"Okay. I'd like a word with that guy's papa!"
"Look out, brother. You must remember you may be talking to enemies. Well, get busy. This number is Fenwick three six four nine eight if you need me. I'll call you as quick as I find out about the ship."
Lane Maitland went to work in a businesslike way and soon got in touch with the ship company. It did not take long. Yes, Mr. Tilford Thorpe had booked passage for himself and his wife on their ship, weighing anchor that night at midnight. No, they were not as yet on board but had sent word that morning that they would arrive early in the evening. Mrs. Thorpe was not well and wanted to have her berth ready. Did the gentleman wish to leave a message for them?
Maitland said no, sharply, and hung up. He put a shaky hand to his lips and tried to still their trembling. So that was that! It didn't settle the matter fully but was at least a clue.
He looked at his watch. There was not too much time. Could he get there before it was too late? And having got there, could he do anything? Would she want him to do anything? Suppose it was only a quarrel between them and Thorpe had made it up?
With perplexities thickening about him, he called up the Mayberry house, and Merrick answered.
"I couldn't get the old bird," he said gloomily. "He and the mother were out. Nobody knew anything about Tilford."
"Well, they're booked on board, Mr. and Mrs. Tilford Thorpe, and expected to arrive soon. They said the lady wasn't so well and wanted to go to bed at once. Now, I think I'd better drive right to New York. I'm thirty miles on the way, and I think I can make it before the ship sails at midnight. I tried to get a plane, but the next one would get me there too late. They couldn't tell me about hiring a private plane until I got over to the airport, and by the time I got there it wouldn't allow much margin. Counting all the time from airport to dock and so on, I think it's best to drive. Not much traffic this late, and anyway, I might need the car when I get up there. I can always abandon it if it seems best."
"But you ought not to be doing all this," protested Merrick. "I'm her brother. That's my job."
"Cut that out. You've got to stay by the house. The family has got to be protected from this as long as possible. Nobody will miss me. You tell the boys in the morning, if I'm not there, that I was called away on business and am leaving them there to carry on camp and keep up discipline just as if I were there. Tell them there will be an extra honor stripe on their shoulders if they do."
"Okay," said Merrick solemnly.
"You say your father is asleep?" went on Maitland. "That's good. Perhaps we'll know more before you have to tell him anything. Better tell Nurse Bonner the truth. You can trust her, and she will look after Lexie. My car's filled up now, and I'm off. I'll phone you from New York as soon after midnight as I can make a station. So long! Cheer up! God isn't dead!"
"Maybe not," said Merrick drearily. "Oh, I say, Lane, wait a minute. What about those cops? Think I ought to let them know?"
"I guess you ought. In general, that's always the first thing to do. If there's one you're sure you can trust to keep it quiet, perhaps it would be good to ask his advice. Of course, it isn't necessary to tell the whole family history. Not yet, anyway, but you might say you don't know but it would just turn out to be a practical joke put on by a friend, or something of that sort, and you will let him know just as soon as you hear from one who has gone to investigate. How would that be?"
"Okay, perhaps. I know the chief up here in our district. He'll keep it under his hat, unless he has an idea it may be gangsters. But I'll hold him off till I hear from you if possible. Should I try the old Thorpe bird again?"
"Perhaps. It might give you some idea whether the family knows about it, in which case keep away from publicity till we know more. Now, keep cool! I wish you knew how to pray!"
"Well, I useta know. I might make a stab at it in a case like this. Take care of yourself, Lane. I don't know what we'd do without you. Good-bye. I've got to get busy."
They hung up, and Lane jumped into his car and drove northward, but poor Merrick, bewildered at the responsibilities thus thrust upon him, gave a dazed look about him and uttered his favorite word when excited:
"Gosh! Can you beat it?"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Maris came back to consciousness with someone pulling off her shoes and dropping them on the floor.
What floor?
She was instantly aware of disaster, fear, terror that had been about her when she passed out. What had made her pass out? She had never fainted in her life. She had always been proud of that. Ah! Now she knew. She recalled the burly man who had lured her into that awful car, telling her Dr. MacPherson had sent for her, that Merrick had had an accident and was dying and wanted her. It was perfectly clear to her now that there must have been something crooked about the whole thing. Maybe Merrick wasn't even hurt. Maybe it was all a hoax. She had read about people being kidnapped. But why would anyone want to kidnap her? All her friends knew that they were not rich people and could not pay a ransom. Surely the criminal world must know that; they were said to be so well informed as to people's private lives.
Wait! They had heard of her engagement to Tilford perhaps. The Thorpes were reputed millionaires. And the underworld scarcely would know yet that the engagement was broken. She had told nobody but Lane and her family. Maybe they had heard it was her wedding night.
Her heart suddenly sank at the prospect. If that was what happened, there would be nobody to come to her rescue. Tilford, of course, would not be searching for her. Only her dear family would be in anguish. Her poor tired family! Oh, that must not be! Somehow she must get away without their having to suffer. It was entirely up to her.
