“Where is my father?” she asked coldly, as if she felt he were somehow to blame for the presence of these uniformed men.
“That is what we hoped you might be able to tell us, Miss Ransom,” said Sherwood courteously. He had risen as she entered the doorway.
She looked around at them intently once more.
“Then if my father has not been here,” she asked crisply, “how did you get in here?”
For just an instant she stood facing the five men, and then she stepped quickly over to the desk and laid her hand on the telephone.
Just as quickly another hand, firm and strong and determined, was laid upon hers, and the man called Sherwood looked sternly down at her.
“I’m sorry, Miss Ransom, but we can’t let you do that—not now.”
Chapter 2
Romanye cast a frightened glance from one stern face to the other, her eyes lingering with sudden recognition on the broad shoulders of the boy.
“Chris Hollister!” she said sharply. “What are you doing here? Why don’t you tell these men that they have no right to come in here and tell me what I can do and what I cannot do?”
The boy turned shamefacedly.
“I’m sorry, Romayne, I didn’t know you would be here—I understood you were to be away—”
“Oh!” said Romayne haughtily. “So you knew what my movements were, did you? And you were in some plot against my father in his absence, it seems. Well, I thought better of you than that. I’ve always supposed you were a very nice boy—that is, in the days when we used to go to school together.”
Her tone was as if she had finished with him forever. Then she turned toward Sherwood.
“I don’t know who you are, but I’m sure you look as if you might have been a gentleman once. Will you please let go of my hand?”
“Not until you give me your word of honor that you will go over and sit down in that chair and not go near this telephone again,” said Sherwood gently but firmly. “I’m in command here, and I can’t run the risk of your messing things.”
“You’re not in command of me!” said Romayne, giving her lithe hand a quick twist and jerking it from his hold. It hurt her cruelly, but she did not wince. With a quick motion she turned toward the front door, but to her dismay she was suddenly confronted by the two men in uniform, standing like an impassable wall before her.
With a dazed look she stopped, gave each a frightened glance, and turning back to Sherwood, she drew herself up proudly.
“What does this mean?” she asked indignantly. “Do I understand that I am a prisoner in my father’s house?”
“I’m afraid you are, Miss Ransom,” answered Sherwood gravely. “I hope it will not be for long. You need not be troubled. No harm will come to you. If you will sit down, I will see that no harm comes to you.”
“Thank you. I prefer to stand,” she said frigidly.
“Just as you please,” answered her captor, “only I advise you to stand right where you are if you do not wish to be interfered with again.”
Romayne caught her underlip between her white teeth to steady its trembling. She could feel the tears smarting in her eyes. Slim and straight she stood in her pretty spring outfit, looking like a frightened child. Chris Hollister could not stand it and turned his back, pretending to be looking out from between the curtains again.
The girl had wonderful self-control. She was trying to think what she should do. It was unthinkable that she should submit to such a situation.
“What is the meaning of all this anyway? What right have you to order me about in this way in my own house?” she said, trying to hold her temper and see if she could find out what it was all about. “There certainly must be some explanation. You don’t look like a bandit!”
There was just the least trace of contempt in her voice.
“Aw gee!” breathed the boy, Chris, under his breath.
“I can explain,” said the young man gravely, “but I would rather not. I hoped perhaps that you might be spared the pain—”
“Oh!” interrupted Romayne. “Don’t trouble yourself about that. You haven’t seemed to care how much pain you inflicted. I beg you will inform me at once what all this means! It isn’t necessary to use any oratory or false friendliness. I want the facts. I’ll bear the pain!”
Her face was haughtiness itself. Her tone stung the young man and brought a flush of indignation to his cheek, but he kept his quiet voice.
“Very well, then. I will tell you. This house is under suspicion, and we have been ordered to investigate. I am sorry our duty brought us here while you were at home, but if you will consent to be seated quietly in that chair where the guard can watch every movement, I give you my word you shall not be personally disturbed.”
Romayne stared wide-eyed.
“This house! Under suspicion? But for what?” she demanded angrily.
“For illicit dealing in intoxicating liquor.”
“Oh!” unexpectedly laughed out the girl with a relieved hysterical giggle. “Is that all? Isn’t that funny!”
She dropped into a chair still laughing, her eyes dancing merrily.
“But,” she said, looking into the young man’s face, “you surely didn’t mean that seriously?”
“I surely do,” said the young man sadly. “I’m sorry, but we have all evidence—”
Romayne turned toward the boy.
“Chris, why in the world don’t you tell him we’re not that kind of people? What do you get out of this farce that you can let it go on? You surely know how absurd this charge is!”
Chris turned earnestly toward the girl.
“I did, Romayne; I told them all about you. I said you were a peach of a girl! I wanted to put this off when I found you were home—”
“Put it off!” said Romayne, scornfully turning back to Sherwood. “If you would allow me to call up my father’s friend, Judge Freeman,” she said with an edge of haughtiness in her voice again, “he will be able to explain how impossible this all is,” she said loftily.
A quick meaningful look passed from one man to another around the group.
“I have no doubt he would,” said Sherwood meaningfully, “but we will not call the judge at present.”
