I looked at her again and saw that by arguing I should be simply wasting my time. I saw something else, too-this woman also knew the reason for Marcia Lawrence's flight.

But she was looking at me with a sudden white intensity.

"It was you," she said hoa.r.s.ely, "who knocked at the door in the middle of the night."

"Yes," I admitted, fascinated by her burning gaze, "it was I."

"Why did you do that?"

"I don't exactly know," I answered lamely, not daring to tell the truth. "I was pa.s.sing the house and saw a light--"

"Where?" she demanded, her face contracting in a quick spasm.

"In the window yonder," and I heard her deep breath of relief. "I thought perhaps it was Miss Lawrence."

"It was I," she said, and I saw she was visibly forcing herself to go on. "I had been putting away some fruit in the cellar. Your knock at that hour startled me."

"Quite naturally," I a.s.sented. "I wonder at myself now for knocking."

"How did you happen to be pa.s.sing the house at that time?" she asked suddenly.

"I'd been awakened by a bad dream and found I couldn't go to sleep again, so decided to walk a little. I walked in this direction, I suppose, because I was thinking about Miss Lawrence."

She was looking at me keenly, but saw that I spoke the truth and again gave a quick sigh of relief.

"Miss Lawrence was not here then?" I questioned, deciding to become the inquisitor in my turn.

"Oh, no; she had left several hours earlier. I was alone in the house-which rendered your knock all the more disquieting. My sister remained with Mrs. Lawrence last night," and she rose to indicate that my audience was at an end.

I rose somewhat reluctantly. I felt that she could tell me so much more, if she would. It was provoking to be so near success, and yet not to succeed.

"I'm sorry," I said, "that you refuse to tell me where Miss Lawrence has gone. I don't believe you're acting wisely-nor is she in running away. She should be brave enough to stay and face Mr. Curtiss. He has a right--"

"There are others who have rights," she cried, her self-control suddenly deserting her. "There are others who have waived their rights, and torn their hearts, and withered in silence--"

She stopped abruptly, and I saw the tremor which swept through her as she controlled herself.

"That is all," she said more calmly, but with working face. "Your parrot-like talk of Mr. Curtiss's rights provoked me," and she moved toward the door.

I paused for a last glance at the portrait, and again I was struck by its likeness to some one I knew.

"That is a most remarkable picture," I said. "The person who painted it seems to have been clumsy enough, and yet there is something vital and bewitching about it."

There was a signature scrawled in one corner, and I bent closer to decipher it.

"It was painted by a cousin of mine," said Miss Kingdon indifferently.

And suddenly the scrawl became intelligible.

"'Ruth Endicott,'" I read, with a quick glow of interest.

"What do you know of her?" she demanded, looking at me sharply.

"Nothing," I answered, as indifferently as I could. "Only, I should be interested to know how she developed. She seems to have had great talent."

"That was the last picture she ever painted," said Miss Kingdon shortly; then her eyes flamed suddenly and her face darkened, as she stepped close to the portrait and stared at it. "She was beautiful-beautiful!" she murmured hoa.r.s.ely, and I knew that Ruth Endicott's last painting had been a portrait of herself.

And yet it was scarcely a portrait, either, for the features were barely indicated. But, gazing at it, one saw a woman there-a woman real and vital-and knew instinctively that she was beautiful. It was what I suppose would be called an impressionistic picture, but it differed from most impressionistic pictures in showing imagination in the artist instead of demanding it from the observer.

But why should that pictured face seem so familiar? Not in lineament, but in poise and expression it recalled some one vividly. There was no doubting the resemblance, but grope in my memory as I might, I could not place it.

"When you are quite ready," said Miss Kingdon, in a voice quivering with impatience, "I shall be glad to show you out."

I turned to find her glaring at me almost like a beast at bay. With an imperious gesture, which checked on my lips any questions I would have asked, she led the way out into the hall.

"You are at liberty to search the house," she said coldly, intercepting the glance I shot about me, "if you doubt my statement that Miss Lawrence is no longer here."

The thought flashed through my mind that I would welcome a chance to take a look into the cellar, and inspect the fruit which it had taken hours to arrange, but I did not dare suggest it.

"No," I protested; "I believe you," and in another moment I was in the street.

G.o.dfrey was awaiting me.

"Well?" he asked.

"Not there," I said.

"But she was there?"

"Yes; it was there she took refuge-you were right about that; but she left late last night. I don't know how or where. Miss Kingdon refused to tell me."

He pondered this an instant with half-closed eyes.

"I don't think she can slip through our fingers," he said, at last. "Every one about here knows her."

"If she took the train," I suggested, "the agent may remember."

"Yes," he agreed. "And by the way," he added suddenly, "it was a letter which caused all this trouble."

"A letter?"

"Yes; a special-delivery letter. It was delivered at 11.15 o'clock yesterday morning. The boy mounted the steps and was going to ring the bell, when Miss Lawrence herself, who was just starting up the stairs, saw him and came to the door, which was open, and took the letter. It was addressed to her and she signed for it."

"Where was it from?" I asked.

"It was from New York, and across the front, in a bold hand, was written, 'Important-read at once.'"

CHAPTER XII