The sinister mark
stopping quietly on the closely trimmed grass which lay between it
and the road. Soon he came to a closed gate, a high gate of heavy
wrought-iron work. He paused here only long enough to look down a
well-kept driveway shaded with dark trees and thickly planted with
shrubbery. There was not a soul in sight. Then he continued on about
five hundred feet to the visible end of the wall.
He had hoped that the wall had simply been built to ensure privacy from
the road, as is the case in so many American homes, but he found, to
his disappointment, that the wall continued at right angles, probably
enclosing the entire estate.
Peter was rather at a loss how to proceed. He had wished, if possible,
to make sure of one point before coming out into the open, and the
height of the wall bade fair to defeat even the possibility of
accomplishing his purpose.
He stood for a moment at the corner thinking how best to proceed. As
he glanced about him, he noticed a rough though well-worn path leading
away from the road and, following the turn of the wall, through a wood
of tall trees and thick underbrush.
"I'll take a chance," thought Peter, and quietly entered the path.
He had walked far enough to be certain, though he could not see it,
that he had passed the house, when suddenly he came to a stop. On the
other side of the wall he could hear voices. Two women's voices he
made them out to be, though he could not hear the words. It was the
first sign of life he had found around the odd, lonely place.
"I _will_ have a look in," he thought, determinedly, and glancing
swiftly about, he saw a tree tall enough and near enough to the wall
for his purpose.
Quick and light as a panther, he was up among the leafy branches in
a second. He had chosen well; for below him, clear to view, were the
lawns and garden of the queer old house.
Just beneath, to the left of the tree he had chosen, were the two
women whose voices he had heard. One was dressed in the crisp white
of a nurse. The other Peter could not see well, for she was in a
wheel chair, the back of which was toward the wall. He could hear
the voices a little more distinctly now, though the words were
still indistinguishable. The nurse's voice had the usual cheerful
professional ring, the other spoke in a high, thin, "society" drawl.
Both voices dimmed as the women moved slowly away across the lawn.
"Nothing doing," thought Peter to himself, and immediately losing
interest in the couple who had been so near him his quick eyes roamed
farther afield.
On the lawns and about the garden, gay with flowers, several other
figures moved. They were mostly in couples, a nurse, and with her
another woman, some walking about and some being wheeled in chairs.
At some distance from the rest one woman walked alone, a slender figure
dressed in black. She walked swiftly, with long, even, purposeful
steps. She was opposite the house and moving away from Peter when he
first saw her. The instant he caught sight of her there was no one else
in all the grounds for Peter. His eyes followed her every movement.
She reached the shrubbery which closed the view on the opposite side
of the lawn. Peter held his breath. Would she enter the shrubbery and
disappear from sight? No. She had turned, and was coming slowly toward
him.
When the dark figure again reached the house, Peter had another bad
moment, but, without pause, like one who paces a deck for exercise, the
woman rapidly advanced. Nearer and nearer she came. Now she skirted the
end of a flower bed and was on the lawn just beneath Peter's tree.
In his excitement, Peter's foot slipped a little, and a small, dead
branch broke with a sharp snap. The woman looked up--and Peter
knew--knew without shadow of doubt, that he was looking into the face
of the woman he had so long and so earnestly sought--the woman who
called herself--Anne Blake.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE WOMAN SHULTZE
The hours which followed Peter's abrupt and unexpected departure from
Fennimore Park passed long and heavily for Donald Morris. He waited
for nearly twenty-four hours, hoping to get a wire, and all the while,
though he was physically better for the change, his mind chafed at his
distance from the scene of action.
Soon after Peter had gone Morris had motored up the hill to Mrs.
Rutherford's cottage, only to be told that she was suffering from a bad
headache and had gone to bed. In the morning he had called her up on
the telephone, to inquire as to her health, and to ask if he might see
her, but found, to his great surprise, that she had gone to town on the
morning train.
Disappointed and anxious, he felt that he could stand it no longer. The
momentary collapse, of which his sister had taken advantage to get him
away from town for a time, was practically over. He felt considerably
better, but the uncertainty and inaction, combined with Peter's odd
behaviour and Mrs. Rutherford's sudden return to New York, made him
feel that he must follow them. He had no means of knowing that Clancy
was no longer there. He hoped to see him not later than that evening,
for he had determined to take the noon train from Tollenville.
"I'll be just as comfortable at home as I am here, Helena," he said,
when she remonstrated with him. "I'm taking Hobbs back with me and
he'll look out for me as well as you could. Don't worry, dear, I'll be
much better off at home."
He kissed her, gently, and went out to the car which was already
waiting to take him to the train.
On the evening of the day, then, when Peter arrived at Cordenham, but
at a somewhat later hour, Donald Morris reached New York. Late as it
was, his first action on arriving was to call Peter's office on the
telephone, and he was lucky enough to find O'Malley still there.
