THE LEADING LADY

The
LEADING LADY

By

GERALDINE BONNER

AUTHOR OF
To-morrow’s Tangle, The Pioneer,
Rich Men’s Children, The
Book of Evelyn

INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1926
By The Bobbs-Merrill Company
Printed in the United States of America
PRINTED AND BOUND
BY BRAUNWORTH & CO., INC.
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

The
LEADING LADY

PROLOGUE

One of the morning trains that tap the little towns along the Sound ran into the Grand Central Depot. It was very hot in the lower levels of the station and the passengers, few in number—for it was midsummer and people were going out of town, not coming in—filed stragglingly up the long platform to the exit. One of them was a girl, fair and young, with those distinctive attributes of good looks and style that drew men’s eyes to her face and women’s to her clothes.

People watched her as she followed the porter carrying her suit-case, noting the lithe grace of her movements, her delicate slimness, the froth of blonde hair that curled out under the brim of her hat. She appeared oblivious to the interest she aroused and this indifference had once been natural, for to be looked at and admired had been her normal right and become a stale experience. Now it was assumed, an armor under which she sought protection, hid herself from morbid curiosity and eagerly observing eyes. To be pointed out as Sybil Saunders, the actress, was a very different thing from being pointed out as Sybil Saunders, the fiancée of James Dallas of the Dallas-Parkinson case.

The Dallas-Parkinson case had been a sensation three months back. James Dallas, a well-known actor, had killed Homer Parkinson during a quarrel in a man’s club, struck him on the head with a brass candlestick, and fled before the horrified onlookers could collect their senses. Dallas, a man of excellent character, had had many friends who claimed mitigating circumstances—Parkinson, drunk and brutal, had provoked the assault. But the Parkinson clan, new-rich oil people, breathing vengeance, had risen to the cause of their kinsman, poured out money in an effort to bring the fugitive to justice, and offered a reward of ten thousand dollars for his arrest. Of course Sybil Saunders had figured in the investigation, she was the betrothed of the murderer, their marriage had been at hand. She had gone through hours of questioning, relentless grilling, and had steadily maintained her ignorance of Dallas’ whereabouts; from the night of his disappearance she had heard nothing from him and knew nothing of him. The Parkinsons did not believe her statement, the police were uncertain.

As she walked toward the exit she carried a newspaper in her hand. Other people in the train had left theirs in their seats, but she, after a glance at the head-lines, had folded hers and laid it in her lap. Three seats behind her on the opposite side of the aisle she had noticed a man—had met his eyes as her own swept back carelessly over the car—and it was then that she had laid the paper down and looked out of the window. Under the light film of rouge on her cheeks a natural color had arisen. She had known he would be there but was startled to find him so close.

Now as she moved across the shining spaciousness of the lower-level waiting-room she stole a quick glance backward. He was following, mounting the incline. It was the man who had gone up with her on Friday. She had been out of town several times lately on week-end visits and one of them was always on the train. Sometimes it was a new one but she had become familiar with the type.

She knew he was behind her at the taxi stand as she gave the address in a loud voice. But he probably would disappear now; in the city they generally let her alone. It was only when she left town that they were always on hand, keeping their eye on her, ready to follow if she should try to slip away.

The taxi rolled out into the sweltering heat; incandescent streets roaring under the blinding glare of the sun. Her destination was the office of Stroud & Walberg, theatrical managers, and here in his opulent office set in aerial heights above the sweating city, Mr. Walberg offered her a friendly hand and a chair. Mr. Walberg, a kindly Hebrew, was kindlier than ever to this particular visitor. He was sorry for her—as who in his profession was not—and wanted to help her along and here was his proposition:

A committee of ladies, a high-society bunch summering up in Maine, wanted to give a play for charity. They’d got the chance to do something out of the ordinary, for Thomas N. Driscoll, the spool-cotton magnate who was in California, had offered them his place up there—Gull Island was the name—for an outdoor performance. Mr. Walberg, who had never seen it, enlarged on its attractions as if he had been trying to make a sale—a whole island, just off the mainland, magnificent mansion to be turned over to the company, housekeeper installed. The crowning touch was an open-air amphitheater, old Roman effect, tiers of stone seats, said to be one of the most artistic things of its kind in the country. The ladies had wanted a classic which Mr. Walberg opined was all right seeing the show was for charity, and people could stand being bored for a worthy object. Twelfth Night was the play they had selected, and as that kind of stage called for no scenery one thing would go as well as another.

The ladies had placed the matter in Mr. Walberg’s hands, and he had at once thought of Sybil Saunders for Viola. She had played the part through the provinces, made a hit and was in his opinion the ideal person. There was a persuasive, almost coaxing quality in his manner, not his usual manner with rising young actresses. But, as has been said, he was a kindly man, and had heard that Sybil Saunders was knocked out, couldn’t get the heart to work; also, as she was a young person of irreproachable character, he inferred she must be hard up. That brought him to compensation—not so munificent, but then Miss Saunders was not yet in the star class—and all expenses would be covered, including a week at Gull Island. This opportunity to dwell in the seats of the mighty, free of cost, with sea air and scenery thrown in, Mr. Walberg held before her as the final temptation.

He had no need for further persuasion for Miss Saunders accepted at once. She was grateful to him and said so and looked as if she meant it. He felt the elation of a good work done for the charitable ladies—they could get no one as capable as Sybil Saunders for the price—and for the girl herself whose best hope was to get back into harness. So, in a glow of mutual satisfaction, they walked to the door, Mr. Walberg telling over such members of the cast as had already been engaged: Sylvanus Grey for the Duke, Isabel Cornell for Maria, John Gordon Trevor for Sir Toby—no one could beat him, had the old English tradition—and Anne Tracy for Olivia. At that name Miss Saunders had exclaimed in evident pleasure. Anne Tracy would be perfect, and it would be so lovely having her, they were such friends. Mr. Walberg nodded urbanely as if encouraging the friendships of young actresses was his dearest wish, and at the door put the coping stone on these agreeable announcements:

“And I’m going to give you my best director, Hugh Bassett. If with you and him they don’t pull off a success the Maine public’s dumber than I thought.”

Later in the day he saw his director and told him of Miss Saunders’ engagement.

“Poor little thing,” he said. “She looks like one of those vegetables they grow in the dark to keep ’em white. But it’ll be the saving of her. Now you go ahead and get this started—three weeks rehearsal here and one up there ought to do you. And keep me informed—if any of these swell dames turn up asking questions, I want to know where I’m at.”

Her business accomplished, Miss Saunders went home. She lived in one of those mid-town blocks of old brownstone houses divided into flats. The flats were of the variety known as “push button” and “walk up,” but she pushed no button as she knew hers would be tenantless. Letting herself in with a latchkey she ascended the two flights at a rapid run, unlocked her door and entered upon the hot empty quietude of her own domain. The blinds in the parlor were lowered as she had left them. She pulled one up with a nervous jerk, threw her hat on a chair, and falling upon the divan opened the paper that she had carried since she left the Grand Central Station.

The news of the day evidently had no interest for her. She folded the pages back at the personal column and settled over it, bent, motionless, her eyes traveling down its length. Suddenly they stopped, focussed on a paragraph. She rose and with swift, tiptoe tread went into the hall and tried the front door. Coming back she took a pad and pencil from the desk, drew a small table up to the divan, spread the newspaper on it, and copied the paragraph on to the pad. It ran as follows:

“Sister Carrie:

Edmund stoney broke but Albert able to help him. Think we ought to chip in. Can a date be arranged for discussing his affairs?

Sam and Lewis.”

She studied it for some time, the pencil suspended. Then it descended, crossing out letter after letter, till three words remained—“Edmunton, Alberta, Canada.” The signature she guessed as the name he went by.

