While William was gone, she sat with nervous alertness by the telephone, ready to call the police in case anybody seemed to be getting into the house to steal that money.
And while she waited, she figured out just what they would do with that money in case the sale should go through after all, and whether they were duty bound to tell young Morrell about what Gowney had given privately to William to let him take possession or whether it was really all right for them just to keep it and shut up about it. Of course, a lot depended upon Morrell's attitude to the sale. And besides, she had always prided herself on being an honest woman. She wanted to do the right thing, but if the sale went through smoothly, what right had young Morrell to that extra money when he didn't know a thing about it? And, of course, he would be having his extra ten thousand anyway. That is if Gowney was not a crook, which she strongly feared he was.
But late in the afternoon William came back, reporting that Gowney had gone out to Chicago to his grandmother's funeral and might be gone several days yet. Martha sniffed unbelievingly and settled down to another night of anxious watching and waiting, while William, worn out by the unusual strain, ate a hearty supper surreptitiously from the pantry shelf, helping himself to a double portion of apple pie, which Martha was saving for the morrow. Then he went to bed and to sleep. He hadn't had such a strenuous time since the gangsters kidnapped Bennie Stebbins and hid him in the old Forrest place on the edge of town, and he was held responsible because he had it for rent while the family were in Europe. He had been supposed to get a caretaker for it but had been economizing by doing it himself; that is, he drove over that way once a fortnight and looked toward the place from a distance. That had been a really tight place when they tried to connect him with the kidnapping as an accessory, and Martha certainly had rubbed it into him then that she might have married any one of three better men than he had proved to be. He thought of it sadly as he eased his weary body into bed and sank down on the pillow gently. He wanted to make sure of being asleep before Martha discovered he had gone to bed, or he would certainly have a night of it. If he could be really asleep, Martha would not try much. She knew how hard he was to wake.
As he sank off to sleep he took comfort from the fact that he had finally got out of that kidnapping scrape, and probably some way would eventually be provided to get him out of this, but anyhow he was going to have one more night's rest.
But along toward midnight, when he was blissfully in his soundest, Martha shook him until his teeth chattered, and shouted in his good ear: "Wake up, William! Wake up! Something terrible must be happening over at the Morrell house, and likely you're in for another awful time. You'd better wake up and think what you're going to say when they come for you!"
But William, inert, gave a carefully calculated snore and turned over into his pillow. Long practice had made him perfect in this sort of thing.
What had happened was this. Martha, attired in an old bathrobe over her daytime clothes, her feet thrust into large fleece-lined slippers and her hair in curlers, had established herself in the old Morris chair beside the telephone for the night. She had turned out the lights and put her flashlight on the table beside her. But in spite of her firm resolves, she had fallen asleep in her chair.
Suddenly into the midst of her dreams the telephone sounded out piercingly, and she was awake and on the job at once.
"Is this William Knox's residence?" asked a sharp feminine voice, for which Martha Knox was wholly unprepared.
"It is!" she said, stiffening visibly in the dark and fumbling on the table for her flashlight, which continually evaded her.
"Well, is he there?"
"He is!" said Martha severely, as if her husband had been insulted by the suggestion that he would not be in his bed at that hour of the night.
"Well, I'd like to speak to him at once."
"Who is this?" demanded Martha irately.
"Why, this is Harriet Gassner," was the answer. "Is this Martha Knox?"
"This is Mrs. Knox, yes," said Martha haughtily.
"Well, I thought so. I thought I knew your voice. Well, would you just call Mr. Knox, please? It's about the Morrell house. Doesn't William, I mean, doesn't your husband, have charge of that?"
"Oh, no!" said Martha with sudden apprehension in her voice. "No, indeed! He doesn't have charge of it. He never takes charge of houses. He merely has it for sale or rent. He's the agent, you know. Did you want to buy it? Because, I'm afraid--" Her voice trailed off into uncertainty as she realized that she must not tell anything she knew.
"Oh, mercy no! Buy that house? At this time of night? Well, I should say not. I'm Mrs. Gassner, you know, back on Emerson Street. I merely wanted to say I saw a light there and I thought maybe I ought to report it."
"A light!" said Martha catching her breath. "Well, perhaps the young Morrell who owns it has come home."
"No," said Mrs. Gassner, "I don't think so. He was just home a few days ago and went away. I happen to know, for I saw him running for the train. And I went over to Mrs. Deane's where he was all that day and asked her was he coming back to live, and she said she didn't think so, that he had gone back to New York. So, I'm sure it can't be him. Besides, the light is in the oddest place, away down near the ground. I thought at first it was a cat's eyes reflecting the light from the street, but then I saw it was larger than any cat's eyes. There are two lights, you know, round and a little way apart, and they are steady. They don't move. You see, I've been watching them a long time, and my husband thought I ought to do something about it. At least, I was going to call the police, but he suggested your husband might be able to explain it."
Martha struggled with the frightened lump in her throat.
