XXIX
Behind the judge stood his wife. Clancy immediately sensed a tensenessin the atmosphere. As she gently released herself from the judge'sembrace and slipped into the arms of Mrs. Walbrough, what she sensedbecame absolute knowledge. For the lips that touched her cheek trembled,and in the eyes of Mrs. Walbrough stood tears.
Clancy drew away from her hostess. She looked at the judge, then backagain at Mrs. Walbrough, and then once again at the judge.
"Well?" she demanded.
"It isn't well," said the judge.
"But I thought you knew," said Clancy. "Miss Henderson gave me yourmessage. And that Spofford man saw me to-day, and told me that he didn'tbelieve I had anything to do----" She paused, eyeing the judge keenly.She refused to be frightened. She wasn't going to be frightened again.
"Of course he doesn't! Spofford went to Vandervent this forenoon.But--the newspapers," said the judge.
Clancy's lips rounded with an unuttered "Oh." She sank down upon achair; her hands dropped limply in her lap.
"What do they know?" she demanded.
The judge's reply was bitter.
"'Know?' Nothing! But a newspaper doesn't have to _know_ anything tomake trouble! If it merely suspects, that's enough. Look!"
He unfolded an evening newspaper and handed it to Clancy. There, blackas ink could make it, spreading the full length of the page, stood thedamnable statement,
WOMAN SOUGHT IN BEINER MYSTERY
Her eyes closed. She leaned back in her chair. The full meaning of thehead-line, its terrific import, seeped slowly into her consciousness.She knew that any scandal involving a woman is, from a newspaperstandpoint, worth treble one without her. One needs to be no analyst todiscover this--the fact presents itself too patently in every page ofevery newspaper. She knew, too, that newspapers relinquish spicy storiesregretfully.
Her eyes opened slowly. It was with a physical effort that she liftedthe paper in order that she might read. The story was brief. It merelystated that the _Courier_ had learned, through authentic sources, thatthe district attorney's office suspected that a woman had killed Beiner,and that it was running down the clues that had aroused its suspicions.
But it was a bold-face paragraph, set to the left of the main article,that drove the color from her cheeks. It was an editorial, transplanted,for greater effect, to the first page. Clancy read it through.
FIND THE WOMAN
Another murder engages the attention of police, the press, and the public. The _Courier_, as set forth in another column, has learned that the authorities possess evidence justifying the arrest of a woman as the Beiner murderess. How long must the people of the greatest city in the world feel that their Police Department is incompetent? It has been New York's proudest boast that its police are the most efficient in the world. That boast is flat and stale now. Too many crimes of violence have been unsolved during the past six months. Too many criminals wander at large. How long must this continue?
It was, quite obviously, a partisan political appeal to the prejudicesof the _Courier_'s readers. But Clancy did not care about that. The factof publication, not its reason, interested her. She looked dully up atthe judge.
"How did they find out?" she asked.
The judge shrugged.
"That's what Vandervent is trying to find out now. He's quizzing hisstaff this minute. He meant to be up here this evening. He was to dinewith us. He just telephoned. Some one will be 'broken' for giving thepaper the tip. But--that doesn't help us, does it?"
Clancy's lips tightened. Her eyes grew thoughtful.
"Still, if that's all the paper knows----"
"We can't be sure of that," interrupted Walbrough. "Suppose that whoevertold the _Courier_ reporter what he's printed had happened to tell him alittle more. The _Courier_ may want a 'beat.' It might withhold the factthat it knew the name of the woman in order that other newspapers mightnot find her first."
Slowly the color flowed back into Clancy's cheeks. She would not befrightened.
"But Spofford could never have found me if I hadn't gone to Mr.Vandervent's office," she said.
"Spofford may be the man who gave the paper the tip," said the judge.
Clancy sat bolt upright.
"Would he dare?"
The judge shrugged.
"He might. We don't know. The elevator-man might have told areporter--papers pay well for tips like that, you know. It's not safehere."
The bottom fell out of the earth for Clancy. It was years since she'dhad a home. One couldn't term aunt Hetty's boarding-house in Zenith a_home_, kindly and affectionate as aunt Hetty had been. She'd only beenone night in the Walbroughs' house, had only known them four days. Yet,somehow, she had begun to feel a part of their _menage_, had known inher heart, though of course nothing had been said about the matter, thatthe Walbroughs would argue against almost any reason she might advancefor leaving them save one--marriage.
Security had enfolded her. And now she was to be torn from thissecurity. Her mouth opened for argument. It closed without speech. For,after all, scandal didn't threaten her alone; it threatened theWalbroughs. If she were found here by a reporter, the gossip of tongueand print would smirch her benefactors.
"You're right. I'll go," she said. "I'll find a place----"
"'_Find_ a place!'" There was amazement in Mrs. Walbrough's voice; therewas more, a hint of indignation. "Why, you're going to our place up inHinsdale. And _I'm_ going with you."
