Romayne Ransom walked through the station and out to the street door looking for a taxi. There were usually three or four in sight. What had become of them all?
She set down her shiny suitcase and tapped the little new suede toe of her shoe impatiently while she waited, thinking how vexatious the whole day had been. Not a thing the way she had planned it, the whole day spoiled.
She had started off bright and early that morning in her pretty spring outfit with the dearest new wardrobe any girl had ever owned, expecting a wonderful week. Her first house party! And nothing short of a miracle that Father’s new business had materialized just in time for him to give her a substantial check with which to provide the wardrobe and the suitcase. She had thought when the invitation first came that of course she must decline it. She hadn’t a garment fit to wear at a great beautiful house party by the sea.
But the look in her father’s face had been wonderful when he handed her that check and asked her if it was enough. Enough! She had never dreamed of having half that much money for her own. And it had come so suddenly! Right out of the blue, as it were.
What fun she had had spending it!
She couldn’t remember the time when she hadn’t been poverty-stricken, never enough to get the bare necessities of life! Poor Mother, even up in heaven she must be glad to see them having it easier now. To know that her dear ones were actually going to be able to have luxuries as well as necessities. Father was talking about a car for her own driving! Wouldn’t that be wonderful! If only Mother had lived to see it all. Of course, heaven was better than anything down here, but Mother had so wanted to have things nice, and Father not so downhearted and discouraged all the time. If only she might have stayed with them just one year during their prosperity, so they could have enjoyed it together!
It had been wonderful to start off in a taxi, an expense she never dared afford before. Father had been so pleased and proud when he carried her suitcase into the parlor car for her and kissed her good-bye. The stoop in his shoulders was almost gone, and his eyes were bright as if he were happy. Poor Father, he would be so disappointed to see her coming back this way, without even a glimpse of her house party after he had gone to all the trouble and expense. But, then, she had the pretty things, and there would be other house parties.
And, of course, Isabel had been awfully nice about it, offering to send her home in the limousine, and so distressed that the note she had dispatched to her the night before, calling off the invitation until fall, had not reached her. Of course, the mistake was all on account of her having moved recently, and Isabel not noticing the new address when she had accepted, but one couldn’t expect a girl to stay home from a sudden invitation to spend three months abroad just for a house party. Isabel had tried to reach her by phone and, failing, had sent a special-delivery letter. It would probably be forwarded from the old address and reach the house tomorrow, and anyhow, Romayne was glad that she had the trip even if she didn’t stay. It was a glimpse into another lovely world and a bit of experience for her.
She made a pretty picture standing there, slim and graceful in her dainty spring outfit of soft green. Her eyes were brown, and her hair had just a hint of copper in its glowing waves, which peeped out from under the trim little hat. She couldn’t help being conscious that she looked good. It was such a new experience not to be trying to hide the faded place on her dress and the worn spot on the tip of her shoe and the darn in her glove. Everything new and lovely, and all for nothing! Oh well, Isabel would have a wonderful summer in Europe with her father, and there would be a party in the fall. She could be getting ready for it all summer. And Father and she would have wonderful times together, especially if they got that car.
But where were all the taxis? Perhaps she would have to walk two blocks and get the trolley after all. It would be hard in the hot sun, for the suitcase was heavy.
She turned her glance toward the side street, where a group of children were playing noisily on the curb in front of a row of two-story redbrick houses. Such a contrast of life to the great cool mansion at the seashore where she had lunched before coming back to the city. A wave of pity came over her for the poor little ones who lived in that hot street and never got a sight of ocean except for a sticky, noisy, crowded picnic, perhaps once a year. She, standing on a small pinnacle of recent prosperity, halfway between the fortunate wealthy friends and the unfortunate little strangers, could pity them.
Then suddenly she remembered that it was down that very street that a little Sunday school scholar of hers lived, and the minister had asked her not long ago if she wouldn’t call on the child and try to brighten her up a bit. She had been run over by a truck and broken her hip, and there was danger that the spine was involved, and she might never walk again.
In the joy of her new fortunes Romayne had completely forgotten the request. Now it suddenly came back to her. That was awkward. She might meet Dr. Stephens almost any day, and he would be likely to ask her about the child. Why couldn’t she just run back in the station and check her suitcase and make the call now? Of course, she was rather too much dressed up for that sort of thing, but it would be so good to get that duty done and off her conscience. Poor little thing! She was a sweet little girl with golden curls and blue eyes! What a pity! She would get some oranges at the fruit stand and take them to her. There was no reason in the world why she shouldn’t do it. Father wasn’t likely to be home from the corporation meeting before six, and he didn’t even know she was coming. She would just get it done at once!
So she checked her suitcase, bought some oranges and a child’s lovely magazine full of pictures, and started on her errand of mercy with a heart full of loving kindness.
She asked the group of children if they knew where Wilanna Judson lived, and they pointed out a house halfway down the next block. But when she rang the bell, it was a long time before anybody came to the door, so that Romayne almost concluded that nobody was at home until she remembered that Wilanna was not able to get up. Then she debated whether she should attempt to open the door and walk in, for perhaps the child was all alone.