She burned the written paper, grinding it to powder in the ash-tray. The newspaper she threw into the waste-basket where Luella, the mulatto woman who “did up” for her, would find it in the morning. She felt certain Luella was paid to watch her, that the woman had a pass-key to the mail-box and every torn scrap of letter or note was foraged for and handed on. But she had continued to keep the evil-eyed creature, fearful that her dismissal would make them more than ever wary, strengthen their suspicion that Sybil Saunders was in communication with her lover.

The deadly danger of it was cold at her heart as she lay back on the divan and closed her eyes. Through her shut lids she saw the paragraph with the words of the address standing out like the writing on the wall. She had heard directly from him once, a letter the day after he had fled; the only one that even he, reckless in his despair, had dared to send. In that he had told her to watch the personal column in a certain paper and had given her the names by which she could identify the paragraphs. She had watched and twice found the veiled message and twice waited in sickening fear for discovery. It had not happened. Now he had grown bolder, telling her where he was—it was as if his hand beckoned her to come. She could write to him at last, do it this evening and take it out after dark. Lying very still, her hands clasped behind her head, she ran over in her mind letter-boxes, post-offices where she might mail it. Were the ones in crowded districts or those in secluded byways, the safest? It was like walking through grasses where live wires were hidden.

A ring at the bell made her leap to her feet with wild visions of detectives. But it was only Anne Tracy, come in to see if she was back from her visit on the Sound. It was a comfort to see Anne, she always acted as if things were just as they had been and never asked disturbing questions. In the wilting heat she looked cool and fresh, her dress of yellow linen, her straw hat encircled by a wreath of nasturtiums had the dainty neatness that always marked Anne’s clothes and Anne herself. She was pale-skinned and black-haired, satin-smooth hair drawn back from her forehead and rolled up from the nape of her neck in an ebony curve. Because her eyebrows slanted upward at the ends and her eyes were long and liquid-dark and her nose had the slightest retroussé tilt, people said she looked like a Helleu etching. And other people, who were more old-fashioned and did not know what a Helleu etching was, said she looked like a lady.

She was Sybil’s best friend, was to have been her bridesmaid. But she knew no more of Sybil’s secrets since Jim Dallas had disappeared than any one else. And she never sought to know—that was why the friendship held.

They had a great deal to talk about, but chiefly the Twelfth Night affair. Anne was immensely pleased that Sybil had agreed to play. She did not say this—she avoided any allusions to Sybil’s recent conducting of her life—but her enthusiasm about it all was irresistible. It warmed the sad-eyed girl into interest; the Viola costume was brought from its cupboard, the golden wig tried on. When Anne took her departure late in the day, after iced tea and layer cake in the kitchenette, she felt much relieved about her friend—she was “coming back,” coming alive again, and this performance off in the country, far from her old associations, was just the way for her to start.

Anne occupied another little flat on another of the mid-town streets in another of the brownstone houses. Hers was one room larger, for her brother, Joe Tracy, lived with her when not pursuing his profession on the road. There were hiatuses in Joe’s pursuit during which he inhabited a small bedroom in the rear and caused Ann a great deal of worry and expense. Joe apparently did not worry, certainly not about the expense. Absence of work wore on his temper not because Anne had to carry the flat alone, but because he had no spending money.

They said it was his temper that stood in his way. Something did, for he was an excellent actor with that power of transforming himself into an empty receptacle to be filled by the character he portrayed. But directors who had had experience of him, talked about his “natural meanness” and shook their heads. When his name was mentioned it had become the fashion to add a follow-up sentence: “Seems impossible the same parents could have produced him and Anne.” People who tried to be sympathetic with Anne about him got little satisfaction. All the most persistent ever extracted was an admission that Joe was “difficult.” No one—not even Sybil or Hugh Bassett—ever heard what she felt about the fight he had had with another boy over a game of pool which had nearly landed him in the Elmira Reformatory. Bassett had dragged him out of that, and Bassett had found him work afterward, and Bassett had boosted and helped and lectured him since. And not for love of Joe, for in his heart Bassett thought him a pretty hopeless proposition.

That evening, alone in her parlor, Anne was thinking about him. He had no engagement and no expectation of one, and it was not wise to leave him alone in the flat without occupation. “Satan” and “the idle hands” was a proverb that came to your mind in connection with Joe. She went to the window and leaned out. The air rose from the street, breathless and dead, the heated exhalation of walls and pavements baked all day by the merciless sun. Passers-by moved languidly with a sound of dragging feet. At areaways red-faced women sat limp in loose clothing, and from open windows came the crying of tired little children. To leave Joe to this while she was basking in the delights of Gull Island—apart from anything he might do—it wasn’t fair. And then suddenly the expression of her face changed and she drew in from the window—Hugh Bassett was coming down the street.

The bell rang, she pushed the button and presently he was at the door saying he was passing and thought he’d drop in for a minute. He was a big thick-set man with a quiet reposeful quality unshaken even by the heat. It was difficult to think of Bassett shaken by any exterior accident of life, so suggestive was his whole make-up of a sustained equilibrium, a balanced adjustment of mental and physical forces. He had dropped in a great deal this summer and as the droppings-in became more frequent Anne’s outside engagements became less. They always simulated a mutual surprise, giving them time to get over that somewhat breathless moment of meeting.

They achieved it rather better than usual to-night for their minds were full of the same subject. Bassett had come to impart the good news about Sybil, and Anne had seen her and heard all about it. There was a great deal of talking to be done that was impersonal and during which one forgot to be self-conscious. Finally when they had threshed out all the matters of first importance Bassett said:

“Did you tell her that Walberg wanted Aleck Stokes for the Duke?”

“No, I didn’t say a word about it. What was the use? It would only have upset her and you’d put a stop to it.”

“You can always be relied on, Anne, to do the tactful thing. Walberg was set on it. Stokes can’t be beaten in that part and he’s at liberty. But I wasn’t going to take any chances of her refusing, and if Stokes was in the company I was afraid she might.”

“I don’t know whether she’d have gone that far, but it would have spoiled everything for her and for the rest of us too. It’s all plain sailing now except for one thing”—she stopped and then in answer to his questioning look—“about the police. If they have her under surveillance, as people say, what’ll they do about it up there?”

The big man shrugged:

“Camp in the village on the mainland—they certainly can’t come on the island. We’ve special instructions about it—no one but the company to be allowed there till the performance. Did she speak to you about that?”

“No, she hardly ever alludes to the subject. But they would keep a watch on her, wouldn’t they?”

He nodded, frowning a little at a complication new in his experience:

“I should think so—a woman in her position. Men under sentence of death have been unable to keep away from the girl they were in love with. And then she may know where he is, be in communication with him.”

“Oh, I don’t think that,” Anne breathed in alarm. “She’d never take such a risk.”

“Well, we’re her friends and we’re as much in the dark as anybody. I only know one thing—if they try to hound her down on that island—the first chance she’s had to recuperate and rest—I’ll—”

A slight grating noise came from the hall. Anne held up a quick cautioning hand.

“Take care,” she murmured. “Here’s Joe.”

Joe came in, his Panama hat low on his brow. He gave no sign of greeting till he saw Bassett, then he emitted an abrupt “Hello” and snatched off the hat:

“Little Anne’s got a caller. Howdy, Bassett! How’s things?”

There was a jovial note in his voice, a wide grin of greeting on his face. It was evident the sight of Bassett pleased him, and he stood teetering back and forth on his toes and heels, looking ingratiatingly at the visitor. He was like Anne, the same delicate features, the same long eyebrows and the same trick of raising them till they curved high on his forehead. But his face had an elfish, almost malign quality lacking in hers, and the brown eyes, brilliant and hard, were set too close to his nose. He was two years younger than she—twenty-two—but looked older, immeasurably older, in the baser worldly knowledge which had already set its stamp upon him.

