His back was toward the office. He stood face toward the
curve of the drive toward the road, where any one entering would first
be seen. Gordon, peeping around his curtain, knew the dark figure as he
would have known his own shadow. In one sense it had been for years his
shadow, and that added to the horror of it. The man behind the curtain
watched, the man in the drive watched; and the dog, crouched at the
threshold of the door, watched with what sublimated sense God alone
knew, which enabled him to know as much as his master, and now and then
came the low growl. Gordon began to formulate a theory in his mind. He
remembered suddenly the man whom Aaron had driven home. He realized that
the watching man might easily have mistaken him for Gordon himself,
going away with his man to make a call upon some patient. He suspected,
with an intensity which became a certainty, that the man knew that
Clemency and Elliot were out and would presently return, and that it was
for them he was watching. All the time he thought of the sick woman
upstairs, and was glad that her room faced on the other side of the
house.
He was in agony lest she should be disturbed.
Doctor Gordon was usually a man of resources, but now he did not know
what to do. The dark figure on the park-drive made now and then a
precautionary motion of his right arm as he watched, which was
significant. Gordon knew that he was holding a revolver in readiness. In
the event of Aaron returning alone he would probably be puzzled, and
Gordon thought that he might slip away. In the event of James and
Clemency returning first, Gordon thought that he knew conclusively what
he purposed--a bullet for James, and then away with the girl, unless he
was hindered.
Gordon let the curtain slip back into place, and with a warning gesture
to the dog, who was ready for action, he tiptoed across the room to the
table, in a drawer of which he kept his own revolver. He opened the
drawer softly, and rummaged with careful hands. No revolver was there.
He made sure. He even opened other drawers and rummaged, but the weapon
was certainly missing. He stood undecided for a moment. Then he went
softly out of the room, bidding in a whisper the dog to follow. He crept
upstairs and paused at a closed chamber door. Then he opened it very
carefully. Mrs. Ewing at once spoke. "Is that you, dear?" she said.
"Yes, I wanted to tell you not to be frightened, dear, if you should
hear a shot or the dog bark."
There was a rustling in the dark room. Mrs. Ewing was evidently sitting
up in bed. "Oh, Tom, what is it?" she whispered.
Gordon forced a laugh. "Nothing at all," he replied, "except there's a
fox or something out in the yard, and Jack is wild. I may get a shot at
him. Do you know where my revolver is?"
"Why, where you always keep it, dear, in the table drawer in the
office."
"I don't seem to see it. I guess I will take your little pistol."
"Oh, Tom, I am sorry, but I know that won't go off. Clemency tried it
the other day. You remember that time Emma dropped it. I think something
or other got bent. You know it was a delicate little thing."
"Oh, well," said Gordon carelessly, "I dare say I can find my revolver."
"I don't see who could have taken it away." said Mrs. Ewing. "I am sorry
about my pistol, because you gave it to me too, dear."
"I'll get another for you," said Gordon, "Those little dainty,
lady-like, pearl-mounted weapons don't stand much."
"I am feeling very comfortable, dear," Mrs. Ewing said in her anxious,
sweet voice. "You will be careful, won't you, with your revolver, with
that dog jumping about?"
"Yes, dear. I dare say I shall not use the revolver anyway, but don't be
frightened if you should hear a little commotion."
"No, Tom."
"Go to sleep."
"Yes, I think I can. I do feel rather sleepy."
Gordon closed the door carefully and retraced his steps to the office,
the dog at his heels. He slipped the curtain again and looked out. The
man still stood watching in the driveway. Gordon had never been at such
a loss as to his best course of action. He was absolutely courageous,
but here he was unarmed, and he could have no reasonable doubt that if
he should go out, he would be immediately shot. In such a case, what of
the woman upstairs? And, moreover, what of James and Clemency? He
thought of any available weapon, but there was nothing except his own
stick. That was stout, it was true, but could he be quick enough with
it? His mad impulse to rush out unarmed except with that paltry thing
could hardly be restrained, but he had to think of other lives beside
his own.
He began to think that the only solution of the matter was the return of
Aaron alone. The watching man would immediately realize that he had made
some mistake, that he, Gordon, was in the house, or had been left at the
home of a patient. He could have no possible reason for molesting the
man. He would probably slip aside into a shadow, then make his way back
to the road. In such a case Gordon determined that he and Aaron would
follow him to make sure that no harm came to James and Clemency. So
Gordon stood motionless waiting, in absolute silence, except for the
frequently recurring mutter of fear and rage of the dog. As time went on
he became more and more uneasy. It seemed to him finally that Aaron
should have been back long before. He moved stealthily across the room,
and consulted his watch by the low light of the hearth fire. Aaron had
been gone an hour. He should have returned, for the mare was a good
roadster when she did not balk. Gordon shook his head. He began to be
almost sure that the mare had balked. He returned to the window. His
every nerve was on the alert. The moment that James and Clemency should
drive into the yard, he made ready to spring, but the horrible fear lest
it should be entirely unavailing haunted him. If only Aaron would come.