“Or if you will call my brother,” she went on more soberly, trying to realize that it was not going to be as easy to convince these determined men as she had expected. “He is probably still in the office—I can give you his number. He never gets out till a quarter past six.”
Another lightning glance went around the circle. She could not tell what it was about, that quick motionless look. It seemed to be more of a light coming out of the eye, like a signal flash in the night, than anything tangible, but it gave her a chill of foreboding.
She suddenly turned to Sherwood quite gravely, as one would speak to a naughty child in a tantrum who needed quieting, speaking slowly and distinctly as if to bring him to reason.
“I should think it would be easy enough to prove that your suspicions are absurd,” she said. “Why don’t you look around and see that this is nothing but a plain everyday home?”
“Are you willing to take me over the house, Miss Ransom?”
“Certainly, if you insist on being so absurd,” she said freezingly.
“Very well. We will begin in this room.”
“In this room?” She lifted her eyebrows amusedly. “I should say everything was perfectly obvious here.”
“What is behind those doors, for instance? Can you open them for me?”
Romayne laughed.
“Some old dusty papers. Files of sales of Father’s business. It’s nothing but a shallow cupboard. Father had to have a carpenter come here and make it deeper to get his papers in. Did you think it was a wine closet?”
Another of those quick lightning glances went round the circle of men, though when she looked again, no one seemed to have paid the least attention to her words. Their eyes were thoughtfully on space.
The steady eyes of Sherw
ood did not waver nor show special interest. His voice was just as quiet as he said, “Yes? Well, can you open them for me?”
“Why certainly!” said Romayne, walking briskly over to the fireplace and touching the little spring knob.
But the door did not open as she expected.
She looked at it puzzled.
“Oh, I remember! Father had a lock put on. He said there were valuable papers here and he did not want them disturbed. Perhaps I can find the key. Of course Father wouldn’t object to my opening it for you to see.”
She searched in the drawers of the desk, the men meanwhile noting every movement, and taking in at a glance the contents of every drawer, without seeming at all to be looking.
Romayne came upon a bunch of keys and tried several but without success. She lifted somewhat mortified eyes to the young man at last.
“Well, we’ll have to wait till Father comes, I suppose. But there really is nothing in there but papers.”
“I see,” said Sherwood gravely, as if the matter were dismissed. “Now, this house, it’s a double house, is it not? Do you happen to know what is on the other side of this mantel? Have you ever been in the other house?”
“I have not,” said Romayne haughtily. “The house is vacant, of course, you know.”
“Yes?” Sherwood lifted his eyebrows in that maddening way he had done before, as if he doubted her word. “Is the house for rent?”
“I believe it is,” said Romayne, vexed. She felt somehow that he was making game of her, yet his tone and manner were entirely respectful. There was about him an air of knowing more than she did about the things she told him. If he knew things, why did he ask? Was he trying to get her tangled up? Oh, if Father or Lawrence would only come home. It was outrageous! But perhaps she ought to play the game and keep them here till one of them did walk in, so that these intruders might be brought to justice.
“Do many people come to look at the house?”
“I really don’t know,” haughtily again. “I’ve noticed an agent once or twice. It may be rented now for all I know.”
“Yes?” And then quite irrelevantly, it seemed to her, “And your father’s business is?”
“He is a manager of a corporation. It has to do with ore and oil products.” She waved her hand toward the bits of rock and oil tubes on the desk. She had the air of endeavoring to graciously satisfy an insatiable curiosity on his part, endeavoring to show him how contemptible he was. But his quiet, grave manner did not alter.
“Miss Ransom, have you ever been down to the cellar in your own house?”
“Really!” she shrugged. “How absurd! Of course.”
“Can you tell me what it contains?”
“Why certainly. A furnace, and a coal bin, and a woodpile.”
“Where is the furnace located?”
What possible interest could that be to these strangers? “Why, almost directly under this room, I think.”
“Yes? And the coal bin? Is it located on the right wall or the left?”
Romayne stopped to think. This was rather interesting, like a game. What could the man possibly be driving at? Or was he merely trying to kill time and asking any question that came into his head?
“It is on the right wall, just in front of the fireplace, I believe. Yes, I know it is. They fill it from the basement window on the sidewalk, just under that window over there, I think. We haven’t been here long, and haven’t needed to get coal yet.”
“Did you ever examine the coal bin?”
“Well no. I couldn’t possibly take any interest in a coal bin. Father always looks after those things.”
“Then you have no knowledge of a door or passageway leading from that coal bin into the cellar of the next house?”
Romayne gave a startled glance from one intent face to the other. For the first time it seemed to her the men were off their guard and openly watching her.
“Of course not,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. Oh, if Father or Lawrence would only come. “You must have been reading dime novels or mystery stories.”
The young man controlled a desire to smile. She could see it in the quiver of his lip. He had a nice mouth. But how outrageously impertinent.
“Did you ever notice anything else in the cellar?” went on the steady voice.
“Nothing but some boxes and barrels that came from the mine and have to do with the business,” she said wearily. Would this inquisition never end?
