"Miss Maitland, what's wrong? Something is-tell me."

Without answering she shook her head, her lips tightly compressed. He could see that she was shaken, that the clasped hands on her knee were clenched together to control their trembling. He could see that, for a moment, taken unawares, she did not trust herself to speak.

"Look here," he said, low and urgent, "be frank with me. I've seen for some time something was troubling you-I told you so that night at my place. Why not let me lend a hand? That's what I want to do-that's what I'm _for_."

She had found her voice and it came with a high, light hardness, in curious contrast to the feeling in his:

"You're all wrong, Mr. Ferguson. You're seeing what doesn't exist." She started to her feet, making a grab at her knitting as it slid toward the ground. "Oh, my needle! I almost pulled it out. That _would_ have been a calamity." She carefully pushed the st.i.tches on to the needle as if her whole interest lay in preserving the woven fabric. "There I've picked them up, not lost one." Then she looked at them, smiling, her expression showing a veiled defiance, "You ought to have been a novelist-your imagination's wasted. Here you are seeing me as a distressed damsel, while I'm only a perfectly normal, perfectly common-place person.

Romantic fiction would have been your line."

She gave a laugh that brought the blood to the young man's face, for its musical ripple contained a note of derision:

"But for my sake please curb your fancy. Don't suggest to my employers that I'm weighted down by a secret sorrow. They mightn't like a blighted being for a secretary and I might lose my job, and then I really _would_ be worried."

He stood it unflinching, only the dark flush betraying his mortification. He a.s.sured her of his reticence and ended by asking her pardon. She granted it, even thanked him for his concern in her behalf and with a smile that was still mocking, said she had notes to write, gathered up her work, and bade him good-by.

d.i.c.k Ferguson walked back through the woods to Council Oaks. When the first discomfort of the rebuff had pa.s.sed he pondered deeply. He was sure now beyond the peradventure of a doubt that Esther Maitland was in trouble of some kind, and was ready to use all the weapons at her command to keep him from finding it out.

Two nights after that he dined at Gra.s.slands. It was just a family party, and, being such, Miss Maitland was present. She met him with the subdued quietness that he was beginning to recognize as her "social secretary manner"-the manner of the lady employee, politely colorless and self-effacing.

In the dining room, with its cl.u.s.tered lights along the walls, where long windows framed the deep blue night, they looked a gay and goodly party. To the unenlightened observer they might have stood for a typical group of the care-free rich, waited on by obsequious menials, feeding sumptuously in sumptuous surroundings. Yet each one of them was preyed upon by secret anxieties.

When the ladies withdrew Mr. Janney and Ferguson sat on smoking and sipping their coffee. If every member of the party had his hidden distress, Mr. Janney's was by no means the least. His problem was still unsolved, still menacing. Kissam's suggestion and his own fond hope, that the jewels would be restored had not been realized, and he was contemplating the day when he would have to face Suzanne with his knowledge. Damocles beneath the suspended sword was not more uncomfortable than he. Any allusion to the robbery made his heart sink, and, as the allusions were frequent, conversation had become a thing harkened to with held breath and sick antic.i.p.ation.

Alone with Ferguson he was experiencing the usual qualms, but the young man, instead of the customary questions, asked him his opinion of Willitts, Chapman's valet, whom he thought of engaging. Mr. Janney brightened up, told Dixon to bring some of his own especial cigars, and relapsed into tranquillity. He could recommend Willitts highly, smart, capable and honest, but he thought he'd heard d.i.c.k say he couldn't stand a valet fussing about him. d.i.c.k had said it and was still of the same mind, but most of his guests were men and he needed some one to look after their clothes. They made a lot of bother, the servants had kicked, and he'd thought of Willitts.

Mr. Janney could give no information as to Willitts' whereabouts, but Dixon, entering with the cigar box and lamp, could. Willitts was at Cedar Brook where Mr. Price spent a good deal of time; he was still disengaged and looking for a position, if Mr. Ferguson would like Dixon would get word to him. Mr. Ferguson would like, and, the box presented at his elbow, he took out a cigar and held its tip to the lamp. Mr.

Janney forgot Willitts and drew his guest's attention to the cigar, a special brand of rare excellence.

"We keep them in the safe," said the old man. "Only place that's secure against the damp. It was Chapman's idea-the one thing in my acquaintance with Chapman I'm grateful for."

It was an unfortunate remark, for Ferguson, leaning back in his chair with the cigar between his lips, murmured dreamily:

"The safe-do you know I've been thinking over things lately. I can't understand one point. Why didn't the thief take those jewels when the house was virtually empty instead of waiting until it was full?"

Mr. Janney's heart took a dizzying, downward dive. He had been looking forward to his smoke, now all his zest departed, his old, veined hand shaking as it felt in the box.

Ferguson went on:

"The fellow may have come in early and hidden himself-not got down to business until every one was asleep."

