Suddenly he was alive. The humming had increased to a buzz loud and clear. Were they enemies or friends?
And then he was upon his feet, springing toward the door, forgetting the shackles on his ankles, forgetting everything but that several planes were coming, and he must look out and see if he could find out what was going on.
But the chains were too short for rapid strides, and Rannie fell, his foot striking something hard and metallic on the floor. He recovered himself and looked around. Was that a gun on the floor by his foot? He reached for it. Bud’s gun! Was that the one thing he heard him lay down when he took the book from his hand? Had he just laid it down to get the book and then forgotten it, or had he left it there on purpose?
Cautiously, Rannie picked himself up and stared at the door. It was open! Bud had not bolted it after him! He had not even closed it. He had left the captive free, and he had not led him out for the stroll and pushed him off the cliff as he had been told to do!
Bud was clean!
Rannie’s heart suddenly went out to Bud with a great sweep of love and gratitude. Poor tough Bud, hard-boiled and wicked, but he had dared his boss to give Rannie a chance! And he had wanted the little book to take with him.
Then a new thought came reverently to Rannie. The book had saved his life, perhaps. The little book stood to him in place of a ransom if he got free now.
But Rannie was cool again. He heard the planes tearing along the sky overhead, going like mad. They were past the cabin now and sweeping round to the north. It was too late to signal them of course, even if he could have done it with his shackled hands. Besides, he must be very wary. His captors could not be far off yet. When they saw the planes were gone, they might return.
The first thing to do was to get rid of these shackles. He swung himself over the cot and felt around for his file. This was the moment he had faintly hoped would come for some time. This was what he had been keeping the file for. Indeed, he had gone so far as to select the very first link in his fetters that should be sundered first and marked it with surreptitious strokes of the file now and then when his captors were outside the cabin and he was sure they could not hear the soft grinding of the metal.
One of the chains that held his feet had quite a deep nick in it where he had worked on it. He had been afraid to do much, thinking it might be noticed by the boss, who was keen for every detail.
Now as he caught up the file from his hiding place, he was fairly out of breath with excitement. Eagerly he worked, impatient over the rough old instrument that would not bite the steel as deep as a sharp one would have done.
It seemed hours before the kink finally dropped apart, and he kicked one foot loose and felt a thrill of ecstasy. Now, whatever happened, he was free to move. There was still a chain attached to one foot, but at least he could take long steps, and that was a lot in making a getaway.
The next thing was to set his hands free, and for that he needed more light, for the dimness of the inner room sorely hampered his efforts.
He picked up the gun, stowed it in the only whole pocket of his clothes, and strode into the other room, rejoicing that at last he could take a real step, even though a length of chain was still dangling from one foot. Of course, he must get rid of that before he tried flight. It was too noisy.
It was not so easy to unshackle his hands. It was an awkward position in which he had to work. Now and then he would get up and peer cautiously out the window or door in the midst of his feverish work to make sure the enemy was not in sight, and perhaps with a faint hope that a friendly plane might return, though he was not sure whether he would more welcome or fear a plane if one could be heard.
At last one hand was free. Now he could at least steady himself and take hold of things without having to keep his arms in such a constrained position. He decided that he had better get out into the open somewhere to do the rest. No telling when the bloodthirsty fiends would return, and then it would be up with him again. If the boss should discover that Bud had not pushed him over the cliff, he would likely come back and finish the job himself.
Rannie rose and gave one quick glance about, saw the open cupboard door, the empty shelves. His kindly caretakers had left no food behind. Or say! Was that a can of tomatoes back in the corner? He strode over to the cupboard, reached for the can, felt around for anything else that might be there, and found the end of a loaf of bread, an inch or so, hard as stone.
With these two items he fled, pausing at the doorway to give a hasty, cautious glance about, and then an upward glance.
“Oh, God, help me, please. Show me which way to go,” he said aloud in a guarded voice and then dashed out into the woods and down the mountainside.
Chapter 17
The Kershaw family had moved to Seneca Street. Not that it was much of a move. A single load of furniture was all they took. They left the big house immaculate, and the new owner moved in that afternoon.
That was the day a keen-eyed son of the law took Mr. Kershaw aside to tell him that there was definite news about a clue, one that he personally had to follow up on, secretly.
“I’d like young Harper in on this interview, if it’s all right with you, Mr. Kershaw. That boy has a head on him, and he can help us with this.”
So it happened that Philip Harper was scheduled for an important part in the plans that were to be carried out in utmost secrecy. Throughout the whole time of Rannie’s absence, Phil had been the one who sheltered the poor father from the herd of reporters, the questions of well-wishers, and the prying of the curious. He had become an intimate friend of the family.
“He is like another son. I don’t know what I should do without him,” said Mr. Kershaw, sitting with his elbows on the desk and head in his hands, trying to rest his aching head and inflamed eyes. He had scarcely slept at all the preceding night. The whole amount of sleep he had had since Rannie’s disappearance was negligible.
“I think God sent him,” said Christobel softly. “Don’t you, Father?”