“I’m hungry,” she said suddenly. “I don’t suppose you’ll mind if I go and get something to eat, will you? In my own house?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Ransom, but you’ll have to remain right here in this room for the present.” She had a strange sensation as she swept him a glance of disdain that his eyes were asking her pardon. “Hollister here will go where you direct him,” he added, “and get something for you. You can trust him to find what you want, I’m sure.”
“No!” said Romayne contemptuously. “I certainly cannot trust a person who had done what he is doing to an old friend. Thank you! I will remain hungry!”
The color swept in a crimson wave up to the roots of Chris’s hair and he turned swiftly toward the window once more.
“I’m sorry,” said Sherwood with genuine concern in his voice. “It was no part of my plan to drag you into this mess, Miss Ransom!”
“Oh, yes, you’re very sorry!” retorted Romayne angrily, and suddenly sat down in the chair he had offered her several times, with a defeated look on her face, and stormy eyes. Oh, if her father and brother would only come. It was ten minutes after six! Surely they must come soon!
And then there was a sound of a key in the latch, a tense silence in the room; the front door opened, and Mr. Ransom, followed by his son, entered and looked around with white, startled faces.
Chapter 3
In future years when Romayne looked back on that silence that followed her father’s entrance into the room, it seemed to her to have lasted for years, and to have encompassed three distinct eras of emotion.
There was the first instant of relief that her father had come and that now all would be set right. During that instant her own firm little chin was lifted just the slightest, haughtily, with an assurance, the perfect assurance that she had always felt in her father to dominate any situation; an almost pity for the cocksure young man who had been so condescending and so dictatorial to her in her own house, and she swept him a brief glance of contempt that included the whole room. The boy, Chris, seemed suddenly to have been submerged in the amber-colored curtains. She had forgotten that he existed.
Her eyes went back to her father’s face, expecting to find a certain look, the expression of an aristocrat who had arrived in time to discomfort interlopers. She knew the look, he had worn it often through the years in protecting herself and her mother from impudence or presumption on the part of servants or officials. It became him well, that look of righteous indignation, tempered with severity. She was always a little sorry for anybody who had incurred his displeasure when her father was really roused. He had a command of fine, terse sarcasm that was really withering to listen to. That he would use it now she did not doubt. She waited to hear him speak and realized that the silence had been long, with something vitally terrible in it that she did not understand. Of course, her father would be much disturbed that she had been here alone in the house with a company of men of this sort. He would be fairly overwhelmed.
She turned her attention fully to his face again. Was it something in the expression of the uniformed man who stood at his elbow that made her look more closely? Why, her father’s face was ashen! His eyes! There was nothing haughty in them. They looked—why, almost frightened! Perhaps he was sick. The doctor had said there was a little weakness of the heart—nothing serious. It was not good for him to be excited. She flashed a glance of condemnation toward the leader of the men, who stood just ahead of her to the right. Then her eyes went again to her father’s face.
Mr. Ransom was
a handsome man as the world counts beauty in a man. He had regular features and a fine old-fashioned bearing, which his silver hair and well-clipped pointed beard accentuated. He habitually bore himself as one who respected himself and dealt gently, almost reverently, with himself. He was the embodiment of lofty sentiments, and his well-groomed person was always an object of observation and admiration as he walked the streets and went about his daily business. One thought of him as a man who wore glasses attached to a fine gold chain over his ear and carried a gold-headed cane. He was the kind of man who was always well dressed, carried his papers in a fine cloth bag, and wore silk hats whenever there was the slightest excuse for them. He might have been an elder in a church, or even a minister, so dignified, so conventional, so altogether fitting was everything about his appearance. People had always looked upon him as a good man, well-born, well-bred, and upright to the core. This was the general essence of the character that his daughter had always revered, and that more than anything else in her life she had been most proud of. And now she turned eyes that were accustomed to watching him proudly, tenderly, to his face once more, and all those things that she had been accustomed to see in his beloved face had vanished. Instead the lips had grown more ashen, the eyes wild, like a hunted animal, as they glanced from one intruder to another, the skin of his face white like death as he stood perfectly still looking slowly around that room, only his eyes moving in their ghastly setting. He did not seem to be aware of her presence—or—was he?
She sprang to her feet.
“Father!” and instinctively reached out her hands toward him.
It was just at that instant that he crumpled and went down.
You have seen a balloon that was pricked suddenly lose its inflation, or a tent, let loose from its holdings, sink slowly to the earth. It was like that. The thing that had made the man what he had always been seemed suddenly to have gone out of him. He lay on the marble floor of his entrance hall, a limp heap of cloth. A white face, from which the inhabitant seemed to have departed, and the white skin, withered and lying in loose folds as though that which had held it buoyant and plastic had been suddenly withdrawn from beneath. There was something drawn about the features, as if they had been misplaced and had nothing to give them form or continuity. The thought flashed through the girl’s consciousness as she flew toward him that that could not possibly be her father, lying there, collapsed, inanimate. She must reach him quickly. She must lift him up, as if the life and buoyancy would return to him once more if she could but lift him quickly enough.