The men were part of a search-party, of course—a posse; and they wanted to know whether. …
“He tried to break in,” said Medora Phillips eagerly; “but this gentleman. …”
She turned appreciatively to Cope. Carolyn, really impressed by her well-sustained seriousness and ardor, almost began to believe that they owed their lives to Bertram Cope alone.
“Was he a—murderer?” asked Medora.
The men looked serious, but made no categorical reply. They glanced at the wrecked pantry window, and they looked with more intentness at the long sliding footprints which led away, down the half-bare sand-slope. Then they slid down themselves.
Medora asked Carolyn to do what she could toward constructing a lunch and then walked down to the shore with Cope to compose her nerves. No stroll today along the ridged amphitheatre of the hills, whence the long, low range of buildings, under that tall chimney, was so plainly in view. Still less relishing the idea of a tramp through the woods themselves, the certain haunt—somewhere—of some skulking desperado. No, they would take the shore itself—open to the wide firmament, clear of all snares, and free from every disconcerting sight.
“Poor Carolyn!” said Medora presently. “How fluttered and inefficient she was! A good secretary—in a routine way—but so lacking in initiative and self-possession!”
Cope’s look tended to become a stare. He thought that Carolyn had been in pretty fair control of herself—had been less fluttery and excited, indeed, than her employer.
But Medora had been piqued, the night before, by Carolyn’s tendency to linger on the scene and to help skim the emotional cream from the situation.
“And in such deshabille, too! I hope you don’t think she seemed immodest?”
But Cope had given small heed to their dress, or to their lack of it. In fact, he had noticed little if any difference between them. He only knew that he had felt a degree more comfortable after getting his own coat on.
“Carolyn understands her place pretty well,” mused Medora. “Yet …”
“Anybody might be excused for looking anyhow, at such a time,” observed Cope, fending off the intrusion of a new set of considerations; “and in such a sudden stir. I hope nobody noticed how I looked!”
“Well, you were noticeable,” declared Medora, with some archness. She had been conscious enough of his spare waist, his sinewy arms, his swelling chest. “It was easy enough to see where the noise came from,” she said, looking him over.
“Yes, I supplied the noise—and that only. It was Peter, please remember, who supplied the muscle.”
She declined to let her mind dwell on Peter. Peter possessed no charm. Besides, he was prosaically on the payroll.
They continued to saunter along the sand. Yesterday’s sparse clouds had vanished, along with much of yesterday’s wind. The waters that had tumbled and vociferated now merely murmured. The lake stood calmly blue, and the new green was thickening on the hills. Confident birds flitted busily among the trees and shrubs. Spring was disclosed in its most alluring mood.
Suddenly three or four figures appeared on the beach, a quarter of a mile away. They had descended through one of the sandy and ravaged channelings which broke at intervals the regulated rim of the hills, and they came on toward our two strollers. Medora closed her eyes to peer at them. “Are they marching a prisoner?” she asked.
“They all appear to be walking free.”
“Are they carrying knapsacks?”
“Khaki, puttees—and knapsacks, I think.”
“Some university men said they might happen along today. If they really have knapsacks, and anything to eat in them, they’re welcome. Otherwise, we had better hide quick—and hope they’ll lose the place and pass us by.”
One of the advancing figures lifted a semaphoric arm. “Too late,” said Cope; “They recognize you.”
“Then we’ll walk on and meet them,” declared Medora.
The newcomers were young professors and graduate students. They were soon in possession of the thrilling facts of the past night, and one of them offered to be a prisoner, if a prisoner was desired. When they heard how Bertram Cope had saved the lives of defenseless women in a lonely land, they inclined to smile. Two of them had been present on another shore when Cope had “saved” Amy Leffingwell from a watery death, and they knew how far heroics might be pushed by women who were willing to idealize. Cope saw their smiles and felt that he had fumbled an opportunity: when he might have been a truncheon, he had been only a megaphone.
The new arrivals, after climbing the sandy rise to the house, were shown the devastated kitchen and were asked to declare what provisions they carried. They had enough food for their own needs and a trifle to spare. Lunch might be managed, but any thought of a later meal was out of the question. “We’ll start back at four-thirty,” said Medora to Peter. “Meanwhile”—to the college men—“the world is ours.”
After lunch the enlarged party walked forth again. Mrs. Phillips had old things to show to fresh eyes: she formed the new visitors into a compact little group and let them see how good a guide she could be. Cope and Carolyn strolled negligently—even unsystematically—behind. Once or twice the personally conducted looked back.
“I hope she won’t tell them again how I came to the rescue,” said Cope. “It makes a man feel too flat for words. Anybody might think, to hear her go on, that I had saved you all from robbery and murder. …”
“Why, but didn’t you?” inquired Carolyn seriously.
XXXI
Cope Gets New Light on His Chum
Cope had the luck to get back to Churchton with little further in the way of homage. He was careful with Carolyn; she had perhaps addressed him in a sonnet, and she might go on and address him in an ode. He thought he had done nothing to deserve the one, and he would do almost anything to escape the other. She was a nice pleasant quiet girl; but nice pleasant quiet girls were