But a faint step was finally heard, the door was opened a crack, and a tear-stained face peeked out and looked her over half belligerently from a dainty shoe to tip of hat.
"Could I see Wilanna Judson a few minutes?" she asked, half-wishing she had not come. "I’m her Sunday school teacher."
"Oh, come in," said the girl, opening the door grudgingly. "I didn’t know it was you at first. Yes, she’ll be glad to see you. Nobody’s paid much attention to her today."
Romayne stepped in and saw that the girl was one of those tawdrily dressed little flappers that sat in the girls’ Bible class next to her own and sang a high clear soprano. The girl looked anything but a flapper now. Her stringy hair was out of curl, and her nose was swollen with crying. Even now the tears were brimming over again.
"It’s awful good of you to come," said the girl. "I s’pose you’ve heard?"
"Heard?" asked Romayne. "Are you in trouble, dear?" It wasn’t like shy Romayne to speak to a stranger that way, but there was something in the girl’s woebegone countenance that made her sorry.
"Oh!" said the girl, bursting into tears again. "I can’t never hold up my head again!"
"What is the matter?" asked Romayne in a soothing tone. "Can’t you sit down here and tell me about it? You look awfully tired. Is Wilanna worse?"
"No!" wailed the girl. "She’s doing all right. It’s papa. He’s in jail! I thought you’d seen it in the papers."
"Why, no," said Romayne. "I’ve been away—that is, I didn’t see the paper yet. Who are you? Wilanna’s sister?"
"Yes, I’m Frances."
"Can you tell me about it? Is there anything I could do for you?"
"I don’t know," sobbed the girl. "I don’t guess there is! Mamma’s gone out to see a lawyer, but it all depends if the woman dies. You see he’d been drinking again, and he ran over a woman and just missed killing her baby, too. They took the woman to the hospital, but they think mebbe she won’t live——"
"You poor child!" soothed Romayne, trying to think what to say to one in a predicament like this. "You say he had been drinking? Why, where in the world could he get anything to drink?"
"Plenty of places!" shrugged Frances. "It’s all over. There’s a new one almost every week somewhere, and there’s devils around here always coaxing him to drink. You don’t know——"
"You poor little girl," said Romayne, laying a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder. "Tell me all about it. I’ll tell my father and brother, and we’ll see if we can’t do something to get those places closed up. Did your father always drink?"
"No," sighed the girl, "he don’t drink when they let him alone, but it’s always going around. He wouldn’t go get it hisself, but everybody he goes with has it or treats him."
It was half-past five when Romayne came away from the Judson house, her mind filled with the sorrows of little Wilanna and her sister Frances, and turning it over how she would ask her father to get his new friend Judge Freeman to do something about the places where they were selling liquor. Of course, Frances had probably exaggerated it. There couldn’t be as many taxes as she said there were, or people would hear more about it. Of course, there was bootlegging, but that was mainly people who stole automobiles and ran away across the border of Canada, or made moonshine whiskey down in the South somewhere. It was all very vague to her. She had never taken much interest in such things. Her life had been so safe and guarded all these years, the companion of her mother during her lifetime, and now the companion of her father. But Father would be interested in the whole story, and then perhaps he would take her out to call on Judge Freeman, and she would tell him. She had always wanted to go with her father when he went to the judge’s house, but there had always been some reason why it wasn’t convenient when he had to go on business.
Thinking these thoughts, she reached the station, claimed her baggage, and signaled the taxi that had finally appeared on the scene.
"I thought there were always taxis here by the station?" she said to the man. "I waited for fifteen minutes a little while ago."
"Well, there usually is," said the man apologetically, "but you see we all ben down the commissioner’s office trying to get our rights."
"Your rights?" said Romayne faintly, wishing she had said nothing to the man, and reproaching herself for giving him opportunity to talk with her. Isabel Worrell would never have done that. It was because she was not accustomed to riding in taxis.
"Yes, miss," said the man as if he had just been looking for someone to whom he could tell his troubles. "You see, us fellers has pay fifteen dollars a week to the commissioner to get our licenses, and we ben herin’ there’s a guy in the city ben makin’ it hot fer everybody what’s in this here graft game, so jest kinda got together and decided we’d tell the commissioner we was going to give evidence ‘gainst him he didn’t do somepin about it. So we went together, a gang of us, an’ we give him a line of talk, and wddaya think? He give us money back! Sorry to keep ya waitin’, miss, but you see how ‘twas. I jest had to have that money. I got a sick kid, and she has to go to the hospital fer an operation, an’ I needed that money."