Yet she was not alone. Almost as if a voice had spoken those words again: "No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper." Those words she had read in her Bible just before this awful thing happened. No, she was not alone. Her Lord was with her, living in her!
She did not really think this all out in words; it was a comforting consciousness that came to her as she lay quite motionless, trying to get her dazed senses back into working order.
The one who was working over her had put on some other shoes that did not belong to her. They were tight and uncomfortable. Now she was fussing about her head, lifting it a little and tucking something underneath, arranging it around her face, pulling out her hair here and there and patting it.
The sudden thought crossed her mind that perhaps they thought she was dead and were preparing her for burial. Almost she cried out, but she held herself in steady control and waited. She must not let it be known that she was conscious. She tried to be utterly relaxed and lie limp, but her heart seemed to beat so wildly that she felt it could almost be heard.
There was a woman working around her. She could hear the rustle of her dress. Once a sleeve brushed across her hand. She was arranging fabric about her feet. Maris became aware of alien garments upon her, unaccustomed garments, fitted long, and voluminous. It was as if her inner consciousness went out stealthily spying to convey to her the details of her situation. As if her senses had banded together within her body to feel out and inform her of everything. Her hand that lay quiet at her side came alive suddenly and informed she was clothed in heavy, smooth satin of a soft, rich texture. She had a consciousness that her hair had recently been brushed and ordered pleasantly. There was something on her head, a hat or a band or a coronet of some sort, and there was a sense of something soft and cloudlike near her cheek and forehead, something light as air, or was that only part of a dream? She lay there trying to think it out. And now she discovered a ring upon her finger twisted slightly, the great stone pressing against the flesh of the next finger. Cautiously she pressed her fingers closer to make sure. A ring, yes. Like her own that she had given back to Tilford. Was this just a dream?
The person who bent above her wore heavy beads about her neck, and she could hear them rattle against one another as she leaned over and smoothed the satin on the far side,
so of course this must be a woman. She also wore cheap, unpleasant perfume that Maris thought had a musty odor. She somehow felt this person was not overly clean. Maris was glad when, with a final pat to the fabric, the woman walked away. She walked heavily with a quick little nipping tread, as if her shoes were too tight.
What was this place?
Her mind went back to the car in which her consciousness had gone out and that hateful bitter rag had been thrust into her mouth. Had this woman been along? Was it she who had sat at the far end of the seat and helped to pull her in? It was all so vague and fraught with awful fear. So now what was this place, and how did they get here? She found she had no memory that would suggest it.
The woman seemed to have stepped through a door. It must be a bathroom, for there was a sound of running water. Dared she open her eyes to look around?
Cautiously she lifted her lashes just a tiny bit and then wider, in a quick glance, then shut them again, for the woman was returning.
But she had seen enough to show her that she was on board a ship. She had distinctly seen the portholes on either side of the dresser, and the outline of the room was strangely familiar. It was like the picture of the bridal suite that Tilford had shown her. Had she then been kidnapped by gangsters, and were they taking her abroad where her friends could never find her? Panic seized her, and she felt the little pulse in her neck begin to throb wildly. But she must not get excited. She had need for every faculty. She must keep calm. She must not appear to be awake. She must think this thing through somehow. Her very life depended on this. The ship did not seem to be in motion. Perhaps there would be a way to escape before it sailed, though that was scarcely likely if her captors were really gangsters. They would have thought out all possibilities of escape and guarded against them. This woman was likely put here as her jailer.
But how did this theory fit with the silken garments she was wearing? Why should they dress her up this way? If she could only get a good glimpse of that woman. Dared she open her eyes and peep at her?
It seemed that she was standing over by the dresser, opening a small handbag, if she could judge by the sound. Cautiously she peered through her lashes. The woman was looking into the mirror powdering her nose. She studied her an instant before she closed her eyes again. She was a stoutish elderly woman with shingled graying hair. And now, could it be true? She was setting a small youthful hat on her head. Was she perhaps going away? Would there be a chance to escape, or would someone else come? That terrible man, perhaps, who had pushed her into the car?
The woman was turning her head to get the effect of the hat, and as she swung around toward the bed, Maris closed her eyes quickly, holding herself rigidly quiet; but as she did so she caught a glimpse of the dress she was wearing and saw that it was white satin and that that was a wedding veil she had felt about her face, and silver shoes were on her feet!
She was filled with such horror that she could scarcely keep from shuddering and crying out as she thought of the possibilities that were before her. That awful man--! Oh, what could it all mean? And what could she do? Were they going to try to force her through some horrible marriage ceremony? She could never hope to escape in those garments. She would be noticed by every eye.
Then all at once came words ringing back into her heart: "No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper. . . . This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord." And a quiet self-control came over her. After all, God was here. Nothing could really harm her. Nothing could happen that He could not control.
Oh, my heavenly Father! Help me! cried her frightened heart. And then her mind became clearer so that she could think. She hadn't got this thing straight yet. It didn't make sense. People didn't go out and kidnap poor girls and take them on a ship to marry them or to make sport of them. There was something more to it than that.
The woman was walking about the room now, picking up a few things and putting them into a small overnight bag. She must be going to leave. But who was coming to take her place?
