“Thanks. And here’s something else. This script I’m going to type for Mrs. L. has to do with the properties of a highly explosive gas which seems to burn up everything it comes in contact with and lets off fumes of deadly poison while it’s doing that! Shall I make a copy for you?”
“Please do!” His hand rested on the doorknob. “Yes, it’s important that we have a copy. That’s the stuff Doctor Winn has just invented, without a doubt.”
“Awful!” exclaimed Dorothy. “Just think what would happen if that were used in a war!”
“That’s the government’s business, Miss Dixon.”
“‘Ours but to do—and die—’” she quoted and her tone was deadly serious.
“Quite right. But make the carbon copy just the same—and don’t let them catch you at it.”
“I won’t, Mr. Tunbridge.”
“Bye-bye, then. I’ll get along now. There may be some home truths floating out of the library that will give me extra dope on the du-Val—Lawson pair.”
The door closed, and after slipping an extra carbon and a sheet of very thin copy paper into the typewriter, Dorothy read Mrs. Lawson’s treatise on “Winnite and Its Properties” from start to finish.
“Horrible!” she murmured, as she finished reading. “Simply horrible!” Again her eyes sought the last paragraph. “The effect is easily estimated of an airplane dropping a single bomb filled with the explosive, inflammable and deadly poison gas, Winnite, upon Manhattan Island, for instance: the bomb would explode upon detonation and within an inconceivably short space of time, not only would the City of Greater New York be in flames, but every living thing within that area would be dead from the poison fumes. This includes not only human, animal and insect life, but all vegetable matter as well.”
Dorothy sighed. “And I am supposed to help keep this terrible stuff from the hands of thieves so that our government may use it in time of war. Well—we’ll see—and that’s not that by a long shot!”
She put down the manuscript and began to type it.
CHAPTER XIV
PROFESSOR
Dorothy, upon finishing the article on Winnite, laid the original and first carbon copy of the typewritten sheets on Mrs. Lawson’s desk. The almost transparent sheets of the second carbon copy she folded carefully as though she meant to place them in an envelope. But instead of this, her right foot slipped out of its walking pump, the sheer silk stocking followed it. Then she put on the stocking again, but now the soft papers rested between the stocking and the sole of her foot. The pump fitted more snugly than before, although not uncomfortably so. Content with her morning’s work, she had closed the typewriter and was studying the effect of a new shade of powder in her compact mirror when Mrs. Lawson came into the room.
“I take it you’ve finished the work?”
“The original and copy are beside the longhand manuscript on your desk,” said Dorothy, toning down her efforts with the puff. “I’ve read it over and I don’t think you’ll find any mistakes.”
Mrs. Lawson ran her eyes over the typewritten sheets. “They are without a fault,” she declared, placing them in a drawer. “If you take dictation as accurately as you type, Janet, you’ll be the perfect secretary.”
“Thank you,” said Dorothy demurely and slipped the compact into the pocket of her frock. “It is very nice of you to say that.”
“Then we’ll go in to luncheon, shall we? That is, if you’re ready?”
Dorothy stood up. “Quite ready, Mrs. Lawson, and good and hungry, too.”
“Splendid!” enthused her hostess, as they walked down the corridor toward the entrance hall. “Doctor Winn declares this Connecticut Ridge country is the most healthful section of the United States. And even if some people have other ideas on the subject, I can testify that it is a great appetite builder.”
Dorothy smiled, but said nothing. She was wondering how healthful she was going to find this particular spot in the Ridge country after what she had to do tonight.
“Doctor Winn always lunches in his study,” continued Mrs. Lawson. “That is the room just beyond my office. My husband has been called to New York on business. He won’t be back until after dinner tonight, so we will be alone at luncheon.”
For some reason of her own, Laura Lawson had become affability itself. And for this Dorothy gave thanks. That she disliked this truly beautiful creature was only natural. But it is much more pleasant to lunch with a person who puts herself out to be charming and affable, no matter what your private opinion of the other’s character may be.
