Uncharted Seas

by Emilie Loring

  “What were you saying, Philippe?”

  “Do you never listen when I speak? I asked why you were not going to Stone House for tea?”

  “You forget that I am a working girl. I can’t play all the time. I have things to do.”

  “Come along. I’m driving over. I shan’t stay more than ten minutes; then I’ll go back to the track paddock. I’ll drop you here on the way.”

  “I don’t wonder you are going back; the wonder is that you could leave at all. I saw the horses start this morning. I’ll never forget the thrill of it. To see priceless Iron Man starting off with that funny goat boyfriend he has picked up since he came here. It was like a circus cavalcade. Grooms, swipes, exercise boys, water and fodder for the stallion, and everywhere your colors, orange and black. Mrs. Pat doesn’t do things by halves when she backs a proposition. I’m still tingling from the excitement of watching that departure.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. I’m getting the vibration. But come on to Stone House. I shall need you there to offset the ice in the atmosphere when my cousin Nicholas sees me.”

  “Why go, if you think yourself unwelcome?”

  “To stay away might be construed by him to mean that I had doubt as to the outcome of the fight, mightn’t it? Doubt! Only two days more and then … Come on to Stone House and back me up.”

  “Can’t. Must work. I haven’t a fortune in the offing.”

  “Yes, you have.” Rousseau caught her hands and drew her from behind the chair. “You’ll share everything I have, Sandy.”

  “Don’t call me that. It’s a very special name, for those …”

  Some one coughed discreetly. Emma was standing beside one of the huge box trees. Had she come from behind it? Rousseau’s face darkened.

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  “Mrs. Newsome sent me to find you, sir, to tell you that she is starting for Stone House.”

  “All right. I’m coming. I’ll be seeing you, Miss Duval.”

  Without a backward glance he hurriedly crossed the terrace and entered the house. Curious that suddenly he should have gone formal, Sandra thought.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Miss.”

  The maid’s tone was civil but her eyes shot little darts of hate. Why? Because Sandra Duval had procured the job she herself had wanted?

  “Interrupting seems to be the best thing you do, Emma. Popping up like a jack-in-the-box is getting to be your speciality, isn’t it?”

  In spite of something within her urging, “Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!” Sandra crossed the terrace and entered the house with an excellent imitation of indifference. In the hall she obeyed the voice of the prompter and flew up the stairs. In her boudoir she looked at the turquoise and silver clock ticking away the minutes. Half after four. How long before it would be dark enough for her to begin the search for the habitat of the phantom of the pool?

  Because of the plan she had in mind, she had appeared coolly aloof when Mrs. Pat had asked her to join the Stone House tea-party. She had hoped that her employer would think her still annoyed because of the cavalier treatment she had received last night when she had asked for the guest list for the Race-Day tea. It had been difficult for her to maintain her hurt manner as she never harbored a grievance—it rolled off her mind with the ease of a glycerine tear down the cheek of a movie star—never, except with Nicholas Hoyt. Curious how he could stir her resentment.

  Last night, for instance, why hadn’t she laughed when he had appeared as she was sympathetically patting the arm of Curtis Newsome, why hadn’t she treated the situation lightly? She was already seething with anger, that was the answer. Perhaps she had been preachy to the Carter woman, but, even at the cost of being rated a back number, one had to fight for one’s convictions occasionally. Lucky Mrs. Pat had not been the visitor; her secretary would have been hard put to it to explain why she was attempting to comfort her husband. Had Estelle returned to the music room last night after Nicholas Hoyt’s departure? What would he do if Philippe Rousseau proved to be the missing son? If! He must be. Didn’t the letters Emma had found prove it? She couldn’t see Nicholas remaining as manager of the estate. His eyes had been black with fury when Philippe had proposed it. She had held her breath, expecting a clash; then Huckins’ voice had gumshoed into the situation and the incident had slipped away into the limbo of averted crises.