Romayne was all sympathy now. She asked questions about the child and promised to send her a doll and a picture book. How much trouble there was in the world, and she had been fretting for years just because she had to make over her dresses and they couldn’t ride in taxis. And now money had come to the Ransoms, but here were the Judsons, and the taxi drivers, and a lot of other poor people who were still in trouble. It really spoiled much of her own pleasure in her good fortune to know that there were so many people in such deep trouble. And it all seemed to be the fault of a few rich politicians who were trying to get richer than anybody else without doing anything. At least that was the way it looked. Or, perhaps, it was the fault of the people who voted to put men who would do such things into these offices of trust. Fancy a commissioner trying to live off a poor taxi driver whose little girl was waiting to have a much-needed operation until her father could scrape the money together to pay the doctor and the hospital! Something ought to be done about it. She meant to ask Lawrence and Father to start at once organizing some kind of a society to look into these things. They could do it. Now that they were going to have a little money, they would have a real chance to do good in the world.
She gave the driver a generous tip, took down his address, and promised not to forget the doll. Then the car drew up in front of the old respectable brownstone house into which they had moved but the month before.
She glanced up at the house with a thrill of pride and pleasure. To think that was their home after all these years in a little cramped apartment! And she was presently to have a good sum of money put into her hands with which to furnish it with fine old furniture such as belonged in a respectable old family mansion. Of course, it wasn’t one of the newer houses. But it had an air of ancient grandeur about it that pleased her. She liked the high ceilings and the big rooms.
As she looked toward the front windows where now her father had his office, she saw the curtain stir and a hand draw back. It must be her father had come home and he would be coming to the door to meet her!
She paid the taxi fare and hurried up the steps, wondering what Father would say when he heard her story, and wouldn’t he be glad after all that she had come back? She knew he had been going to be lonesome without her in spite of all his joy in her holiday.
Inside that stately old front parlor thick rough silk curtained the windows in a deep amber shade. A great walnut roll-top desk occupied the center of the room. In the wall opposite the hall archway was set an old mantel with cupboards on each side, and two tall graceful urns of alabaster stood upon the mantel. A large old Kerminshah rug, worn but still beautiful, in rose and amber covered the floor. A few walnut chairs and a desk chair completed the furnishings. On the desk were several specimens of ore and some tubes of oil in various stages of refinement.
"Oh gee!" said a thick-set youth in knickerbockers and golf stockings, peering from between the curtains. "That girl’s come back! I thought you said she was safe in Jersey for a week! Now what are we going to do? She’ll be in here in a minute."
"We’re going to do just what we planned to do, Chris," said a quiet, grave young man in a plain business suit with a face that had a rugged look of determined strength about it.
"But—why say—Sherwood—she’s a peach of a girl! I went to school with her."
"Sorry for the girl, Chris, but it can’t be helped! This is the only time this could be done, and the stage is set. We can’t afford to let the opportunity slip. We may never get it again. We’re not fighting for one person’s feelings, kid! This is righteousness! You get into your corner, Chris, and let me manage this thing."
"But, Sherrey, you can’t——"
There was the sound of a key turning in the lock, and a lifted hand of caution silenced the youth at the window.
The other three men, two of them in policeman’s garb, and one a plainclothes man, showed no interest in the incident save by quick, alert gleams of the eye. They maintained a grave aloof bearing and seemed to study to obliterate themselves as far as possible from the scene. Their time of action was not yet come.
The man they called Sherwood was seated just inside the arch from the hallway.
Romayne flung open the door and stepped inside, closing it after her before she saw him. Then she took a step forward, and all the others were visible to her view, not excepting her old schoolmate, who had turned his back to the room in the hope of not being recognized.
The girl stood still for a moment, eyeing each of the five men questioningly, then turned toward the young man who obviously dominated the scene.
"Where is my father?" she asked coldly, as if she felt he were somehow to blame for the presence of these uniformed men.
"That is what we hoped you might be able to tell us, Miss Ransom," said Sherwood courteously. He had risen as she entered the doorway.
She looked around at them intently once more.
"Then if my father has not been here," she asked crisply, "how did you get in here?"
For just an instant she stood facing the five men, and then she stepped quickly over to the desk and laid her hand on the telephone.
Just as quickly another hand, firm and strong and determined, was laid upon hers, and the man called Sherwood looked sternly down at her.
"I’m sorry, Miss Ransom, but we can’t let you do that—not now."
Romanye cast a frightened glance from one stern face to the other, her eyes lingering with sudden recognition on the broad shoulders of the boy.
"Chris Hollister!" she said sharply. "What are you doing here? Why don’t you tell these men that they have no right to come in here and tell me what I can do and what I cannot do?"
The boy turned shamefacedly.
"I’m sorry, Romayne, I didn’t know you would be here—I understood you were to be away——"
"Oh!" said Romayne haughtily. "So you knew what my movements were, did you? And you were in some plot against my father in his absence, it seems. Well, I thought better of you than that. I’ve always supposed you were a very nice boy—that is, in the days when we used to go to school together."
Her tone was as if she had finished with him forever. Then she turned toward Sherwood.
"I don’t know who you are, but I’m sure you look as if you might have been a gentleman once. Will you please let go of my hand?"
