“One lump.”
Nanny O’Day’s glance swept the tray on a tour of inspection before she bustled from the room. Sandra was aware of Nicholas Hoyt’s eyes on her hand as it moved among the ravishing silver and fragile china. To dispel an absurd sense of embarrassment, she held it up.
“Anything the matter with it?”
“Nothing. Besides being perfect in shape it looks as if it might do things. Don’t you care for rings?”
“Mad about them. I have a few which were my mother’s. I haven’t worn them since I became a working woman. ‘Nice job, secretary.’ Remember the day you said that?”
“Do you think I could forget? I …”
A spoon tapped out a silver tinkle against a cup. “I’m still here,” reminded Damon. “I …”
He stopped speaking to listen to the sound of hurrying feet on the stepping-stones in front of the house. The knocker sounded an imperious summons. Voices. Nanny O’Day’s. Another, high and excited as if in argument. A rush through the hall. Emma, the maid, on the threshold, her soft hat slightly awry.
Sandra imagined that she hesitated as she saw her. If she did, it was but for a split second. She clenched her hands on the breast of the cardigan she wore over her black silk uniform. She struggled to control her panting breath as she looked from Damon to Nicholas and back to the elder man.
“I—I didn’t know what to do, sir—I nearly lost my mind when I found it caught in the drawer—so I—I brought it here!”
“Brought what?” the two men demanded in unison.
Sandra sat forward in her chair. Was she awake, or was she dreaming that she was at a play? The situation was too theatrical to be real. Emma produced a creased and crumpled envelope.
“This. It’s addressed to you, Mr. Hoyt.”
CHAPTER XIII
For an instant there was no sound in the room save the rattle of the teakettle cover and the slight hiss of steam. Then Nicholas demanded:
“How do you know I’m Hoyt? I’ve never seen you before.”
Color blotched Emma’s white face. “I’ve seen you in the village. Everybody’s talking about you and the Kentuckian who’s trying to get the property. So when I found this—you see it’s addressed to you—”
Nicholas took the envelope. His face darkened redly as he looked at it.
“You said you found this caught in a drawer. What drawer?”
“I hope you won’t think I was prying—”
“Great Scott! Stop twiddling the buttons on your jacket and talk, woman!” roared Damon. He glowered from under shaggy brows. “Speak up! Where’d you get it?”
Emma thrust unsteady hands into her pockets. Sandra detected a smoldering fire in her eyes, but her voice was servile as she answered:
“It was this way, sir. Ever since I came to Seven Chimneys I’ve heard talk about the case to be tried in court; how Mr. Rousseau had a diary that said he was the son they thought had died; how Mr. Hoyt here hadn’t a line of writing of that nurse, Anne Pardoe, to test it by. I got awful interested—there isn’t much to do in this rotten dull town—an’ I thought, suppose I could find a letter somewhere that would help either side, I’d get a reward, wouldn’t I? I could throw up the job with the Newsome woman, she’s a terror to work for.”
“That’s enough about your employer,” Nicholas Hoyt snapped. “Go on! Where did you get this?” He tapped the letter.
“I told you, sir, I got kinder nutty over the case, hearing so much about it in the servants’ hall—Mr. Huckins, the butler, can’t talk of much else—I heard there was a secret drawer in that big desk in the library, and every chance I’d get I’d fuss round to see if I could find it.”
She looked squarely at Sandra. “You caught me at it, Miss, that time when you were on the steps in front of the bookshelves. You pretended that you hadn’t noticed what I was doing, but I guess you had, hadn’t you?”
“Yes,” Sandra answered.
“Get on with your story,” Nicholas Hoyt prodded impatiently. The color had drained from his face.
“I almost went blooey this afternoon when the drawer shot out at me. Then I thought I heard paper crackle. I put my hand way in. That letter was caught in the back; you see how creased and bent it is?” The woman gulped from excitement.
“What is your name?”
“Emma Davis, Mr. Hoyt.”
“Why did you bring this letter to me? Why didn’t you take it to Mr. Rousseau if you thought it of importance?”