He launched forth with a suggestion of pouncing eagerness on the Twelfth Night performance. He had heard this and that, and Anne had told him the other. His interest surprised Anne, he hadn’t shown much to her; only a few laconic questions. And she was wondering what was in his mind, as she so often wondered when Joe held the floor, when a question enlightened her:

“Have you got anybody to play Sebastian yet?”

“No. I wanted that boy who played with her on the southern tour last year, but he’s in England. He gave a first-rate performance and he did look like her.”

“That was a lucky chance. You’ll search the whole profession before you get any one that looks like Sybil’s twin brother.”

“He ought to bear some resemblance to her,” and Bassett quoted, “‘One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons.’ I wonder if Shakespeare had twins in his eye when he wrote the play.”

“Not he! They did the same in his day as they do now—dressed ’em up alike and let it go at that. Why, Mrs. Gawtrey, the English actress, when she was over here, had a boy to play Sebastian who looked as much like her—well, not as much as I look like Sybil.”

Bassett had seen his object as Anne had and was considering. He had been looking forward to the week at Gull Island with Anne, it loomed in his imagination as a festival. There would be a pleasant, companionable group of people, friendly, working well together. But Joe among them——

The boy, looking down at his feet, said slowly:

“What’s the matter with letting me do it?”

“Nothing’s the matter. I’ve no doubt you could, but you and she have about as much resemblance as chalk and cheese.”

Joe wheeled and gathering his coat neatly about his waist walked across the room with a mincing imitation of Sybil’s gait. It was so well done that Bassett could not contain his laughter. Encouraged, the boy assumed a combative attitude, his face aflame with startled anger, and striking out, at imaginary opponents, shouted: “‘Why there’s for thee, and there and there and there. Are all the people mad?’” Then as suddenly melted to a lover’s tone and looking ardently at Anne said: “‘If it be thus to dream then let me sleep.’”

“Oh, he could play it,” she exclaimed, and Bassett weakened before the pleading in her eyes.

He understood how to manage Joe, he could keep him in order. The boy was afraid of him anyway, and by this time knew that his future lay pretty well in Bassett’s hands. If there was anything Anne wanted that was within his gift there could be no question about its being hers.

She was very sweet, murmuring her thanks as she went with him to the door and assurances that Joe would acquit himself well. Bassett hardly heard what she said, looking into her dark eyes, feeling the soft farewell pressure of her hand.

Joe had left the sitting-room when she went back there and she supposed he had gone to bed. But presently he came in, his hat on again and said he was going out. She was surprised, it was past eleven, but he swung about looking for his cane, saying it was too hot to sleep. She tried to detain him with remarks about the new work. He answered shortly as was his wont with her, treating it as a small matter, nothing to get excited about—also a familiar pose. But she noticed under his nonchalance a repressed satisfaction, the glow of an inner elation in his eyes.

I

The performance was over and the audience was dispersing. Gull Island, colored to a chromo brightness by the declining sun, had not showed so animated an aspect since the reception for the Spanish ambassador last July. People in pale-tinted summer clothes were trailing across from the open-air theater and massing in a group as gay as a flower garden at the dock. Some of them had gone into the house, taken the chance to have a look at it—when the Driscolls were “in residence” you couldn’t so much as put your foot on the rocks round the shore. Others lingered, having a farewell word with the actors, congratulating them—it was the right thing to do and they deserved it. The committee was very affable, shaking hands with Mr. Bassett the director and Miss Saunders the star, who, in her page’s dress with the paint still on her face, looked tired, poor girl, but was so sweet and unassuming.

It had been a complete success. The matrons who had organized it scanned the crowd converging toward the dock and smiled the comfortable smile of accomplishment. The summer home for tenement children could build its new wing and employ that man from Boston who had such modern scientific methods. And the matrons, stiff in the back and unbecomingly flushed after sitting two hours in the sun on the stone seats of the theater, drew toward one another on the wharf and agreed that everything had gone off beautifully and the board should at once write to Mr. Driscoll and thank him for lending the island.

The fleet of boats, rocking gently on the narrow channel that separated Gull Island from the mainland, took on their freight and darted off. They started in groups then broke apart. Speed boats that had come from points afar, whizzed away with a seething rush and a crumple of crystal foam at the bow. The launches skimmed, light-winged, the white flurry of their wakes like threads that stretched back to the island.

People turned and looked at it—sun-gilded in an encircling girdle of Prussian blue sea. The rocks about its base, the headlands that rose above, were dyed to an orange red and against this brilliancy of primary colors the pines stood out darkly silhouetted. On the rise above the wharf the long brown structure of the house spread, rambling and irregular, built, it was said, to suggest an outgrowth of the rocky foundation. The watchers could see in the open place beyond the side balcony the actors standing motionless, spaced in a group. Yes, having their photographs taken; there was the camera man who’d been taking pictures during the performance. And they craned their necks for a last look at the lovely scene and the picturesque assemblage of players.

Part of the flotilla carried the Hayworth villagers—all-year residents of the little town on the mainland. Some of the more solid citizens were in the launch that old Gabriel Harvey owned, which had been used by the actors in their week’s stay. Hayworth had gathered a great deal of information about these spectacular visitors, some from Gabriel and some from Sara Pinkney who was Mr. Driscoll’s housekeeper, living in Hayworth all winter and in summer reigning in the Gull Island kitchen. Mr. Driscoll had wired Sara to go over and open up and take charge while they were there—spare nothing, those were his orders. And Sara had done it, not wanting to, but apart from its being Mr. Driscoll’s wishes which she had followed for the last ten years, she had felt it her duty to keep an eye on the property. Every day she came over to Hayworth for supplies and had to appease the local curiosity, which she did grudgingly, feeling her power.

Now at last the Hayworth people had had a first-hand view of the actors—the whole company, dressed up and performing—and they fitted Sara Pinkney’s description to them. Olivia, that was Miss Tracy, the one she said was so refined and pleasant-spoken. And the Duke was Alexander Stokes. He was the feller that had come after the others because the first man took sick—wonderful the way he did it considering, didn’t miss a word. And the woman who stood round and “tended on” Olivia was his wife. Sara hadn’t said much about her. Well, she wasn’t of much importance anyhow or she’d have had more acting to do. But that boy who was Viola’s twin, he was Miss Tracy’s brother, and Sara had said he and Miss Saunders didn’t get on well, she could see it though they didn’t say much. And here piped up the butcher’s wife who was more interested in the play than in personalities:

“I don’t see how Olivia took him for the page she was in love with. He didn’t look like Viola in the face. She was real pretty, but he’d a queer sly mug on him, that boy.”

“Aw, you can’t be too particular. You don’t need to have it so real.”

“I guess she was meant to be blinded by love. And him dressed the same, hair and all, might lead her astray.”

“I don’t see how you could have ’em look just alike unless they’d get an actress who had a real twin brother, and maybe you’d go the whole country over and not find that.”

“He ain’t like her no way,” growled old Gabriel from the wheel, “I seen ’em both when they wasn’t acting and he’s an ugly pup, that one.”

Then the boat grating on the Hayworth wharf, Gabriel urged them off. He hadn’t got through yet, got to go back for part of the company who were calculating to get the main line at Spencer, and after that back again for the Tracy boy. He muttered on as they climbed out, grumbling to himself, which nobody noticed as it had been his mode of expression for the last thirty years.

The swaying throng of boats emptied their cargoes and the thick-pressed crowd, moving to the end of the wharf, separated into streams and groups. Farewells, last commending comments, rose on the limpid sea-scented air. Everybody was a little tired. The villagers, dragging their feet, passed along the board walks to their vine-draped piazzas. They would find their kitchens hot and dull that night after two hours in the enchanted land of Illyria. The waiting line of motors absorbed the summer visitors, wheeled off and purred away past the white cottages under the New England elms. The matrons sank gratefully upon the yielding cushions, rolling by the dusty buggies, the battered Fords, the lines of bicycle riders, into the quiet serene country where the shadows were lying long and clear. Yes, it had been a great success; from first to last there hadn’t been a hitch.