"Not until you give me your word of honor that you will go over and sit down in that chair and not go near this telephone again," said Sherwood gently but firmly. "I’m in command here, and I can’t run the risk of your messing things."
"You’re not in command of me!" said Romayne, giving her lithe hand a quick twist and jerking it from his hold. It hurt her cruelly, but she did not wince. With a quick motion she turned toward the front door, but to her dismay she was suddenly confronted by the two men in uniform, standing like an impassable wall before her.
With a dazed look she stopped, gave each a frightened glance, and turning back to Sherwood, she drew herself up proudly.
"What does this mean?" she asked indignantly. "Do I understand that I am a prisoner in my father’s house?"
"I’m afraid you are, Miss Ransom," answered Sherwood gravely. "I hope it will not be for long. You need not be troubled. No harm will come to you. If you will sit down, I will see that no harm comes to you."
"Thank you. I prefer to stand," she said frigidly.
"Just as you please," answered her captor, "only I advise you to stand right where you are if you do not wish to be interfered with again."
Romayne caught her underlip between her white teeth to steady its trembling. She could feel the tears smarting in her eyes. Slim and straight she stood in her pretty spring outfit, looking like a frightened child. Chris Hollister could not stand it and turned his back, pretending to be looking out from between the curtains again.
The girl had wonderful self-control. She was trying to think what she should do. It was unthinkable that she should submit to such a situation.
"What is the meaning of all this anyway? What right have you to order me about in this way in my own house?" she said, trying to hold her temper and see if she could find out what it was all about. "There certainly must be some explanation. You don’t look like a bandit!"
There was just the least trace of contempt in her voice.
"Aw gee!" breathed the boy, Chris, under his breath.
"I can explain," said the young man gravely, "but I would rather not. I hoped perhaps that you might be spared the pain——"
"Oh!" interrupted Romayne. "Don’t trouble yourself about that. You haven’t seemed to care how much pain you inflicted. I beg you will inform me at once what all this means! It isn’t necessary to use any oratory or false friendliness. I want the facts. I’ll bear the pain!"
Her face was haughtiness itself. Her tone stung the young man and brought a flush of indignation to his cheek, but he kept his quiet voice.
"Very well, then. I will tell you. This house is under suspicion, and we have been ordered to investigate. I am sorry our duty brought us here while you were at home, but if you will consent to be seated quietly in that chair where the guard can watch every movement, I give you my word you shall not be personally disturbed."
Romayne stared wide-eyed.
"This house! Under suspicion? But for what?" she demanded angrily.
"For illicit dealing in intoxicating liquor."
"Oh!" unexpectedly laughed out the girl with a relieved hysterical giggle. "Is that all? Isn’t that funny!"
She dropped into a chair still laughing, her eyes dancing merrily.
"But," she said, looking into the young man’s face, "you surely didn’t mean that seriously?"
"I surely do," said the young man sadly. "I’m sorry, but we have all evidence——"
Romayne turned toward the boy.
"Chris, why in the world don’t you tell him we’re not that kind of people? What do you get out of this farce that you can let it go on? You surely know how absurd this charge is!"
Chris turned earnestly toward the girl.
"I did, Romayne; I told them all about you. I said you were a peach of a girl! I wanted to put this off when I found you were home—"
"Put it off!" said Romayne, scornfully turning back to Sherwood. "If you would allow me to call up my father’s friend, Judge Freeman," she said with an edge of haughtiness in her voice again, "he will be able to explain how impossible this all is," she said loftily.
A quick meaningful look passed from one man to another around the group.
"I have no doubt he would," said Sherwood meaningfully, "but we will not call the judge at present."
"Or if you will call my brother," she went on more soberly, trying to realize that it was not going to be as easy to convince these determined men as she had expected. "He is probably still in the office—I can give you his number. He never gets out till a quarter past six."
Another lightning glance went around the circle. She could not tell what it was about, that quick motionless look. It seemed to be more of a light coming out of the eye, like a signal flash in the night, than anything tangible, but it gave her a chill of foreboding.
She suddenly turned to Sherwood quite gravely, as one would speak to a naughty child in a tantrum who needed quieting, speaking slowly and distinctly as if to bring him to reason.
"I should think it would be easy enough to prove that your suspicions are absurd," she said. "Why don’t you look around and see that this is nothing but a plain everyday home?"
"Are you willing to take me over the house, Miss Ransom?"
"Certainly, if you insist on being so absurd," she said freezingly.
"Very well. We will begin in this room."
"In this room?" She lifted her eyebrows amusedly. "I should say everything was perfectly obvious here."
"What is behind those doors, for instance? Can you open them for me?"
Romayne laughed.
"Some old dusty papers. Files of sales of Father’s business. It’s nothing but a shallow cupboard. Father had to have a carpenter come here and make it deeper to get his papers in. Did you think it was a wine closet?"
Another of those quick lightning glances went round the circle of men, though when she looked again, no one seemed to have paid the least attention to her words. Their eyes were thoughtfully on space.
The steady eyes of Sherwood did not waver nor show special interest. His voice was just as quiet as he said, "Yes? Well, can you open them for me?"