The dining room proved to be a low-ceiled apartment paneled in white pine; heavy beams of the satin-finished wood overhead, and on the walls several colorful landscapes in oils, evidently the works of artists who knew and loved this Ridge country. A cheerful log fire burned brightly on the open hearth beneath a high mantelpiece. Outside, the heavy snow continued to drive past frosted window-panes, but within all was warmth and coziness.
Dorothy enjoyed the meal thoroughly. Like most girls, she revelled in luxury when it came her way. Not only was her hostess an interesting and entertaining conversationalist, the delicious food served by Tunbridge and a second man in plum-colored knee breeches, added materially to her pleasure. She was really sorry when the butler lighted his mistress’ cigarette and Mrs. Lawson rose from the table.
“I have no work for you this afternoon, Janet,” said the lady, as they strolled into the spacious hall with its suits of polished armor and trophies of war and the chase decorating the walls. “I have some work to complete with Doctor Winn, so I won’t be free to entertain you. There are periodicals and novels in the library. If it weren’t such a beastly day, I would suggest a walk.”
“Oh, I don’t mind a snowstorm!” Dorothy smiled at her. “I’d love to be out in it for a while.”
“But I’m afraid you might get lost. The blizzard is driving out of the northeast—and that means something in this country. You’ll find it more disagreeable than you think.”
“I’m not afraid to walk in a blizzard,” Dorothy argued, “we used to do it a lot at school—I love it.”
“Oh, very well, then,” went on Mrs. Lawson. “I used to enjoy that sort of thing myself. Somebody had better go with you, though. Let me see—” She hesitated. “Oh, yes—Gretchen will be just the person. She’s a nice little thing—a native of Ridgefield, you know. Gretchen can show you round the place, and there’ll be no chance of your getting lost.”
Dorothy was amused by this pretended concern for her safety. She knew that Mrs. Lawson feared she might take it into her head to walk to the railroad station and board the first train back to town. Gretchen as guide and chaperone would be able to forestall anything like that. Mrs. Lawson was not yet sure of the new secretary!
Dorothy’s features betrayed no sign of her thoughts. “That will be ever so much pleasanter than going alone,” she agreed. “Gretchen seems to be a sweet girl. I saw her this morning when she brought my breakfast and unpacked my clothes. I’m sorry, though, that you can’t come too.” Deception, she found, was becoming a habit when treating with her hostess.
“Thank you, my dear—I’m sorry, too.” Mrs. Lawson went toward the tasselled bell rope that hung beside the fireplace. “Run upstairs now and get into warm things. I’ll ring for Gretchen and have her meet you down here in quarter of an hour.”
Fifteen minutes afterward, warmly dressed in whipcord jodhpurs, a heavy sweater and knee-length leather coat of dark green, Dorothy came out of her room onto the gallery, pulling a white wool skating cap well down over her ears. With a white wool scarf twisted about her throat, the long ends thrown back over her shoulders, she looked ready for any winter sport as she ran lightly down the stairs, the rubber soles of her high arctics making no sound on the broad oaken steps.
Gretchen, well bundled up in sweater and heavy tweed skirt was waiting for her.
“You certainly do look like a picture on a Christmas magazine cover, Miss Jordan,” the girl exclaimed, while they walked to
the front door. “I’m glad you’ve got warm gauntlets. It’s mighty cold out—you’ll need them.”
Dorothy laughed gaily and swung open the door. “Nothing could be more becoming than your own costume, Gretchen. That light blue skating set is just the color of your eyes.”
“That,” chuckled Gretchen, “is the real reason I bought it.”
They were outside now and standing under the wide porte-cochere of glass and wrought iron.
“It’s glorious out here, and not too cold, either.” Dorothy sniffed the sharp air enthusiastically. “I hate staying indoors on a wild day like this. Look at those big flakes spinning down and sideslipping into the drifts. It makes one glad to be alive.”
“You said it, Miss Jordan. I love it myself—though I never thought of snowflakes being like airplanes before. Which way do you want to go?”
“You’re the leader, Gretchen. Anywhere you say suits me.”
“Then let’s tramp over to the pond, Miss Jordan. The ice ought to be holding. We’ll stop at the garage and fetch a broom along. There’s too much snow for skating, but we might make a slide.”
