“You can’t do anything,” he said.
They sat in silence after that and Dreeme smoked moodily. The twilight drooped its dark wing over the valley. The white hawks that had hovered in the sky were gone now. Shadows crept up the tree-lined street and squirmed into the corners of the houses. There was a shadow over the Saccarac River. A shadow over the trampled bank where Wagner’s body had crushed the reeds. It would be night soon. The sable mantle would drop and the lights would be extinguished.
“It’s impossible,” said Lathrop. The great chair creaked as he shifted his huge body. “Go away, Daniel. Don’t worry yourself. Marlborough will look out for itself as it has always looked out for itself. You can do nothing about it.”
The air seemed to sigh about them.
“An investigation is not too much to expect,” said Dreeme doggedly.
Lathrop shook his mountainous shoulders. His three chins quivered with the gesture.
“Don’t expect anything here,” he said after a moment. The shadow of night was in his eyes.
II
Dreeme walked down the road to his house. The night was extraordinarily clear, the heavens being covered with a huge wheel of glittering stars. Lifting his head the young doctor could see the Great Dipper, the Little Bear, the steadfast North Star. The Milky Way was a shoal of misty light pricked to diamond points by infinities of sparkling gems. Between the hosts of stars and the road were the crowded tops of the ancient trees interposing their thick foliage. The huge branches idly shaking their multitudes of leaves made moving patterns upon the road, crazy designs and impossible arabesques. Dreeme stepped through these checkered patterns unseeingly. Two shadows walked on either side of him. One was a shadow of ruddy gloom, the secret lustre of a beryl; the other, a shadow of dim light, the shy reflection of crystal. He walked between them and the moon moved like a lantern in the hand of some sky-traveler above him. The shadows crept closer to him and he instinctively spread his arms to keep them from him. There was no sound in the quiet evening and yet they were speaking to him. The ruddy shadow said:
“I do not say ‘no’ to anything.”
Dreeme walked faster. The shadow of dim light said:
“I had a very good lawyer, Mr. Stopes.”
“I do not hear you,” said Dreeme. His pace increased until he was trudging along at a furious rate.
III
In his study Dreeme turned the pages of the book impatiently. Finally he closed it and placed it upon the table. He would think. He wondered if he ever stopped thinking, if, indeed, his cerebral efforts were ever more than an ineffectual attempt. The clock struck nine and he noted it automatically. Another day had fled by. A day of excitement and terror and perplexity. He sat desolately and watched the yellow flame of the lamp as it sputtered despondently. The chimney was soot-stained. Mrs. Slater should clean it. There was small reason to think when he could find no answers to his thoughts. Perhaps Humphrey Lathrop was right, after all. If he had troubled his mind about nothing his mind would not be troubling him so fiercely as it undoubtedly was now. Perhaps the time had come for him to pack his books, his trunk, and his bags, and take his way eastward out of the valley, leaving the dour natives to live their lives in their own way and to continue to clutch the mystery that permeated the community to their secretive bosoms. Why should he stay here where he was a barely-tolerated stranger and prescribe cures for unthankful patients who viewed even his ministrations with suspicion? It was no career for a young man. The rewards could be counted neither in money nor in friendships. He was a fool, an infernal fool.
And thinking these thoughts he reached a hand to pick up his book but paused, the hand poised in midair. She had asked him to come to the burned mill again that night. During the troublous surprises of the day he had forgotten all about it. It was inconceivable to imagine that she would appear after the unusual happenings of the day, happenings that had touched her so closely. Was she not sitting in her room, understanding, perhaps, why Wagner had been killed? Dreeme shuddered at the approach of the thought which he had kept so resolutely out of his mind. To go to the burned mill now would be a very fool’s errand. He would find nothing there but blackened bricks and charred beams and the disturbed dust where he had sat in the broken embrasure with her and watched her obvious efforts to entangle him. He had even told her that he would not come, told her so brusquely and with no pity for her demands. What had she said to him? “I will tell you a great many things tomorrow night.” What had she meant by that? What was she driving at, anyway? His hand dropped to his lap and he sat gazing vacantly at the yellow lamp-flame.
The first time he had seen her, she had fascinated him. He supposed that was the word for it. Anyway, he had felt her presence, had sensed the magnetic appeal of her power, the outrageous suggestion of her will. Nature had endowed her with certain unusual attributes and chief among them was this curious power of disturbing the rational equilibrium of the men about her. She was sly and skillful in her amoral way, determined to have what she wanted regardless of the consequences. There might be some things to be said on her side, particularly by the special pleader who, dominated by her undoubted beauty, perished in the spell of her personality. But Dreeme knew that she could not dominate him in this way although at the first she had disturbed him greatly. Even now he knew that he would be visibly excited
