Joan's Enemies/Chapter 15

ERE we have a transcription of the document carried away by Miss Gosling.

And as we know, Stormont's delicate task on the original strips had been to convert a 3 into a 1, and 1 into 3, and to insert a 1 before 5000.

In the library of Elm House, the clock on the mantel chimed two.

“We cannot wait longer,” Joan said. “I've no doubt she is all right—only she assured me she would not be later than one, and she is such a punctual person, as a rule.”

“So many things may happen in New York to make a stranger late for lunch,” Fairthorn remarked pleasantly. He was a tall, darkish man, some years older than his friend, well featured, with a pair of sleepy-looking eyes which, however, saw as much and as far as most.

The luncheon passed pleasantly enough, in spite of Joan's anxiety about Griselda. On the suggestion of the hostess, the men were about to light cigarettes, when the housemaid entered with a tray on which reposed two telegrams.

“Two!” exclaimed Joan. “Did they arrive together? Oh, but one is for you, Douglas.” She passed it to him.

“Yes ma'am,” the maid answered. “The boy is waiting to see if there is any reply.”

“Don't mind me,” said Fairthorn. “You may have news of your aunt, Miss March.”

“I hope it's nothing bad,” she said, paling a little as she unfolded the message. Next moment an angry flush dyed her face.

Meanwhile Grant, frowning, made as if to crush up the flimsy paper; then he refolded it and put it in his pocket. It was brief:

“No answer,” he said to the maid.

Joan's color faded almost as quickly as it had bloomed “I think you ought to read this,” she said with a touch of haughtiness and handed the message to Grant.

It was his turn to redden as his eyes took in the words:

When a few moments had passed, Joan asked if he wished her to send a reply.

“Please, no,” he said, and seemed as to say more, but checked himself.

Joan signed to the maid, who withdrew; then she turned to Fairthorm with an apology. “Nothing to do with Aunt Griselda, I'm thankful to say,” she added, “—though I do wish it had been to tell me she was all right. But please smoke; and then, I suppose, we must get down to that old cellar. By the way, Mr. Fairthorn, in order to discourage curiosity, I mentioned to the maids this morning that an architect was coming to examine some of the foundations.”

“Very bright of you!” he returned, wondering what trifle had come between this desirable girl and his friend. Within the minute, however, Joan's manner toward Douglas became so extremely amiable that Fairthorn, who was not a fool, perceived that the rift might be serious.

The cigarettes were barely half consumed when privacy was again broken. Joan was summoned to the telephone.

“Aunt Griselda at last,” she remarked and left the room, taking with her Lottie's telegram, which Grant had returned and which, in apparent absence of mind, she had squeezed into a little ball.

OAN'S lip quivered as she passed to the library. Nothing but shocks and disappointments, she thought bitterly. Could she still hope that Lottie had told a falsehood the previous night? Well, there was still another shock, another disappointment in store for her.

The voice that came to her over the wire was Daniel Stormont's. After a conventional greeting it proceeded:

“Miss March, I must see you this evening on a matter of the utmost importance.”

“Impossible, Mr. Stormont,” she returned. “What is the business?”

“I must see you. I will call at nine o'clock. Please be ready to receive me privately in the library.”

“Really, Mr. Stormont!”

“The library is essential.”

“Absurd! I cannot receive you there or elsewhere, to-night or at any other time. Is that clear?”

“You are angry. I am sorry.” His voice was tender. “But you will grant my request when I tell you that your refusal would mean serious unpleasantness for a third person—a friend of yours and I hope of mine. So I will depend on seeing you at nine. Good-by.”

“Mr. Stormont! Listen!”

Silence.

The men had finished their second cigarettes before she felt equal to rejoining them.

“No,” she replied to their questions; “It wasn't Aunt Griselda, after all. I'm afraid”—with a frail smile—“I'm becoming nervous about her.”

“Let me ring up the police-stations,” said Grant. “They are sure to have nothing to tell, but you'll feel better afterward,—Joan!” There was appeal in his eyes if not in his voice.

Her amiability had passed.

“If there is no word by four o'clock, I may do as you suggest,” she replied. “Meanwhile, shall we go and see the cellar?”

RMED with an electric lantern, a couple of torches and sundry tools, they were among the foundations of the old house. The cellarage accommodation was extensive, but only one or two of the apartments were now in use.

Without much delay Fairthorn gave his verdict as to which cellar lay nearest to the comparatively modern foundations of the laboratory. But on entering, the three could detect nothing at all in the way of encouragement.

“It's that blessed whitewash,” remarked Fairthorn at last. “A happy thought from the hider's point of view, but a perfect nuisance from the seeker's! Well, let's see whether this hammer can find out anything.”

With his ear close to the wall, and while his companions kept silence, he began to tap lightly, starting from the left corner. He had progressed but five paces when his sleepy eyes became alert. Next moment he exclaimed:

“Douglas, get busy with the tools. There's a thinness here.”

“Oh, one moment, please!” cried Joan, holding up her hand. “I thought I heard some one calling. Yes!” She ran out.

Grant was stirred in spite of himself. Grasping a small crowbar, he joined his friend. “Is it hollow?” he asked eagerly.