"Well, that's very strange, isn't it?" she said trying to sound affable. "But don't you worry. I'll tell my husband, and he'll attend to it. Of course, since he has the house for rent I suppose he'll say it's all right for him to see what is going on. The cellar, you say? No, I wouldn't call the police if I were you, they're so nosy. I wonder if the plumber was down in the cellar fixing a leak or something and left the light on? Maybe my husband will know."
"Well, I hadn't thought of that," said Mrs. Gassner. "I was afraid it might be tramps got in."
"How did you happen to be watching the house this time of night?" asked Martha, the keen ferret, suddenly. "I shouldn't think you could see so far."
"Well, I don't sleep sa good, and I can see the house from my bed, and light travels a good piece, you know."
"Yes, I s'pose it does. Well, you better get back to bed. My husband will look after it if he thinks it's anything to worry about!" And so she had eased off the other woman and hung up, shaking with cold and fright, and had hurried to waken William.
It was not until she had poured the whole story out incoherently several times that William decided it was time for him to appear to rouse and get the particulars.
It was perhaps an hour later and a streak of dawn was beginning to appear in the sky when William Knox, attired in trousers over his pajamas and carrying an old-fashioned lantern, which Martha kept ready for emergencies, started out on his furtive pilgrimage. Martha wanted to go along until he persuaded her that she should stay at home and look after the valuables and be ready to send assistance in case he didn't return in a reasonable time. But he extinguished his lantern as soon as he was out of sight of the house, and he made a wide detour around the block in the dark, viewed the old Morrell house from a safe distance, and went home to reassure Martha.
"It's that Gassner woman. It's her imagination, Martha. You might have known that. There wasn't a sign of light anywhere!" And he crept comfortably into bed again and slept till Martha roused him in the morning to get ready for the new day, which she feared was going to be full of trouble.
But Mrs. Gassner was not the only one who had seen the mysterious light on Sunday night. Emily Lynd had seen that low spot of brightness that could be just glimpsed afar over her windowsill more than once since she had told Dap
hne about it. And in spite of the fact that they had both decided there must be some simple, natural explanation to it, she could not get it off her mind. As she lay praying after her light had been turned out and her nurse was sound asleep in the next room, she could not help opening her eyes now and then toward that light that came and went so mysteriously.
It had not been there for two nights, but now this Sunday night it shone long and steadily, low down just above the terrace, always in that same place. If she were only well and able to be up, she would be out the first thing tomorrow morning and she would walk straight to the place to satisfy herself what it could be. But she was bound here on this bed and could only watch and wonder.
She could not get to sleep at all that night, so she spent the time praying for the son of her old friend Nellie Morrell. But when the morning came, the matter of the light was still on her mind and she decided to write a little note to Keith. That would be better surely than giving the matter to the police. If Keith thought it was anything that ought to be looked into, he would know what to do about it. So she wrote her note and had it posted early in the morning, sending it special delivery.
Keith Morrell got William Knox's letter Monday morning when he went to the office, and he answered it promptly by telegram:
Will not sell at any price. Cancel immediately and return retainer.
Then he went grimly about the day's work with set lips. He would have to write that man Knox a letter sometime during the day when he had time and tell him he did not need his services further. Even if he changed his mind sometime and decided to rent, he would not bother with this agent.
But later in the morning came another telegram from Knox.
Buyer away for several days. Cannot cancel till he returns.
Keith felt vaguely uneasy about it all the morning. He didn't like the situation at all. A large sum had been paid down, and he did not know what the law was in such cases. He might have trouble about it. And more and more he was determined not to sell the old home on any account. It had begun to seem nothing short of a catastrophe to lose the property, at any price. Of course, the extra ten thousand offered would make it entirely possible for him to buy a partnership and really establish himself in his profession. But he wasn't so sure that he wanted that keenly anymore. His whole attitude toward life and his work here in New York had changed.
As the day went on, the senior partner in the firm spoke to him about the nice work he had done in Boston, but the commendation no longer had the power to fill him with the elation that it would have had a few weeks ago. He wondered what was the matter with him. He wasn't grieving over Anne Casper, surely! If he was, it was entirely possible to go back to her. It was he who had walked away from her.
But he found he did not want to go back. All life as he had been living it had grown flat and stale to him. Even his ambitions were on a different basis, a more wholesome foundation. Mr. Casper's talk about wealth and success, instead of urging him on, had filled him with a fine disgust for this sort of standard. He had a feeling that he would rather swing far to the other extreme and live where tension was not so high and one had a human, kindly outlook on life. He could never rise by using others as human stepping-stones.
Emily Lynd's letter did not reach him until late in the afternoon. He looked at the delicate script in perplexity. He had never had a letter from her before and did not recognize her writing. It couldn't be Knox writing him again so soon! It wasn't his hand. He tore open the envelope hurriedly. He was just about to leave the office for the day.
Dear Keith:
I've been a little worried about something I've seen and thought I ought to tell you.
I've been seeing a light at night over by your house, or perhaps it is in the house, I'm not sure. It is a low light about the level of the cellar window, and I would have thought you or somebody had been in and forgotten to turn it out, only it isn't always there.
