The Girl in the Mirror

  CHAPTER XIV

  LAURIE CHECKS A REVELATION

  Laurie shook his head.

  "That was rather stupid of him," he remarked, mildly. "It's almost aseasy to force open a locked door from the inside as from the outside."

  "I know." Doris was again breathless. "But in the meantime he'stelephoning to Shaw."

  "I don't think so." Laurie, his hands in his pockets, was making acharacteristic turn around the room. "What has he to gain bytelephoning? Shaw's coming back anyway in a few hours; and in themeantime the secretary has got me safely pocketed, or thinks he has. Ihave an idea he'll stand pat. You see, he doesn't know about my talentfor opening locked doors."

  He strolled back to the door as he spoke and examined the lock. Then,appreciatively, he drew from his pocket the screw-driver he hadthoughtfully brought from the garage.

  "I fancied this might be useful. It will take me just about four minutesto open that door," he announced. "So get on your things and be readyto start in a hurry."

  "Do you imagine that we can get away now, in broad daylight?" She seemeddazed by the suggestion.

  "Why not? You want to get out of here, don't you?"

  "Yes--I--of course I do!"

  "You don't seem very sure of it."

  Laurie was smiling down at her with his hands still in his pockets, butthere was an expression in his eyes she had never seen there before, anexpression keen, cold, almost but not quite suspicious.

  "Yes, but--you don't understand. Shaw has other men on watch, two ofthem."

  "Where?"

  "In the grounds. One in the front and the other in the back."

  The new-comer mentally digested this unwelcome information.

  "If we wait till it's dark," said the girl, "we'll have a betterchance."

  "Unless Shaw gets back in the meantime." He was still watching her withthat new look in his eyes. Then, briskly, he returned to his interest inthe doorlock.

  "In any case," he casually remarked, "we don't want to be jailed here."

  She said no more, but sat watching him as he worked, deftly andsilently. In little more than the time he had predicted he opened thedoor and held it wide.

  "Any time you would like to pass out," he invited, then checked himselfand vanished in the dimness of the hall. The girl left behind heard thesounds of running feet, of a sharp scuffle, of a few words spoken in ahigh, excited voice. Then Laurie reentered the room, pushing thesecretary before him. At present the youth looked anything but meek. Hisblond hair was on end, his tie was under one ear, his pale eyes werebright with anger, and he moved spasmodically, propelled by jerks frombehind.

  "I don't like this young man," said Laurie, conversationally. "I neverhave. So I'm going to put him where for a few hours he can't annoy us.Is there a good roomy closet on this floor? If there is, kindly lead usto it."

  "Say, hold on!" cried the blond youth, in outraged tones. "I'm sick ofthis."

  "Shut up." Laurie shook him gently. "And cheer up. You're going to havea change. Lead on, please."

  Thus urged, and further impelled, the secretary obediently led the wayto a closet at the far end of the upper hall. It was fairly commodious,and full of garments hanging on pegs and smelling oppressively ofcamphor. It afforded an electric-light fixture, and Laurie, switching onthe light, emphasized this advantage to the reluctant new occupant, whounwisely put up a brief and losing fight on its threshold.

  "You may read if you like," Laurie affably suggested, when this had beensuppressed. "I'll bring you some magazines. You may even smoke. Mr. Shawand I always treat our prisoners with the utmost courtesy. You don'tsmoke? Excellent! Safer for the closet, and a fine stand for a worthyyoung man to take. Now, I'll get the magazines for you."

  He did so, and the blond secretary accepted them with a black scowl.

  "I'm afraid," observed Laurie regretfully, "he has an ungratefulnature."

  He locked the door on the infuriated youth, pocketed the key, and facedDoris, who had followed the brief procession. The little encounter hadrestored his poise.

  "What next?" he asked, placidly.

  Her reply was in the nature of a shock.

  "I'd like to have you wash up."

  He raised his eyebrows.

  "And spoil my admirable disguise? However, if you insist, I suppose Ican get most of the effect again with ashes, if I have to. Where's abath-room?"