“That will be fun,” agreed Dorothy, as they came down the steps and swung along the white expanse of driveway. “I haven’t done anything like that since I was a kid. How far’s the pond from here?”
“About half a mile. Doctor Winn owns several hundred acres. It’s down yonder in a hollow. This time of year when the trees are bare, you can see it plainly from the house. Today there’s too much snow.”
“There certainly is plenty of it!” Dorothy was ploughing through the fluffy white mass nearly up to her knees. “A good eighteen inches must have fallen already and it’s drifting fast. If it doesn’t stop by tonight, Winncote will be snowed in for a while. What’s that building over there, Gretchen—gray stone, isn’t it?”
“That’s the laboratory, miss. It’s really a wing of the house. The stables are just beyond, but this storm’s so thick, it blots them out. Well, here we are at the garage. If you’ll wait a minute, I’ll step inside and get a broom.”
“Get two if you can,” suggested Dorothy. “Then we’ll both get some exercise, and they’ll come in handy while we’re getting through the drifts.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Gretchen. She disappeared through a door in the side of the building.
Dorothy looked about her. Rolling clouds of windswept snowflakes made it impossible to see objects more than a few yards away with any distinctness. The dark shadow of low clouds painted the white of her landscape a cold, dull gray. But she noticed, as she waited, that the storm was driving in gusts, that occasionally there would be a short lull when the sun, tinging the sky with rose and yellow, seemed fighting to break its way through to this white-blanketed world. Then Gretchen, a broom in each hand, joined her.
“Whew! that place was stuffy,” she said, handing one of the brooms to Dorothy, and starting ahead at right angles from the way they had come. “Hanley made a fuss giving me two—he would! It’s a wonder the cars don’t melt in there. He keeps the place like an oven. All the help from the city is like that. They can’t seem to get warm enough, and the way they hate fresh air is a caution! I roomed with Sadie, the other chambermaid, when I first came, and you won’t believe it, but that girl had nailed our window shut so it couldn’t be opened! I spoke to Mr. Tunbridge next morning, and he gave me a room of my own. I always did like Mr. Tunbridge. He’s a real gentleman, he is.”
They forged ahead through the drifts to the crossfire of Gretchen’s light chatter, and Dorothy was given a series of entertaining stories concerning the habits of the Winncote servants and their life below-stairs. It was rough going with the storm in their faces, and Gretchen eventually ceased her gossiping from sheer lack of breath. The ground began to slope gently downward, and finally they came to a belt of trees in a hollow. Fifty yards farther on, a broad expanse of white marked the extent of Winncote Pond beneath its thick, flat quilt of snow.
“Think the ice will hold?” Dorothy walked to the brink of the little lake. “I’d hate to go in on a day like this.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I was down here for an hour yesterday afternoon with my skates before the snow began, and it was much warmer then. The ice was wonderful—slick as glass and solid as a rock.”
By dint of considerable exercise they cleared two narrow paths that ran parallel across the ice. Then they commenced a series of sliding contests, each girl on her own ice track. Starting at a line in the snow a few yards above the low bank, they would race forward to the brink and shoot out on the ice, vying with each other to see who could slide the farthest. There were several tumbles at first, but the deep snow along the sides of the tracks prevented bad bumps. Soon, however, they both became adepts at the sport. Dorothy, aided by her extra weight, for she was at least twenty pounds heavier than little Gretchen, invariably won.
After a half an hour of this rather violent sport, they cleared the snow from a fallen tree trunk and sat down for a rest. Here in the hollow, surrounded by trees, the wind lost a great deal of its force. But the snow continued to fall unabated, and their hot breath clouded like steam in the cold air. Their cheeks were tingling crimson from the racing, and both felt in high good spirits.
“I can’t understand why so many rich people go south every winter,” Gretchen said earnestly. “I wouldn’t miss out on this fun—the snow and the skating, tobogganing—for anything in the world.”
“People like that,” decreed Dorothy, “just don’t know how to live. You can have lots of fun in summer, of course. I don’t know which I love the best. But this sort of thing makes you feel just grand. It certainly put the pep into—.” She stopped short and sprang to her feet. From somewhere close by and seemingly below her, had come a low, moaning sound.