II

That was how the audience saw it, but they were outsiders. There was one outsider left on the island, Wally Shine, the photographer sent by the Universal Syndicate to take pictures of what was a “notable society event” in a place of which the public had heard much and seen nothing. He had arrived that morning with two cameras and a delighted appreciation of the beauty he was to record. But, unlike the other outsiders, his impressions extending over a longer period had not been so agreeable. He had seen the actors at close range, in their habits as they lived, lunched with them, watched the last rehearsal, taken a lot of pictures of Miss Saunders in the house and garden. And he had sensed an electric disturbance in the atmosphere, and come upon evidences of internal discord.

That was at the last rehearsal, when the poetic Viola had lost her temper like an ordinary woman and jumped on the Tracy boy—something about the place he stood in—nothing, as far as Shine could see, to get mad about. And the boy had answered in kind like the spitting of an angry cat. An ugly scene that the director had to stop.

Then the man Stokes who played the Duke, a handsome, romantic-looking chap—something was the matter with him. “Eating him” was the phrase Shine used to himself and it wasn’t a bad one. He had a haunted sort of look, as if his mind was disturbed, especially when he’d turn his eyes on Miss Saunders. Shine had noticed him particularly when they gathered for the group pictures; his hands were unsteady and the perspiration was out on his forehead though the air was cool from the sea. His wife—the woman they called Flora—was on to him. Shine saw her watching him, sidelong from under her eyelids, the way you watch a person when you don’t want them to see it.

The photographer was a fat easy-going man, inured to the vagaries of those who follow the arts. But he was sensitive to emotional stress and he felt it here—below the surface—and was moved to curiosity.

The photographs were finished and the group broke up. Part of the company were going and they ran toward the house—a medieval route—the big Sir Toby with a rolling amble, Sir Andrew, long and lank, cavorting like a mettlesome steed. Their antic shadows fled before them over the dried sea grass, and their voices, shouting absurdities, rang rich and deep-throated on the crystal atmosphere.

Miss Saunders and Miss Tracy linked arms and moved off toward the headlands. Receding in the amber light they were like a picture from some antique romance—the noble lady and her page. One in narrow casings of crimson brocade, the other in short swinging kilt and braided jacket of more sober gray. Shine, fascinated, watched them pacing slowly over the burnished grass. Flocks of sea-gulls, roused by their voices, rose into the air, poised and wheeled, one moment dark, the next floating shapes of gold. He turned to go and saw that Stokes was watching them too, intent like a hungry dog, the hand that held a stalk of feathered grass against his lips, trembling.

The photographer shouldered his camera and went toward the house. A jeweled brightness of garden extended along its seaward front. Beyond this was the one stretch of cultivated turf on the island, an emerald slope leading to the cuplike hollow that held the amphitheater. He skirted the side balcony, the wide-flung doors giving a glimpse of an entrance hall, and turning the corner emerged upon the land front of the long capacious building. The surroundings on this side had been left as nature made them—rock shelves and ledges, devoid of vegetation, a path winding round them from the entrance to the wharf. Hayworth showed across the channel in a clustering of gray roofs from which smoke skeins rose straight into the suave rose-washed sky. The water rushed between, a swollen tide, threads of white dimpled eddies, telling of its racing speed.

The door on this side of the house opened directly into the living-room. No hall within or porch without interfered with the view; the path ended unceremoniously at the foot of two broad steps that led to the threshold. On the lower of these steps Shine found a lady sitting smoking a cigarette. This was the Maria of the cast, Mrs. Cornell in private life. She was still in her costume, her redundant figure swelling over the traditional laced bodice, the rouge on her cheeks hardly showing against the coat of sunburn a week at Gull Island had laid on. He had found her as easy as himself, good-humoredly loquacious and not involved in the prevailing discord. An admirable person to clear up mysteries. He sank down beside her on the step and took the cigarette box she flipped toward him.

“Wouldn’t you think,” she said, “a man as rich as this Mr. Driscoll would fix up round here better?”

Shine, who had artistic responses, had long learned not to intrude them on the uninitiated.

“I guess he liked it wild,” he suggested, and lit a cigarette.

“But it looks so rough, not a flower bed or a vase—just paths. That one there,” she pointed to a path that skirted the side of the house and dipped to a small grove of pines below, “goes through those pines and up to that summer-house. Nothing on the way and what’s the summer-house when you get there? Old style rustic work with vines. You’d suppose he’d build a temple and have some marble benches round. The way the rich spend their money always gets me.”

Shine had been in the grove of pines, a growth of stunted trees filling in a hollow. He had followed the path through it, up the slope to the summer-house and beyond to where the bluff dropped away in a sheer cliff to the channel. They called the place “The Point” as it projected beyond the shore line in a rocky outthrust shoulder, gulls circling about it, water seething below. He looked there now, let his glance slip along the curve of headlands till it reached the two girls, perched on a boulder like a pair of bright-plumaged birds. He was thinking how to approach the matter in his mind, when Mrs. Cornell went on:

“I don’t see what any one wanted to build a house here for—cut off this way. It’s too lonesome. With the tide at the full as it is now you can’t get ashore without a motor-boat. You know that current’s something fierce.”

He looked down at it, its rushing corded surface purple dark:

“Looks to be some current.”

“It would carry you out and ‘Good night’ to you. Gabriel who runs the launch told me. Set’s right out to sea someway. And the rise and fall to it—I couldn’t tell you how many feet it is, but you’ll see for yourself to-night if you’re awake—all the channel bare, nothing but rocks and mud. And across the middle of it to Hayworth, a causeway. That’s the only way you can get ashore at low tide. High or low you’re pretty well marooned. It’s seclusion all right if that’s what you’re after.”

Shine was after information and with the talk running on tides and causeways he saw no chance of getting it. So he tried to divert the garrulous lady:

“That’s Miss Saunders and Miss Tracy out there looking at the sunset.”

Mrs. Cornell answered with emphasis:

“Yes, they’re friends.”

“Aren’t you all?”

“Some of us knew each other before we came here,” was her cryptic reply. Then she added pensively: “Six months ago you’d never have found Sybil Saunders looking at a sunset. She was the brightest thing!”

“Awful misfortune that what happened to her.”

She gave a derisive sound at the inadequacy of the word:

“Hah—awful! Took the heart right out of her. If you ever saw a girl in love it was she—bound up in him. Everything ready, the wedding day set, the trousseau made.” Tears rose in her eyes and she dove into her tight bodice for a handkerchief. “Never to be worn, Mr. Shine—that’s life.”

Shine gave forth sympathetic murmurs and Mrs. Cornell, dabbing at her eyes, furnished data between the dabs:

“Two men drinking too much and then a fight, and before anybody knew, murder! If there hadn’t been a brass candlestick near Jim Dallas’ hand it would never have happened. Honest to God, Mr. Shine, there was nothing evil in that young man. But the Parkinson family are camped on his trail. The evil’s in them, if you ask me, with their rewards and detectives.”

“I wonder if she knows where he is.”

“I guess there’s more than one wondering that,” the lady murmured.

“Terribly hard position for her if she does know—or if she doesn’t.”

Shine looked at the page’s figure on the rock. She carried the thing stamped on her face. He had noticed it particularly where he had taken the photographs of her in the living-room. They were time exposures with his small camera, attempts to catch her fragile prettiness in artistic combinations of light and shade. Once or twice the mask had been dropped and he had seen the drooping lines, the weariness, and something like fear on the delicate features.

For a space they smoked in silence. Round the corner of the house the tall figure of Stokes strolled into view. He looked at the seated girls, then turned and glanced behind him with a quick and furtive sweep of the eyes. At the sight of them he nodded, walked down to the wharf and dropped on a bench.

