The sinister mark
sprays. There, in a tiny open glade, was little Anne, dancing lightly
in the sunshine and half singing:
"If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended----
That you have slumbered here,
While these visions did appear----
"You know, Mr. Clancy--the last part of 'Midsummer Night's Dream'."
Peter was not any too familiar with Shakespeare, but he nodded in
silent acquiescence, and the old man went on:
"I found out, after that, that she knew simply miles of Shakespeare.
She used to recite for me, under strict pledge of secrecy, in the
woods, on long, summer afternoons. You should have heard her, as little
Arthur, in 'King John,' plead for her eyes--'O, spare mine eyes, if
for no use, but still to look on thee!' Her voice was enough to break
a body's heart.... But, of course, she had no chance, poor child, with
that dreadful mark on her face."
"Was it such a terrible disfigurement?" asked Peter, eager to get an
accurate description. "Where was it and how large?"
"It was just here"--Walter Lord placed his curved palm upon his lower
jaw, with the fingers extending up on the cheek. "It was almost like
the mark of a hand, a bloody hand----" The old man frowned and sadly
shook his head. "Too bad, too bad. Wrecked the poor child's life ...
seems terrible ... such a little thing--but, for a girl----"
"Yes, too bad, too bad," echoed Peter, absently, the while he made a
mental note of the probable shape and position of the identifying mark
by which he hoped at last to recognize Anne Blake. "Well," he added,
rousing himself and looking at his watch, "I'm afraid I ought to be
going, Mr. Lord. How long will it take to get to the station?"
"Oh, not more than ten minutes," answered the old man, dragging out his
own watch and comparing it with Peter's. "You've twenty minutes to
spare. I want to write down your address so I can send you prints of
the pictures I took of you just now. I'm pretty sure you'll like 'em."
He went over and began fumbling in his desk for something to write
upon. Peter followed and stood beside him.
"Forty-seven East Thirty ---- Street." Peter supplied his private
address, and as Lord seemed to be having some trouble in finding what
he sought, Peter waited, glancing absently about.
Suddenly his eye was arrested by a picture on the wall--a man and a
girl on horseback. Could he be mistaken? He stepped nearer. No, he was
right. He had never seen the girl before, but the man, the man on the
left of the photograph, was Donald Morris. There could be no possible
doubt. But what was he doing here? How had it happened----
Suppressing an ejaculation, Peter turned to the old photographer.
Making his voice perfectly casual, he asked:
"Who's the good-looking chap on horseback over here?"
Lord looked up, following Peter's pointing finger.
"Oh, that?" he said. "I don't know the man's name. The lady is a Miss
Stone--lives over at Fennimore Park. She's quite a friend of mine.
Rides through here two or three times a season, and is always having
her picture taken with some man or other. You'll find several of 'em
along there.... Now, where the dickens? Oh, here it is." He pulled,
from a crowded pigeonhole, a small, dusty, black leather notebook,
dragging a mass of letters and papers out with it. "Now, Mr. Clancy,
give me the address again, if you don't mind----"
Peter, his mind full of conjectures, leaned over the old man as he
sat at his desk, and absently repeated his address: "Forty-seven East
Thirty ---- Street, New York City." And as he did so, his eye lighted
upon one of the letters which had fallen to the floor.
Automatically, he stooped to pick it up, and as he lifted it,
inadvertently he caught the words:
"... money order, and if you will return my father's ring, which I
value, and the----"
Peter's heart almost stopped beating as he looked at the writing. His
brain was in a whirl. He must leave immediately, and he had no time to
weigh problems of right and wrong. He only knew one thing. He must have
this letter of Anne Curwood's--of Anne Blake's. He must have time to
consider.
The old man's head was bent above his notebook. With a swift motion
Peter, feeling like an unmitigated hound, slipped the letter into his
pocket. "I'll make up some story--I'll return it later," he thought,
confusedly. "In the meantime----"
"I'm afraid I've got to hustle to make the train, Mr. Lord," he said,
aloud, grasping the old man's hand. "You've been awfully good to me,
and I do appreciate it, though I may not show it much. I'll write to
you, and I hope you won't forget me. Don't come down. I'll just grab
my bag and beat it. Thank you a thousand times for your hospitality,
and if you ever come to New York, don't forget that you have my
address. Good-bye. Good-bye"--and in the midst of Walter Lord's hearty
farewells and invitations to come again, he was gone.
CHAPTER XX
PETER CLANCY CHANGES HIS PLANS--
And again, as Peter made his swift way to the station, the question
which had been hammering in his brain took another form--"How much can
I keep from telling Morris? How much can I keep to myself till I can
think things out? It's absurd, Pete! It can't be, and yet--if--if----"
And again: "How much can I keep from telling Morris?"
The answer to the question which was uppermost in Peter's rapid
thoughts was destined, within the next few minutes, to be influenced
in a most unexpected manner. He had scarcely entered the little old
smelly waiting room of the Hobart Falls station, when, at the sound
of his footsteps on the bare boards, a man looked out of the little
grated ticket-window, the same man who had replied to his inquiry as to
telegrams on the previous evening.