"Why certainly!" said Romayne, walking briskly over to the fireplace and touching the little spring knob.
But the door did not open as she expected.
She looked at it puzzled.
"Oh, I remember! Father had a lock put on. He said there were valuable papers here and he did not want them disturbed. Perhaps I can find the key. Of course Father wouldn’t object to my opening it for you to see."
She searched in the drawers of the desk, the men meanwhile noting every movement, and taking in at a glance the contents of every drawer, without seeming at all to be looking.
Romayne came upon a bunch of keys and tried several but without success. She lifted somewhat mortified eyes to the young man at last.
"Well, we’ll have to wait till Father comes, I suppose. But there really is nothing in there but papers."
"I see," said Sherwood gravely, as if the matter were dismissed. "Now, this house, it’s a double house, is it not? Do you happen to know what is on the other side of this mantel? Have you ever been in the other house?"
"I have not," said Romayne haughtily. "The house is vacant, of course, you know."
"Yes?" Sherwood lifted his eyebrows in that maddening way he had done before, as if he doubted her word. "Is the house for rent?"
"I believe it is," said Romayne, vexed. She felt somehow that he was making game of her, yet his tone and manner were entirely respectful. There was about him an air of knowing more than she did about the things she told him. If he knew things, why did he ask? Was he trying to get her tangled up? Oh, if Father or Lawrence would only come home. It was outrageous! But perhaps she ought to play the game and keep them here till one of them did walk in, so that these intruders might be brought to justice.
"Do many people come to look at the house?"
"I really don’t know," haughtily again. "I’ve noticed an agent once or twice. It may be rented now for all I know."
"Yes?" And then quite irrelevantly, it seemed to her, "And your father’s business is?"
"He is a manager of a corporation. It has to do with ore and oil products." She waved her hand toward the bits of rock and oil tubes on the desk. She had the air of endeavoring to graciously satisfy an insatiable curiosity on his part, endeavoring to show him how contemptible he was. But his quiet, grave manner did not alter.
"Miss Ransom, have you ever been down to the cellar in your own house?"
"Really!" she shrugged. "How absurd! Of course."
"Can you tell me what it contains?"
"Why certainly. A furnace, and a coal bin, and a woodpile."
"Where is the furnace located?"
What possible interest could that be to these strangers? "Why, almost directly under this room, I think."
"Yes? And the coal bin? Is it located on the right wall or the left?"
Romayne stopped to think. This was rather interesting, like a game. What could the man possibly be driving at? Or was he merely trying to kill time and asking any question that came into his head?
"It is on the right wall, just in front of the fireplace, I believe. Yes, I know it is. They fill it from the basement window on the sidewalk, just under that window over there, I think. We haven’t been here long, and haven’t needed to get coal yet."
"Did you ever examine the coal bin?"
"Well no. I couldn’t possibly take any interest in a coal bin. Father always looks after those things."
"Then you have no knowledge of a door or passageway leading from that coal bin into the cellar of the next house?"
Romayne gave a startled glance from one intent face to the other. For the first time it seemed to her the men were off their guard and openly watching her.
"Of course not," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. Oh, if Father or Lawrence would only come. "You must have been reading dime novels or mystery stories."
The young man controlled a desire to smile. She could see it in the quiver of his lip. He had a nice mouth. But how outrageously impertinent.
"Did you ever notice anything else in the cellar?" went on the steady voice.
"Nothing but some boxes and barrels that came from the mine and have to do with the business," she said wearily. Would this inquisition never end?
"I’m hungry," she said suddenly. "I don’t suppose you’ll mind if I go and get something to eat, will you? In my own house?"
"I’m sorry, Miss Ransom, but you’ll have to remain right here in this room for the present." She had a strange sensation as she swept him a glance of disdain that his eyes were asking her pardon. "Hollister here will go where you direct him," he added, "and get something for you. You can trust him to find what you want, I’m sure."
"No!" said Romayne contemptuously. "I certainly cannot trust a person who had done what he is doing to an old friend. Thank you! I will remain hungry!"
The color swept in a crimson wave up to the roots of Chris’s hair and he turned swiftly toward the window once more.
"I’m sorry," said Sherwood with genuine concern in his voice. "It was no part of my plan to drag you into this mess, Miss Ransom!"
"Oh, yes, you’re very sorry!" retorted Romayne angrily, and suddenly sat down in the chair he had offered her several times, with a defeated look on her face, and stormy eyes. Oh, if her father and brother would only come. It was ten minutes after six! Surely they must come soon!
And then there was a sound of a key in the latch, a tense silence in the room; the front door opened, and Mr. Ransom, followed by his son, entered and looked around with white, startled faces.
In future years when Romayne looked back on that silence that followed her father’s entrance into the room, it seemed to her to have lasted for years, and to have encompassed three distinct eras of emotion.