Gretchen jumped up. Her doll-like face with its round, blue eyes took on a look of startled wonder. “What was that?” she cried. “It sounded as if I—as if I was sitting on it!”
Again came the low cry in a weird, minor key.
“You were. It’s coming from the inside of this log. An animal of some kind.”
“Why, I guess you’re right. Whatever it is, the thing gave me the heebie-jeebies for a minute.”
The snow had drifted over the butt of the half-rotted tree. Dorothy took her broom and swept it clear.
“The log’s hollow!” she exclaimed and bent down. “Yes, there’s something in there—I can see its eyes—come here, Gretchen! You can see for yourself.”
“Not me!” declared that young woman. “I don’t want to get bit—I mean, bitten, miss.”
“Oh, never mind the grammar.” Dorothy was almost standing on her head, trying to get a better view. “But do cut out the polite trimmings when we’re alone. You’re Gretchen and I’m Dorothy—savez?”
“All right—Dorothy. But please be careful. That thing may jump out at you.”
“I wish it would. Then I’d know what it is. And whatever it is, the animal in there can’t be much bigger than a rabbit. The hole isn’t wide enough.”
“Maybe it is a rabbit.” Gretchen came nearer.
“Did you ever hear a rabbit make a noise like that?” Dorothy’s tone was disdainful.
“Then—maybe it’s a wildcat!” said Gretchen fearfully.
“Well, if it is, it’s a small one. Here, puss—puss. The silly thing is too far in to reach. She just blinks at me.”
“Perhaps she’s hurt and crawled in there to die, Dorothy.”
“Aren’t you cheerful! She probably crawled in there to get out of the storm, and is half-frozen, poor thing.”
“Well, I don’t know what we’re going to do about it,” sighed Gretchen, still keeping her distance.
Once more the low moan came from the log, but now that the end was free from snow, the sound was much clearer.
“That’s no wildcat, either!” Dorothy twisted her head, first to the right, then to the left, in an attempt to get a better light on the log’s occupant. “The
re’s too much of a whine in that cry. The thing’s probably a young fox. How does one call a fox, Gretchen? I’m hanged if I know.”
“Nor me, neither, Dorothy. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard of anybody wanting to call one.”
They both laughed. “You don’t seem to know much about foxes,” teased Dorothy. “Didn’t you ever see a fox?”
“No. But my father says the way they steal eggs and suck them is a caution.”
“Well,” admitted Dorothy, “we can’t stand around here all day, trying to get frozen foxes out of hollow logs. I’ll try whistling, and you can make a noise like a sucked egg. If that doesn’t work, we’ll have to leave him in his lair.” With a wink at the giggling Gretchen, she bent down again and whistled shrilly. “Here, boy!” she called. “Come on out to your mama!”
There was a scrambling noise within the log, and Gretchen started for the pond.
“Oh, be careful, Dorothy! Do be careful!” she cried, as she saw her friend gather a small creature into her arms. “What is it, anyway—is it a fox?”
“No, a first cousin.” Dorothy shook the ends of her wool scarf free from snow and wrapped them around the small animal.
“A first cousin?” Gretchen came nearer. “What in the world do you mean by that?”
“Come and take a look,” her friend invited. “He won’t bite you, will you, boy?”
Gretchen saw her pat a little black nose that poked its way out of the scarf. A long pointed head, brindle and white, in which were set two snapping black eyes, followed the nose. “Why, why, it’s a fox terrier—a fox terrier puppy!” she gasped. “How do you suppose he ever came to crawl into that log?”
Dorothy patted the dog’s head. “Got lost in the storm, I guess. The poor little chap can’t be over three months old. Does he belong up at the house?”
“No, he doesn’t. What’s more, none of the people who live around here have a fox terrier pup that I know of.”
Dorothy examined the pup’s front paws, but did so very gently. “This little man has come a long way.” She covered him again. “The bottom of his feet show it. They’re cut and badly swollen. And he’s half-frozen and starved into the bargain, I’ll bet. Let’s go back to the house and make him comfortable.”
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