  What had he thought when she had not appeared at Stone House this afternoon for tea? If—it was a mammoth if—he had thought of her at all, had he wondered if she had stayed away because of his suspicion of her last night? His eyes had been savage, the remembrance of them caught at her breath: they had picked up her heart as a magnet might steel and held it quivering. That sentimental comparison must have come straight out of a story of the romantic nineties; just the same, it had happened, it had been a terrifying sensation. Nicholas Hoyt must never suspect it. He might think that she had joined the pack of hounds which kept his telephone ringing.

  Why, why, was she standing in the middle of her room thinking about him instead of getting busy? She had not too much time as it was; Mrs. Pat and her guests might cut the tea-party short.

  She caught up a pocket flash; if dusk came on as quickly as she hoped, she might need it. The sight of its elaborate monogram, S.D., brought back the Christmas in Rome when her father had given it to her. The drawing room of the apartment in which they were living had been fragrant and colorful with blossoms which they had bought at the flower market in front of the sunken boar fountain at the Spanish Steps. They had lingered to watch an animated group of red-frocked students, terribly in earnest over something, before ascending to the old church with its rich altars, its candles and incense, to hear the nuns sing at sunset. A perfect Christmas eve. Life had seemed one long party then, but now—well, it might not be a party, but it was stimulating and thrilling.

  Outside her door she stopped to listen. The house was sepulchrally quiet. Usually at this time one could hear the tinkle of spoons on china, voices, laughter; could sniff the aroma of tea and coffee. This afternoon there was no sound, no scent. So much the better for her plan.

  She stole along the hall, holding her breath at every creak of a board under her feet. Now she was in the corridor of the main house the rooms of which were devoted to guests. Mrs. Pat’s suite was in the opposite wing from hers. She visualized the tall clipped hedge at the end of the garden. The apparition had appeared against that. She would try the door in the middle of the corridor.

  She tapped gently. How could she expect to hear with the sound as of rushing water in her ears? She tapped again. No answer. Softly, cautiously, she turned the knob. Pitch-dark and uncannily still. This must be the room with shades drawn she had noticed when talking with Philippe. She slipped in, closed and locked the door. Darn the key! Did it have to squeak?

  Better not use her flashlight yet. She peered into the dusk. Shapes suggested, not revealed. Chairs with enticing contours. A table with something high on it. A pictureless expanse of white wall. She cautiously snapped on the flashlight in her hand. Wall! It was a silver sheet. The mound on the table was a moving picture projector!

  In spite of the fact that it was what she had expected to find, little chills coasted down Sandra’s spine and crawled up with icy feelers. Spooky! Just plain spooky! Suppose it were, she rallied herself, she couldn’t stand here shivering. She had better get busy before the party returned from Stone House.

  She set her flash so that the ceiling threw back the illumination. Lucky she knew how to work this projector; taking moving pictures had been one of her father’s greatest pleasures. During this last year when they had settled in London, he had been vastly entertained by living over his adventures as portrayed on the screen.

  She picked up the tin case on the table. Empty. There was a film in the projector! Was the machine connected with electricity? She turned off her flash. Cautiously pressed a knob. A figure sprang out on the silver sheet! A shrouded figure with a skeleton hand!

  Hide
ous thing! Sandra shivered, clenched her teeth, and set the film in motion. The skeleton hand waved, faded out, reappeared, waved again. She shut off the current. The room was black.

  “S-stop s-shivering,” she scolded herself. “S-stop s-shivering! You know now that it is nothing but a f-film, don’t you?” Her mind steadied, but the icy merry-pranks still tobogganed down her spine.

  “S-so far so g-good,” she told herself. “That goes for this room, but does it prove that the picture would reach the hedge?” In the dark she crept to the window, cautiously moved the shade. The garden was quite dark. Mrs. Pat would not yet have returned from Stone House. At this hour the servants would be on the other side of the wing. This was her chance.

  She tiptoed back to the table, snapped on her flashlight and carefully began to wind up the film. It wouldn’t do to try the picture against the hedge. If she experimented with the light only, a person seeing it would think it came from a window. She counted every turn of the roll. She must put it back and leave it as she had found it. She listened. Not a sound in the house.