There was the first instant of relief that her father had come and that now all would be set right. During that instant her own firm little chin was lifted just the slightest, haughtily, with an assurance, the perfect assurance that she had always felt in her father to dominate any situation; an almost pity for the cocksure young man who had been so condescending and so dictatorial to her in her own house, and she swept him a brief glance of contempt that included the whole room. The boy, Chris, seemed suddenly to have been submerged in the amber-colored curtains. She had forgotten that he existed.
Her eyes went back to her father’s face, expecting to find a certain look, the expression of an aristocrat who had arrived in time to discomfort interlopers. She knew the look, he had worn it often through the years in protecting herself and her mother from impudence or presumption on the part of servants or officials. It became him well, that look of righteous indignation, tempered with severity. She was always a little sorry for anybody who had incurred his displeasure when her father was really roused. He had a command of fine, terse sarcasm that was really withering to listen to. That he would use it now she did not doubt. She waited to hear him speak and realized that the silence had been long, with something vitally terrible in it that she did not understand. Of course, her father would be much disturbed that she had been here alone in the house with a company of men of this sort. He would be fairly overwhelmed.
She turned her attention fully to his face again. Was it something in the expression of the uniformed man who stood at his elbow that made her look more closely? Why, her father’s face was ashen! His eyes! There was nothing haughty in them. They looked—why, almost frightened! Perhaps he was sick. The doctor had said there was a little weakness of the heart—nothing serious. It was not good for him to be excited. She flashed a glance of condemnation toward the leader of the men, who stood just ahead of her to the right. Then her eyes went again to her father’s face.
Mr. Ransom was a handsome man as the world counts beauty in a man. He had regular features and a fine old-fashioned bearing, which his silver hair and well-clipped pointed beard accentuated. He habitually bore himself as one who respected himself and dealt gently, almost reverently, with himself. He was the embodiment of lofty sentiments, and his well-groomed person was always an object of observation and admiration as he walked the streets and went about his daily business. One thought of him as a man who wore glasses attached to a fine gold chain over his ear and carried a gold-headed cane. He was the kind of man who was always well dressed, carried his papers in a fine cloth bag, and wore silk hats whenever there was the slightest excuse for them. He might have been an elder in a church, or even a minister, so dignified, so conventional, so altogether fitting was everything about his appearance. People had always looked upon him as a good man, well-born, well-bred, and upright to the core. This was the general essence of the character that his daughter had always revered, and that more than anything else in her life she had been most proud of. And now she turned eyes that were accustomed to watching him proudly, tenderly, to his face once more, and all those things that she had been accustomed to see in his beloved face had vanished. Instead the lips had grown more ashen, the eyes wild, like a hunted animal, as they glanced from one intruder to another, the skin of his face white like death as he stood perfectly still looking slowly around that room, only his eyes moving in their ghastly setting. He did not seem to be aware of her presence—or—was he?
She sprang to her feet.
"Father!" and instinctively reached out her hands toward him.
It was just at that instant that he crumpled and went down.
You have seen a balloon that was pricked suddenly lose its inflation, or a tent, let loose from its holdings, sink slowly to the earth. It was like that. The thing that had made the man what he had always been seemed suddenly to have gone out of him. He lay on the marble floor of his entrance hall, a limp heap of cloth. A white face, from which the inhabitant seemed to have departed, and the white skin, withered and lying in loose folds as though that which had held it buoyant and plastic had been suddenly withdrawn from beneath. There was something drawn about the features, as if they had been misplaced and had nothing to give them form or continuity. The thought flashed through the girl’s consciousness as she flew toward him that that could not possibly be her father, lying there, collapsed, inanimate. She must reach him quickly. She must lift him up, as if the life and buoyancy would return to him once more if she could but lift him quickly enough.
She was by his side, and her strong young arms about his neck, lifting, lifting with all her might. And now the thing she lifted was like lead. She could not get a hold with her trembling hands. She could scarcely breathe as she forced his head from the floor and into her lap. She lifted wild angry eyes to the face of the young man, Sherwood, who came forward now and tried to help her loosen the collar of the fallen man.
"Don’t touch him!" she said in a terrible suffering young voice. "You have killed him! Oh! Father!"
That one anguished cry stabbed the young man’s heart as if it had been a bayonet. He stepped back sharply.
"Go for a doctor!" he said to Chris in a low tone. But the girl’s senses seemed to be abnormally alert.
"No," she said sharply. "Don’t one of you stir from this room! You are all going to stay right where you are and answer for this. My brother will go! Lawrence! Where are you?"
She turned her head sharply to look up and back where her brother had stood, but Lawrence had vanished. His white face had disappeared from the doorway almost as soon as it had appeared.
Romayne lifted a proud head.
"He is going for the doctor!" she said in a clear, high voice, calm with a terrible excitement. "He will be here in a moment."
Sherwood motioned to Chris to go, and the boy stepped out from the curtains with a low murmured expression of horror. In order to get out he had to step over her feet as she sat huddled with what was left of her father in her arms. He went stumbling out into the darkened street with tears rolling down his nice boyish face. He had always like Romayne. He had always looked up to her. She had been the head of his class, and he the foot. He had looked upon her as a sort of angel. And now this! And he having to go against her. But he knew what to do in an emergency. He darted across a hedge and two back fences, and was soon ringing the bell of the nearest physician.