  She indicated a door, and returned to her room. He made his ablutionsslowly and very thoughtfully. There were elements in this new twist ofthe situation which did not tally with any of his former hypotheses.Doris, too, was doing some thinking on her own account. When he returnedto the sitting-room she wore the air of one who has pondered deeply andhas come to a conclusion.

  "What do your friends call you?" she abruptly asked.

  "All kinds of things," admitted the young man. "I wouldn't dare torepeat some of them." Under the thoughtful regard of her red-brown eyeshis manner changed. "My sister calls me Laurie," he added soberly.

  "May I?"

  "By all means, if you'll promise _not_ to be a sister to me."

  "Then--Laurie--"

  "I like that," he interrupted.

  "So do I. Laurie--I--I'm going to tell you something."

  He waited, watching her; and under the renewed friendliness of his blackeyes she stopped and flushed, her own eyes dropping before his. As if togain time she changed her position in the chair where she sat, andleaned forward, an elbow on its arm, her chin in one hand, her gaze onthe fire. His perception sharpened to the knowledge that somethingimportant was coming, and that it was something she was afraid to tell.She had keyed herself up to it, but the slightest false move on his partmight check the revelation. Therefore, though every impulse in himresponded to her first intimate use of his name, he dropped negligentlyinto the chair facing hers, tenderly embraced his knees with both arms,and answered with just the right accent of casual interest andinterrogation.

  "Yes?" he said.

  "Please smoke." Again she was playing for time. "And--and don't look atme," she added, almost harshly. "I--I think I can get it out better ifyou don't."

  His answer was to swing his chair around beside hers, facing the blazinglogs, and to take out his case and light a cigarette.

  "I'm going to tell you everything," she said in a low tone.

  "I'm glad of that."

  "I'm going to do it," she went on slowly, "for two reasons. The first isthat--that you've lost faith in me."

  This brought his eyes around to hers in a quick glance. "You're wrongabout that."

  She shook her head. "Oh, no, I'm not. You showed it almost from themoment you came, and there was an instant when you thought that mysuggestion to wait till dark to get away meant a--a sort of ambush."

  He made no reply to this, and she said urgently, "Didn't you? Come, now.Confess."

  He reflected for a moment.

  "The idea did cross my mind," he admitted, at last. "But it didn'tlinger. For one reason, it was impossible to reconcile it with Shaw'sdesire to keep me out of the way. That, and this, are hard tounderstand. But no harder to understand," he went on, "than that youshould willingly come here and yet send for me, and then quite obviouslydelay our leaving after I get here."

  Again her eyes dropped before his brilliant, steady glance.

  "I know," she muttered, almost inaudibly. "It's all--horrible. It'sinfinitely worse than you suspect. And that's why I'm going to tell youthe truth, big as the cost may be to me."

  "Wait a minute," he interrupted. "Let's get this straight. You'retelling me, aren't you, that any revelation you make now will react onyou. Is that it?"

  "Yes."

  "You will be the chief sufferer by it?"

  "Yes."

  "Will it help you any to have me understand? Will it straighten out thetrouble you're in?"

  She considered her answer.

  "The only help it will give me will be to know that you do understand,"she said at last; "to know that--that--you're not sus
pecting thingsabout me."

  "And it will make things hard for you, otherwise, to have me know?" hepersisted.

  "Yes." This time her answer was prompt. "It will end everything I amtrying to do, and destroy what I have already done."

  Laurie threw his half-burned cigarette into the fire, as if to lendgreater emphasis to his next words.

  "That settles it," he announced. "I won't listen to you."

  She turned to look at him.

  "But you must," she faltered. "I'm all ready to tell you. I've beenworking myself up to it ever since you came."

  "I know. I've watched the process, and I won't have another word." Helit a second cigarette, drew in a mouthful of smoke, and sent it forthagain in a series of widening rings. "Your conversation is extremelyuninteresting," he explained; "and look at the setting we've got forsomething romantic and worth while. This cozy room, this roaringfire,"--he interrupted himself to glance through the nearest window--"aripping old snow-storm outside, that's getting worse every minute, andthe exhilarating sense that though we're prisoners, we've already takentwo perfectly good prisoners of our own; what more could one ask to makean afternoon in the country really pleasant?"