  The film was out! It seemed as if she had been years unwinding. it. She pressed the button. A square of light on the screen! She turned the projector toward the window. In an instant she had snapped up the shade.

  The light struck the hedge. Not in the middle where she had seen the spectre! Too bad! At the corner! Was she seeing things? Two white faces! Was that a man and a woman? Close together? They stared at the house as if fascinated. Their eyes glittered in the glare. Emma! Emma the maid! And Philippe!

  In an instant they had disappeared. Sandra couldn’t remember whether she jerked down the shade first or tore across the room and snapped off the light. Her heart was pounding unendurably. She must get that film back. Quick! Philippe might investigate the source of the light. She forced her fingers to steadiness. Counted every turn of the reel. Suppose he came? He was suspicious of everyone these last days of suspense. What should she say to him? It was in! If only she could get out of the corridor without being seen. She stole to the door.

  Emma and Philippe! The words kept going round and round in her mind. Emma and Philippe! He had said that he was going to the track! Camouflage. An excuse for returning to Seven Chimneys. Had the woman told him of the letters she had found? Was she trying to get money from him as well as from Nicholas Hoyt? Double-crosser! Gold-digger!

  She stealthily turned the key. Listened at a crack. Silence. The house was eerily still. She closed the door softly behind her. Started to run.

  “ ‘Walk—don’t run—to the nearest exit,’ ” she told herself, and giggled nervously as the warning she had seen on countless theatre programs flashed into her mind. She forced herself to walk slowly.

  Emma and Philippe! Allies? Perhaps Nicholas Hoyt had not come across with a reward and the maid was selling her knowledge of the letters to the claimant to the estate. Whatever the explanation, Nicholas Hoyt must know. There had been an inexplicable something in the situation revealed by the projector light which had snuffed out the candle she had kept lighted for Philippe in her heart. Her belief in him had gone. Where? Why? She wouldn’t dare phone the information she had acquired. She must go to Stone House—but not before Mrs. Pat had left there.

  What was that sound? Some one in the corridor? Philippe? Emma? They must not find her here. They might suspect that she had thrown the light, that she had seen them. She tucked her flashlight inside her blouse. What a bulge! She pulled it out. She flew down the stairs. Where had she better go? The library. She pushed the flashlight on top of a row of books. The puzzle table. Praise be to Allah for the puzzle!

  She slipped into a chair and began to poke among the fantastically jig-sawed bits of wood. The loggia grille clanging! She would recognize that sound anywhere. Who was coming?

  For an instant she glanced up at the portrait of the M.F.H. The eyes looked down into hers as if probing her soul. Even in paint and canvas the man’s vitality persisted. She must get to the original of the portrait quickly. How?

  Footsteps on the tiled floor of the hall! Sandra attempted to fit a piece of clear blue sky into the middle of a fleecy cloud. Some one was crossing the rug behind her! Who? She hummed airily:

  “The hounds are on the trail,

  The hounds are on the trail.”

  A hand fell on her shoulder. Her heart missed a beat but she went on:

  “Heigh o the derry oh,

  The hounds are on the trail.”

  She looked up. Philippe Rousseau was frowning down at her with the tinge of suspicion in his eyes which was becoming chronic. She protested theatrically:

  “You shouldn’t interrupt a coloratura soprano in the midst of an aria, Philippe. Aren’t you back from the track early?” She glanced at her wrist watch. “But it isn’t early. I must have been working at this old puzzle for the last half hour. Did you find Iron Man all right?”

  She rose. Why didn’t he speak? Had he in some way found out that it was she who had turned the betraying light on the hedge? If he didn’t say something soon she would scream. He gripped her shoulder.

  “Sandra, have you …” He shot an oblique glance at the stairs which descended from the musicians’ gallery. Huckins had stopped half way down.

  Sandra swallowed hard. Had he come from the upper hall? How long had he been within hearing? Had he seen her dash across the room? Perhaps he was in league with Philippe too? No. Emma had seemed afraid of him. His manner was servile, but the hateful, secretive smile lurked about his pinched lips.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Rousseau, but they’ve been phoning for you from the track for the last half hour. I tried this room at once, but Miss Duval, working here on the puzzle, said she didn’t know where you were, and I’ve been all over the place since.”