“Perhaps—if God cares—” sighed Mr. Kershaw. “But if He cares, why did He let it happen?”
“There might be a reason,” said Christobel thoughtfully.
“Well, I can’t see it, but at least I’m glad we have Philip now.”
And so it was Philip who volunteered for the flight across the mountains, in search of Rannie. Philip had been to flying school and had hoped for a career in that line, until his father’s accident made it imperative that he get an immediate paying job.
So, with the best plane for the purpose that could be procured, and a trustworthy pilot, Philip was sent out to hunt for Rannie.
But the night before he left, Philip and Christobel went into the little white velvet sanctuary once more and knelt to pray.
Then in the dim crystal light, Philip took Christobel’s hands in his and held them close for a moment. Looking down at her as her eyes shone starry with wonder, and yet dread of tomorrow, he said in a low, earnest voice, “You are very precious to me, little girl. I wish I could do something to make this hard way easier for you.”
“Oh, but you have,” said Christobel, thrilling to his words and returning his warm clasp with a clinging pressure. “It’s been so wonderful to have a real friend. I’ve never had one before. And you’ve done the greatest thing you could ever do for me. You’ve shown me to Jesus Christ. I will never cease to be thankful. I couldn’t go through these days without Him.”
For an answer Philip stood and pressed his lips tenderly on the slender fingers he held, and when he spoke his voice was like a holy caress. “Dear!” he said. “I’m so glad that you feel that way. Perhaps—perhaps someday I may win the right to show you something else. Now—God be with you!” And with a quick pressure of her hands, he was gone.
So Christobel prayed for three after that: for Rannie in the unknown wide world, for her father in his grim sorrow, and for Philip on his uncharted, dangerous flight.
Christobel was not sorry to say good-bye to the great
house. She and Maggie walked away from it, scarcely turning to look back. They were going on the streetcar to Seneca Street, for all the cars had been sold to produce more ransom money, all except the little runabout her father was using this morning to go with one of the officers following up a clue.
But Christobel mounted the steps of the streetcar with content. What were trifles of convenience and station when trouble was upon them all?
Maggie wisely interested Christobel in making Rannie’s room ready for him. She talked cheerily about when he would return and how much boys enjoyed having a nice room all of their own. She chattered away continually to Christobel about which bed had the best springs and whether the walnut bureau was the best for a boy’s room or would the maple one be better?
Maggie fondly supposed she was keeping Christobel from thinking about her troubles by all this chatter, but Christobel’s eyes were far away, thinking of a flier out about the mountains, and her heart was thrilling with the sound of a voice that had called her precious. There was a new wonder in her eyes, and in her soul was a trust in God that was reflected in the quiet smile she wore upon her lips and in the peace upon her brow.
So the plain old home on Seneca Street became a home once more, with rooms where rest and quietness and peace could be found even for the haunted soul of the father whose heart was continually wrung with a hopeless remorse for what might have been. There was always a fire laid upon the hearth, ready for the return of the wanderers, there were beds ready for the weary and a store of good, plain homemade things to eat. When things began to get into good shape, Maggie started inventing things for Christobel to do to keep her busy, and so the days went by, till Philip had been gone a week on his mission, and there was still no definite message of progress made.
Of course there had to be utmost caution about any messages that passed, for the public would get hold of the least rumor and make much of it, and it was most important that the enemy should not have an inkling that anyone was in pursuit.
So Christobel had to content herself with prayer and trusting. Only the briefest messages came, a single word sometimes, never to her, nor to any one known to be connected with the family. And often her father would be so engaged she dare not trouble him to ask about any progress that might have been made in the search.
In these days Philip’s mother was a tower of strength, and his sister June would come over in the evening, and between the two girls there grew up at once a warm friendship, the cementing of the old memories of childhood days. Christobel thought constantly of how happy she would be now if only Rannie were back and the cloud lifted from their home. She counted up her blessings, and the first was her newfound Savior. How precious it was to have Someone to whom to go at all times, in whom she could utterly trust. Oh, if she had only known Jesus Christ before, what a different thing her lonely little childhood would have been. Sometimes she even looked back with a sigh and wondered if Charmian had ever known about the Lord. It was all too evident that she had never actively believed on Him. It was plain to be seen that her own self had occupied her utterly. If Charmian had known the Lord, how different everything might have been for them all.
There was no question in Christobel’s mind about her own mother. She could remember early teaching, Bible stories, prayers with her and Rannie kneeling at her mother’s knee. And it made her almost happy to think that her mother was with the Lord Jesus.
Of course Christobel had very little teaching. Just the few words that Philip had been able to give her now and then in the few contacts he had with her. She was shy about asking his mother. Christobel’s Christian life was so very new. She just pondered over things by herself, and prayed. As yet she did not know her Bible at all. That was to come.
One day a great shining new car drew up at the door, and Maggie, alert for any new sound in the street, came trotting to the front window to take a sly peep between the curtains.
“Belike that’ll be that proud lady with the smooth voice that came to the big house one night,” snapped Maggie in a warning tone to Christobel, who was hemming a dish towel at the suggestion of the faithful old nurse who was doing all in her power to keep Christobel busy.
Christobel looked up with a sudden sinking of heart.
Could that be Mrs. Romayne? And her father was expected any minute now. He had gone out, hoping to bring back some definite news from the searching party, and if he came in while there was a caller, Christobel would have to wait till she was gone to know the news. Oh, Mrs. Romayne—why, why did they have to be pestered with her now, on top of all the rest?
But it was too late to escape. Besides, the stairs in the Seneca Street house were in full view of the front door and the living room, and of what use was escape when one would eventually have to appear?
So Christobel rose with her dish towel in her hand and stood with a youthful dignity while Maggie reluctantly admitted the haughty caller.
“Oh, you’re the servant woman, aren’t you?” remarked the lady as she stepped into the neat little hall and glanced around. “Is this your house? It seems to be a very comfortable place. You’re nicely fixed, aren’t you? Do I understand that Chrissie Kershaw is here staying with you? I was told I would find her here sometime.”
“This house belongs to Mr. Kershaw,” said Maggie with an hauteur worthy of the house of Kershaw in its greatest glory. “This is Mr. Kershaw’s residence at present. Miss Kershaw is in the living room. Did you wish to see her?” Maggie could erase the burr from her tongue well enough when occasion required.
“Living here?” exclaimed the caller. “Oh. But not really, of course. Just staying here for the moment to get out of the eye of publicity, I suppose. It must be quite inconvenient. I look out for them. It really would have been a lot more comfortable at my house, and nobody need have known where they were. Did you say Chrissie was in?”
“Miss Kershaw is in the living room,” said Maggie haughtily.
Mrs. Romayne entered dramatically.
“My darling Chrissie!” she exclaimed. “To think that I should find you in a place like this! Why didn’t you let me know? I thought I made it quite plain that my home was at your service. And who are the horrible people that are staying in your own house on the avenue? Caretakers, I suppose, or do they have connection with the police? They are simply impossible! They actually thought I had come to call upon them, and they appeared in the most gaudy array. I declare, if the police have to be given your lovely home for a headquarters for a while, I should think you could at least control the people they have around them. They were almost insulting.”
“Those are the people that own the house now, Mrs. Romayne,” said Christobel sweetly.
“That own the house? Why, what can you possibly mean? Your father’s house on the avenue? The house where I called upon you the night your brother disappeared?”
“Yes, Mrs. Romayne, the house was sold a few days after that.”
“Not sold! Your lovely home! Why, what can your father be thinking of? He had no right to sell that beautiful home, when you are just growing up and needing a place to entertain. Why, what could he be thinking of to do such a thing? He must be crazy.”
“He was thinking of my brother, Mrs. Romayne,” said Christobel coldly. “My father needed money for ransoming my brother. We have sold everything we had that was salable.” She was angry at this woman for prying into her affairs, and she was astonished to see the startled look on the caller’s face as her words went home like a well-aimed shaft.
Then the caller rallied and laughed.
“How ridiculous!” she burbled. “Of course you don’t mean that. Your father is rated as one of the richest men in the city! That is simply absurd.”
“You are mistaken, Mrs. Romayne. My father has lost a great deal of money in the last three years. His business has been deeply involved for some months past, even before Rannie disappeared, and now he has had to take the money he needed for collateral for loans connected with his business as a nucl
eus for the ransom demanded by Rannie’s captors. It will probably take all we have and all we can borrow, and even then there will not be enough to meet the demand they have made. We had to sell the house and the cars and everything that was salable. We have kept this dear old house where we used to live, and we could not even afford to keep this, I suppose, only we have got to live somewhere, and we can live more cheaply here than anywhere we know. Besides, this house would not be worth very much if we did sell it.”
“I should say not,” said the woman, with a withering glance about the pretty room that Christobel had made so lovely and livable and old-fashioned cozy.
“Won’t you take off your coat, Mrs. Romayne,” said Christobel, heartily hoping she wouldn’t.
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Romayne, drawing her sumptuous furs about her shoulders. “I have only a moment. I just thought it was my duty to hunt you up. You poor child. How terrible it must be for you. How could you allow your father to do such a very impossible thing as to sell your lovely home? It was your birthright, Christobel. He had no right to sell it away from you. Didn’t it nearly break your heart to come away from the luxury of that wonderful mansion?”
Christobel almost laughed. “Why, no, Mrs. Romayne, truly, I never cared for that house. In fact, the day before Rannie was taken away, I begged Father to come down here and live. This is the house where my own dear mother lived, you know. I love it here, and so does Rannie. Father loves it, too. We would be very, very happy here if Rannie were just back.”
Mrs. Romayne stared at her incredulously.
“What a very strange child you must be!” she said coldly and then added with a kind of I-wash-my-hands-of-you tone, “Poor Charmian! How she loved that beautiful mansion that she created for all of you! And to think that you have let it go irreparably to people of that class. Just common people! It seems unbelievable! I did think your father had more sense. I had quite idealized him. But it seems that I am mistaken!”