"What the hell!" he ejaculated furiously, and turned around. When he

saw me, however, he did not wait for any retort on my part. He faded

away--this is not slang; he did--he absolutely disappeared in the dusk

without my getting more than a glimpse of his face. I had a vague

impression of unfamiliar features and of a sort of cap with a visor.

Then he was gone.

I went to the lodge and rapped. It required two or three poundings to

bring Thomas to the door, and he opened it only an inch or so.

"Where is Warner?" I asked.

"I--I think he's in bed, ma'm."

Advertisement..

"Get him up," I said, "and for goodness' sake open the door, Thomas.

I'll wait for Warner."

"It's kind o' close in here, ma'm," he said, obeying gingerly, and

disclosing a cool and comfortable looking interior. "Perhaps you'd

keer to set on the porch an' rest yo'self."

It was so evident that Thomas did not want me inside that I went in.

"Tell Warner he is needed in a hurry," I repeated, and turned into the

little sitting-room. I could hear Thomas going up the stairs, could

hear him rouse Warner, and the steps of the chauffeur as he hurriedly

dressed. But my attention was busy with the room below.

On the center-table, open, was a sealskin traveling bag. It was filled

with gold-topped bottles and brushes, and it breathed opulence, luxury,

femininity from every inch of surface. How did it get there? I was

still asking myself the question when Warner came running down the

stairs and into the room. He was completely but somewhat incongruously

dressed, and his open, boyish face looked abashed. He was a country

boy, absolutely frank and reliable, of fair education and

intelligence--one of the small army of American youths who turn a

natural aptitude for mechanics into the special field of the

automobile, and earn good salaries in a congenial occupation.

"What is it, Miss Innes?" he asked anxiously.

"There is some one locked in the laundry," I replied. "Mr. Jamieson

wants you to help him break the lock. Warner, whose bag is this?"

He was in the doorway by this time, and he pretended not to hear.

"Warner," I called, "come back here. Whose bag is this?"

He stopped then, but he did not turn around.

"It's--it belongs to Thomas," he said, and fled up the drive.

To Thomas! A London bag with mirrors and cosmetic jars of which Thomas

could not even have guessed the use! However, I put the bag in the

back of my mind, which was fast becoming stored with anomalous and

apparently irreconcilable facts, and followed Warner to the house.

Liddy had come back to the kitchen: the door to the basement stairs was

double-barred, and had a table pushed against it; and beside her on the

table was most of the kitchen paraphernalia.




Most Popular