Part 21 (2/2)

”I say!” he cried loudly. But he cried, apparently, to empty air. The man was gone--vanished as strangely and as quietly as he had appeared.

Whitaker shut teeth on an oath and, jumping down from the veranda, cast wildly about the bungalow without uncovering a single sign of the trespa.s.ser. In transit from his chair to the door, he had lost sight of the fellow for no more, certainly, than half a second; and yet, in that absurdly scanty s.p.a.ce of time, the trespa.s.ser had managed to effect an absolute disappearance. No conjuring trick was ever turned more neatly.

There one instant, gone the next!--the mystery of it irritated and perplexed more than did the question of ident.i.ty. It was all very plausible to suspect Drummond--but whither could Drummond have juggled himself in the twinkling of an eyelash? That it was no trick of an idle imagination, Whitaker was prepared to swear: he was positive he had seen what he had seen. And yet.... It was, on the other hand, impossible to say where in the plantation of pines the man might not then be skulking.

Whitaker inst.i.tuted a narrow search, but fruitless.

Eventually pausing and glaring round the clearing in complete bewilderment, he detected or else fancied a slight movement in the shadows on the edge of the encompa.s.sing woodland. Instantly, heedless of the risk he ran if the man were indeed Drummond and if Drummond were indeed guilty of the a.s.sault now four nights old, Whitaker broke for the spot. It proved to be the entrance to one of the woodland paths, and naturally--whether or no his imagination were in fault--there was n.o.body waiting there to be caught.

But if any one had been there, he had unquestionably fled along the trail. Whitaker in a rage set himself to follow, sticking to the path partly through instinct, mainly thanks to a spectral twilight manufactured in the forest by moon-beams filtered thin through innumerable leaves and branches. Once or twice he paused to listen, then again plunged on: misled perhaps by the mysterious but inevitable noises of the nocturnal woodland. Before he realized he could have covered half the distance, he emerged abruptly into the clearing of the Fiske place.

Here he pulled up, for the first time alive to the intrinsic idiocy of his conduct, and diverted besides by the discovery that his impression of the early evening, that the cottage was tenanted, had been well founded.

The ground floor windows shone with a dim but warm illumination. There was one quite near him, a long window opening upon the railed veranda, through which he could see distinctly part of a living-room rather charmingly furnished in a summery way. At its farther end a dark-haired woman in a plain black dress with a short ap.r.o.n and lace cap sat reading by lamplight: evidently a maid. Her mistress--judged by appearances--was outside on the lawn below the veranda, strolling to and fro in company with a somewhat short and heavy man who wore an automobile duster and visored cap. By contrast, her white-clad figure, invested with the illusion of moonlight, seemed unusually tall. Her hair was fair, s.h.i.+ning like a head-dress of palest gold as she bent her head, attentive to her companion. And Whitaker thought to discern an unusual quality in her movements, a quality of charm and a graciousness of mien rarely to be noticed even in the most beautiful of the women he had known.

Of a sudden the man paused, produced a watch from beneath his duster, consulted it briefly and shut the case with a snap. He said something in a brusque tone, and was answered by what sounded like a pleasant negative. Promptly, as if annoyed, he turned and strode hastily away, disappearing round the house.

Alone, the woman watched him as long as he was in sight, her head to one side with an effect of critical amus.e.m.e.nt. Then with a low laugh she crossed the veranda and entered the lighted room. At the same time, Whitaker, lingering and watching without in the least understanding or even questioning why he was doing this thing so contrary to his instincts, heard the heavy rumble of a motor-car on the far side of the house and saw the machine swing off across the clearing and into the woods.

In the living-room the woman was saying: ”You may go now, Elise. I'll be ready for bed before long.”

”Yes, madam.” The maid rose and moved briskly out of sight.

Her mistress, casting aside a scarf of embroidered Chinese brocade, moved about the room with an air at once languid and distrait. Pausing beside a table, she took up a book, opened it, shut it smartly, discarding it as if hopeless of finding therein any sort of diversion.

She stood for a moment in deep thought, her head bowed, the knuckle of a slender forefinger tapping her chin--charmingly posed. Whitaker abruptly understood why it was he loitered, peeping: she was absolutely beautiful, a creature both exquisite and superb, a matchless portrait for the galleries of his memory.

With a sigh and a quick movement of impatience, seating herself at a cottage piano she ran her fingers over the keys. Whitaker recognized the opening bars of something or other of Beethoven's--he couldn't say precisely what, at the instant; and even as he tried a thing happened which drove the music altogether from his mind: in short, he discovered that he was not the only watcher below the window.

Something--a movement or perhaps a slight sound--had drawn his attention from the woman. He saw the other man standing boldly in full moonlight, all his attention concentrated on the brilliant picture framed by the window. He was unquestionably without knowledge of the nearness of the other--of Whitaker in the shadows. And though his back was to the moon and his face further shadowed by a peaked cap, Whitaker was absolutely sure of the man: he was certainly Drummond.

Without pause for thought he sprang toward him, in a guarded voice uttering his name--”Drummond!” But the fellow proved too alert and quick for him. Whitaker's hands closed on nothing more substantial than thin air; at the same time he received a blow upon his bruised shoulder smart and forcible enough to stagger him and evoke an involuntary grunt of pain. And before he could regain his balance the fellow was thras.h.i.+ng noisily away through the woodland underbrush.

Involuntarily Whitaker glanced through the window to see if the woman had been alarmed. But apparently a succession of sonorous chords from the piano had deafened her to all other sounds. She played on with every sign of total unconsciousness.

Forthwith he struck off and blundered senselessly through the forest, misled by its elusive phantasmagoria, until, realizing at length he did but duplicate an earlier folly, he gave up the chase in disgust and slowly made his way back to the bungalow.

And yet (for all the mystery and the wonder of his experience) it was with a somewhat sheepish feeling that he took the precaution of locking the doors and windows before turning in. After all, what grounds had he for his suspicions? Merely a hasty guess at the ident.i.ty of one who might turn out to be nothing more than a hapchance tramp--a skulking vagabond on the watch for a chance to pilfer and fly.

If he were Drummond and as murderous-minded as Ember claimed, why had he neglected his dozen opportunities to ambush his prey in the woods?

A shade of incredulity insensibly began to color Whitaker's apprehensions. In time, with impatience, he dismissed them altogether from his mind.

He dozed off while dwelling upon the vision of a fair-haired woman idling over a piano, swaying slightly as she played.

XI

THE SPY

<script>