Shine lowered his voice:

“What’s the matter with him?”

Mrs. Cornell met his eyes; her own were narrowed and sharp.

“What makes you think anything is?”

“His whole make-up—something’s wearing on him.”

She blew out a long shoot of smoke and, watching it, murmured:

“Yes, it’s out on him like a rash. He oughtn’t to have come, but the first man they had, Sylvanus Grey, took sick and Mr. Walberg engaged Stokes in a hurry and sent him up. It’s spoiled everything for the rest of us. He’s crazy about Sybil if you want to know what’s the matter with him.”

“Oh!” It came with an understanding inflection, the haggard glances rising on Shine’s memory.

“Can’t hide it, doesn’t want to hide it. There’s no shame in him, tracking after the girl. And it’s not as if he got any encouragement. She can’t bear him; that’s why she has Anne Tracy out there, afraid if she sits alone five minutes he’ll come loping up. You’d think if he didn’t have any pride he’d have some feeling for his wife. She’s half crazy with jealousy, burning up with it. These purple passions are all right in books, Mr. Shine, but believe me they’re not comfortable to live with.”

“I felt it.”

“I guess you would, it’s in the air. All of us cooped up in this place where you can’t get off. I thought it was going to be such a nice restful change. But lord! It’s about as restful as camping on the side of Vesuvius. Sybil and Joe Tracy ready to fight at the drop of the hat and Flora going round in circles and Stokes like one of those fireworks that starts sputtering and you don’t know whether they’re going to explode or die on you. I tell you I’ll be glad when we get out of here to-morrow morning.”

There was a footfall in the room behind them and Mrs. Cornell turned to see who was coming.

“Oh, Flora,” she said. “Come out and take a look at the sunset. It’s something grand.”

The woman stepped out and stood beside them. She had changed her costume and her narrow blue linen dress outlined her too slender figure. Shine thought she would have been pretty if she had not looked so worn and thin. He noticed the brightness of her dark eyes, brilliant and quick-moving as a bird’s. There was red on her cheek-bones, a flushed patch that was not rouge. Mrs. Cornell’s expression recurred to him, “burning up”—the meager body, the hot high color, the dry lips resolutely smiling, suggested inner fires.

“Yes,” she answered, “it’s a wonderful evening.”

“Take a cig.” Mrs. Cornell offered the box.

“Sit down, there’s plenty of room.” Shine moved up.

“No, I can’t sit down. There’s something about the air that makes you restless—too stimulating maybe.” She raised her voice and called to her husband, “Aleck, aren’t you coming in to change your clothes?”

Without moving the man called back:

“Not yet. There’s no hurry.”

She turned to Shine with a little condoning air of wifely tolerance:

“Mr. Stokes has been shut up so long in town he can’t get enough of the fresh air.”

“He’s enjoying the scenery, too,” Shine answered, and saw her eyes travel to the two figures on the rock.

“Oh, that of course—that’s the best part of it.” Then in a tone of bright discovery: “Why look where Anne and Sybil are! Have they been there long?”

“Ever since I’ve been here.” Mrs. Cornell’s voice was more than soothing, bluffly reassuring as the voice of one who tells a child there is no ghost. “And ever since Mr. Shine got through the pictures! Wallowing in the beauties of nature like the rest of us.”

“Won’t you wallow, too?” Shine indicated the long unoccupied space on the step.

She shook her head:

“I like moving about. Something in this place gets on my nerves, it’s like being in a jail.” On a deep breath she shot out, “I hate it,” and stepped back into the room.

“Going?” Mrs. Cornell veered round to follow her retreating figure.

“Yes. I enjoy the scenery better when it hasn’t got people in it.”

They looked at each other; a still minute of eye communication.

“She’s all worked up,” he murmured.

Her answer was to point to the two girls and then to Stokes:

“Now she’ll keep her eye on them from somewhere else—probably the side piazza. That’s the way you are when you’re jealous—the sight of it kills you and you can’t stop watching.”

“Lord!” whispered Shine into whose life no such gnawing passions had entered. And he thought of the girl in the page’s dress who was afraid to sit alone, and the man on the wharf brooding within sight of her, and the woman who was hovering round them like a helpless distracted bird.

III

The launch was on its way back for those of the actors who were leaving. Gabriel, squatting by the engine, calculated the distribution of his time. After he’d taken them across he’d have his supper and then go back for Joe Tracy, who was leaving on the seven fifteen for his vacation. When Joe was disposed of, Gabriel was to meet two Boston sports who had engaged him for a week’s deep-sea fishing at White Beach, twenty-five miles down the coast. It was a strenuous program for the old man and he grumbled to himself about it, the grumbling gaining zest by anticipations that some of them would be late. If it was any of the actors, by gum, he wouldn’t wait for them, with the sports ready to take him along in their car at seven. By the time he drew near the island he had grumbled himself into a state of irascible defiance against any one who would dare upset his plans.

To warn them of his coming he sounded the whistle and its shrill toot acted like a magic summons. A group of men, bearing suit-cases and bags, emerged from the entrance and ran down the path, Bassett following. Miss Pinkney’s helper, a native of Hayworth, hurried from the kitchen wing, a suit-case in her hand, and even the august Sara herself appeared in the doorway of her domain.

Gabriel quieted down—they were all ready and waiting—and then saw Joe Tracy come round the corner of the house in his Sebastian dress. The old man muttered profanely—why wasn’t the d——d cub getting ready? And as the boat made its landing, he called out:

“Say, you’d better be gettin’ them togs off. I’ll be back here for you at a quarter to seven.”

The boy, leaping lightly from rock to rock, grinned without answering. The picturesque dress suited him, he looked almost handsome, and with the feathered cap on his golden wig set rakishly aslant, he moved downward with a taunting debonair swagger. Gabriel didn’t like him anyway and now his impudent face, framed by the drooping blond curls, looked to the launch man malignantly spiteful.

Gabriel could say no more then for the confusion of good-bys possessed the wharf. The actors shouted them out even to Miss Pinkney, flattering assurances of their inability to forget her and her cooking. She waved a condescending hand and permitted herself a smile, for she was very glad to get rid of them.

But Gabriel wasn’t going to go till he’d made things clear. He appealed to Bassett whom he had privately sized up as the only one of the outfit who was like the rational human males of his experience. Besides he had seen that Joe Tracy respected, if not feared, the director:

“I’ll be back here at quarter to seven for the Tracy boy, and I’m tellin’ him he’s got to be ready. I can’t waste no time settin’ round waitin’ and if he’s not here on the dot—”

“That’s all right,” Bassett put a comforting hand on his shoulder and turned to Joe. “You heard that, Joe?”

The boy answered with his sneering grin:

“What’s got the old geezer? Does he think I’m as deaf as he is?”

Gabriel’s weather-beaten visage reddened. He was not in the habit of being called an “old geezer” and he was not deaf. But the actors, all in the boat, were clamoring to start. They had a train to make—get in ancient servitor, and turn on the current. Miss Pinkney’s helper, with her hat on one side and her face crimson, giggled hysterically, and in a chorus of farewells the boat chugged off.

The three men left on the wharf went up the path to the doorway where Shine and Mrs. Cornell had resumed their seats. Shine was struck by their difference of type,—if you went the world over you couldn’t find three more varied specimens. The only one he liked was Bassett, something square and solid about him and a good straight look in his eyes. The kind of chap, Shine thought, you’d ask directions of in the street and who’d give ’em to you no matter what hurry he was in. And he’d a lot of authority—the way he managed this wild-eyed bunch showed that. Shine had noticed, too, a sort of exuberant quality of good will about him—like a light within shining out—and set it down to relief at having got through without any one blowing the lid off.