  He stopped, for she was crying again, and the sight, which had taxed hisstrength an hour earlier, overtaxed it now. She overwhelmed him like abreaker. He rose, and going close to her, knelt beside her chair.

  "Doris," he begged, brokenly. "Don't, don't cry! I can't tell you how itmakes me feel. I--I can stand anything but that." He seized her handsand tried to pull them away from her face. "Look at me," he urged. "I'vegot all sorts of things to say to you, but I won't say them now. Thisisn't the time or the place. But one thing, at least, I want you toknow. I _do_ trust you. I trust you absolutely. And whatever happens,whatever all this incredible tangle may mean, I shall always trust you."

  She wiped her eyes and looked into his, more serious in that moment thanshe had ever seen them.

  "I will stop," she promised, with a little catch in her voice. "Butplease don't think I'm a hysterical fool. I'm not crying because I'mfrightened, but because--because--Laurie, you're so splendid!"

  For a moment his hands tightened almost convulsively on hers. In thenext instant he rose to his feet, walked to the fireplace, and with anarm on the mantel, stood partly turned away from her, looking into thefire. He dared not look at her. In that moment he was passionatelycalling on the new self-control which had been born during the pastyear; and, at his call, it again awoke in him, ready for its work. This,he had just truly said to Doris, was not the time nor the place to tellher what was in his heart. Only a cad would take advantage of such anopportunity. He had said enough, perhaps too much. He drew a deep breathand was himself.

  "I told you you'd find all sorts of unexpected virtues in me," helightly announced; and it was the familiar Laurie who smiled down ather. "There are dozens more you don't dream of. I'll reveal them to youguardedly. They're rather overwhelming."

  She smiled vaguely at his chatter, but it was plain that she wasfollowing her own thoughts.

  "The most wonderful thing about you," she said, "is that through thiswhole experience, you've never, for one single instant, been 'heroic.'You're not the kind to 'emote'!"

  "Great Scott!" gasped Laurie, startled. "I should hope not!"

  He could look at her now, and he did, his heart filled with thesatisfying beauty of her. She was still leaning forward a little in thelow chair, with her hands unconventionally clasped around one knee, andher eyes staring into the fire. A painter, he reflected, would go madover the picture she made; and why not? He himself was going mad overit, was even a little light-headed.

  She wore again the gown she had worn the first day he saw her, and thememory of that poignant hour intensified the emotion of this one. Takingher in, from the superb masses of hair on her small head to theglittering buckles on her low house-shoes, Laurie knew at last thatwhoever and whatever this girl might be, she was the one whosecompanionship through life his hungry heart demanded. He loved her. Hewould trust her, blindly if he must, but whatever happened fully and forall time.

  There had been a long silence after his last words, but when she spokeit was as if there had been no interval between his chatter and herresponse.

  "Almost any other man would have been 'heroic,'" she went on. "Almostany other man would have been excited and emotional at times, and thenwould have been exacting and difficult and rebellious over all themystery, and the fact that I couldn't explain. I've set that pacemyself," she confessed. "I haven't always been able to take thingsquietly and--and philosophically. The wonderful thing about you is thatyou've never been overwhelmed by any situation we've been in together.You've never even seemed to take them very seriously. And yet, when itcame to a 'show-down,' as Shaw says, you've been right there, always."

  He made no answer to this. His mind was caught and held by the phrase"as Shaw says." So she and Shaw had talked him over! He recalled thesilver-framed photograph of her on Shaw's mantel, the photograph whosepresence had made him see red; and a queer little chill went down hisspine at this reminder of their strange and unexplained association.Then, resolutely, he again summoned his will and his faith, and becameconscious that she was still speaking.

  "You're the kind," she said, "that in the French Revolution, if you hadbeen a victim of it, would have gone to the guillotine with a smile anda jest, and would have seen in the experience only a new adventure."

  At that, he shook his head.

  "I don't know," he said slowly, and with the seriousness he had shownher once or twice before. "Death is a rather important thing. I've beenthinking about it a good deal lately."