“I didn’t know whether it was important or not. It’s addressed to you, isn’t it, sir?” She was the picture of innocence unjustly accused. “Just because I said I wouldn’t mind a reward doesn’t mean that I’m dishonest, that I would give that letter to a person it wasn’t meant for, does it?”
“My mistake. If it is of importance, you’ll get your reward. That will be all. Go out through the kitchen. Tell Mrs. O’Day that I said to give you tea.”
“Thank you, sir. I will be glad to get it. I ran all the way here and I’m dead beat.” She paused on the threshold. “You may think I’m fresh, but I hope the letter clinches your hold on the place. That Rousseau fella ain’t no gentleman!”
Of what was Nicholas Hoyt thinking, Sandra wondered. He stood by the window looking down at the letter. The bang of a distant door shattered the spell of silence. Damon crossed the room and laid his hand on the younger man’s shoulder.
“You should have told her to keep her mouth shut, Nick. What do you make of it?”
“It’s addressed in Uncle Mark’s writing.”
“Open it.”
“Wait please!” Sandra blew out the flame under the kettle and rose. “I’m going. It isn’t right that I should hear what is in that letter. I’m Philippe’s …”
“What?”
The expression in Nicholas Hoyt’s eyes was like a grip on her throat. “H—his—I believe in him.”
“You’re not at Seven Chimneys as his spy, are you?”
“Of course not!”
“Don’t choke over it. I told you that you would believe in me, didn’t I? …”
Damon tapped impatient fingers on the window. “Suppose we find out what is in that letter, Nick.”
“Right, B.D. I’ve been stalling. I dreaded to open it. Keep an eye on Miss Duval while I’m reading. She’s likely to walk out on us.”
How could he smile when perhaps his fortune was at stake? Sandra was tense with excitement and the outcome meant nothing to her. What would it mean to Philippe?
She kept her eyes on Nicholas Hoyt as he pulled two sheets of paper from the envelope. Two letters? His lips tightened as he read, the veins in his forehead stood out like cords. He cleared his throat and looked up.
“One is from Uncle Mark, written the day he died. Remember, don’t you, B.D., that I was in Chicago at the time, following up the firm which had been hammering at some of our securities? He had received a letter from Anne Pardoe. She wrote that she hadn’t much longer to live and confessed that she had stolen the child. That must have been the letter which troubled him that last day. Here it is.”
He flung the letters to the desk and crossed to the window. Hands hard in his pockets, he turned his back and stared out at the riot of color in the perennial border.
Damon picked up the two sheets of paper. Read them. Dropped them to the desk. He backed against the mantel and shook his head.
“Those will about wash up our case, Nick. What will you do?”
Nicholas Hoyt wheeled. His face was white, his usually gray eyes were black.
“Do! Take it on the chin—if I have to. But …”
An irresistible force took possession of Sandra. Nerves in her throat she never before had known were there, ached. She said breathlessly:
“Mr. Damon, perhaps I should have told you before, the maid Emma is the woman who applied for the social secretary position just before I did. I’m sure of it. She has dyed her hair since then.”
“How do you know?”
Sa
ndra kept her eyes on the elder man’s startled face.
“The girl at the switch-board called my attention to her angry eyes that day. I was so excited over my first attempt to secure a position that my mind was like a sensitive film, every little incident was photographed in color.”
“Why haven’t you told this before?”
Nicholas Hoyt’s voice was like an icy wave drenching her, chilling her to the bone.
“Because—I waited—”
“Have you told Rousseau?”
“I have not. I haven’t told any one, but now that I have told you, I think it only fair that he should know.”
“What will you do now, Nick?” Damon demanded.
Nicholas glanced from one face to the other.
“I think perhaps I’d better keep my program to myself.” He thrust the letters into his pocket.
“Still interested to see the stables, Miss Duval?” he inquired as lightly as if the winning or losing of a fortune were a mere incident in the day’s routine.