"There's a wire here for you now, if your name's Clancy, Peter Clancy,"
the agent said, turning back to refer to a yellow sheet of paper which
lay beside the telegraph instrument. "That was the name you said last
night, wasn't it? It's just come in, not five minutes ago. Night
letter. Sign here, please."
He slipped the telegram and a thumbed pad through below the grating,
watching Peter curiously the while. Evidently the residents of Hobart
Falls were not used to receiving night letters.
Peter scrawled his name on the pad, and hastily catching up the
telegram, he went swiftly over to the window. What had happened? What
new complication----
The telegram was written out in the operator's none too legible hand.
It was maddening, for, not very far away, Peter could hear his train,
whistling for a crossing. And he wanted to get back to town--to talk to
O'Malley--to think.
Slowly, perforce, he puzzled out the unpunctuated sentences:
Full story M. B. disappearance to-night's Earth devil to pay think
F.J. must have spilled beans D.M. all broken up left for Fennimore
Park private car with sister night train Fennimore Park near you
report there for God's sake make him understand no leak this office
(Signed) O'MALLEY.
The train thundered into the station and out again, but Peter took no
notice. His plans had undergone a complete change. The agent, who was
also the expressman as well as the telegraph operator, was surprised to
find the intending passenger still there though not so much so as he
would have been if he, himself, had not received the queer telegram. He
was somewhat prepared for the question with which the stranger greeted
his reappearance.
"What's the next train for Fennimore Park?" Peter asked, quickly.
"Ain't no train for there on this line," answered the agent, helpfully.
"Ye have t' go back to the junction and ketch the Mountain Express
there. Ye should have taken number fifty-three down," he jerked his
head in the direction of the rapidly receding rumble.
Peter's silence was more profane than any speech. Then a sudden thought
struck him. He threw a withering glance at the indifferent agent, and
jumped to the door opposite to the one on the platform. He was just in
time to see a tired flivver strolling slowly down the dusty road.
"Josh!" he yelled, at the top of his voice. "Josh!"
His lungs were strong, and his intent was sincere. Slowly the old car
came to a standstill and the driver, craning his long neck, looked back
down the road.
"Ye want me?" he bellowed.
Peter answered with a peremptory wave of the hand. The creaking car
turned in a cloud of dust, and came slowly back.
"How far is it to Fennimore Park from here?" Peter asked, as soon as it
came within reasonable calling distance.
"Pretty clost to twenty mile," said Josh, promptly. "Why?"
"Is the old boat good for it?" Peter eyed the poor old car with some
disfavour.
"Ye betcha she is," said Josh, enthusiastically. "I told ye, she's the
best car in town. Want I should take ye there? I'll do it fer five."
Peter wasted no more time. He jumped, bag and all, into the back seat.
"Shoot!" was all he said.
He was silent for almost the entire
way--thinking--thinking--thinking----
The old car bumped and skidded over the mountain roads, and groaned and
laboured up the long, rough hills. Peter kept himself in by clinging to
the iron braces of the top, but aside from these automatic efforts at
self-preservation he was practically unconscious of the way they went.
A strange thought had come to him in Walter Lord's old photograph
studio. A thought so odd and bizarre that at first it seemed absolutely
impossible and insane. And then he began piecing things together.
Bit by bit, apparently unconnected scraps of information were fitted
together, now this way and now that. Once, making sure that the driver
was completely occupied with the difficulties of the winding road,
Peter took from his pocket the letter he had appropriated. ("Stolen,
dammit!" he thought, disgustedly. "Mine's a hell of a job for a decent
man. But if I could prove, even to myself----") He looked long and
wonderingly at the letter before he slipped it back into an inner
pocket.
"Mary, apparently, took no clothes at all," he thought, going back
for the thousandth time over the old ground, "and Anne took a big
trunk.... Well, that would fit--either way.... The large sum of money,
left at the bank, subject to Anne's order as well as Mary's....
Yes--either way.... But the blood on the scarf--and on the floor.... I
don't see--unless.... By George! I'll bet----"
The driver heard his passenger slap his leg with a resounding thwack.
He turned his head slightly. "Mosquito?" he threw over his shoulder.
"Did ye git him?"
"No. Yes--I'm not sure," said Peter, coming, confusedly, back to the
present. "How far are we now from Fennimore Park? And do we pass
through any town on the way?" he added, his mind reverting to immediate
necessities.
"We'll be there inside of twenty minutes," Josh answered the questions
in order, "and we pass through Tollenville about a mile this side. 'S
quite a big place. Why?"
"Think I could get yesterday's New York papers anywhere there?" asked
Peter. "Must keep up with the times, you know."
"Oh, sure ye can," said Josh, easily. "Must have 'em at the Tollen
House, I should think. I'd like t' stop there, anyway," and he drew the
back of his hand, in a suggestive gesture, across his mouth.
"All right," said Peter, with a comprehending grin. "If it's that kind
of a place I may get the paper I want. So don't forget to stop."
"I won't," said Josh, with evident sincerity, and Peter retired again
into his thoughts.
It seemed to him not many minutes later when they pulled up in front of
a big, ugly red brick hotel with many wooden porches and gay, striped
awnings.
"Tollen House," remarked Josh, briefly, and disappeared around the
corner of the building.