  "_You_ have!" In her astonishment, she straightened in her chair. "Why?"

  "Well," he hesitated, "I haven't spoken about it much, but--the truthis, I'm taking the European war more seriously than I have seemed to. Ithink America will swing into the fight in a month or two more; I reallydon't see how we can keep out any longer. And I've made up my mind tovolunteer as soon as we declare war."

  "Oh, Laurie!"

  That was all she said, but it was enough. Again he turned away from herand looked into the fire.

  "I want to talk to you about it sometime," he went on. "Not now, ofcourse. I'm going in for the aviation end. That's my game."

  "Yes, it would be," she corroborated, almost inaudibly.

  "I've been thinking about it a lot," he repeated. There was an intense,unexpected relief in this confidence, which he had made to no one elsebut Bangs, and to him in only a casual phrase or two. "That's one reasonwhy it has been hard for me to get down to work on a new play, as Bangsand Epstein have been hounding me to do. I was afraid I couldn't keepmy mind on it. All I can think of, besides you--" he hesitated, thenwent on rather self-consciously--"are those fellows over there and thetremendous job they're doing. I want to help. I'm going to help. But I'mnot going into it with any illusions about military bands and prettyuniforms and grand-stand plays. It's the biggest job in the worldto-day, and it's got to be done. But what I see in it in the meantimeare blood and filth and stench and suffering and horror and a limitless,stoical endurance. And--well, I know I'm going. But I can't quite seemyself coming home."

  Save for his revelation on the morning they met, this was the longestpersonal confidence Laurence Devon had ever made to another human beingexcept his sister Barbara. At its end, as she could not speak, hewatched her for a moment in silence, already half regretting what he hadsaid. Then she rose with a fiercely abrupt movement, and going to thewindow stood looking at the storm. He followed her and stood beside her.

  "Laurie," she said suddenly.

  "Yes?"

  "I can't stand it."

  "Can't stand it?"

  He repeated her words almost absently. His eyes were on a stocky figuremoving among the trees below. It kept in constant motion and, heobserved with pleasure, it occasionally stamped its feet and swung itsarms as if suffering from the cold.

  "I can't stand this situatio
n."

  "Then we must clear it up for you." He spoke reassuringly, his eyesstill on the active figure. "Is that one of our keepers, down there?"

  She nodded.

  "He has instructions to watch the front entrance and windows. There'sanother man watching the rear."

  "He didn't watch very closely," he reminded her. "See how easily I gotin." He studied the moving figure. "Doris," he said slowly, "I'd bet athousand dollars against one doughnut that if I walked out of the houseand up to that fellow, he'd run like a rabbit. I don't know why I thinkso, but I do."

  She shook her head.

  "Oh, no, he wouldn't!"

  "What makes you think he wouldn't?"

  "Because I heard Shaw give him his orders for just that contingency."

  Her companion took this in silence.

  "May I ask what they were?" he said at last.

  "No, I can't tell you."

  "I hope he hasn't a nice little bottle of chloroform in his overcoatpocket, or vitriol," murmured Laurie, reflectively. "By the way," heturned to her with quickened interest, "something tells me it's longafter lunch-time. Is there any reason why we shouldn't eat?"

  She smiled.

  "None whatever. The ice-box contains all the things a well regulatedice-box is supposed to hold. I overheard Shaw and his secretarydiscussing their supplies."

  "Good! Then we'll release Mother Fagin long enough to let her cook someof them."

  He strolled to the bedroom door. On a chair facing it the woman sat andgazed at him with her fierce eyes.

  "Would you like a little exercise?" he politely inquired. There was nochange of expression in the hostile face. "Because if you would," hewent on, "and if you'll give me your word not to cry out, give any kindof alarm or signal, or start anything whatever, I'll take that bandageoff your mouth, and let you cook lunch for us and for yourself."

  The fierce eyes set, then wavered. He waited patiently. At last the headnodded, and he expeditiously untied the bandage.

  "The very best you've got, please," he instructed. "And I _hope_ you cancook. If you can't, I'll have to do it myself. I'm rather gifted thatway."