The old man told him briefly of Peter's sudden departure from the city,
and added:
"He was in a devil of a rush, and I don't, myself, know what he's up
to, Mr. Morris. But he did give me some information which I think would
interest you. I've got to go out just now, but I'll be back here by
eight o'clock. Lot of work I must make up--and if you could find it
convenient to come over after dinner--or I'll come to your house----"
"No, no. I'll come to you," said Morris, hastily. "I can, perfectly
well, and I think I'd rather be there than anywhere else. Clancy
probably thinks I'm still at Fennimore Park, and you'll be likely to
get any news there is before I would. I'll come over a little after
eight. It's good of you to take the time----"
"Not at all, not at all," said O'Malley, cordially. "Wish I had some
real good news for you--not that this isn't good, as far as it goes----"
Donald therefore made ready to leave his sister's house in Gramercy
Park a little before eight that evening. Somewhat encouraged by
O'Malley's cheerful tone, and the fact that news, good news as far as
it went, awaited him, he had dined with more appetite than he had known
for several days. As the hands of the tall clock in the hall marked the
hour of seven-forty-five, having noted from his window that the taxi he
had summoned to take him to O'Malley's office was already drawn up at
the curb, he descended the stairs from his room, expecting to leave the
house at once.
He had seen the cabman run up the steps, and after a short colloquy
with someone at the door, return to his cab. He was surprised,
therefore, as he passed his sister's apartments on the second floor, to
hear the sound of voices in the hall below. Since he had dismissed his
valet for the night, he knew that, besides himself, there was no one
in the house except an old coloured woman who had been in the family
for two generations, and who always took charge of the house when the
family were away for the summer.
Fearing that it might be a casual friend who would detain him, Donald
waited, out of sight, in the upper hall, until he could determine
who the unexpected caller might be. As he paused to listen, he heard
Susan's soft old voice:
"I don' think you can see Mistah Morris to-night," it said. "He jus'
goin' out."
"But I must see him." It was a woman's voice, sharp, thin, and nasal.
"He'll want to see me when he knows who I come from. You tell him, and
tell him quick, that there's a lady here waiting to see him that can
tell him something he wants, most particular, to know. Tell him that I
seen the piece in the paper Monday and that I know where the lady is.
You tell him that, and----"
"It's all right, Susan," cried Donald, running swiftly down the stairs.
"I'll see her. Just go out and tell the cabman to wait, please." As
Susan quietly disappeared, he spoke quickly, breathlessly, to the other
woman. "Come in here," he said, leading the way into a small, formal
reception room at the right of the hall, and switching on the lights as
he entered.
The woman followed obediently. She was a large, stout, middle-aged
person, dressed elaborately in a cheap imitation of the latest mode.
There were many gaudy rings on her ungloved hands, and in her ears
were earrings of such size and weight as to make one fear for her
equilibrium should she lose one of them. Her face, which must once
have been handsome in a common way, was slack-skinned and puffy, and
covered heavily with powder and rouge. As she walked, her fluttering,
scanty garments exhaled a heavy perfume.
Donald was too much excited to be seriously affected by her
unprepossessing appearance.
"Please sit down," he said, quickly, "and tell me what you have to say."
She sank luxuriously into a soft-cushioned chair, and with a keen,
observant eye took in her surroundings and the appearance of the man
who remained standing before her.
"You're Mr. Morris--Mr. Donald Morris?" she asked, looking sharply up
at him. "Yes. Well, then, I'll tell you--and if there's anything in
it----"
"There'll be something in it for you," Donald hastily assured her, "if
you can give me the information I'm looking for."
"How much?" asked the woman, tersely. Her eyes were little points of
avaricious light.
Donald recoiled a little, and hesitated. The woman, keenly observant,
hastened to retrieve her mistake.
"Not that I care for myself," she said, softening her nasal voice.
"It's the poor thing I'm thinking of. She needs care and attention
that I can't afford to give her, but if some of her friends would come
across I could do for her as any one would wish to, the poor, beautiful
young thing."
"Of whom are you speaking?" asked Donald, rendered somewhat cautious,
in spite of his keen desire to hear more.
"Why, you know, of course, Mr. Morris. Who would I be speaking of to
you like this? It's Miss Mary Blake I'm talking about, though I wasn't
sure, myself, at first, and never would have known at all, if it hadn't
been for that piece in the paper."
"Mary! Miss Blake?" cried Donald, starting forward. "Do you mean to
tell me you really know where she is?"
"I certainly do, Mr. Morris," said the woman, confidently. "Why, she's
been in my house for about a month now. She come the first of June, or
a day or two before."
"Mary!" muttered Donald to himself. "Here, all this time we've been
looking--hunting the country over----" Aloud he said, eagerly: "And
she's there now?"
"She is that, Mr. Morris. I come straight from her."
"Did she send you to me?" The question was anxious, but filled with
wondering hope.
"Well," said the woman, slightly evasive, "you can't exactly say she
sent me. Not exactly. But she'll be all right when she sees you--I'm
sure of that."
"All right?" asked Donald, quickly. "What do you mean by 'all right'?
Is she ill? Is anything the matter----"
"Now, now, don't get excited, Mr. Morris," she interrupted,