CHAPTER III
Kenwick stood outside the closed door, a curious numbness stealing overhim. Was it possible, he asked himself, that there had been some one inthis house during the last twelve hours? Was it possible that thisperson was a woman? A solitary woman? It was unmistakably a woman'svoice, and there was no sound of comforting or upbraiding or otherevidence of companionship. As he knocked again at the door he wonderedwhich one of them was the more startled by the presence of the other.
The sobbing had abruptly ceased. There was dead silence. Had he been ofa superstitious temperament he might have suspected that his knock hadsomehow released from bondage an unhappy ghost who, wailing over a deadtragedy, had vanished leaving this spectral house as desolate as he hadfound it.
But Kenwick had no patience whatever with the occult. For him life wastoo all-absorbing and vivid an enterprise to tolerate the pastelexistence of ghosts. Through the stillness his voice cut its way like atorchlight cleaving a path through a blind alley.
"What's the matter?"
As he hurled this question through the panel, he reflected that, being awoman, she would probably reply, "Nothing." But there was no response.Kenwick persisted. "Can I do anything for you?" And then a voice thatwas little more than a whisper came to him.
"Who are you?"
Conscious that the name would mean nothing to her, he gave it with atouch of irritation. She must know that he couldn't explain his invasionof her house through that inscrutably closed door. He had never thoughtof the place as belonging to a woman. Nothing that he had seen in it sofar bespoke a woman's presence. The embarrassment that he had feltduring the first hours of his imprisonment ebbed back and for the momentrobbed him of further speech.
"Please go away." The voice from the other side of the door wasentreating. It was a cultured, beautifully modulated voice strugglingagainst heavy odds for composure. Kenwick had the feeling that it was avoice that lent itself easily to disguise.
"I can't go away until I have told you about myself," he said firmly."I must tell you how I happen to be here, an uninvited guest in yourhouse." He gave her the story briefly and was horribly conscious that itlacked conviction. In his own ears it sounded like the still-bornnarrative of a debauchee. Having stumbled to the end he waited for hercomment. It came after a long pause.
"I'm sorry you're hurt. I hope you'll feel better to-morrow." To-morrow!Did she expect him to prolong his visit indefinitely? The casualcourtesy of her tone was more disconcerting than indignation orresentment or any other form of reply could have been. But he resolvedsavagely not to leave that door until he had obtained some sort ofinformation.
"When I met with the accident I was driving out to the Raeburn house;Charles Raeburn. Do you know where he lives?"
"No."
"Well, tell me about this place, then, please. Whose is it?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? And yet you live here?" Kenwick felt as though hisbrain were turning over in his head.
"If you call this living." He wouldn't have caught this reply at all ifhis ear hadn't been pressed close against the panel.
"Are you all alone here?"
There was no reply.
"Is any one with you?"
"Oh, please go away. Do have pity on me and go away."
She was alone, Kenwick decided, and was afraid to tell him so. Therealization brought a wave of hot color to his face. He dragged himselfpainfully back to the landing. And from that distance he sent his voiceup to her, freighted with reassurance.
"Don't be frightened. I'm pretty badly bunged up just now, but I found arevolver over in the other wing, and if anybody comes prowlingabout--well, I'm not a bad shot." Suddenly a new thought occurred tohim. "Have you had anything to eat this morning? Are you hungry?"
"I think--I am starving."
It was like a spray of ice-water in his face. He stood for a momentconsidering, "I'll get you something," he promised. "If you don't wantto come out I'll fix it and bring it up on a tray."
"There would be no use."
"Why not?"
"Because I can't open the door."
"Are you in bed?" His voice had sharpened.
Silence again, from which he concluded that she was. He stood therestaring at the heavy mahogany door as though by the mere intensity ofhis gaze he could dissolve it. For a long moment he was lost in thought,but he was not trying now to solve the riddle of the woman on the otherside of the barrier. The needs of the immediate present were all thatconcerned him. Finally he spoke again.
"Is your bed anywhere near a window?"
"Yes."
"Is the window open?"
"Yes."
"Then listen. I'll go downstairs and get something for you to eat. I'llput it into a bucket, attach some kind of rope with a weighted end toit, and throw the end in at your window. I can't get outside so I'llhave to do it from the pantry window and it may take some time, but I'llkeep at it. When the end comes in, pull up the bucket. Do you see?"
"I'll try to."
He turned away and began the long trip down to the kitchen. Now that hewas animated by a desire to help somebody else, the depression which hadenveloped him was momentarily dissipated. In spite of the ever-presentpain he felt almost elated when at last he arrived again in the kitchen.
Half an hour later the "rope," manufactured from several towels tiedtogether, with a potato-masher on the end, flew in at the window justabove the pantry and the carefully covered bucket disappeared fromsight. "Pretty neat," Kenwick remarked to himself. "I had no idea that Icould do it when I told her I would."