Inside the house Sherwood had quietly organized his forces. Water was brought, and someone produced aromatic ammonia. Stern faces stooped gravely, but the girl’s slender hand took the water from them and held it to the still-ashen lips that somehow seemed like lips no longer.
Frantically the girl applied the remedies that were brought and held in her aching, eager young arms the form that was so dear.
"Father!" she called, "Father!" as if she were crying to him to return from a great distance. "It is all right, Father, you needn’t worry! They did me no harm. It was only a ridiculous mistake. They intended to go somewhere else, of course. You needn’t mind, Father! Of course, when they know, they will be very much ashamed!"
But there was no sign or stir from the limp form in her arms.
Finally she lifted great eyes of appeal to Sherwood’s face.
"If you ever have been a gentleman, I beg that you will go to the telephone and call my father’s friend, Judge Freeman. He will explain it all to you, and then perhaps you will have the grace to apologize and withdraw. When my father becomes conscious, if I tell him it was a mistake and that you have apologized and withdrawn, he will be calmer, and perhaps he may get over this. You must get Judge Freeman quickly! There is no time to waste! Tell him I beg that he will come to us at once. We are in great trouble!"
The young man’s voice was very gentle.
"I’m so sorry," he said, "but Judge Freeman cannot help you now. He——"
"Oh—you needn’t be afraid to call him!" she said contemptuously. "I’ll see that you do not get into any trouble through it. We are not the kind who prosecute people even if they are—murderers!" she ended bitterly, with tears dropping upon the white face in her lap.
There was a little stir behind her. Almost as if a throng were entering. A strange doctor stooped beside her and slipped a practiced finger on the patrician wrist of her father. Just behind came Chris panting. The men in uniform seemed to have multiplied. They were on all sides of the room—silently. Had there been only two of them before? How confused her mind was! Perhaps she was only dreaming. Had she been going to a house party a little while before? Was this all real?
Stern-faced men were lifting her father now at the doctor’s command, men in uniform, who walked with measured tread as if they were used to doing gruesome tasks, as if they were ordained of God for such terrible offices. They carried him upstairs. They did not ask her where to go. They swept her aside as if she were a child.
They opened a door at the head of the stairs. She stood dazed, watching them. How had they known which was his room? She seemed to know without seeing that they were laying him upon his bed, and they were shutting the door!
She cast a look of rebuke about upon the men who stood there silently, the man Sherwood notably at their head, the boy Chris drooping, just behind him, and fled up the stairs.
But they put her out—silently, gently, but firmly, and shut the door. She stood a moment staring horror in the face and then went swiftly down the stairs as she had come up and stopped in front of Sherwood.
"Where is my brother?" she demanded breathlessly. Her face was stained with tears, and her gold hair was ruffled around her sweet face. There was something fine and glorious in her eyes such as one sees in the eyes of a child who is in search of its mother.
A look passed between Sherwood and Chris, and back again. It said: "Did they get him?" Its answer: "They did. He is in custody." The miserable truth sat upon Chris’s nice-boy face written large. There was yearning tenderness in Sherwood’s eyes as he looked back at the slender girl in her little bright spring outfit, all rumpled now and a stain of water down the front where she had spilled it trying to make her father drink.
"He is not here just now," he temporized. "He had to go away. Will you not try to forget what part I had to play in all this and let me help you for the present?"
"Had to?" repeated the girl sharply, ignoring his offer. "Do you mean they took him away?" Her perceptions seemed suddenly sharply awake.
Sherwood looked at her compassionately. A flash passed between him and the boy again. She saw it.
"Have they?" she appealed to Chris.
He nodded miserably.
"Do you mean they have arrested my brother?" She turned back to Sherwood, her voice suddenly grown older, more mature.
Sherwood could only bow gravely.
"But—what for?"
"For complicity—with your father. They have acted together in this business——"
"Stop!" said Romayne, trying to speak calmly. "It is terrible for you to say such things with him lying up there!"
She caught her breath in a sob and hurried on: "But I want you to try to be sensible, and tell me what made you ever get an idea like this? You know you will have to prove a statement such as you have just made."
The young man bowed again.
"I’m very sorry, Miss Ransom, but it has been proved."
"Where is your proof?" she demanded, her eyes flashing with the restrained look of one who feels strong and sure of her position and can afford to hold her anger in abeyance until facts come to her rescue.
The young man looked at her sadly for a moment and then spoke.
"Miss Ransom, I would have spared you if I could, but I suppose you will have to know the truth sooner or later, although I would rather it were not my task to tell you. Can’t you be persuaded to take my word for it, and spare yourself the unpleasant details? No one has any wish to bring trouble upon you."
"I thought you could not prove your charges," flashed the girl, with bitter contempt in her tone. "You are a coward and afraid to face the truth!"