  "I can cook," avowed the old woman, sullenly.

  "Good work! Then go on your joyous way. But if you feel an impulse toinvite into your kitchen any of the gentlemen out in the grounds, or torelease the secretary, restrain it. They wouldn't like it in here. Theywouldn't like it at all."

  A strange grimace twisted the woman's sardonic features. He interpretedit rightly.

  "I'm glad you agree with me," he said. "Now, brook-trout, please, andbroiled chickens, and early strawberries and clotted cream."

  She looked at him with a return of the stoic expression that was herhabitual one.

  "We ain't got any of those things," she declared.

  "We ain't?" Her guest was pained. "What have we got?"

  "We got ham and eggs and lettuce and milk and coffee and squash pie."

  He sighed.

  "They will do," he said resignedly. "Do you think you could have themready in five minutes?"

  The luncheon was a cheerful meal, for Laurie made it so. When it wasfinished he went to the kitchen window, opened it, and carefullyarranged several hot ham sandwiches in a row.

  "For the birdies," he explained. "For the cold little birdies out in thegrounds."

  He even chirped invitingly to the "birdies," but these latter,throughout his visit, showed a coy reluctance to approach the house. Hecaught another odd grimace on the features of the old woman, who wasnow washing the dishes.

  "We won't confine you to any one room this afternoon," he told her."Wander where your heart leads you. But remember, you're on parole. Likeourselves, you must forego all communication with the glad outer world.And leave the secretary where he is, unless you want him hurt."

  "This storm will be a good thing for us," he mentioned to Doris, whenthey had returned to the up-stairs sitting-room. "It will be dark soonafter four, and the snow will cover our footsteps. But I'm inclined tothink," he added, reflectively, "that before we start I'd better go outand truss up those two birds in the grounds."

  She showed an immediate apprehension.

  "No, no! you mustn't think of that!" she cried. "Promise me you won't."

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  "As you wish, of course. But if they interfere when we're gettingstarted, surely you'll let me rock them to sleep, won't you?"

  "I--I don't know. Something may happen! Oh, I wish you hadn't come!" Shewas clearly in a panic, a genuine one. It seemed equally clear that hernerves, under the recent strain put upon them, were in a bad way. Allthis was Shaw's work, and as he realized it Laurie's expression changedso suddenly that the girl cried out: "What is it? What's the matter?"

  He answered, still under the influence of the feeling that had shakenhim.

  "I was just thinking of our friend Bertie and of a little bill he'srunning up against the future. Sooner or later, and I rather think itwill be sooner, Bertie's going to pay that bill."

  She did not move, but gave him a look that made him thoughtful. It wasan odd, sidelong look, frightened, yet watchful. He remembered that onceor twice before she had given him such a look. More than anything elsethat had happened, this glance chilled him. It was not thus that thewoman he loved should look at him.

  Suddenly he heard her gasp, and the next instant the silence of the roomwas broken by another voice, a voice of concentrated rage with a snarlrunning through it.

  "So you're here, are you?" it jerked. "By God, I'm sick of you and ofyour damned interference!"

  He turned. Shaw was standing just inside the door. But he was not thesleek, familiar, torpid figure of recent encounter. He seemed mad cleanthrough, fighting mad. His jaws were set; his sleek head and heavyshoulders were thrust forward as if he were ready to spring, and hisprotuberant eyes had lost their haze and held a new and unpleasantlight.

  But, angry though he appeared, Herbert Ransome Shaw was taking nochances in this encounter with his undesired guest. Behind him shone thenow smug countenance of the blond secretary, and on each side he wasflanked by another man. Powerful fellows these two seemed, evidentlyItalian laborers, gazing at the scene uncomprehendingly, but ready forany work their master set them. In stupefaction, Laurie stared at thetableau, while eight eyes unwinkingly stared back at him. Then henodded.

  "Well, Bertie," he said pleasantly, "you're outdoing even yourself inthe size of this delegation. Four to one. Quite some odds." His voicechanged. "You contemptible coward! Why don't you take me on alone? Haveyou got your chloroform cone?"