They stopped at the steps and Joe Tracy made his good-bys. He was going camping in the woods with his friend Jimmy Travers, who was to meet him at Bangor to-night. They’d stay there twenty-four hours getting their stuff together, then be off for the northern solitudes—no beaten tracks for them. He left, jauntily swinging his kilted skirts, a whistled tune on his lips. Soon after, Stokes departed, saying he was going to change his clothes. His air was nonchalant, lounging up the steps and crossing the living-room with a lazy padding stride.

A door to the right opened into the entrance hall. Here he and his wife occupied a ground-floor room. It was on the garden front of the house opposite the stairway that led to the second story. He listened at the panel before he entered, then softly turned the knob, and, inside, as softly closed the door. Shut in and alone his languid pose fell from him like a cloak. An avid eagerness sharpened his features and directed his hands, pulling open his valise and taking from it a small leather case. Moving back from the window he pushed up his sleeve, took the hypodermic from the case and pressed in the needle. When he had restored the bag to its place, he threw himself on the bed and lay with closed eyes feeling the ineffable comfort, grateful as an influx of life, vitalize and soothe his tortured being.

Mrs. Cornell and Shine rose up and followed him. Mrs. Cornell had her packing to get through and wanted Miss Pinkney’s help. Shine was going to see if the pantry would do for a dark room, intending to take some flashlight photographs of the company that evening. He had found in a cabinet all the flashlight requisites and thought it would be an interesting memento of their visit—each of them to have a picture.

“They’ve got everything here,” he said as he pointed to the corner where he had made his find. “Not alone all the supplies, but two first-class cameras and a projector. I suppose some of the family took it up for a fad.”

Mrs. Cornell opined it was to occupy the young men. There were several Driscoll boys and if you didn’t give them something to do they’d get into mischief. Though, if you asked her, she didn’t see any chances for mischief in this jumping-off place, unless the high tide washed in a few mermaids.

Then they passed on through the left doorway, into the side wing of the house. Here Shine, who was domiciled in the butler’s bedroom, disappeared into the adjoining pantry and Mrs. Cornell trod resolutely on into the kitchen, being one of the few members of the company who was not afraid of the housekeeper.

Miss Pinkney, who was sitting upright in a stiff-backed chair, rose respectfully. She was a lean slab-sided woman of fifty, with tight-drawn hair and a long horse face. She had disapproved bitterly of the intrusion of the actors upon the sacred precincts of Gull Island and though she had been rigidly polite hoped that her disapproval had got across. Anyway, she had had the satisfaction of putting cotton sheets on their beds and serving their meals on the kitchen china. If they did any damage to the house or premises she was ready to assert her authority, and she had been on the watch. But they had been careful and orderly and treated her with the proper deference, and in her heart the revolutionary thought had arisen that they were equally considerate and more amusing than the usual run of Gull Island guests. Also they gave her a subject of conversation that would last out the winter.

Mrs. Cornell broached her request and Miss Pinkney agreed. She was even very pleasant about it, showing a brisk friendly alacrity—with the helper gone there’d only be a cold supper and she could dish that up in two shakes. Together they left the kitchen and on the stairs Mrs. Cornell hooked her plump arm inside Miss Pinkney’s bony one and said when Mr. Shine took the flashlights that night he must take one of them as the “feeder” and the other as the “fed.”

IV

Bassett had gone into the house too. As he crossed the living-room he noticed its deserted quietude, in contrast to the noise and bustle that had possessed it an hour ago.

It was a rich friendly room, comfortably homelike in spite of its size, for it crossed the center of the house, its rear door opening on the garden as the one opposite did on the path. It was spacious in height as well as width, its walls rising two stories. Midway up a gallery ran, on three sides of which the bedrooms opened. The fourth side, on the seaward front, was flanked by a line of windows, great squares of unsullied glass that looked over the garden and the amphitheater to the uplands and the open ocean. There were tables here, raking wicker chairs, and low settees with brilliant cushions, books lying about and smokers’ materials. In the room below the character of a hunting lodge had been suggested by mounted deer heads, Indian blankets, baskets of cunning weave and animal skins on the floor. But it was an idealized hunting lodge, with seats in which the body sank luxuriously, and softly shaded lights. Round the deep-mouthed chimney the scent of wood fires lingered, the fires of birch logs that leaped there when Gull Island lay under storm and mist. The architect had not diminished the effect of size and unencumbered space by stairs. The second story was reached by two flights, one in the entrance hall, one in the kitchen wing.

Bassett opened the door into the hall where again all was quiet, none of the jarring accents that occasionally rose from the Stokes’ room. He walked across the gleaming parquette to the library which he had used for his office. There were no signs of the hunting lodge here—a scholarly retreat, book-lined, with leather armchairs and lights arranged for readers’ eyes, a place for delightful hours if one had time to drowse and poke about on the shelves. Two long French windows framed a view of the channel and Hayworth dreaming among its elms. He went to one of the windows and looked out. The girls were still sitting there, and, as he looked at them, an expression of infinite tenderness lay like a light on his face. It was the light Shine had noticed, allowed to break through clearly now that no one was there to see.

He sat down at the desk; there were letters for him to answer, addenda of the performance to check up. He moved the papers, looked at them, pushed them away, and, resting his forehead on his hands, relinquished himself to a deep pervading happiness. Yesterday Anne had promised to marry him.

His mind, held all day to his work, now flew to her—memories of her face with the down-bent lids as he had asked her, and the look in her eyes as they met his. Brave beautiful eyes with her soul in them. It had been no light acceptance for her, it meant the surrendering of her whole being, her life given over to him. He heard her voice again, and his face sank into his hands, his heart trembling in the passion of its dedication to her service. Anne, whom he had coveted and yearned for and thought so far beyond his reach—his! He would be worthy of her, and he would take such care of her, gird her round with his two arms, a buckler against every ill that life might bring. She’d had such a hard time of it, struggling up by herself with Joe hung round her neck like a millstone.

At the memory of Joe he came to earth with a jarring impact. He dropped his hands and stared at the papers, his brows bent in harassed thought. Joe had broken the charm, obstructed the way to the paradise of dreams like the angel with the flaming sword—though angel was not exactly the word. Bassett had heard something that morning from Sybil which must be looked into—something he could hardly believe. But Joe being what he was you never could tell. It had been a mistake to bring him, with Sybil a bunch of nerves and Stokes shunted unexpectedly into their midst. And now he felt responsible, he’d have it out with Joe before he left. One more disagreeable scene before they separated to-morrow, and Bassett, like Mrs. Cornell, felt he’d thank Providence when they were all on the train in the morning. Meantime he’d go over his papers while he waited for the boy who had gone to his room to dress. The door was open and he could hear him as he came down the stairs.

Anne was approaching the house, a slender crimson figure, her hair in the sunset light shining like black lacquer. She was smiling to herself—everything was so beautiful, not only Gull Island and this hour of tranquil glory, but the mere fact of existing. Then she saw Flora Stokes sitting on the balcony and realized that in this golden world there were people to whom life was a dark and troublous affair. She wanted to comfort Flora, let some of the happiness in her own heart spill over into that burdened one. But she knew no way of doing it, could only smile at the haggard face the woman lifted from her book.

“Oh, Mrs. Stokes, reading,” she cried as she ran up the steps. “How can you read on such an evening as this?”

Flora Stokes said she had been walking about till she was tired, and then glanced at the distant rock:

“You’ve left Sybil out there.”

There was no comfort or consolation that could penetrate Mrs. Stokes’ obsession. Anne could only reassure:

“She’s coming in soon. She just wanted to see the end of the sunset.”

She passed into the hall, sorry—oh, so sorry! But the library door was open and she halted, poised birdlike for one glance. The man at the desk had his back to her and she said nothing, yet he turned, gave a smothered sound and jumped up. She shut her eyes as she felt his arms go about her and his kisses on her hair, her senses blurred in a strange ineffably sweet confusion of timidity and delight.

“Oh, Anne,” she heard his voice between the kisses. “I was waiting for you.”