Mr. Janney emitted an agreeing murmur and motioned Dixon to hold the lamp nearer. As he bent toward it the young man was silent and Mr.

Janney began to hope that the obnoxious subject was abandoned. He sent a side glance at his guest and the hope was strengthened. Ferguson had taken his cigar from his lips and was looking at the paper band that encircled it. He was looking at it so intently that Mr. Janney felt sure his interest was diverted and sought to drive it into safer channels.

"Pretty fine cigar, eh?" he said. "This is the first of a new lot, just come."

Ferguson drew the band off and laid it beside his plate:

"Excellent. That's a good idea-keeping them in the safe. Do you always do it?"

"Yes, it's the only thing-much better than a humidor."

"I haven't got a safe or I'd try it. Did you have any there the night of the robbery?"

Mr. Janney felt that the G.o.ds had sought him out for a special vengeance and murmured drearily:

"I believe so-a few. Dixon knows."

Dixon who was on his way to the door turned:

"Yes, sir, only one box, the last we had."

Ferguson laughed:

"If the thief had had time to try one he'd have taken the box along too."

Dixon, who treated all allusions to the subject with a tragical seriousness, said:

"I don't think he touched them, sir. The box looked just the same. Mr.

Kissam was very particular to ask about it, but I told him I thought they was intact, as you might say. Though if it was the loss of one or two I couldn't be certain."

Dixon left the room and Mr. Janney looked dismally at his plate, having no spirit to fight against fate. Ferguson, with a glance at his down-drooped face, picked up the band and slipped it in his pocket.

He did not stay long after dinner. As soon as his car came he left, telling the chauffeur to hurry. At home he ran up the stairs to his room, switched on the light over the bureau and opened the box with the crystal lid. Under the studs and pins lay the band Esther had found the night he walked with her through the woods. He compared it with the one he took from his pocket and saw that they matched. The new one he threw into the fireplace, but put the other back in the box-it was something more than a souvenir. Then he sat down on the end of the sofa and thought.

Mr. Janney could not have dropped it for he had driven both to and from Council Oaks. Neither Dixon nor Isaac could have, for they had gone to the village by the main road and come back the same way at midnight. He had found it at half-past ten, untouched by the heavy shower, which had lasted from about seven till half-past eight. Therefore, whoever had thrown it there had pa.s.sed that way between the time when the rain stopped and the time when Esther had found it. It had been dropped either by a man who had one of the cigars in his possession and had been on the wood path between eight-thirty and ten-thirty, or by a man who had taken a cigar from the safe between those hours.

Ferguson sat staring at the wall with his brows knit. If it had not been for the light his own gardener had seen he would have felt that he had struck the right road.

CHAPTER XII-THE MAN WHO WOULDN'T TELL

Mr. Larkin had lingered on at Cedar Brook. He said that he needed a holiday, the prosperity of the last year had worn him out, also the bungalow sites were many and a decision difficult.

He saw a good deal of Willitts; they had become very friendly, almost chums. Their lodgings were but a few yards apart and of evenings they smoked neighborly pipes on the porch steps, and of afternoons took walks into the country. During these hours their talk ranged over many subjects, the valet proving himself a brightly loquacious companion. But upon a subject that Mr. Larkin introduced with delicate artfulness-Price and Esther Maitland-he maintained the evasive reticence that had marked him at their first meeting. For all the walks and talks Mr. Larkin learned no more, and as his curiosity remained unsatisfied his inclination for Willitts' society increased.

It was a few days after that first meeting that, strolling down Main Street toward Sommers' garage, the detective stopped short, staring at two figures emerging from the garage entrance. One was Sommers, the other a fat, red-faced man with a sunburned Panama on the back of his head. A glance at this man and Mr. Larkin turned on his heel and made down a side lane at a swinging gait. Safe out of range behind a lilac hedge, he slowed up, lifted his hat from a perspiring brow and swore to himself, low and fiercely. He had recognized Gus O'Malley, private detective of Whitney & Whitney, and he knew that Whitney & Whitney were Mrs. Janney's lawyers. Another investigation was on foot, evidently following on the lines of his own.

After two days O'Malley left by the evening train and Mr. Larkin emerged from a temporary retirement, and sought coolness and solitude on the front porch. Here, when night had fallen, Willitts joined him taking a seat on the top step.

The house behind them was empty of all other tenants, its open front door letting a long gush of light down the steps and across the pebbled path to the gate. It was a warm night, heavy and breathless, and Mr.

Larkin, in his shirt sleeves, lolled comfortably, his chair tilted back, his feet on the railing. The place where he sat was shaded with vines, and he was discernible as a long, out-stretched bulk, detailless in the shadow.

Willitts had good news to impart; that afternoon he had been to Council Oaks to see Mr. Ferguson who had engaged him as valet. It was an A1 place, the pay high, the duties light, Mr. Ferguson known to be generous and easy tempered. Congratulations were in order from Mr. Larkin, and if they lacked in warmth Willitts did not appear to notice it.