Within three hours he was seated in the dining-room of the Maples Inn and reading a newspaper. It was the off season, and the hotel contained hardly any guests, but he had ascertained that Winifred and her aunt were certainly there. For a long time, however, none but a couple of German waiters broke his vigil, for this thing happened before the war.

One stout fellow went away. The other, a mere boy, remained and flecked dust with a napkin, wondering, no doubt, why the motorist sat hours at the table. At last, near noon, Rachel Craik, with a plaid shawl draped around her angular shoulders, and Winifred, in a new dress of French gray, came in.

Winifred started and cast down her eyes on seeing who was there.

Carshaw, on his part, apparently had no eyes for her, but kept a look over the top of his newspaper at Rachel Craik, to see whether she recognized him, supposing it to be a fact that he had been seen with Winifred. She seemed, however, hardly to be aware of his presence.

The girl and the woman sat some distance from him--the room was large--near a window, looking out, and anon exchanging a remark in quiet voices. Then a lunch was brought into them, Carshaw meantime buried in the newspaper except when he stole a glance at Winifred.

His hope was that the woman would leave the girl alone, if only for one minute, for he had a note ready to slip into Winifred's hand, beseeching her to meet him that evening at seven in the lane behind the church for some talk "on a matter of high importance."

But fortune was against him. Rachel Craik, after her meal, sat again at the window, took up some knitting, and plied needles like a slow machine. The afternoon wore on. Finally, Carshaw rang to order his own late lunch, and the German boy brought it in. He rose to go to table; but, as if the mere act of rising spurred him to further action, he walked straight to Winifred. The hours left him were few, and his impatience had grown to the point of desperateness now. He bowed and held out the paper, saying:

"Perhaps you have not seen this morning's newspaper?" At the same time he presented her the note.

Miss Craik was sitting two yards away, half-turned from Winifred, but at this afternoon offer of the morning's paper she glanced round fully at Winifred, and saw, that as Winifred took the newspaper, she tried to grasp with it a note also which lay on it--tried, but failed, for the note escaped, slipped down on Winifred's lap, and lay there exposed.

Miss Craik's eyebrows lifted a little, but she did not cease her knitting. Winifred's face was painfully red, and in another moment pale.

Carshaw was not often at his wits' end, but now for some seconds he stood embarra.s.sed.

Rachel Craik, however, saved him by saying quickly: "The gentleman has dropped something in your lap, Winifred." Whereupon Winifred handed back the unfortunate note.

What was he to do now? If he wrote to Winifred through the ordinary channels of the hotel she might, indeed, soon receive the letter, but the risks of this course were many and obvious. He ate, puzzling his brains, spurring all his power of invention. The time for action was growing short.

Suddenly he noticed the German boy, and had a thought. He could speak German well, and, guessing that Rachel Craik probably did not understand a word of it, he said in a natural voice to the boy in German:

"Fond of American dollars, boy?"

"_Ja, mein Herr_," answered the boy.

"I'm going to give you five."

"You are very good, _mein Herr_," said the boy, "beautiful thanks!"

"But you have to earn them. Will you do just what I tell you, without asking for any reason?"

"If I can, _mein Herr_."

"Nothing very difficult. You have only to go over yonder by that chair where I was sitting, throw yourself suddenly on the floor, and begin to kick and wriggle as though you had a fit. Keep it up for two minutes, and I will give you not five but ten. Will you do this?"

"From the heart willingly, _mein Herr_," answered the boy, who had a solemn face and a complete lack of humor.

"Wait, then, three minutes, and then--suddenly--do it."

The three minutes pa.s.sed in silence; no sound in the room, save the clicking of Carshaw's knife and fork, and the ply of Rachel Craik's knitting-needles. Then the boy lounged away to the farther end of the room; and suddenly, with a b.u.mp, he was on the floor and in the promised fit.

"Halloo!" cried Carshaw, while from both Winifred and Rachel came little cries of alarm--for a fit has the same effect as a mouse on the nerves of women.

"He's in a fit!" screamed the aunt.

"Please do something for him!" cried Winifred to Carshaw, with a face of distress. But he would not stir from his seat. The boy still kicked and writhed, lying on his face and uttering blood-curdling sounds. This was easy. He had only to make bitter plaint in the German tongue.

"Oh, aunt," said Winifred, half risen, yet hesitating for fear, "do help that poor fellow!"

Whereupon Miss Craik leaped up, caught the water-jug from the table with a rather withering look at Carshaw, and hurried toward the boy. Winifred went after her and Carshaw went after Winifred.

The older woman turned the boy over, bent down, dipped her fingers in the water, and sprinkled his forehead. Winifred stood a little behind her, bending also. Near her, too, Carshaw bent over the now quiet form of the boy.

A piece of paper touched Winifred's palm--the note again. This time her fingers closed on it and quickly stole into her pocket.

CHAPTER XI

THE TWO CARS

"It is highly improper on my part to come here and meet you," said Winifred. "What can it be that you have to say to me of such 'high importance'?"

The two were in the lane behind the church, at seven that same evening.

Winifred, on some pretext, had escaped the watchful eyes of Rachel Craik, or fancied that she had, and came hurriedly to the waiting Carshaw. She was all aflutter with expectancy not untinged by fear, she knew not of what. The nights were beginning to darken early, and it was gloomy that evening, for the sky was covered with clouds and a little drizzle was falling.

"You are not to think that there is the least hint of impropriety about the matter," Carshaw a.s.sured her. "Understand, please, Winifred, that this is no lovers' meeting, but a business one, on which your whole future life depends. You cannot suppose that I have followed you to Fairfield for nothing."

"How could you possibly know that I was here?"

"From the police."

"The police _again_? What a strange thing!"

"Yes, a strange thing, and yet not so strange. They are keenly interested in you and your movements, for your good. And I, of course, still more so."

"You are wonderfully good to care. But, tell me quickly, I cannot stay ten minutes. I think my aunt suspects something. She already knows about the note dropped to-day into my lap."

"And about the boy in the fit. Does she suspect that, too?"

"What, was that a ruse? Good gracious, how artful you must be! I'm afraid of you--"

"Endlessly artful for your sake, Winifred."

"You are kind. But tell me quickly."

"Winifred, you are in danger, from which there is only one way of escape for you--namely, absolute trust in me. Pray understand that the dream in which you heard some one say, 'She must be taken away from New York' was no dream. You are here in order to be taken. This may be the first stage of a long journey. Understand also that there is no bond of duty which forces you to go against your will, for the shrewdest men in the New York police have reason to think you are not who you imagine you are, and that the woman you call your aunt is no relative of yours."

"What reason have they?" asked Winifred.

"I don't care--I don't know, they have not told me. But I believe them, and I want you to believe me. The persons who have charge of your destiny are not normal persons--more or less they have done, or are connected with wrong. There is no doubt about that. The police know it, though they cannot yet drag that wrong into the light. Do you credit what I say?"

"It is all very strange."