“And—did you see a man who limped?”
Gertrude put in, as he stopped for breath.
“Not at the train, ma’m,” he said.
“No such person got on here to-day. But
I’ll tell you where I did see a man that limped.
I didn’t wait till the fire company left; there’s
a fast freight goes through at four forty-five, and
I had to get down to the station. I seen there
wasn’t much more to do anyhow at the fire—we’d
got the flames under control”—Gertrude
looked at me and smiled—“so I started
down the hill. There was folks here and there
goin’ home, and along by the path to the Country
Club I seen two men. One was a short fellow.
He was sitting on a big rock, his back to me, and
he had something white in his hand, as if he was tying
up his foot. After I’d gone on a piece
I looked back, and he was hobbling on and—excuse
me, miss—he was swearing something sickening.”
“Did they go toward the club?” Gertrude
asked suddenly, leaning forward.
“No, miss. I think they came into the
village. I didn’t get a look at their
faces, but I know every chick and child in the place,
and everybody knows me. When they didn’t
shout at me—in my uniform, you know—I
took it they were strangers.”
So all we had for our afternoon’s work was this:
some one had been shot by the bullet that went through
the door; he had not left the village, and he had
not called in a physician. Also, Doctor Walker
knew who Lucien Wallace was, and his very denial made
me confident that, in that one direction at least,
we were on the right track.
The thought that the detective would be there that
night was the most cheering thing of all, and I think
even Gertrude was glad of it. Driving home that
afternoon, I saw her in the clear sunlight for the
first time in several days, and I was startled to see
how ill she looked. She was thin and colorless,
and all her bright animation was gone.
“Gertrude,” I said, “I have been
a very selfish old woman. You are going to leave
this miserable house to-night. Annie Morton
is going to Scotland next week, and you shall go right
with her.”
To my surprise, she flushed painfully.
“I don’t want to go, Aunt Ray,”
she said. “Don’t make me leave now.”
“You are losing your health and your good looks,”
I said decidedly. “You should have a change.”
“I shan’t stir a foot.” She
was equally decided. Then, more lightly:
“Why, you and Liddy need me to arbitrate between
you every day in the week.”
Perhaps I was growing suspicious of every one, but
it seemed to me that Gertrude’s gaiety was forced
and artificial. I watched her covertly during
the rest of the drive, and I did not like the two
spots of crimson in her pale cheeks. But I said
nothing more about sending her to Scotland: I
knew she would not go.
A VISIT FROM LOUISE