Fairthorn did some more tapping, high and low, left and right, before he replied: “Seems to have been an opening here at one time. Go ahead, and see if you can dislodge a—”

“Let's wait till Joan comes back.”

As the words were spoken, she reappeared.

“A wire,” she announced, and took it over to the lantern..... “Aunt Griselda at last!” Then she gave a little gasp. “Extraordinary! What on earth— Oh, listen; I'll read it.” She read aloud:

After a short pause Grant remarked: “It does seem a bit mean, beginning without her. I suppose she has been detained somewhere, and doesn't want us—”

“But she says 'dangerous,'” said the girl. “She doesn't say things like that without meaning them.”

“May I ask,” put in Fairthorn, “where the wire is sent from?”

“Why,” answered Joan, staring at the message, “it was handed in at the Pennsylvania Station. What has taken her there? She has no friends—”

“She may have been going farther on, perhaps to Philadelphia or—or even Atlantic City.”

The girl winced, caught a mere glimpse of Grant's frowning gaze and gave a small bitter laugh.

“Oh, it's all too absurd!” she exclaimed. “Let her go to Atlantic City, by all means! The only question now is: what are we going to do?”

“Nothing,” said Grant dully. He was longing to get a word with her alone. “We can't go on in the face of Miss Gosling's request.”

HEY went upstairs, and at the end of half an hour of somewhat strained conversation Grant rose to go, and his friend reluctantly did likewise. Before this, Fairthorn would fain have given the two an opportunity, which seemed to him so sadly needed, of a quiet word together, and now, as they moved to the hall, he left his cigarette-case behind him.

The moment they were alone, Grant, his hand on the door, asked what he had done to offend.

“Nonsense!” she replied with a short laugh. “I'm not offended; but I've been worried about Aunt Griselda and—and I've got a headache.”

Douglas was sorry but not satisfied. He expressed sympathy and the desire that she would forget about the platinum for the present.

“You shall hear from me as soon as Aunt Griselda returns,” she said.

After a moment's pause he said: “Ought I to go to the station to-night? I can't imagine what she can want with me. Can you?”

“She may wish to make a confession.” Miss March seemed to have lost interest in everything.

“I'd prefer to avoid such a thing. Please advise me, Joan. Ought I to go or not?”

“I'm afraid I can only advise you to decide for yourself. Can you refuse? The wire said 'Most urgent.'”

He would have sacrificed much then to have been free to show her the telegram received at lunch, and to have added a dozen words or so to its message.

“Joan—” he began appealingly, but she was already calling:

“Mr. Fairthorn, can't you find your case?”

Then Fairthorn, having done all that a friend could, appeared, and the chance of an understanding was over.

ISS GOSLING left Stormont's and Lismore's office in a condition of highly nervous elation. Well, now, she wondered, what was next to be done Straight home to Elm House or—ah that was it!—a cup of tea! She needed it; also, she deserved it! And she had plenty of time. Presently she was seated in a tea-shop.

To a casual spectator that cup of tea would seem to have had an odd effect upon Miss Gosling. Before it was consumed, her bright, alert expression had given place to one of brooding melancholy. Discomforting thoughts stole into her mind. She had confounded her enemy, Harold Lismore, embezzler and forger (as she believed him to be); but what of the man's unhappy wife, dear friend of her girlhood days?

The spinster had terrified Lismore with an empty threat; for Sylvia's sake, she would never have invoked the law against him. But the document now in her bag complicated her position. She must be true to her niece and to Douglas Grant.

It took her just twenty minutes to decide on her course of action. She summoned the waitress.

“Can you tell me from which station the trains go to Atlantic City?”

The girl was not sure, and went and fetched a railway guide. A tall, thin man at a neighboring table looked for a moment as though about to proffer information, but seemingly changed his mind. He drank his coffee and went out.

Miss Gosling, having consulted the time-table, looked at the clock.

“Dear me! I believe I can just catch it.”

A few seconds later she was on the busy pavement. She knew that the Pennsylvania was not far away, but being uncertain as to its direction, she signaled to a passing taxi.

“Pennsylvania Station,” she said, and got in.

Just then a tall, thin man stepped forward and said something to the driver, who raised his eyebrows, and then nodded. The words which Miss Gosling did not catch were “Suspected shoplifting.”

The next thing she realized was that the taxi was moving and that the tall, thin man was sitting opposite. Before she could speak, he was saying in a harsh voice:

“Is it to be the Pennsylvania, ma'am, or the police station?”

Miss Gosling fell back on the seat, gaping; there is no other word for it. But she understood.

“No use making a speech,” he went on. “Give up the stolen paper, or I instruct the driver. He knows me.”

“You are a detective,” she said faintly. “I could tell you something—”

“Save it up for the captain—or the judge.” He took up the speaking-tube.

“Let me think.”

“Plenty of time for that in a cell.”

Miss Gosling knew when she was beaten. She shuddered and opened her bag. At all events, she reflected, she could not be deprived of the information stored in her brain. She held out the document, saying with considerable spirit:

“Take it, you beast, and tell your employer”

“You've had a narrow escape,” he said, and was gone before the taxi had properly stopped.

Presently the driver looked in. “Did you say the Pennsylvania?” he asked not very respectfully.

“Yes! And be quick!” Now more than ever she was determined on the journey. If any influence remained to Sylvia Lismore, it must be used now.