CHAPTER V

THE REVEREND HORATIO MERLE

In order to make it clear how Hester of the scarlet cloak (for it was she) happened to be waiting at the lodge gate on the evening of Betty Thompson's arrival, we must go back a little and consider the activities of the Reverend Horatio Merle during the previous twenty-four hours.

It was on the morning of the day preceding Hiram Baxter's return and the curate and his wife were lingering over their matutinal repast in the sunny breakfast room of Ipping House. A nice little clerical man, a pink and puffy little woman; he with finely drawn features and thin side whiskers, she with alert, almost domineering, eyes.

"Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Merle, looking up from the newspaper. "Just listen to this, Horatio!"

"I am listening, my dear," said Horatio, carefully replacing in its Dresden cup the egg which had been doing preliminary duty as a hand warmer, clasped between his devotional palms.

But Harriet Merle with the self-absorption of newspaper monopolists was now reading rapidly half aloud half to herself with tantalizing incoherence—"first-class carriage—inside pocket—five thousand pounds—progressive mothers—thoroughly searched—Bishop of Bunchester."

"That accounts for it," she said at last, laying down the newspaper. "That explains it," repeated Harriet.

"Explains what? What is it all about?" queried her husband, nervously adjusting his eyeglasses, which magnified to an almost goblin intensity the note of interrogation in his pale blue eyes.

Harriet briefly recapitulated the startling news of the stolen purse, to a running accompaniment of "Tut tut!"—"Bless my soul!"—"Well, I never!" from her astonished spouse, who straightway begged to see the newspaper for himself and, with fascinated interest, studied the details of the robbery.

"Clever piece of work," the curate muttered. "Looks like a high-class crook." And his eyes went off into space.

"A crook? Horatio! What do you mean?"

"Nothing, my dear! Nothing!" he assured her with a guilty look, for the truth was this mild-mannered clergyman adored detective mysteries and in his secret chamber had devoured numbers of them.

"Now you see, Horatio, the bishop will be detained in London over Friday, and as Dr. Dibble is laid up with his throat, that is why the Progressive Mothers have asked you to deliver the address at the opening of the bazaar."

"Dear, dear!" sighed Horatio, ignoring the all-important matter of the address. "Such a large sum, such an incredible sum! Fancy losing anything so huge as five thousand pounds!" he smiled at the thought. "It's like—it's like the musician who lost a bass drum in a hansom cab. Now if it were five shillings, or even five pounds, I could really sympathize; and, speaking of sympathy, Harriet, I think I will go to the rectory this morning and see if there is anything I can do for poor Dr. Dibble."

"You'll do nothing of the kind." Harriet had finished her breakfast and now rose majestically to her full height of five feet three inches (including her marceled pompadour and military heels). "You'll go straight to your room and write your Progressive Mothers' address. You may make light of our poverty and the humiliating dependence it entails on the hospitality of my cousin, Hiram——"

"Second cousin-in-law," gently corrected Horatio.

She swept the interruption aside. "You may even scoff at my relationship to Cousin Eleanor, but you shall not make light of this opportunity. It is not only an honor, Horatio, but there is also a——" Harriet hesitated.

"Honorarium?" suggested her husband.

She nodded. "I don't know how much, but we cannot afford to ignore it, and, besides, there is no knowing what it may lead to. Poor, dear Dr. Dibble must be in his eighties, and another of these attacks——"

Horatio raised a hand in protest. "My dear, I beg of you not to impute such mercenary motives to my anxiety about Dr. Dibble's health."

But Harriet was not listening, she was gazing with an expression of horror at Horatio's outstretched hand.

"Horatio!" she exclaimed.

He examined the back of his two hands, then turned them over and held them out with the air of a schoolboy expecting to be scolded.

"I assure you, my dear, I scrubbed them with all my might, but the water was so cold, so very cold," he shivered at the recollection.

Harriet shook her head. "It isn't that," she said.

"Then what is it, my dear? This suspense is killing me."

"Your cuffs, Horatio."

Her voice had in it a note of anguish. For the moment all the pitiful makeshifts of the last few months, ever since Horatio resigned from his last pulpit, and their present dependence on the bounty of a distant relative, seemed to find concentrated expression on Horatio's frayed cuffs. Harriet was on the verge of tears.

"Come to your room," she said. "I will get my scissors."

They paused at the first landing of the long oak staircase, Harriet for breath, Horatio for Harriet.

