VIII
I
When Dreeme awoke late in the morning he heard the heavy roar of rain on the roof, and, hurrying through his morning ablutions, he proceeded downstairs to his breakfast, finding the covered dishes on the table in the little study. Mrs. Slater had been there and had not waited, and he was thankful for this. He did not care to see her standing beside him, her eyes fluttering with excitement, and a repressed rancor in her pursed mouth. She resented his interference on Deborah’s behalf, and a strong distaste for her had grown in the young doctor’s mind. A regular New England aunt. A narrow-minded, overly-righteous, cold-hearted descendant of icy-natured forebears. The devil take her! Dreeme raced through his breakfast, not minding that the eggs were cold and coagulated on the heavy china plate, that the coffee was insipid and lukewarm. He would probably never get good service again from Mrs. Slater. Well, he would not need her services long. He would not be here in this small two-storied, two-room building that whined in the strong winds and drew in all the unpleasant heat of the summer. He would be in some large city, Boston or New York, and Deborah would be with him. There were lots of places where a young doctor could find a refuge. Finishing his meal he rose from the table and strode through the hall to the door and thrust it open. A windblown gust of rain dashed in his face, and he drew back from it. The weather had changed all right. Last night the largest moon he had ever seen had poured its silver light over Marlborough, but some time in the night it had disappeared, devoured by angry storm-clouds, and now the community lay prone beneath a furious downpour. The farmers would not complain at this. Here was fecundation enough. Reaching for his rubber-slicker Dreeme adjusted it about his shoulders and stepped out into the storm. The heavy drops snapped against his face and drummed on his hat. The trees across the road were mere misty shadows. It was dark, too. Dreeme noticed that the lamps were lighted in the Slater house.
A New England rainstorm was a desolate phenomenon. It turned the entire vista gray and sodden green. Great puddles widened in the road, and the unceasing whir of falling water made a monotonous sound in the ears. Dreeme supposed that he should have put on boots, but he did not feel inclined to turn back into the house. He desired too much to go on and to finish up the business that was in his mind. He was going to face Humphrey Lathrop, and stay with the huge old doctor until he had made everything clear to him. He would tell Lathrop everything that had happened. Lathrop would help him, for, after all, Lathrop was a wise man. Even if he did look like a swelling frog at times. Dreeme sloshed through the puddles and mud on his way to the old doctor’s cottage, his mind a chaotic mixture of problems and unasked questions. He had all the facts now, but he could not put them together until he possessed the key. With the key he could unlock the last secret door, and when he did this everything would fall into order, and his curiosity about Marlborough would be satisfied. He crossed the square and saw nobody but the tall spare figure of Bidwell standing in the shelter of the porch of the post office and general store. Bidwell did not return his greeting, but stood immovable watching the young doctor who proceeded on his way, head down against the driving rain and wind. Dreeme smiled sarcastically to himself. He was certainly a popular man in Marlborough. The rain dripped in an unceasing stream from the front brim of his hat and got into his eyes. It flowed into the back of his neck. It was in his shoes now. Every time he stepped he made a sucking sound. But it was cool and not altogether unpleasant. It quenched the restless fire of his body, and soothed his torn nerves. He felt as though he could walk for miles with this heavy downpour beating upon him and that he would be all the better for it. The front of Humphrey Lathrop’s cottage, small and gray in the rain, loomed before him, and he opened the rickety gate and walked up the path. He would find out everything now, and he would not leave Humphrey until he did.
II
Dreeme pushed the untasted tumbler of applejack away with an expression of disgust, and stood up and pointed a questioning finger at the old doctor. He demanded:
“Where is the place called Dagon?”
There was a finality in his voice that rang through the room. Humphrey Lathrop’s jaw dropped and his three chins quivered like jelly. He pushed back his reinforced chair from the table with a mighty effort and an enormous scraping sound. For an instant Dreeme feared that the old man’s eyes would pop out of his head. There was amazement in them, consternation, something very like terror. For the first time since Dreeme had known him the old doctor was completely taken off his guard, surprised, and routed.
“Where did … where did. …”
Lathrop fumbled for speech unsuccessfully, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He glanced cautiously about the room as though he expected invisible foes to spring up on all sides. Dreeme, amazed at Lathrop’s reaction, stood with outstretched hand and pointing finger, awaiting his answer with an obvious determination that no beating about the bush might distract. The rain dripped from the bottom of his trousers, and made a dark pool about him on the round rag carpet. The clock ticked desolately as he waited. Lathrop spoke slowly and with evident reluctance. He said:
“Where the bones were buried.”
He appeared to have given up all hope of dissuading
