“Stand away from that door, Hardy.”
Lindy turned slowly toward him a face of such frozen terror that for a moment he flinched.
“No need for you to go in there, Lindy. Just let me—
She swayed toward him, lifting a warning finger.
“Hush! What’s that?… Listen—”
He heard it before her voice had died, faint but unmistakable, the put-put … put-put-put—of a motorcycle getting laboriously under way—clearer, sharper, swelling to a comfortable roar.…
“By God, he’s done it!” yelled Sherry, his eyes bulging in his head. “Come on, you fellows—cut around to the back! Through the service quarters, this way—we can see by his lights which way he’s gone—”
He tore through the far door, wrenching it so that it rocked on its hinges, the pack streaming after him, galvanized to sudden and violent life.
Ray called wildly from the hall:
“Trudi—Trudi, we can see from the library windows, can’t we? Help me open them—I can’t reach!”
“Better from the writing room; it has windows on three sides. We’ll be sure to see them from there—”
“But, Trudi, he can ride without lights—he said so himself; that’s what he did in France. He’ll get away—he’ll get away! No one can tell which way he’s going—”
Trudi said slowly from the doorway:
“Which way? There’s only one way, isn’t there? The North Trail to—” She halted abruptly, her eyes seeking the shadows across the hall. After a moment, she laid a monitory finger across her lips, cast a swift glance around the room, empty save for the slim figure by the fire, and asked casually as she moved forward toward the voices and the shadows: “Coming, Jill?”
The girl by the mantel said quietly: “In a minute.”
She dropped on her knees before the fire, scooped a little hollow in the embers with the hearth tongs, and dropped something in it—something that caught and flickered up in a rush of dancing flames. She knelt there, her face turned away from the bright burst—shivering as though it left her colder. At the light step behind her she started so violently that Lindy came swiftly forward.
Jill asked: “Did he—get away?”
Lindy turned toward her eyes of black fire in a face of white flame.
“Yes—the motorcycle’s gone. He must have used the North Trail. But, darling, what in the world are you doing here? You should have been in bed a long time ago—look, the sky’s getting lighter, and outside you could hear the birds—”
The girl by the fire said, not lifting her eyes: “Did you come back to look for something, Lindy?”
Something in her voice arrested the soft murmur, and after a long moment Lindy said in a strange little voice:
“Yes.… I came back to look for—a handkerchief.” Jill said:
“You couldn’t use that handkerchief, Lindy. It was—stained. It’s there; it’s burning.”
Lindy whispered: “You had it… all the time?”
“That’s what I came back to the room for when Gavin caught me. I saw a corner of it when I sat in the chair by the window, and I started to pull it out—but it was … wet. All my fingers were red with it…. That’s why I nearly fainted.”
“You’ve known ever since then?”
“Before then, I think.… I’ve had it in my smock pocket ever since. I’ve been so—so frightened.”
“Jill, were you frightened of me?”
“No, darling. Frightened—for you.”
The little figure in lavender and pearls slipped to her knees, swift and silent as water her arms fast about that other kneeling figure.
“Jill—darling, darling, you always took care of us; you’re so wise—you know everything. You know how far it is to Rio … and Samarkand … and the moon … Jill—Jill, how far is it to Las Cayas in the Bahamas?”
THE END
About the Author
Frances Noyes Hart (1890–1943) was an American writer whose stories were published in Scribner’s, The Saturday Evening Post (where her novel The Bellamy Trial was first serialized) and The Ladies’ Home Journal. The daughter of Frank Brett Noyes, founder of the Associated Press, Hart was educated in American, Italian, and French schools before serving in World War I as a canteen worker for the YMCA and a translator for the Naval Intelligence Bureau. She later wrote six novels, numerous short stories, and a memoir.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1929 by Frances Noyes Hart
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-6063-9
This 2020 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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FRANCES NOYES HART
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