“Some one will see us,” she whispered. “Take care.”

She could feel the beating of his heart through his coat. Her hands went up to his shoulders feeling along the rough tweed and with her lids down-drooped she lifted her face.

“Darling,” he breathed, when the kiss was over, “I thought you were never coming.”

“I had to stay with Sybil. She didn’t want to be alone.”

“But you wanted to be here?”

“Just here,” she laid a finger on his breast and broke into smothered, breathless laughter.

He laughed too and they drew apart, their hands sliding together and interlocking. It was all so new, so bewilderingly entrancing, that they did not know how to express it, the man staring wonder-struck, the girl, with her quivering laughter that was close to tears, looking this way and that, not knowing where to look.

“I ought to go,” she whispered. “They’ll be coming,” but made no move.

“Wait till they do.” Then with a sudden practical facing of realities, “When will we be married?”

“Oh, not for ages! I’m not used to being engaged yet!”

“I am—I never was before but I must have had a talent for it, I’ve taken to it so well.”

“Oh, Hugh!” Her laughter came more naturally, his with it. They were like a pair of children, delighting in a little secret. “Won’t they be surprised when they hear? Nobody has a suspicion of it.”

She looked so enchanting with her eyebrows arched in mischievous query that he made a movement to clasp her again, and then came the creak of an opening door from the floor above.

“Hist!” she held up a warning hand and slid away, her face, glancing back for a last look, beautiful in its radiant joy.

Bassett moved to the stair-foot. Once again he had to come down to earth with a bump. He passed his hand over his face as if to wipe off an expression incompatible with disagreeable interviews. This must be Joe.

It was Joe, dressed for travel in knickerbockers and a Norfolk jacket, a golf cap on the back of his head. He carried an overcoat across his arm, in his hands a suit-case and a fishing-rod done up in a canvas case. At the sight of Bassett he halted, and the elder man noticed a change in his expression, a quick focusing to attention.

“Oh,” he said. “Want to see me, Bassett?”

“Yes, I want to speak to you before you go.”

Joe descended. Stopping a step above Bassett, he set down his baggage and leaned on the banister, politely waiting.

Bassett spoke with lowered voice:

“I heard something this morning that I can hardly believe—an accusation against you. That you’ve been using your position here to act as one of the police spies who’ve been keeping tab on Sybil.”

The boy looked at him with impenetrable eyes and answered in the same lowered key:

“Who told you that?”

“She did. She accuses you of having come here with that intention, got the job knowing that no outsiders were to be allowed on the island.”

Bassett was certain he had paled under his tan, but his face retained a masklike passivity.

“Sounds as if she might be losing her mind.”

“You deny it?”

The boy gave a scornful shrug:

“Of course I deny it. I shouldn’t think it would be necessary to ask that. She’s had a down on me for some time—everybody’s seen it, snapping and snarling at me for nothing—and I suppose she wants to get an excuse for it.”

“She says she came upon you examining a letter of hers, holding it up to the light. And three days ago she found you in her room looking over the papers in her desk.”

“Ah!” he made a gesture of angry contempt. “It would make a person sick—examining her letters! I was looking through the mail bag to see if there was anything for me. If I took up one of hers by mistake does that prove I was examining it?”

“How about the other thing?”

“Being in her room? Yes, I was there. I went in to get a stamp. I had an important letter to go when Gabriel took over the mail and it was time for him. All the rest of you were out. Her room was next to mine and I went in. I never thought anything about it, no more than I would have thought about going into Anne’s or yours or anybody else’s. She’s nutty, I tell you. You can’t trust her word. And if she says I’m hired to spy on her she’s a damned——”

He stopped. Basset’s eye was steady on him in a cold command he knew. There was the same cold quality in the director’s voice:

“If the position Sybil’s in has made her suspicious, that’s all right. I’d like to believe it was the case. But if any of us—supposedly her friends—had inserted themselves in here to carry on police surveillance, using me to get them in—well, I’d not think that all right.”

Joe leaned over the banister. His control was shaken, his voice hoarsely urgent:

“You got to be fair, Bassett, and because you’re sorry for her is no reason to set her word over mine. It’s not true. Don’t you believe me?”

Bassett did not answer for a moment. He wanted to believe and he doubted; he thought of Joe’s desire to come, of the reward:

“I guess you know, Joe, you can trust me to be fair, but I’m not going to commit myself till I know. It won’t be hard to do that. I can find out when I get back to New York. And take this from me—if what Sybil says is true I’m done with you. No more help from me, no more work in any company I manage. And I fancy the whole theatrical profession will feel the same way.” He drew back from the stair-foot. The disagreeable interview was over. “There’s no good talking any more about it. Accusations and denials don’t get us anywhere. We’ll let it rest till I’ve made my inquiries. I’ll say good-by now and hope you’ll have a good time in the woods.”

He turned and walked up the hall to his room on the garden front next the Stokes’. Joe gathered his luggage and went the opposite way, down the hall and into the big central apartment. He stepped with gingerly softness as if he were creeping away from something he feared might follow him. At the entrance door he set down his luggage and as he bent over it a whispered stream of curses flowed from his lips. He cursed Bassett and his luck, but Sybil with a savage variety of epithet and choice of misfortune, for she had undone him. Straightening up he looked blankly about—his inner turmoil was such he hardly knew where he was—and he retraced his steps, seeking the seclusion of his room, went up the stairs in noiseless vaulting strides like a frightened spider climbing to its web.

V

Anne had taken off her costume and slipped into a negligée to do her packing comfortably, and then decided she had better bid good-by to Joe first. Bidding good-by was not an obligation between them, but she had to get the key of his trunk—it was going back to New York with hers—and her heart in its new warmth yearned to him, her only relation. She wanted to tell him her great secret, see an answering joy leap into his face, for he thought more of Bassett than anybody, and he’d be so surprised to hear that Anne, her charms held at a low valuation, had won such a prize.

Her room was the first on the left side of the gallery, Joe’s next to Sybil’s on the land front of the house. She passed the long line of closed doors, voices coming from behind Mrs. Cornell’s, and reaching Joe’s, knocked. A “Come in,” uninvitingly loud and harsh, answered her and she entered. Joe was sitting in a low armchair, bent forward, his hands holding a cane with which he was tapping on the floor. The bright square of the window was behind him, framing rosy sky and the green shore-line. He looked up to see who it was; then, without greeting or comment, drooped his head and went on lightly striking the cane on the carpet as if he were hammering in a nail and it required all his attention. Anne felt dashed, his manner might have been the same to an intruding stranger. She asked about the key, and he nodded to the bureau where it lay. The trunk was packed and locked? To that he gave an assenting grunt, then raised his head and looked at her—what have you come here for, the look said.

It was not a reception to encourage confidences and she stood uncomfortably regarding him, trying to find something to say that would dispel his somber ill humor.

“You’re all ready? Where’s your luggage?”

“Down by the door. Is there anything else you want to know?”

“I don’t want to know, I was thinking of you. You’re always late, and it’s different here with only one way to get ashore and Gabriel never willing to wait.”

He made no answer, continuing his play with the cane. She knew that something was wrong and sat down on the arm of a chair, uneasy, wondering what it was:

“I’m glad you’ve managed this holiday. And it’s so jolly having Jimmy Travers, he’s such a sport. You’ll meet him to-night at Bangor. At the Algonquin Inn—wasn’t that the name of it?”

“Um.”

“I want to be sure because if any important mail should come for you I could send it there to meet you on your way back. Algonquin Inn—I’ll remember that. Then off to-morrow morning—it’ll be lovely in the woods now.”

“Any place would be lovely after this beastly hole.”

“Beastly hole! I thought you liked it!”

“Did you? Take another guess.”

“You expected to like it. You wanted to come.”