But the strain had been too great. He was suddenly aware that everynerve in his body was aching. Back in the den he sank down on the couchwhere he had spent the night. Conjecture about the woman upstairs wassubmerged now beneath his own physical misery. The shelves in thelibrary were empty. There was nothing to read save a paper-backed copyof one of Dumas's earlier novels, which he discovered in a corner. Hetook it up and tried to lose himself in the story, but it couldn't holdhim. He found himself wondering resentfully why old man Raeburn hadn'tshown more interest in his non-appearance. He was furiously impatientand utterly helpless. And he told himself that these two cannot livelong together without wrecking the reason. Never before in his life hadhe been in a position where he couldn't do something to alter obduratecircumstance. To do anything would be better than to do nothing. Thethought came to him all at once that this was what women, overwhelmingnumbers of women, must have endured during the terrible years of the warjust past. There must have been whole armies of them, furiously eager toshoulder guns and march away to the trenches with the men they loved.And instead they had to submit to being caged up in houses and,blindfolded to all vision of the outer world, perform day after day thedreary treadmill duties of routine existence. For the first time hefound himself wondering why more of them hadn't gone insane under thepressure. He was certain that he himself would lose his mental balanceif the blindfold wasn't soon removed from his mental vision.
Suddenly he sat up and tossed aside his book. There was the sound of afootstep on the gravel walk at the other side of the house. Pushing achair before him he followed the sound out to the dining-room. Throughthe window he saw a tall, ungainly looking boy walking toward thetank-house garage. He was carrying a long pole and a pair of pruningshears. So this was the accursed gardener, the mysterious gatherer ofeggs, who, having brought him into the house, was content to let him diethere or make off with the family plate.
"Here, you!" Kenwick knocked on the window-pane. It was a loudresounding knock, but the boy walked on unheeding, carefully examiningone end of his pole.
Kenwick tried the lock. He had noticed in a previous investigation thatall the windows on the lower floor had double locks. Undoing them on theinside was futile until a spring released them on the outside. AndKenwick was in no mood for making mechanical experiments. For an instanthe stood there, like some caged animal, staring after the gawky figureof the boy as though
he were the embodiment of hope fading away in thedistance. And then a blind fury seized him. Possessed only of theoverpowering desire to gain the attention of the outside world, hesuddenly doubled his fist and sent it crashing through the heavyplate-glass pane. It shattered into a hundred pieces and cut a deep gashin his wrist.
When he had bound this up in a handkerchief with deft first-aid skill,he leaned out through the ragged aperture that had been the window. Theboy had vanished as completely as though he were a wraith. Kenwick,controlling his dismay with a stupendous effort, told himself that hehad only gone to put away his tools and would soon come running back toinvestigate the damage. He stood there waiting, exulting in his revolt.In spite of the lacerated wrist this violent assertion of his rightsbrought an immense relief. Why, a person might be murdered in this placeand it would be days before anybody would know a thing about it.
The boy did not return, and Kenwick made his way back to the den. It wasmid-afternoon now and a heavy rain had begun to fall. He made no furtherattempt to read, but lay on the upholstered window-seat trying to findsome position that would be bearable. He cursed himself for having usedthe leg so much. Had he remained quiet all day he might by now have beenable to get away from this uncanny place. But the woman upstairs! Hecouldn't throw off an absurd sense of responsibility concerning her.From all that he could gather she was as helpless a puppet in the handsof fate as he. But of course she might have been lying to him. As he laythere on his back gazing out at the needles of rain driven aslant intothe dank ground, he felt distrustful of the whole universe. Could therebe any way, he wondered, of getting a message out of this house? Theremust be a rural delivery, and if so, at the gate would be a letterbox.But that gate----It seemed tortuous miles away.
A search through the empty drawers of the desk revealed several loosesheets of tablet-paper and the stub of a pencil. With this equipment hewrote out a telegram to Everett. The mere wording of it seemed toreinstate him somehow in the world of affairs. The problem of getting itinto the office could be solved later.
At six o'clock he forced himself to go out to the kitchen again andprepare supper. The thought of eating revolted him, but the womanupstairs, liar, decoy, or invalid, must be fed. Dangling close to thepantry window was the white-knotted towel rope with the bucket on theend. He put into it the last of the loaf of bread and some boiled eggs.Then he called to her to pull it up. When the bucket had begun itserratic climb, he leaned out of the narrow opening and spoke withdefiant triumph. "Did you hear me smash that window this afternoon? Iwas trying to get the attention of the gardener. And I'm going to get ittoo if I have to smash up everything on this place."
If she made any reply he did not catch it. The rain was falling fast nowand there was the growling sound of approaching thunder. Back in the denagain he turned on the reading-light, more for companionship thanillumination. Could it be possible that he would have to spend anothernight in this ghostly house? The idea was intolerable, and yet there wasno relief in sight.
Another hour passed, and darkness enveloped the world in a shroud-likemantle. The bandage with which Kenwick's leg was wrapped was a torturenow. He unwound it and began to massage the badly swollen limb using thelong firm strokes that he had learned from the athletic trainer duringhis university days. They seemed to ease the pain somewhat and hecontinued to rub until his arms ached with the effort.
Then all at once there came to his ears a sound that made him halt,every muscle tense with listening. It was a sharp incisive knocking andit seemed to come from the dining-room. He sat motionless, afraid tomove lest it should stop. But it came again, a clear unmistakableknocking that had the dull resonance of metal clashing against metal. ToKenwick it was perfectly obvious now that someone was trying to gainentrance at that broken dining-room window. He tested his unbandagedfoot upon the floor and drew himself stealthily to a standing position.And then he turned himself slowly in the direction of the darkeneddining-room.