  “What’s happened now!” The words trailed behind Rousseau as he hurried to the hall.

  Sandra’s eyes followed him, then returned to the butler. He knew that she had not been here an half hour ago. Why had he said it? Had he seen her come out of the room upstairs? Did he think the knowledge would give him a sinister hold on her? The thought set her heart beating in her throat. In spite of the tumult it was kicking up, she managed a cool smile.

  “These are hectic days for Thoroughbred owners, aren’t they, Huckins?”

  The butler laid his hand on the heap of puzzle fragments and leaned nearer.

  “They’ll be hectic days for some others if they don’t stop prying into things that aren’t their business, Miss,” he warned.

  What suspicion was back of those dark, impenetrable eyes? What code of life? Was it just fussy curiosity, or was the man in someone’s pay? If he knew that she had found the projector, what would he do? All the more reason now for her to get the knowledge of what she had discovered to Nicholas Hoyt. She must go to Stone House at once. She said as lightly as she could with every pulse hammering:

  “How you dramatize life, Huckins! It must be a lot of fun to feel of colossal importance, to think in terms of mystery and—”

  “Oh, here you are, Sandra!” Mrs. Pat spoke from the threshold. She was colorless, her eyes were set in dark rings. “Come up with me, will you? I want to talk over the gown I’ll wear to the ball. That maid of mine is a total loss when it comes to clothes.”

  “I’ll never make the Seven Chimneys to Stone House hop now,” Sandra thought, even as she agreed cordially:

  “Of course I’ll come, Mrs. Pat. I know just the gown you should wear to reduce the bright young things at the ball to speechless envy.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  “ ‘The gods provide the thread once the web is started.’ ”

  That favorite axiom of her father’s slipped into Sandra’s thoughts as she dressed for the ball. To be sure the thread was supposed to be provided for weaving, but wouldn’t it apply to unraveling as well? She had the end of a thread to a mystery in her fingers. If she kept pulling and following, it must get her somewhere. She would manage to tell Nicholas Hoyt that she had seen Philipp
e and Emma together. Perhaps her discovery amounted to nothing, perhaps he knew already. Even if he did, her responsibility was not lessened. Only two days now before the matter of the right to the estate was settled. What would Nicholas do if …

  “Forget it for tonight,” she told her reflection, as she noted the tiny pucker between the mirrored girl’s brows. “You eat, sleep, and work with that question at the back of your mind.”

  Remembering Mr. Damon’s instructions, “You will be expected to dress as a daughter of the house should—and it is some house to dress up to,” she had made a special trip to town for a gown.

  “To Sandra with love from Sandra,” she said aloud, as she approved the frock she had presented to herself. “You shimmer like a frosted Christmas card, gal.”

  She thoughtfully regarded a diamond bracelet in its velvet case. It was more beautiful than any one of the three Estelle Carter wore. Her godmother had given it to her on her twenty-first birthday. She had not worn it since she came to Seven Chimneys; it had seemed too costly for a social secretary. But tonight—why not enjoy it? No one would credit her with wearing real jewels, and she adored the sparkle.

  She snapped it on her bare arm. It was a perfect touch for her gown. She had chosen white for the festivity because it would make a better background for a pink sleeve than would color. “What a blow if no pink sleeves slipped about you this evening. It might happen; you are a mere social secretary, you know, and Mr. Damon warned you that the residents were snooty in regard to Mrs. Newsome’s household,” she reminded the looking-glass girl.

  “Nice job, secretary!”

  She turned sharply away from the mirror as the trainer’s curt comment broke in on her thoughts as clearly as if his voice had shattered the silence of the room. Couldn’t she forget him and his fight to retain his inheritance for a moment? It looked as if she were being drawn into the maze. Would she have an opportunity tonight to tell him what she had discovered? She must make one. Tomorrow would be race day. He would have no thought tomorrow for anything but Fortune.