"I wish you thought more of your appearance, Horatio," she panted. "Cousin Hiram, though he is only an American, is so particular about his shirts."

"If I had Cousin Hiram's money I might——"

"No, you wouldn't, Horatio. You'd spend it all on charities and Angora cats and—mechanical toys," she added indignantly.

"And real lace dresses for my old Dutch," laughed Horatio, putting his arm around her, "and satin slippers like the Countess Kate's."

"The countess!" snapped Harriet.

Horatio felt her shrug of aversion at the mention of Kate Clendennin's name. He knew what Harriet was thinking, knew what she would say if she spoke. Kate had something no woman of forty-nine can forgive: she had youth. Kate had other things equally unforgivable, things that went with youth and satin slippers, and a title—a title after all is a title even if it is only a German title, and Harriet classed German titles in a vague category with German silver, German measles, cousins German, and—Germans!

"They're coming now," said Horatio, interrupting her thoughts.

"What? Who?"

"The satin slippers," he repeated in a stage whisper and pointed upward. His choice of words moved even Harriet to reluctant mirth, for the countess had put on heavy walking boots, and the sound of them now descending the uncarpeted oak stairs was anything but satin.

Kate Clendennin paused a moment in her downward flight to exchange the usual morning insincerities. She was a splendid specimen of British young womanhood, with her dark, well-behaved hair and gray-green eyes, capitally set off by a gray tweed walking suit. Harriet regarded her resentfully. What right had Kate to the complexion of an early riser when she always breakfasted in bed, and to the figure of Artemis when she never set foot to the ground if there were a horse or an automobile in sight?

"Ah! I hope you slept well," said Mrs. Merle.

The countess smothered a yawn with a tan glove. "I really don't know; I'm not awake yet." She was thinking, "What an odd little couple they are, these two, this pink-and-white cockatoo lady in the faded purple morning gown, and this little gray mouse in the black velvet coat."

"Is Mr. Fitz Brown down yet?" they heard her call to Parker a moment later, as she disappeared into the breakfast room. "Tell Anton we shall want the motor."

"It's perfectly shameful the way those two abuse dear Cousin Hiram's kindness," grumbled Harriet. "They've had the car every day this week."

The Merles were now standing in Horatio's study near a window overlooking the conservatory. For a moment there was silence, broken only by the gnashing of the tiny scissors. The operation of cuff trimming is a delicate one, requiring skill and steadiness of hand. The deviation of a thread's breadth by those sharp little scissors might be fatal to the cuff, might even endanger the life of the shirt.

"I have always maintained," the curate remarked, "that surgery is a science for which women are by nature peculiarly——"

"The other hand, please," interrupted Harriet shortly. She was annoyed by Horatio's avoidance of her pet subject of discussion. It was his cue here to say: "If Lionel and Kate abuse Cousin Hiram's hospitality, why, so do we." To which she would reply: "That is different, Horatio; we are relatives of Eleanor Baxter." And he would say: "So are they, Harriet." And she would answer, contemptuously: "They are third cousins." Then Horatio would say: "Yes?" He had a particularly irritating way of saying "Yes?" And, if Harriet weathered this irritation sufficiently to answer she would generally sweep out of the discussion with, "You know perfectly well, Horatio, that people like the Baxters consider being second cousins to such a family as mine a very close relationship."

In her secret heart Harriet knew that Horatio was right, but she had never admitted it and never would. There was no knowing how Horatio would follow up such a victory. Suppose he insisted on their bringing their visit to an end. It was not to be thought of! Their money was all gone, they had no other relatives. What would become of them?

"There!" she said at length, surveying the completed cuff. "That's better. Now you must get to work on the address."

Harriet replaced the scissors in a silver sheath that hung from her chatelaine at her side. At the door she turned with a look the curate knew well. "You will find everything you need, Horatio, and I will see that you are not disturbed."

The door closed with a subdued but ominous after-click. Horatio stood listening until the sound of his wife's footsteps had died away, then, tiptoeing quietly across the floor, he turned the knob cautiously and pulled. Alas! There was no mistake. Harriet had locked him in. He was a prisoner in his own room.