Youth is rarely ashamed of its judgments. Youth is conceited, andconceit and shame are rarely companions. But Clancy reddened now withshame. She had thought the Walbroughs capable of deserting her, orletting her shift for herself, when common decency should have made herawait explanation. They would never know her momentary doubt of them,but she could never live long enough, to make up for it.
Yet she protested.
"I--I can't. You--you'll be involved."
The judge chuckled.
"Seems to me, young lady, that it's rather late for the Walbroughs toworry about being involved. We're in, my dear, up to our slim, proudthroats. And if we were certain of open scandal, surely you don't thinkthat would matter?" he asked, suddenly reproachful.
Clancy dissembled.
"I think that you both are the most wonderful, dearest---- You make mewant to cry," she finished.
The judge squared his shoulders. A twinkle stood in his eye.
"It's a way I have. The women always weep over me."
His wife sniffed. She spoke to Clancy.
"The man never can remember his waist-measurement."
The judge fought hard against a grin.
"My wife marvels so at her good luck in catching me that she tries tomake it appear that she didn't catch much, after all."
Mrs. Walbrough sniffed again.
"'Luck?' In catching you!"
The judge became urbane, bland, deprecatory.
"I beg pardon, my dear. Not luck--skill."
Mrs. Walbrough's assumption of scorn left her. Her laugh joinedClancy's. Clancy didn't realize just then how deftly the judge hadsteered her away from possible tears, and how superbly Mrs. Walbroughhad played up to her husband's acting.
She put one hand in the big palm of the judge and let her other armencircle Mrs. Walbrough's waist.
"If I should say, 'Thank you,'" she said, "it would sound so pitifullylittle----"
"So you'll just say nothing, young woman," thundered the judge. "You'lleat some dinner, pack a bag, and you and Maria'll catch the eight-twentyto Hinsdale. You won't be buried there. Lots of people winter there.Maria and I used to spend lots of time there before she grew too old toenjoy tobogganing. But I'm not too old. I'll be up to-morrow or the nextday, to bring you home. For the real murderer _will_ be found. He _must_be!"
Not merely then, but half a dozen times through the meal that followed,Clancy resisted the almost overpowering temptation to tell what she hadoverheard being said in the Carey dining-room. It w
asn't fair to theWalbroughs to withhold information. On the other hand, she must be morethan fair to Sophie. Before she spoke, she must know more.
But how, immured in some country home, was she to learn more? Yet shecould not refuse flight without an explanation. And the only explanationwould involve Don Carey, the husband of the woman who had been first inNew York to befriend her.
She couldn't tell--yet. She must have time to think, to plan. And so shekept silence. Had she been able to read the future, perhaps she wouldhave broken the seal of silence; perhaps not. One is inclined to believethat she would have been sensible enough to realize that even knowledgeof the future cannot change it.
For millions of us can in a measure read the future, yet it isunchanged. We know that certain consequences inevitably follow certainactions. Yet we commit the actions. We know that result follows cause,yet we do not eliminate the cause. If we could be more specific in ourreading than this, would our lives be much different? One is permitteddoubts.
The train, due to the traffic disturbances caused by the blizzard, leftthe Grand Central several minutes behind its scheduled time. It lostmore time _en route_, and the hour was close to midnight when Clancy andMrs. Walbrough emerged from the Hinsdale station and entered a sleigh,driven by a sleepy countryman who, it transpired, was the Walbroughcaretaker. It was after midnight, and after a bumpy ride, that the twowomen descended from the sleigh and tumbled up the stairs that led to awide veranda. The house was ablaze in honor of their coming. It waswarm, too, not merely from a furnace, but from huge open fires thatburned down-stairs and in the bedroom to which Clancy was assigned.
The motherly wife of the caretaker had warm food and hot drink waitingthem, but Clancy hardly tasted them. She was sleepy, and soon she leftMrs. Walbrough to gossip with her housekeeper while she tumbled intobed.
Sleep came instantly. Hardly, it seemed, had her eyes closed before theyopened. Through the raised window streamed sunlight. But Clancy wasmore conscious of the cold air that accompanied it. It was as cold hereas it was in Maine. At least, it seemed so this morning. She was quitenormal. She was not the sort of person who leaps gayly from bed andperforms calisthenics before an opened window in zero weather. Instead,she snuggled down under the bedclothes until her eyes and the tip of hernose were all that showed. One glimpse of her breath, smoky in thefrosty air, had made a coward of her.
But sometimes hopes are realized. Just as she had made up her mind tobrave the ordeal and arise and close the window, she heard a knock uponthe door.
"Come in. Oh, _pul-lease_ come in!" she cried.
Mrs. Walbrough entered, followed by the housekeeper, who, Clancy hadlearned last night, was named Mrs. Hebron. Mrs. Walbrough closed thewindow, chaffing Clancy because a Maine girl should mind the cold, andMrs. Hebron piled wood in the fireplace. By the time that Clancy emergedfrom the bathroom--she hated to leave it; the hot water in the tub madethe whole room pleasantly steamy--her bedroom was warm. And Mrs.Walbrough had found somewhere a huge bath robe of the judge's whichswamped Clancy in its woolen folds.