For answer Sherwood turned to her, his face hardening.
"Come then," he said half-bitterly. "I have warned you. It is your own fault if you have to suffer."
He stepped to the panel beside the beautiful carved mantel and touched a spring. The panel swung open and disclosed a set of shelves inside, shallow shelves, as she had told him a little while before, filled with papers fastened in neat bundles with rubber bands about them, official-looking documents, and each shelf labeled with letters of the alphabet. A gleam of triumph came in her eyes.
But even as it dawned, the young man silently touched what looked like a nail head, and the whole set of shelves, papers and all, began to move, slowly, smoothly, swinging around out of sight into a recess somewhere behind the mantel, leaving a dark opening into a cavern-like space beyond. It could not exactly be called a doorway, yet it was wide enough for a person to pass through.
Romayne stood staring in amazement and said nothing.
The young man reached his hand through the opening and touched a button, and a shaded light sprang up in the space beyond.
"Come!" he said, and with strange premonition Romayne followed him, stepping through the opening with a strange sensation of fright, yet unable to refuse to follow.
It was a room that she arrived in through the narrow door, a room with little attempt at beauty and luxury. There were tables and chairs, and pictures on the wall. Several of the chairs were pushed back as if their occupants had left them in a hurry. There was a lady’s glove upon the floor and a rose with a broken stem beside it. There were glasses on the tables and an odor of liquor faintly tanging the air. She looked toward the windows, doubting her exact location, and saw that they were closely and heavily curtained, and that the lamps were shrouded in dim draperies. Sherwood reached out and removed one shade, and the glare of electric light fell garishly over the place. A cupboard door half open he swung wide and disclosed rows and rows of bottles, with many labels. She did not try to read them all. Her eye caught one with terror-stricken gaze—Pure Rye Whiskey, it read. There were other names that meant nothing to her, vaguely associated in her mind with a world of which she knew little. She turned, bewildered, half questioning what he meant by it all, and why this should have anything to do with her father.
"Come!" said Sherwood again, setting his firm lips to the task he did not relish. Yet this girl must be convinced.
He led her through other rooms and showed her other closets filled with more bottles, and showed her cases half open, from which the bottles had not been removed, and more cases still in their wrappings. He let her read the labels, "Utopian Refining Company"—her father’s company!
And then he led her down a dark stairway into a dim cellar, where the lights were far apart and where she wandered after him through a maze of more packing cases, stopping now and then to make her read the painted lettering on their sides, and now and again to lift a lid and let her look within. They came at length to a large iron door that swung back mysteriously in the dim light, at a touch, and they stepped into what seemed a coal bin.
Stumbling after him and groping, her hand touched his, and she caught at it for support as she slipped over the loose coal.
"I must go back!" she gasped.
He caught her gently and held her firmly until she was on the smooth cement floor of the cellar again, and then he took a flashlight from his pocket and lighted the way around a strangely familiar furnace to another great packing case, whose half-open top disclosed great lumps of mineral that gleamed weirdly in the glow of the flashlight, and all at once she began to realize where she was. This was the packing case that had stood by the furnace for several weeks past. The young man lifted what seemed like the top of the case, and below were rows of bottles packed in straw. He lifted and flashed the light full into the lower compartment, then put it down again and led the way to the cellar stairs.
They mounted in silence, the girl ahead, her knees shaking weakly beneath her. The young man tried to steady her, but she drew away from him and went on by herself. So going they came once more into the wide hall and walked toward the front to the room from which they had started.
Romayne stood still for a moment, staring at the opening in the chimney panel, with the light still burning beyond and a glimpse of those awful bottles on their shelves, and then she sank into the big chair close by with a groan and covered her face with her hands.
About that same time Frances Judson was dressing to go out for the evening. She called the function "I-gotta-date." They occurred almost nightly. But this one was a special date.
She was seated before a small pine dressing table in the room that she shared with her invalid sister. A cheap warped mirror was propped up against a pile of books, and Frances was working away with her crude implements, trying to attain a makeup for the evening. There were still traces of tears on her cheeks and her eyes and a puffy look. Now and then she caught her breath in a quiver like a sob.
"Oh, dear!" she sighed miserably. "I don’t see why Papa had to go and act this way again, just when I was beginning to get in with real classy people! I don’t think it’s fair! When folks have children, they oughtta think a little about them!"
Wilanna was to her elder sister something like a wastebasket, into whose little open mind she threw all her annoyances and disappointments. The little girl listened always patiently, with troubled countenance and sympathetic demeanor, and tried to suggest some alleviation or remedy for the trouble. Wilanna had troubles of her own, but she usually kept them to herself. Now she turned sympathetic eyes to her sister and watched her for a minute in silence as Frances dabbed a lump of cold cream on her sallow countenance and began rubbing vigorously.
There were traces of tears on the little girl’s cheeks, too, and a burdened look much too old for her years in the eyes that searched her sister.
"You’re not going out—tonight—Frannie—are you? Not tonight!"