quieter, and perhaps
cooler, place to sleep. He wouldn’t need any covers. It was too hot a
night. So with infinite precautions against noise he stole down there.
He’d meant to sleep there anyway if the necklace had not already been
stolen.
It wasn’t very dark down there in the second-floor hall. It had two
big windows at one end and an enormous one above the stair-landing at
the other. And the big moon still had everything her own way in the
cloudless sky.
In spite of his precautions against making any noise, he did make one.
In the process of disposing the pillows on the davenport, he dropped
one on the floor with a plop.
A moment or two later Judy’s door opened, and she asked, in a clear,
penetrating whisper, “Who’s that?”
“I dropped a pillow,” he said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You!” she said.
She came over to the davenport and stood looking down at him. She had
on the same orange-colored kimono that she’d worn when she went to her
grandmother’s room before dinner.
“What are you doing down here?” she asked. “Still keeping watch?”
“It was stuffy up in my room,” he explained, “and I couldn’t sleep.”
She gave a little shiver, not with cold, and sat down beside where he
lay.
“I can’t sleep either,” she told him. “It’s beastly. Punch, I tell you
what let’s do. Let’s go out for a ride on bicycles. There’s another one
besides yours up in the old stable. You go ahead and get them, and I’ll
meet you here by the corner of the veranda.”
If he’d been feeling just right about Judy he’d have taken the thing as
a lark and gone, but he didn’t feel right. Her mention of the corner of
the veranda reminded him of something.
“I don’t want to go up-stairs and get dressed,” he objected. “There
were some people talking up there when I came down.”
She seemed concerned by that and asked him quickly, “Who?”
“I don’t know,” he told her. “They were in Bill Grant’s room.”
She glanced sharply in the direction of the stairs as if she thought
she’d heard something, but decided she hadn’t.
“You don’t have to dress,” she pleaded. “Pajamas are all right, and
I’ll lend you a pair of my sneakers.”
“The whole house is locked up tight,” he objected. “We’d probably
set off the burglar alarm if we tried to open a door or a window
down-stairs.”
“We can go out my window, can’t we?”
That made the thing seem more fun, and he all but yielded; indeed he
had moved to get up from the davenport, when he noticed something.
“You’ve started to dress already, Judy,” he said.
“Shirt and bloomers,” she admitted. “Yes, I was going out anyway. I was
getting ready to when I heard you drop that pillow. I’ve left something
I want, down on the veranda.”
“That letter?” he asked.
There was a breathless sort of silence between them.
At last she said, “Don’t you care, Punch. You’ll understand some day,
maybe.”
He’d have gone with her then if he’d felt sure she wanted him, sure
that the proposal of a ride with him hadn’t been a mere pretext of hers
for an opportunity to recover her letter while he was up at the stable
getting out the bicycles. It was with a very sore spirit that he lay
down on the davenport again and let her go back to her own room and
close the door after her without a word.
He lay there straining his ears for a sound from her, but she must have
been moving about as quietly as a ghost for he heard nothing. Perhaps
he’d be able to hear her when she came in though, and she’d turn on the
light, wouldn’t she, to read her letter by?
But still there was nothing. The silence in the big house remained
unbroken.
He stood it as long as he could; then went to Judy’s door, opened it
and after a glance about the deserted room, left it open. He’d know,
now, when she came back, anyhow.
After that once more he fell asleep, only to be wakened as before by a
dream, or so he supposed at the moment, though he realized afterward
that the soft closing of a door might have done it. He sat up, and now
he heard footsteps shuffling along in felt slippers, and turning he saw
a man in pajamas crossing the hall.
There was more light than ever now. The moon shone slantwise through
the great window on the landing and threw a brightly lighted patch
upon the floor. As the legs of these pajamas crossed this patch he
saw them very plainly. They were gray, or lavender, or perhaps a
washed-out blue, and there was a triangular tear, such as might happen
from getting caught on a nail, in one of them. The rest of the man he
couldn’t see so well, and in a moment he was nothing but a shadowed
silhouette.
Punch almost spoke to him automatically, but checked himself with the
reflection that by doing so he’d give some slightly embarrassed guest
on his way to the bathroom a horrible start.
The next moment he sat up straighter and held his breath. The man
didn’t turn into the bathroom. He went straight on up-stairs. That was
strange. Why should a guest who slept on this floor go up-stairs in the
middle of the night? Or if his room were up there, why had he come down?
The boy was rather frightened now, and the realization that he was made
it a point of honor with him to investigate the mystery if he could.
So softly and swiftly he stole up-stairs too, alert for the sound of a
closing door or glimpse of a streak of light under one of them. There
wasn’t a sound, and the blackness up here in the billiard room was all
but complete. Was somebody lurking there, waiting? Some one who had
heard his following footsteps?
He stood still, overcoming a panicky impulse of flight. He at last
mustered his courage--really considerable, it seems to me--to the point