As the woman bent over to fasten the bag, Maris ventured another quick look, and this time she noted a pile of handsome-looking baggage over by the bathroom door. There were initials on some of the pieces. She forced herself to puzzle out the letters. T. T. Her heart stood still. Those were Tilford's initials! Was it thinkable that Tilford would do such a thing as this? Was that his ring on her finger again, and was he "exerting his authority"?
The thought came and looked her in the face as she lay there, struggling to keep her expression from being anything but absolute unconsciousness in sleep. It menaced her with as much horror as when she thought of that awful kidnapper as a bridegroom. For if Tilford had done this thing to her, he was no longer the Tilford whom she had thought she was in love with. He was a despicable tyrant, bound only to conquer and bend her to his will, and she was suddenly filled with a worse fear than before.
"The heritage!" came the words again. "The heritage of the servants of the Lord!"
Oh, my heavenly Father! I am Thy servant! The very humblest, the latest perhaps, and surely the very lowest of Thy servants, but still a servant. I claim Thy promise!
The woman was walking about the room now, placing her suitcase on a chair, putting on a pair of white lacy gloves, tilting her hat a little more to the side, touching her lips with a brighter red. Maris ventured another glimpse and felt sure she was preparing to leave soon. She had glanced at her watch. She wished she knew what time it was, what ship this was. But somehow she must be ready to spring into action if the woman did leave.
But what could she do? She could never rush forth in a white satin dress and a wedding veil. Was there anything about the room that she could wear?
Beneath her lashes once more she explored the side wall next to her. There were hooks and a gray tweed coat with a fur collar hanging on one. Whose coat was that? Would the woman take it with her? So she lay and thought out what she would do if she got the opportunity.
And then, all at once, she became aware of a throbbing in the heart of the ship. Was that the engine? There was a ship's bell ringing, a clear, sharp sound of warning. Were they weighing anchor already? Was it too late? Oh, her precious mother, and father, and the little sick sister! What would they all think?
But the bell gave another warning, resonant ring, and it seemed to mean something to the other occupant of the room. She looked at her watch and picked up her bag, glancing uneasily out the door.
Then she closed the door again and came back, as if waiting for something, some signal. Oh, would she think she had to wait till someone came to take her place? Wouldn't there be even a chance to try to get away?
And then there came a voice, clear and ringing: "All ashore that's going ashore! All ashore that's going ashore!"
The woman turned and fairly ran toward the door, glancing casually at Maris there on the bed, so resolutely limp and silent, her eyes not even quivering. As quiet as if she were laid out for burial.
The woman flung open the door and went out, shutting it hastily behind her. She had not locked it! The key was still on the inside! Hadn't she meant to lock it? She had not taken the coat with her. Had she forgotten it? Maris dared not stir for a second till she heard the woman's little high heels clicking down the metal edges of the safety treads on the stairs. Even then she opened her eyes most cautiously, with a sinister feeling that somehow Tilford or the other awful man had been spirited in as the woman left. If he was there, if either of them was there, she had planned she would lie utterly limp and still. She would not respond to any effort to bring her to life. It was the only mode of warfare that she could think of for one under a tyrant.
But the next instant she sprang into action. There might be only a moment more, and she must do her best.
She flung the costly wedding veil from her head, wiping it from her forehead with its coronet of orange blossoms as if it were abhorrent. She sat up and clutched at the fastening of her dress. She must get it off even if she had to tear it seam f
rom seam. Could it be the dress that Tilford's mother had ordered? How all the chapters of the story were dropping into place!
She struggled out of the dress frantically then stooped and wrenched at the jeweled buttons of the silver shoes and kicked them from her. She could never walk in them; they were too tight! She bent and groped on the floor for her own little comfortable everyday shoes. Had that woman put them away? She had no time to search. Would she have to go in just silver stockings? Ah! Here they were! She stepped into them gratefully, and then the glitter of the ring caught her eye. Tilford's ring! She tore it from her finger and flung it on the pile of wedding finery on the bed. Just then a man rushed by the door crying out again, "All ashore that's going ashore! Last call!" And her heart stood still with fear. Now she had to go, and she had no dress on, only a little white silken slip!
Wildly she seized the tweed coat from the hook on the wall and caught a whiff of horrid perfume! It was that woman's coat, and she would perhaps return for it! But this was no time to be squeamish. Maris flung it about her, thrust her arms into the sleeves, and drew the fur collar up about her face. Then she cautiously opened the door and looked out.
There was not a soul in sight. The clatter and noise of many tongues rose from a region below somewhere, people saying last things.
There were stairs close at hand, the stairs that woman must have used, but she dared not risk them. She might meet her coming back to get her coat. Wildly she fled along the gallery to another flight and dashed down. Endless stairs, they seemed, wide and low and turning on incessant landings. Would she never get to a place that would lead her off the boat? Then suddenly as she rounded a turn she saw Tilford Thorpe just below her, standing on a lower step talking earnestly with the woman who had just left her; beyond was a glimpse of the outer world and a gangplank not far away.