Had her information about Emma made Nicholas Hoyt again suspicious of her, Sandra asked herself the next morning, as in her brown and white checked sports coat and soft hat she waited in the living room at Stone House for the car which was to take her to Seven Chimneys. Apparently he had been in high spirits while he showed her about the stables. He had been so tenderly thoughtful that some quick fiery stuff in her had flared up each time she had met his eyes. Had he been pretending again? He must have been. Didn’t he want her to know how upset he was about those letters?
The questions had been uppermost in her mind during the inspection of the stables; except for an impression of immaculateness and sleek heads and great velvety eyes, she couldn’t remember what she had seen. She had been furiously indignant and hurt—yes, she would acknowledge that—at the manner in which he had slammed the door of his mind in her face. It didn’t help that Mr. Damon had received the same treatment. Did he think that she would run to Philippe Rousseau with information while a guest in his house?
A car! At the gate. A roadster. Philippe driving. Why had he come for her?
Nanny O’Day bustled in. “It’s come, my dear.” Was her voice constrained? “The car’s come for you. Keep the coat over your poor shoulder; I’ll button it close about your throat.”
Sandra’s eyes filled. She pressed her face against the woman’s rosy, wrinkled cheek. “You’ve been wonderful, Nanny. I can’t begin to—”
“There, there, my dear, it’s been a joy having you. I sent your riding clothes back by Bridie when she brought the pyjamas, so you have only this small bag. I told her not to let you stir out of your rooms till tomorrow. Now be a good child and do as you’re told.”
Philippe Rousseau was coming up the path. He must not enter this house for her. “I’ll take the bag, Nanny. I’ll see you again soon.” She was out of the front door before the woman could answer.
“Here I am, Philippe. Why did you come for me?”
“Think I would let any one else drive you home?”
“Don’t help me as if I were a centenarian.” Sandra shook off his hand on her arm. “I’m fed up on invalidism.”
As the roadster started, she waved to the little woman standing in the doorway. Rousseau was intent on maneuvering out of the drive whose curves had been planned long before the days of automobiles. Safely on the highway, he turned to her. His dark eyes were drenched in melancholy.
“Are you annoyed that I came for you, Sandra?”
“Of course not; don’t go melodramatic, Philippe. I think it would have been in better taste if the chauffeur had come, that’s all.”
He twisted his dark, clipped moustache with his free hand, his moody eyes on the road ahead. Sandra’s conscience pricked. What had made her suddenly aware of Philippe’s theatricalness? He was no different from the man she had liked before her accident; then his mannerisms had seemed amusing, now they were irritating. Was it because Nicholas Hoyt’s evident suspicion of her was smarting in her mind? He had been suspicious, else why the sudden determination to keep his “program” to himself?
She wrenched her thoughts from him and drew a long breath of the spicy air. Wonderful to be back in the world again; it seemed as if she had been housed for years. After this she would have more sympathy with invalids. What a tragedy to be obliged to sit passively on the sidelines and see life go by. She stole a glance at Rousseau’s face. Was he angry?
“Don’t be cross this perfect day, Philippe. Look at those trees! The fruit is beginning to show crimson. Summer has gone.”
Beyond the colorful orchards, fields, some of them speckled with eruptions of gray rock, rolled away to woods which hoisted scraps of rusty-orange and browny-red that made her think of the gay little sails of Venetian fishing-boats. Scarlet maple flamed among the dark spruces and pines. Silver birches, towering elms, and a white boat-house plunged tops deep into the black mirror of the river. Large houses added the human touch to the panorama, much as the soul behind the eyes of a lovely woman makes them come alive. On the tanbark fairway back of the Seven Chimneys’ stables, horses, their backs shining like satin, were being breezed.
“Let’s stop by the track, Philippe,” Sandra suggested eagerly. “Any chance of seeing Iron Man at work?”
Rousseau glanced at his wrist watch. “Time for him now. I suppose you saw the great Fortune while you were at Stone House? I’m surprised that you have any interest in my horse now.”
How like him, Sandra thought, before she protested: “Don’t be foolish. Can’t a person admire two horses?”
“What did you think of Hoyt’s?”
“I’m not sufficiently turf-minded to express an opinion.”