  The complexion of Shaw, red with cold, darkened to an apoplectic purple.

  "You'll soon find out what we've got," he barked, "and what's coming toyou. Now, are you going to put up a fight against four, or will you goquietly?"

  "I think," said Laurie thoughtfully, "I'd rather go quietly. But justwhere is it I'm going?"

  "You'll soon know." Shaw was carrying a coil of rope, light but strong,and now he tossed it to one of the Italians.

  "Tie him up," he curtly ordered.

  "Oh, no," said Laurie, backing a step. "Tut, tut! I wouldn't advisethat. I really wouldn't. It would be one of those rash acts you readabout."

  Something in his voice checked the forward stride of the Italian withthe rope. He hesitated, glancing at Shaw. With a gesture, the latterordered the two men through the door.

  "Wait just outside," he directed. He turned to Laurie. "Out you go!" heordered brusquely.

  Laurie hesitated, glancing at Doris, but he could not meet her eye. Atthe window, with her back to the room, she stared out at the storm. Evenin that moment her attitude stunned him. Also, he felt an unconquerableaversion to anything in the nature of a struggle before her. Perhaps,once outside the room, he could take on those ruffians, together or inturn.

  Without another word, he crossed the threshold into the hall. Before himhurried the two Italians. Behind him crowded Shaw and the secretary. Hewalked forward perhaps six strides. The
n, as the side railing of thestairway rose beside him, he saw his opportunity. He struck out rightand left with all his strength, flooring one of the Italians andsending the second helpless against the wall. In the next instant he hadleaped over the slender rail of the stairway, landed half-way down thestairs, and made a jump for the front door.

  As he had expected, the door was locked. Shaw, if he had entered thatway, had not been too hurried to attend to this little detail. Lauriehad just time to brace his back against it when the four men were uponhim.

  The ten minutes that followed were among the most interesting of youngDevon's life. He had always liked a good fight, and this episode in thegreat dim hall brought out all that was bloodthirsty and primitive inhim. For in the room above was Doris, and these men, whoever they were,stood in the way of her freedom and happiness.

  If he could have taken them on one by one he could have snapped theirnecks in turn, and he would have done so without compunction. As it was,with four leaping at him simultaneously, he called on all his reservestrength, his skill in boxing, and the strategy of his foot-ball days.

  His first blow sent the blond secretary to the floor, where he laymotionless. After that it was hard to distinguish where blows fell. WhatDevon wanted and was striving to reach was the throat of Shaw, but theslippery thing eluded him.

  He fought on with hands and feet, even drawing, against these odds, onthe _savate_ he had learned in Paris. Blood flowed from his nose, hisear and his lip. Shaw's face was bleeding, too, and soon one of theItalians had joined the meek young secretary in his slumbers on thefloor. Then Laurie felt his head agonizingly twisted backward, heard thecreak of a rusty bolt, and, in the next instant, was hurled headlongthrough the suddenly opened door, to the snow-covered veranda.

  As he pulled himself up, crouching for a return spring, Shaw, disheveledand breathless on the threshold, jerkily addressed him.

  "Try it again if you like, you young devil," he panted, "but rememberone thing: the next time you won't get off so easily."

  The door slammed, and again the bolt shot into place. Laurie listened.No sound whatever came from the inner hall. The old house was againapparently dead, after its moments of fierce life. He slowly descendedthe steps, and, bracing himself against the nearest tree, stared at thehouse, still gasping from the effects of the struggle.

  He was out of it, but he had left Doris behind. The fact sickened him.So did the ignominy of his departure. He was not even to be followed.His absence was all the gang desired. His impulse was to force the doorand again face the four of them. But he realized that he couldaccomplish nothing against such odds, and certainly, as a prisoner inthe house, trussed up with Shaw's infernal rope, he would be of no useto either Doris or himself. He decided to return to the garage and gethis car and the weapon he had left there. Then, if the four still wantedto fight, he would show them something that might take the spirit out ofthem.

  Having arrived at this sane conclusion, he turned away from the silenthouse, and, hatless and coatless as he was, hurriedly made his waythrough the heavy snow-drifts toward the public road.