“Young man,” I said with some acerbity, “don’t you know that cigarettes are coffin nails and you are making yourself subject to indigestion, nervous disorders, tuberculosis and asthma?”
He rose grudgingly and surveyed me without enthusiasm.
“To say nothing of measles and hay fever,” he said dourly. “Say, Miss Keate, is there any chance of seeing—her?”
I did not ask whom.
“I don’t know. Have you not seen her lately?”
He glanced at me suspiciously, then motioned to a seat on the log and I found myself seated none too comfortably, with the moisture of a tree dripping down and completing the demoralization of my collar, and beside me a man whom I suspected of theft and—theft, to say the least.
“That was why I was in the hospital last night about dinner time,” he said companionably. “I haven’t seen her for days and days. She is too damn devoted to duty.”
“Miss Day is a nice girl,” I said uncertainly.
“Nice!” He glared at me. “Nice! Is that all you can say for her? Lord! She can have me! The minute I saw her, I thought, ‘There she is! There’s my girl!’ Say!” he drew a long breath—“and after I talked to her alone, there at that kitchen window last Thursday night, I knew Jim Gainsay’s time had come! I drove straight into town and wired the company that I should be delayed. And here I stay until she goes with me.” He paused and added ruefully: “It may take quite a while to convince her that she wants to go.”
“So that was what your message meant?”
He looked at me quickly. No matter what O’Leary said later I do not believe that Gainsay’s explanation was anything but spontaneous.
“Why didn’t you explain before?” I asked tartly, thinking of the trouble he had caused us.
“Explain!” cried Jim Gainsay in high derision. “The woman says ‘Explain’! Explain that I’ve gone straight off my head about a girl! Please, kind gentlemen, excuse me for hanging around just when murders are being perpetrated and no strangers wanted on the premises. But really, you know, I’ve just fallen in love. Explain! Hell!”
In some dignity I rose; even justifiable ill-nature can go too far.
“Good morning, Mr. Gainsay,” I said coldly. But as I turned the bend in the path, I looked backward. “I’ll ask her to take a walk this afternoon,” I promised, being a fool of an old maid. He brightened up at that and the last I saw of him he was casting pebbles at the frog with the liveliest interest on the part of each.
The porch of the Letheny cottage was still unswept and desolate, and though I rang and rang apparently no one heard me. Finally I opened the heavy door and walked into the hall. No one seemed to be about. The door to the study was closed, and thinking to find Corole there if anywhere I approached it. But with my hand actually on the brass knob, I paused, for the door itself swung gently a few inches toward me, I heard a low murmur of voices and realized that someone was on the other side of the door and in the very act of emerging from it.
“You are sure it is safe there?” said someone clearly.
It was Dr. Hajek’s voice.
“Quite,” said Corole, whose accents were unmistakable.
“Then today is as good as any.”
“I—suppose so.” Corole seemed reluctant.
“Are you backing down?” I had not believed that Fred Hajek’s voice could be so ugly.
“No,” said Corole. “No.”
“Then why not today?” The door closed sharply on the last syllable as if propelled by a vigorous motion on the part of the speaker.
In some perplexity I waited. I could still hear the sounds of voices, but the words were unintelligible. All at once, however, the man’s voice rose as if in anger, and without pausing to consider my action I simply grasped that brass knob and flung the door open.
I interrupted a strange tableau.
Corole was leaning backward against the table, her lips drawn back in a snarl and her eyes gleaming green fire. Dr. Hajek was no less moved; his face was dark red, his fists clinched, his dark eyes glittering unpleasantly between slitted lids. He was speaking when I opened the door and I caught his last words. They were thick with fury.
“… and now you refuse. After all I have done—for you!”
“Oh, I don’t refuse,” cried Corole.
Then they both saw me.
Dr. Hajek’s dark face flushed a still deeper, painful red. By an effort, apparently of will, he relaxed his hands, reached for a cap that lay on the table, muttered something under his breath, and wheeled toward the door. Corole recovered her self-possession more easily; she raised her eyebrows and shrugged as if in amusement. She wore an amazing Chinese coat, stiffly embroidered in gold and green, dancing pumps with rhinestone heels and shabby toes, and no stockings!
“Good morning,” she said with shameless calm.
I think O’Leary must have met Dr. Hajek in the hall, for I heard his voice before he entered the study. At the door he stopped.
“You, too,” said Corole, losing her amused smile.
“May I come in, Miss Letheny?” O’Leary asked. He looked as fresh and well groomed as if he had had a long night’s sleep. “I rang the bell but no one answered.”
Corole pulled her bizarre coat tighter about her.
“Huldah decided she no longer liked it here,” she said. “She left last night—rather abruptly. Yes, do come in, Mr. O’Leary.”
There followed an hour I shall not soon forget. I had never seen Lance O’Leary so mercilessly intent. I was both fascinated and awed to note the way he cut through Corole’s pretences and poses, her feline evasions and her suave smiles, and by sheer strength of will forced her