“You won’t, you mean. Here comes Iron Man.”
He stopped the car. Two men perched on the fence turned to look, then whispered to each other.
“Who are they, Philippe?”
“Those railbirds? I don’t know. Probably racetrack habitués hanging round to time Iron Man on his workout. He’ll walk. Then he’ll canter. Then he’ll speed.”
The gray’s back had the sheen of polished pewter in the sunlight. He lifted his fine head and snorted.
“He’s magnificent! He looks as if he knew everything there was to know in the world!” Sandra exclaimed.
“Sometimes I think he does. In a race he sets his own time for putting on speed and Piggy Pike lets him have his way. Look! Look!”
Iron Man was a silver streak around the fairway. Every person in sight had a watch in his hand. As the jockey slowed the horse to a stop, Rousseau dropped back into his seat. His eyes burned like coals in his white face.
“He’s broken Fortune’s record on that course! It’s the breaks at last! I suppose you’re sorry,” he accused bitterly. “Let’s go!” He started the car.
“Ever heard of the power of suggestion, Philippe? If you keep on telling me that I am backing Fortune, I may begin to think that I am.”
His laugh was as unpleasant as his voice. “If you do, you’ll make the mistake of your life. Turf enthusiasts all over the country have their eyes on my horse. He’s top choice. Perhaps you’re betting on Nick Hoyt’s side of the estate case too? I suppose you heard all the latest dope in his favor while you were at Stone House?”
“He’s been leading up to this!” The thought blazed through Sandra’s mind with a suddenness that caught at her breath. She looked at Rousseau from under the screen of her long lashes. His eyes were intent on the entrance to Seven Chimneys. Why had he asked that question? Did he, could he know of Emma’s visit? Of course he didn’t. She was disloyal to him to think it. Though still shaken by the intuitive flash, she said evenly:
“I asked no questions about the estate while I was a guest at Stone House, Philippe.”
He did not speak again until he had brought the roadster to the door of Seven Chimneys in a spurt of speed. “Here we are. I’m glad to get you out of the irresistible Nick Hoyt’s clutches,” he sneered.
Not unt
il she reached her room did Sandra remember that she had decided to tell him of her suspicion of Emma. Why had she forgotten? The question recurred several times during the day. It popped into her mind even while Mrs. Pat was affectionately scolding her for being up and about her flower-fragrant boudoir.
She and Bridie between them had sent her to bed early, and now, braced by downy pillows, she was waiting in the lamp-lighted room for the maid to bring her dinner.
She crinkled her nose at her reflection in the mirror: laughing dark eyes, a slightly tanned face, white shoulders, neck, and arms, one in a sling, dark hair, delicate lace and pale blue georgette against apricot linen pillows.
“They will dramatize your silly accident,” she said aloud to the looking-glass girl. She picked up the telephone on the stand beside the bed in response to a ring.
“Sandra Duval speaking.” She could feel the color warm her skin. Nicholas Hoyt. Why had he called her? She had better listen instead of wondering. His voice was as clear as if he were in the room; if he were still indignant because she had not before told her suspicions of Emma, he was camouflaging skillfully. She answered:
“How am I? Fine, thank you.”
“You look like a million.”
Sandra met the startled eyes of the girl in the mirror.
“How—how do you know?”
“Your televisibility is grand.”
“Wait a minute.” Of course it was a joke, but she hastily dropped the phone to drag a blue satin lounge coat over her bare shoulders with one hand. That was better. She picked up the instrument.
“You were saying?”
“Are they taking care of you as well as we—Nanny O’Day did?”
“Care! They are making my life a burden. The doctor was here when I arrived and went into the air when he heard that I had stopped at the fairway to see—”
“Go on, you saw Iron Man sprint, didn’t you? Afraid to hurt my feelings? I’ve heard that he broke Fortune’s record on that course. Never mind the horses; what did the Doc say?”
“That my arm could come out of the sling tomorrow. When that happens, I hope every one will forget that I was such a total loss on horseback. Thank you for those gorgeous roses.”
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