The thing in the woods
and that business with Rebecca. Freeman found out something, and he
laid for Freeman ... and got him. That doesn't explain the cyclist
affair, nor what happened to me."
"And it doesn't explain another thing, either," said Mary, breaking
in for the first time. "It doesn't explain what the one point was
that Lennox himself was unwilling to face, what it was he tried to
avoid by ridiculous explanations that wouldn't satisfy a child. I
don't mean recently, I mean further back, almost in the beginning,
the second time he was here to attend Dick." She turned to her
brother. "Perhaps I haven't told you this before. But it did strike
me at the time, and afterwards I've been thinking of it more and more.
"I was standing out here on the porch, wondering whether I could
leave you with Kate and slip over to Lennox's house, or whether I
could get hold of anyone to send, when Lennox himself came by,
driving. I ran out to stop him and tell him what had happened. He
pulled up as soon as he saw me, before I had time to call out, and I
tell you if I ever saw a man frightened it was then. He was afraid,
and he was afraid before he saw me, or even knew what I had to say.
Something had happened, something that gave him a shock, before he
came up the road there. He tried to pass it off, but I'm not a fool;
I know when a person is just puzzled, and I know when he is afraid,
and I tell you that Lennox was afraid. And I'd like to know just
what it was that frightened him."
"Where was he coming from?" Lessing asked.
"Down the road here, the way Austin came just now. He came from the
Bend."
"From Menning's place."
"It might have been. I don't know. He didn't say and I didn't ask
him. But something, that morning, had happened to upset him before
he got here. And it was as if he knew--or at least expected, what he
was going to find."
"Did you ask him?"
"I said something about it. He told me he'd been up all night on a
case some miles away, that he'd only left at daybreak to drive back,
and that he felt all in. But it was something more than that, I feel
certain, to have thrown him into the state he was in."
"I shall ask him tonight," I said. "If he's keeping anything
back----"
"Ask him!" said Mary. "Ask him, and get the truth! You can tell him
just what I said."
I had promised to look in at the Sliefers' again, later in the
evening, and instead of doing so on my way back, Mary proposed that I
should walk across with her, after tea, while Lessing got some
letters written.
"I want some cream for supper," she said, "and I want to see Rebecca
too. I meant to go this morning. If you don't mind the walk we'll
take Leo along. He hasn't had a run today yet."
She called the setter and he came bounding up, glad enough of the
prospect of a walk.
"Poor old Leo!" Mary said. "He doesn't get half enough exercise.
We'll take the leash, Austin, if you don't mind. There's a collie at
the farm and the two are sworn enemies. I always have to fasten him
if I go there."
I put the leash in my pocket and we set off through the woods by a
short cut that brought us out eventually upon the cart-track near the
old saw-mill. On the other side of this road the Sliefers' land
began, and only a couple of pasture fields, with low snake-fences,
separated us from the farm. Leo had dropped behind after we passed
the mill, and as we stopped by the fence to wait for him we saw a
woman coming along the path. She wore a faded check cotton dress and
a sunbonnet that almost hid her face, and she was carrying a basket
filled with chips, evidently gathered near the mill. As she drew
near I caught a flash of very keen eyes, set in a dark wrinkled face,
directed upon us in a glance that was by no means friendly.
Mary stepped forward and spoke to her, and I saw her slip something
into the old woman's hand. The gnarled fingers closed on it
unwillingly; she muttered something and passed on.
"Do you know her?" I asked.
"It's old Mrs. Menning," Mary said. "Poor old soul! She's
crotchety, but I can't help feeling sorry for her. Is it true they
are sending her to the poorhouse?"
"I've no idea. Old Paddy Nevill told me she'd moved her things up to
some little empty shack near her old place. I suppose they'll let
her stay there till something can be arranged."
I watched the bent, dragging figure out of sight. As Paddy had said,
she covered the ground fairly spryly, for all her feebleness of gait.
It was my first acquaintance with this woman to whose personality
Herrick had particularly drawn my attention the night before. If
Lennox were right, she had played an almost incredibly cunning part
throughout, even if her brain had not itself evolved the whole plot.
"You'd think she could find chips nearer than the saw-mill," Mary
said. "It's a good walk from the Nevills' place, if she's near
there. I wouldn't wonder if the old body were unhinged by the fire
altogether. She's never friendly at her best, but she looked quite
queer just now. Did you notice how she was muttering to herself?"
I let down the bars and we passed through into the field.
"Austin," Mary said, as we picked our way over the boulder-strewn
pasture, "do you know that I've got a confession to make, and it's
worrying me."
I smiled.
"Anything very dreadful?"
"I don't just know," she said. "It's about last night. You know I
stayed out on the porch while you were all over at the fire. Well,
it was while I was sitting there, about a quarter of an hour after
you went, I saw Menning come up by the road. I don't think he even
saw me. He was going at a sort of shambling trot, and he never
looked up when he passed the house. I am sure it was he, though."
"And you never told us!" I exclaimed.
"I knew you'd be angry, but I couldn't help it. I didn't know about
this whole story then, and--and I hate the idea of any man being
hunted that way, no matter what he's done. I thought he might have
some sort of chance to get away, and that's why I didn't say anything
last night, even to Dick!"