He made no answer, but slanting his body sidewise with an air of ostentatious endurance, took out his watch and looked at it. She ignored the hint—you couldn’t be sensitive with Joe—and leaning toward him asked:

“What’s the matter, Joe?”

“Matter—with what?”

“You! Has anything happened?”

“Oh, no, nothing’s happened.” His words were mincingly soft. “What could happen with such a charming lot of people and Miss Saunders playing the star rôle in the performance and out.”

It was Sybil then—he’d been working himself into a bad temper over her treatment of him. Anne had thought it odd he had not mentioned it before:

“You’re angry with Sybil, and I don’t think she has been very nice to you. I’ve noticed it, especially the last three days and this afternoon when we were sitting out there on the rock I tried to make her tell me why.”

He raised his head; the profile sharply defined against the window showed a working muscle in the cheek: “And did she tell you?”

“No, she didn’t seem to want to talk about it. She changed the subject.”

“How considerate!”

“There’s no sense getting annoyed about it because I don’t think she has any reason. You have to make excuses for her. She’s gone through this awful experience and her nerves are all wracked to pieces. You have to be patient and take her as a sort of afflicted person—”

He dashed the cane down and jumped to his feet in a volcanic explosion of rage:

“I don’t take her that way. I take her for what she is, a damned lying hypocrite.”

“Joe!” She was amazed, not so much at the words, as at the suddenness of the outburst and the contorted passion of his face.

“She thinks she can treat me any way she wants and get away with it. Well, she’ll find her mistake, she’s taken the wrong turning this time. She takes me for a yellow dog she can kick whenever she feels like it. But I got teeth, I can bite. Patient—be patient—God, I’d like to wring her neck, the damned——.”

He used an epithet that brought Anne to her feet, breathing battle: “Don’t dare to say that of my friend, Joe Tracy.”

He stood in front of her, hump-shouldered, with outthrust jaw, brows drawn low over eyes gleaming like a cat’s. She had never seen him look like that; he seemed a stranger, a horrible stranger, and she drew away, aghast at the revelation of a being so sinisterly unfamiliar. Her look brought him back to self-control. He jerked his head up, ran a hand over his hair, and turned away to the window. Standing there he said:

“Well, I take that back. I didn’t mean to say it. But she’s made me mad; I think she’d make anybody.”

The tone, surly still, had a placating quality; it was as near an apology as Joe could ever come. She felt immeasurably relieved for he had frightened her. To see the family cat, whose vagaries of temperament she knew by heart, suddenly transformed into a tiger, had given her a shock. She accepted his amends without comment, but she could not resist a sisterly admonition:

“If you’d only stop getting mad over small things you’d find life so much easier.”

He laughed:

“Good advice from little sister! It doesn’t cost anything and it’s the correct ingenue pose.”

He turned from the window smiling, Joe at his most amiable. If he had met her this way she would have poured out her secret. But her high mood had fallen and besides he wanted her to go—he said he had a letter to write yet. Lounging toward her he put his hands on her shoulders, gave her a light kiss on the cheek and pushed her toward the door.

On her way back along the gallery she recalled his face in that moment of rage with troubled question. She wondered if there was more disturbing him than she knew—it was an extraordinary exhibition of anger for such a cause. Also she had not felt sure that his change of mood was genuine, his laugh had rung false, and when he had laid his hands on her shoulders she had felt their coldness through the thin stuff of her negligée. She heaved a sigh of relief at the thought that he was going. In his present mood there was no knowing what clashes there might be, and it was the last evening, and there would be a full moon, and she and Bassett would walk like lovers under its magic light.

When her door had closed, the gallery and living-room became as quiet as though the house were unoccupied. Sybil, approaching it, heard no sound of voices, a fact that reassured her, for the long day had tired her and she had no mind for talk. She was coming in by the balcony when she saw Flora Stokes sitting there reading and deflected her course toward the path that skirted the building’s front. If Flora noticed her she made no sign, her eyes glued to her book, and Sybil, stepping softly, for she dreaded the woman’s resentful glances, passed along to the entrance of the living-room. The place was deserted and she stopped on the threshold for a last look at the sky’s fading splendors.

Across the depths of the room the door into the hall opened, but so gently that she did not hear it. Stokes made this noiseless entrance in the hope that she might be there, and now, seeing his hope fulfilled, closed the door as carefully, standing against it watching her.

If the conventional garb of the street was not as becoming to his darkly Byronic style as the trappings of the Duke, he was still unusually handsome. A figure of distinction in its lean grace, with proud hawk features and the deep-set melancholy eyes that the matinée girl loves. Even his pallor had charm in their opinion, adding to his romantic suggestion. Gull Island sun and breezes had left no trace upon it; his face against the background of the door was a yellowish white.

Seeing that she did not turn he pronounced her name. At that she wheeled, lightning-quick, and came forward from beneath the deep jut of the gallery assuming as unconcerned a manner as she could.

“Lovely evening,” she said as she advanced. “It’s been hard to come in.”

“Evidently from the length of time you stayed out there. I’ve been waiting for you.”

It was not a propitious beginning, especially as he still stood against the door as if intending to bar her exit.

“I’m going up-stairs to dress now.”

“There’s plenty of time. You can give me a few minutes. I’ve something I want to say to you.”

“Oh, Aleck!” She stopped with an air of weary expostulation. “Don’t say anything more. Don’t begin that dreadful subject. I’m sick of it, I loathe it and can’t you see it isn’t any use?”

He went on as if he hadn’t heard her:

“I’ve been trying for days, ever since I came here. And you keep avoiding me, always having some one with you. Now we’ll be going to-morrow, we may not have another chance, and I must see you and tell you”—he stopped and looked at the gallery. “Did I hear a step up there?”

She had heard nothing and thought it odd that he should be so suddenly cautious. Discretion had been the last quality he had heretofore shown.

“I have avoided you and I’m going to continue doing it. Please move away from the door. It’s silly to stand in front of it for I can go round by the garden, but I’m tired and I don’t want to.”

He came forward, speaking as he advanced.

“This isn’t what you think. I’m done with that. You’ve made me understand, you’ve got it across, Sybil. I’m not going to bother you any more with that subject you loathe and think so dreadful. But I can’t help loving you and wanting to help you.” She gave an exasperated gesture and made a move to pass him. As she did so, he said: “I’ve heard something of Jim Dallas.”

She stopped as if all animating force had been stricken out of her, a “What?” expelled on a caught breath.

“Just before I left town I met an actor who says he saw him.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“Why should I lie? What do I gain by it? I swore the fellow to secrecy and came up here to tell you and I’ve been trying——”

She broke in: “Was he sure? Where was it?”

The change in her manner would have crushed the hope in any man. Shunning him like a leper, she now drew close and laid her hand on his arm.

“I can’t tell you here. It’s too dangerous, too many people coming and going.”

“It was Jim?”

“It was. It’s quite a story, more than just seeing him. But we’ve got to get somewhere away from all these damned doors——”

One of them opened—that into the hall behind them. They heard it and wheeled round, faces sharp-set in defensive interrogation. It was Flora Stokes. She rested on the threshold looking at them, and Stokes, his senses more alert than the girl’s, withdrew his arm from her clasp.

“Oh, Flora,” he said, his voice supremely light and easy. “Were you looking for me?”

Mrs. Stokes said no, she had come to put her book back. She walked slowly to a table and placed her book on the corner. The room was very still as she did this. Stokes, his hands deep in his pockets, moved his head, following her progress as if it roused his curiosity. The girl stood without a sound, the scene passing under her eyes with a mirage-like unreality.

“It seems I’ve intruded,” said Mrs. Stokes, each syllable meticulously clear and precise. “But if you want to be alone I should think you’d have chosen another place.”

“Having chosen this is a pretty good proof we didn’t want to be alone,” retorted her husband.

She gave a light jeering sound of disbelief and walked to the entrance. On the sill she turned and looked at them with smoldering eyes: