“Not since I’m back from France.”
“And I presume you never met Mrs. Hudson.”
Bobby wished that question had not been raised. Perhaps it would be near enough the truth to reply in the negative. On second thought, absolute sincerity with Nancy Ashford was but her rightful due. He decided to be honest.
“Yes,” he answered reluctantly, “I spent a whole hour with her last night, on a country road”—adding after a considerable pause, “But she doesn’t know it.”
“Meaning what?” demanded Nancy, in amazement.
Briefly he narrated the whole circumstance of their meeting. Nancy Ashford’s blue eyes widened. Underneath the boyish recital ran a strong current of unmistakable personal interest which Bobby’s attempted tone of casualness failed to conceal.
“I think you liked her, Bobby. Didn’t you?”
He essayed a smile of indifference. He might even have been able to delude himself into the belief that Nancy accepted the smile as a sufficient answer to her query, had he not been so audacious with his little deceit as to look her full in the face. What he saw there of incredulity and disappointment instantly sobered him. There was no use trying to keep anything from this woman.
“My dear,” he confessed, with an unsteady voice, “I like her so much I’d rather we didn’t talk about it.”
His big car had idled to a full stop alongside the kerb flanking a little park. They were both silent for a while. At length, Nancy said mechanically, “Well, of all things!”
“Yes,” agreed Bobby abstractedly, “something like that.” There was another protracted pause.
“And she did not know who you were?”
“I couldn’t tell her.”
“How long do you think you can maintain your—incognito?”
“Oh, that should be simple enough,” Bobby declared, in a tone of self-deprecation. “I took pains to invent an alibi for the evening, when I talked to Masterson, in case some inquiries might be made. But Mrs. Hudson has probably forgotten all about the little episode by this time.”
Nancy laughed.
“Bobby Merrick, do you really believe that a young woman of Helen Hudson’s temperament could produce the impression she made on you without being fully aware of it? You confessed how acutely conscious you were of her—that was your phrase, wasn’t it?—as you sat together in her car. Do you think you would have had that sensation had she not shared it?”
“Of course; why not? See here—you’re taking altogether too much for granted in this case. Mrs. Hudson was no more than courteous, friendly, appreciative of a little favour. She had no reason to think me interested in her. In fact, I was almost rude to her when we parted.” He did not feel it necessary to add that her car had crept along, in low gear, for fully two hundred yards, apparently reluctant to leave.
“Yes,” said Nancy significantly, “she would notice that!”
“And she would know—by my abruptness—wouldn’t she? …”
“Know what?” persisted Nancy ruthlessly.
“Why—that I was not interested.”
“Dear boy, how very little you know about her!”
“Meaning that she has unusual gifts for interpreting other people’s private thoughts?”
“No—Foolish! Meaning only that she is a woman!”
They strolled under the elms, stopping to watch some small boys sailing toy boats on the little lagoon, dappled with lily-pads. A bench was found unoccupied. By common consent, their discussion was resumed of Doctor Hudson’s queer penchant for concerning himself with the private perplexities of nobody knew how many people, and the thick wall of secrecy with which these strange negotiations were surrounded.
“You may as well put it down as a fact,” Nancy was saying, with strong conviction, “that the curious manner of Wayne Hudson’s costly investments in these cases, from which he never expected or accepted any reimbursement, was occasioned by no mere whim. He was not given to whims. He was not an eccentric. I never knew him to do anything without an adequate motive. Nobody could have said that he was reckless with his money or incompetent in business. He could drive a shrewd bargain. He knew when to buy and when to sell. Plenty of business men, with more commercial experience, asked his advice on probable trends in the real estate market and took his judgment about industrial stocks. I am convinced he did these strange things for certain people, in this furtive way, with a definite motive. In some fashion, which I don’t pretend to understand, his professional success was involved in it. When you find out what that motive was, you’ll know why Wayne Hudson was a great surgeon!”
“Do you know any more about it than you have told me?” regarding her searchingly.
“There is a little book—a sort of journal—I think you have a right to know about it. He kept it in the office safe, along with valuable records; some relating to professional matters, some to private business affairs. The book was there when I took over the management of Brightwood. Once—we were looking for some insurance papers—I asked Doctor Hudson whether the little book concerned hospital business …”
“Couldn’t you tell?” interrupted Bobby.
“It was not written in English, nor in any other language I ever saw.”
“What did it look like—Spanish, German, Greek?”
She shook her head, and resumed her story.
“I asked him what the little book was. I vividly remember how earnestly thoughtful he grew, and how he stood, for many minutes, rubbing his temple with the tips of his fingers—a trick of his when trying to arrive at an important decision—saying, after a long wait, ‘It’s just a personal record.’ And then he added, smiling, ‘You are at liberty to read it, if you can.’ ”
“Did you ever try?”
“Did I?” she echoed. “Hours and hours—lately.”
“Get anything out of it?”
“Headache!”
“I wish I could see it!”
“I’ll show it to you! Nobody has a better right to it. I told Mrs. Hudson there were many valuable documents of the doctor’s in the hospital safe, and she insisted that we keep them until she was up to looking them over with me; so the book is still there.”
“Let’s go back,” he said impetuously.
Darkness had fallen before they arrived at Brightwood. Nancy brought the book