"Which way was he going?"
"Toward the hill. Your chauffeur must surely have met him. That's
what I couldn't make out."
"He saw no one at all. The man may have turned off into the woods
when he saw the car. I suppose you know what the sheriff would say
to this?"
"Compounding a felony!" Mary laughed. "Anyway he never asked me, so
I didn't have to tell any lies about it. Only after what you said
last night it worried me, and I thought I'd better own up. Now if he
is caught it won't be on my conscience that I had a direct hand in
it."
"Oh, woman!" I exclaimed.
"You'd have done the same in my case," she retorted. "Besides, I
wasn't supposed to know. You never told me anything."
"You are sure it was Menning?"
"Quite sure. I had left the house door open, and he passed right
into the light. I wondered why he was going away from the fire
instead of toward it, and I thought at first he might be going to get
more help. I didn't know then. He hadn't been there all along."
We reached the farm, and I left her below while I saw my patient.
Either I was longer than I thought, or we must have loitered
unconsciously on our way over, for when I joined her again on the
porch the light was already fading. Then there was a delay about the
cream. Rebecca had to fetch it, and while she was gone Mary turned
to me.
"This farm is still bewitched," she said. "It's the cream-pans now.
Rebecca swears that the milk has gone, these last few nights. Last
night she set out three pans in the spring-house and this morning one
of them was two-thirds empty. I suspect cats, but anyway the problem
takes Rebecca's mind off her other trouble, poor girl. Here she is.
Can you spare this, Rebecca?"
"It's a bit scant, Miss Lessing, but it's the best I can do. We'll
be short for churning this week, as it is. Whatever ails the milk I
don't know! I've never had it go before."
"Well, it isn't witches' work;" Mary smiled. "They turn the milk,
you know, Rebecca, they don't steal it! I'd keep an eye on the cat.
If you'll take Leo a moment, Austin, till we're out of the grounds,
I'll carry the pail--no, it isn't heavy, and I don't trust men
anyway. They spill everything. Good night, Rebecca!"
"Carry your old cream yourself," I retorted. "I won't help you--not
after that. And the way I've condoned your offences, too! Come on,
Leo! Can I let him loose here, do you think?"
"Wait till we're quite clear of the house. He had a dreadful fight
here once. It'll be all right now. We'd better take the path along
the dam; it's a little shorter."
We followed the footpath along which they had carried Freeman that
night to the house. Given any other time and place, I should have
been tempted to do my best in prolonging this stroll, but I had none
too pleasant associations with the place and its surroundings, and
with twilight closing rapidly upon us I was in no mind to loiter. A
stagnant weedy smell rose from the dam, a gloomy stretch of water
with enclosing trees that darkened it still more effectually. Frogs
croaked in monotonous chorus from the weeds at the edge and the
midges were thick. In the end Mary had to give in ignominiously, and
I carried the pail while she fought their attacks off with a
handkerchief.
It was here that Rebecca and her sweetheart used to walk of an
evening, and I wondered at their choice of a trysting-place.
"It's romantic," said Mary, "in a way. Can't you imagine this the
deserted moat, with the ruined castle of Lord Thingummy in the
background? I am sure that Rebecca reads Laura Jean Libbey on the
sly. What spot more suggestive of lovers' vows and maidens palely
loitering! Rebecca's too healthy not to be romantic at her age."
"Romance?" I said. "Fiddlesticks! The Sliefers ought to have this
place drained if they aren't going to work the mill any more. As a
plain medical man I have no use for picturesque sheets of water that
smell bad after sunset."
"So you'd sacrifice all this----" she waved the hand that was not
occupied in keeping nudges at bay--"and plant cabbages on it!"
"Why cabbages?"
"Aren't they the symbol of all that is practical?"
"Including myself!" I snapped. I was getting badly bitten, and with
no opportunity for redress.
"Oh, I didn't say that!" She stopped short. "Did you see that big
fish jump just then? Right beyond the pond-lilies there. This place
must be full of them."
"Carp, most likely. It's pretty deep up at this end."
She stopped to watch the circle widen and disappear, leaving the
water black. "Austin ... do you suppose I ought to have spoken about
Menning before?"
"I don't know that it matters. They'll get him anyhow."
There was no good in mere speculation, and I didn't want to enlarge
on the subject of Menning. She had come into contact with sufficient
ugliness this summer already. "It's more than probable that he has
cleared out altogether by this time. In any case, until we know, I
think it would be better that you kept near the house unless one of
us is with you. There's no good running any risks."
We had passed the mill and were just turning into the little path
that would bring us to the road near the bungalow, when Lessing met
us.
"I thought you two would never turn up," he said. "I'm dying of
hunger. How's the patient, Austin?"
"Getting on. You can carry the pail if you want to work. Where's
that dog got to?"
I had released the setter some little way back, and he had kept
within sight nearly all the way. Missing him now, I turned to
whistle, and saw Leo, a pale shadow in the dusk, nosing eagerly about
the scattered logs that lay in the clearing near the mill. Lessing