"I think we had better not. But if you would--it"s asking a great deal of you--if you yourself would ride back with us."
"I had intended to do that," he a.s.sured her.
The cab arrived within a few minutes, and she gave an address off Riverside Drive. It took half an hour to make the run. On the journey the three remained silent save for a few commonplaces, for conversation seemed to have a disquieting effect upon young Arsdale. The lighted houses flashed past the carriage windows in the soft spring dark, looking like specks of gold upon black velvet. A certain motherliness pervaded the night; there was a suggestion of birth everywhere.
Donaldson responded to it with a growing feeling of antic.i.p.ation.
Sitting here confronting this girl he was swept back to a primal joy of things, to a sense of new worlds. He felt for a moment as though back again with her in that gypsy kingdom into which the music had borne them.
The cab swung from the boulevard and, after following for a few moments a somewhat tortuous course among side streets, stopped before an iron gate which stretched across the drive leading to the house. Either side of the gate a high hedge extended. The three stepped out and Donaldson paused a moment before dismissing the cabby. The girl saw his hesitancy and in her turn seemed rapidly to revolve some question in her own mind. A quick motion on the part of her brother determined her. In the shadow of the house he began to show ill-boding symptoms.
"I wonder if--if you would come in for a minute," she asked in an undertone.
Without answer he dismissed the driver and followed her through a small gate in the hedge, down a short walk, to a brown-stone house with its entrance on a level with the ground. The house was unlighted and the lower windows were covered with wooden shutters. In the midst of its brilliantly lighted neighbors it looked severe and inhospitable. The girl drew a key from her purse and, opening the door, stepped inside and switched on the lights. Donaldson found himself in a large, cheerful looking hall finished in Flemish oak. A broad Colonial staircase led from the end and swung upstairs in a graceful turn which formed a landing. The floor was covered with rugs which he recognized as of almost priceless value. Several oil portraits in heavy frames ornamented the walls. It took but a glance to see that they were of the same family and to recognize in all their thin faces an expression that he had caught in young Arsdale himself--a haunting fear as of some family tragedy. Through an uncurtained door to the right opened what appeared to be a library, while to the left--Donaldson turned his back for a moment upon Arsdale. And the man, freed from the eyes, threw himself upon Donaldson"s shoulder. The woman shouted a warning, but it was too late. She clutched at her brother"s clothes, pulling with all her strength, crying,
"Ben! Ben!"
Donaldson slipped upon the polished floor and Arsdale, throwing his arm about his victim"s neck, secured a very effective strangle hold. It looked bad for Donaldson. On the smooth waxed floor he could secure no purchase by which to regain his feet and he could not reach the fellow with either fist. He was as helpless as though he had the Old Man of the Mountain upon his back. The world began to swim before his eyes; the cries of the girl to sound in the distance. Then he smelled the biting aroma of spirits of ammonia and felt the clutch upon his throat loosen. He broke free, got upon his feet and found Arsdale rubbing his smarting eyes while the girl stood over him, frightened at what she had done, with the empty bottle in her hand.
"I"ve blinded him!" she cried, drawing back in horror.
"Thanks. You "ve also prevented him from killing me."
"Don"t say that--not kill!"
"But the man is n"t responsible."
"That is true, but--even when he is like this he would n"t do any harm."
His throat was still sore from the press of the fellow"s fingers, but he nodded politely.
Donaldson perceived that she was fighting off a fear. It made the danger seem even more imminent. He had noted with surprise that no servants had appeared. This gave a particularly uncanny atmosphere to the big house, making it look as deserted as though empty of furniture.
"We must get him upstairs and into bed," she said. "Will you help him?"
The man was choking and writhing upon the floor in his pain. Donaldson stooped and wiped off his eyes. Then he placed his arm about him and half dragged and half carried him up the stairs as she led the way.
She preceded them up two flights, switching on the lights at each landing, and entered a small, simply furnished room in the middle of the house,--a room, Donaldson was quick to note, having only a skylight for a window. Here he dashed cold water into the man"s face and placed him on the bed. As soon as the pain subsided, Miss Arsdale administered two spoonfuls of a darkish brown medicine which seemed to have instantly a quieting effect.
It was the sight of the bottle that again recalled to Donaldson the fact of his own peculiar position in life. Even at the risk of appearing rude, he was forced to look at his watch. It was a few minutes after eleven o"clock. Well, what of it? Had not these hours been full--had he not had more of real living than during the entire last decade? He had faced death twice, he had met a woman, and he now stood at the threshold of a mystery that seemed to demand him. There was no other interest in his life to occupy him--nothing to prevent him from throwing himself heart and soul into the case, lending what aid was possible to this woman. Furthermore, he was clear of all selfish interests; he need bother himself with no queries of what this might be worth to him. But it was worth something, it was worth something to have a woman look at him as this girl had done--with unquestioning trust in a crisis.
She glanced up as he replaced his watch.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "I must detain you no longer!"
"My time is absolutely yours," he rea.s.sured her. "I was merely curious to know how old I have grown."
She did not understand.
"I "m eleven hours old."
Again she did not understand, but in turning to care for her brother she ceased to puzzle over the enigma. Shortly afterwards the patient closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep. Immediately the girl led the way on tiptoe from the room. She locked the door behind her and preceded Donaldson downstairs.
Once below there seemed nothing for him to do but to leave, but, quite aside from the fact that he felt himself to be really needed here, he was as reluctant to depart as a man is to awake from a pleasant dream.
She had picked up a white silk j.a.panese shawl and thrown it about her shoulders.
He turned to her with the question,
"Is there nothing more I can do for you? Is there no one I may summon to help you?"
"I can manage very well now, thank you."
"But you can"t stay here alone with the boy in this condition."
"Why not?"
Her reply came like a rebuke of his impetuous presumption.
"It is hardly safe for you," he declared more quietly.
"It is perfectly safe," she answered evenly.
"I suppose there are servants in the house upon whom you can call," he hazarded.
She looked a bit embarra.s.sed.
"If I should need any one there is my old housekeeper, Marie," she answered.
Marie was upstairs, sick in bed with rheumatism, too feeble to move without help. But to confess this fact to him would be almost to force him to stay. As welcome a relief as it would be to have him remain until she had administered the medicine once more, she shrank from placing him in a position where he would have no alternative.
She roused herself from the temptation and extended her hand.
"Thank you is a weak phrase for all you "ve done," she said.
"It is enough."
He took the hand but he did not say good night. So she withdrew it, her cheeks a bit redder, her eyes, a trick they had when brilliant, growing silver.
He had been studying her keenly, and now removing his overcoat, he said decidedly,
"I shall stay a little longer."
She seemed to hesitate a moment, meeting his eyes quite frankly. Then, with a little sigh of relief she stepped into the library.
CHAPTER V
_The Inner Woods_
In the fireplace there were birch logs ready to be kindled. At her suggestion he put a match to them for the cheeriness they gave while she lighted a green shaded lamp which radiated a soft glow over the heavy mahogany library table upon which it stood. The room slowly warmed out of the gloom and shadows as though the three walls closed in nearer to the fire. Just outside the radius of warmth the bookbindings shone gold in the dark. In a frame six inches deep the ghostly outlines of a portrait of Horace Arsdale flickered near and away as the flames rose and fell.