There were orange juice and toast and soft-boiled eggs and coffee madeas only country people can make it. It had been made, Clancy could tellfrom the taste, by putting _plenty_ of coffee in the bottom of a pot, byfilling the pot with cold water, by letting it come to a boil, removingit after it had bubbled one minute, and serving it about ten secondsafter that. All this was set upon a table drawn close to the fire.
"Why," said Clancy aloud, "did I ever imagine that I didn't care for thecountry in the winter?"
Mrs. Walbrough laughed.
"You're a little animal, Clancy Deane," she accused.
"I'll tell the world I am," said Clancy. She laughed at Mrs. Walbrough'sexpression of mock horror. "Oh, we can be slangy in Zenith," she said.
"What else can you be in Zenith?" asked Mrs. Walbrough.
Clancy drained her cup of coffee. She refused a second cup and pushedher chair away from the table. She put her feet, ridiculous in a hugepair of slippers that also belonged to the judge, upon the dogs in thefireplace. Luxuriously she inhaled the warmth of the room.
"What else can we be?" she said.
She had talked only, it seemed, about her troubles these past few days.Now, under the stimulus of an interested listener, she poured forth herhistory, her hopes, her ambitions. And, in return, Mrs. Walbrough toldof her own life, of her husband's failure to inherit the vast fortunethat he had expected, how, learning that speculation had taken it allfrom his father, he had buckled down to the law; how he had achievedtremendous standing; how he had served upon the bench; how he hadresigned to accept a nomination for the Senate; how, having beendefeated--it was not his party's year--he had resumed the practise oflaw, piling up a fortune that, though not vast to the sophisticated,loomed large to Clancy. They were still talking at luncheon, andthrough it. After the meal Hebron announced that there would be goodtobogganing outside after the course had been worn down a little. ToClancy's delighted surprise, Mrs. Walbrough declared that she had beenlooking forward to it. Together, wrapped in sweaters and with their feetencased in high moccasins--they were much too large for Clancy--theytried out the slide.
The Walbrough house was perched upon the top of a wind-swept hill. Theview was gorgeous. On all sides hills that could not be termed mountainsbut that, nevertheless, were some hundreds of feet high, surrounded theWalbrough hill. A hundred yards from the front veranda, at the foot of asteep slope, was a good-sized pond. Across this the toboggan courseended. And because the wind had prevented the snow from piling toodeeply, the toboggan, after a few trials, slid smoothly, and at a greatpace, clear across the pond.
It was dusk before they were too tired to continue. Breathlessly, Mrs.Walbrough announced that she would give a house-party as soon as---- Shepaused. It was the first reference to the cause of their being therethat had passed the lips of either to-day. Both had tacitly agreed notto talk about it.
"Let's hope it won't be long," said Clancy. "To drag you away from thecity----"
"Tush, tush, my child," said Mrs. Walbrough.
Clancy tushed.
It was at their early dinner that the telephone-bell rang. Clancyanswered it. It was Vandervent. He was brisk to the point of terseness.
"Got to see you. Want to ask a few questions. I'll take theeight-twenty. Ask Mrs. Walbrough if she can put me up?"
Mrs. Walbrough, smiling, agreed that she could. Clancy told Vanderventso. He thanked her. His voice lost its briskness.
"Are you--eh--enjoying yourself?"
Clancy demurely replied that she was. "I wish you had time for sometobogganing," she ventured.
"Do you really?" Vandervent was eager. "I'll make time--I--I'll see youto-night, Miss Deane."
Clancy smiled with happy confidence at the things that Vandervent hadnot said. She played double solitaire with her hostess until eleveno'clock. Then Mrs. Hebron entered with the information that her husbandhad developed a sudden chest-cold, accompanied by fever, and that shereally dreaded letting him meet the train.
Clancy leaped to the occasion. She pooh-poohed Mrs. Walbrough'sprotests. As if, even in these motorful days, a Zenith girl couldn'thitch an old nag to a sleigh and drive a few rods. And she wouldn'tpermit Mrs. Walbrough to accompany her, either. Alone, save for abrilliant moon, a most benignant moon, she drove down the hill and overthe snow-piled road to the Hinsdale station.
It was a dreamy ride; she was going to meet a man whose voice trembledas he spoke to her, a man who was doing all in his power to save herfrom dangers, a man who was a Vandervent, one of the great _partis_ ofAmerica. Yet it was as a man, rather than as a Vandervent, that shethought of him.
So, engrossed with thoughts of him, thoughts that submerged the memoryof yesterday's paper, that made her forget that she had seen no paperto-day, she gave the old horse his head, and let him choose his ownpath. Had she been alert, she would have seen the men step out from theroadside, would have been able to whip up her horse and escape theirclutch. As it was, o
ne of them seized the bridle. The other advanced toher side.
"So you've followed me up here," he said. "Spying on me, eh?"
The moonlight fell upon the face of the man who held the horse's head.It was Garland. The man who spoke to her was Donald Carey. She had notknown before that Hinsdale was in Dutchess County.