At first I thought I would let the police know, and then I thought perhaps that might make unnecessary publicity, for it may be just some silly little thing that is perfectly explainable if I only understood. If I had my two good feet I would go over there and try to investigate, but as I can't I thought I would let you know, and if there is anything I could possibly do for you in the matter I'll be glad to serve you as well as I can from my bed.
Of course, I'm an old, bedridden woman, and it may be I'm just seeing visions at night, for the house seems to be standing there as natural as ever in the morning, quite intact. But as I heard that one or two other people have seen a light (though one of them was Mrs. Gassner!), and as Daphne Deane told me that twice she had heard a car with a muffled engine and no lights driving into the back driveway, I thought I had better tell you.
I look back to your brief call a few days ago with great pleasure. I hope you will be coming this way soon again and will remember to give me a good visit with you next time. I'll have Rena bake you some of the cookies you used to love so when you were a little boy, if you will come.
Very lovingly,
Emily Lynd
Keith read this letter with increasing anxiety. What in the world was going on in Rosedale? Had Knox really given possession to somebody in spite of his commands?
His first thought was to telephone the police and put it all in their hands, and then it occurred to him that it would be better if he could go down himself and see what it was all about, though he didn't like to ask for time off again so soon. But while he was thinking over the matter the senior Sawyer came out of his office, hat in hand, and crossed to the hall door.
"What's the matter, Morrell?" he asked teasingly. "You look as if the affairs of the nation rested on your shoulders."
Keith looked up, his stern young face relaxing into a smile.
"Just a little complication about my property in my hometown. I suppose it will straighten itself out somehow, though I really ought to run down there tonight and see what's the matter."
"Why not?" said the older man kindly. "You've had some strenuous days lately. Go ahead. We can get along all right for a few days without you, now the Boston work is all straightened out. Run along and take a holiday."
"Thanks," said Keith, lifting troubled eyes thoughtfully. "Perhaps I will, if you don't mind. I might be able to get back by late tomorrow morning if everything goes all right."
"Don't try," said his chief. "You deserve a few days' rest. I'm more than pleased with the way you handled that fellow Phelps up in Boston. He was all set to make us trouble, and we might have lost thousands of dollars. Go on. I'll answer for you with the office staff. Good night!"
And so it turned out that in a few minutes Keith was seated in a Pullman diner ordering his dinner, a warm feeling at his heart for the elder Sawyer's kindness and a strange elation at the thought that he was going back home again so soon. He hadn't analyzed that elation yet. He suspected that it might have something to do with the possibility of seeing Daphne Deane again, who was "as good as engaged to the new minister," and of course that wasn't quite right, especially not so soon after the severance of his interest in Anne Casper.
But he wasn't going into motives just now. He had enough to do to plan the campaign ahead of him, and of course, though he appreciated Mr. Sawyer's kindness, he did not intend to abuse it. He must rush this business through and get back as soon as possible.
Chapter 16
Keith Morrell had had just time to stop at his room, fling a few things into a traveling bag, and catch his train. He was glad he had thought to bring his flashlight. He would go at once to the house and look carefully around to see if there was any possible explanation of the light that Emily Lynd had seen. It was likely explainable, but still he was taking no chances. It might be that tramps had dared to encroach upon the premises. He ought long ago to have put someone in charge, had them sleep in the old stable loft, and let it be known that the house was guarded. With all those valuable pictures and rugs and that wonderful old furniture, he ought to have prote
cted it. Of course, it was insured, but even so, some of those things could never be replaced. He began to realize that everything connected with the old days was infinitely dear to him. Why hadn't he realized it before?
When Keith reached the Knox house, Martha said her husband had gone out awhile ago. She thought he went to see if Mr. Gowney had returned from the West. He might be here any minute now.
Keith wasted a whole hour waiting for him and then, impatient at the delay, started out to try and find either Knox or Gowney.
"You say you think he had gone after Mr. Gowney?" he asked Martha, trying for the third time to fix her shifting eyes and make her commit herself.
"He might uv," said Martha, unwilling to be any more definite. "William doesn't tell me his business affairs, but I know he was trying to find him."
"And you are quite sure he hadn't found him earlier in the day, after he received my telegram?"
"I really couldn't say!" said Martha stiffly, as if she were offended. Martha congratulated herself in her heart that none of the statements she had made were actual lies. Martha had a terror of untruth and sometimes quite ingeniously avoided it by an irrelevant remark that had little bearing on the subject, for she would never tell an out-and-out lie. But after Keith had taken himself away, saying that he would be back early in the morning, or call up, she waited until his footsteps had passed out of hearing, and then she went to the foot of the attic stairs and called: "William! He's gone! But you better not turn on the light. He might see it and come back." But William lying on an old mattress in the attic, covered with a horse blanket, a relic of former days, that he had rummaged out of an old trunk, was sound asleep and snoring peacefully. Martha had to creep up the stairs with a candle in her hand to rouse him. She was afraid to go to bed alone down in the second story, with all that money in the house and William so sound asleep he wouldn't hear if a bomb went off beside him. Moreover she wanted the immediate pleasure of telling all that had passed between her caller and herself, and giving William more sound advice while her tongue was whetted for it. So she laboriously climbed up the steep attic stairs and shook William till he came to himself and followed her down.
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