"Strange," he reflected, "that the change of only a quarter of an inch in the position of a minute piece of metal in a door should transform into a gloomy dungeon cell what, only one moment before, was a comfortable study, with its inviting easy chair, its reposeful sofa, and——"

He looked quickly, smitten by a sudden dread. It was as he feared—the easy chair was gone, the sofa, too, had been taken away, and there, grimly awaiting him on the table, were a solemn row of dark policeman-like books, Cruden's "Concordance," Roget's "Thesaurus," the "Dictionary of Phrase and Fable," Philpot's "Elements of Rhetoric" and Veighley's "Mythology." In the shadow of these and other cheerful volumes stood a bronze inkstand of mournful Egyptian architecture, and exactly at right angles to this lay a quire of blue ruled sermon paper. Parallel to the paper rested a pen of shiny black and, as Horatio soon ascertained, evil tasting wood.

"Pththt!" he exclaimed suddenly, after some minutes of violent concentration on the subject of Progressive Mothers. "Why doesn't Edison invent a penholder of some edible material?"

And now the curate's thoughts wandered back to the mystery of the bishop's purse. Who could have taken it? There were two women in the railway carriage and two musicians. Horatio much preferred crimes with a woman at the bottom and he disliked musicians, so he decided that one of these fair travelers—of course, they were fair—had turned the trick. He loved the crisp vulgarity of that expression—turned the trick. And, forthwith, he loosed his fancy over the paths of fearless adventure that he loved to tread. Now he was a great detective, on the track of a desperate criminal, and his gentle soul thrilled in the conflict of plot and counter-plot. In all literature and theology there was nothing that stirred Horatio Merle like these imaginings.

Half an hour later, Harriet, listening at the study door, heard a faint scratching sound and smiled in satisfaction.

"He's writing," she said to herself and stole swiftly away. She had an errand in the village and could leave now with a clear conscience.

The scratching sound continued. It came, however, not from the writing table, but from the window casement, which presently swung open, apparently of its own accord. Whereupon Horatio came back, with a start, from his heroic wanderings, back to the world of drab reality and looked blinkingly about him. There, on the window ledge, sharply silhouetted against the wistaria leaves, stood Martin Luther. His tail swayed swiftly from side to side like the ebony baton of a chef d'orchestre. His staring eyes were like two circular holes through which you saw the green of the leafy background. He held his head proudly, he was carrying something. Horatio shut his eyes quickly. There were moments when he hated Martin Luther.

When he looked again the cat was standing by his chair purring noisily to attract attention to something that lay on the floor. It was a field mouse, just such a one as he had watched in the cornfield the day before and had scolded Martin Luther for frightening. Perhaps it was the same field mouse.

"You little murderer!" cried Merle. "It would serve you right if I had left you to drown in the canal!"

He pushed the cat away roughly and picked up the unconscious little creature. The field mouse stirred in his hand. Merle examined it tenderly and was surprised to find it apparently quite uninjured. He stroked it gently with his finger. Suddenly the mouse sat up and began preening itself with an incredibly rapid whirring movement of its tiny hands. Then just as suddenly the movements stopped, the little head drooped, and the eyes closed.

"Poor little thing!" said Horatio. "The shock was too much for it."

He had scarcely uttered these words when the mouse opened its eyes again and went on preening itself as if nothing had happened.

"You're sleepy, that's what's the matter with you," decided Merle, after watching several repetitions of this performance. "I'm going to take you home and put you to bed. As for you, Martin Luther," he turned severely to the cat, "you are a disgrace to the family and deserve to be excommunicated."

Martin Luther, after a stare of pained incredulity, walked stiffly to the farthest corner of the room and, turning his back on the curate, signified with silent and elaborate symbolism that he washed his hands and feet of the whole matter.

And now the Reverend Horatio, mindless of difficulties and dangers, set about keeping his rash promise to return the field mouse to its sorrowing relatives. First he tried the door in the vain hope that Harriet had secretly relented and unlocked it. No such luck. The window was his only means of exit. Very well, he would exit by the window. The thought of failing to keep his word never entered his head.

Looking out of the window, the kindly gentleman studied the situation with scientific mind. Three feet below was the glass roof of the conservatory, which was not more than eight feet wide at this point and curved downward like the brink of a glass waterfall. At its outer edge there was a drop of perhaps six feet to the driveway.

One thing the curate, leaning out, noted with joy. A little to the right, just where the conservatory rounded the corner of the house and the supporting girder was of a greater width the wistaria took an unexpected turn and spanned the dome of glass with a network of rope-like branches that covered it in some places to the width of a foot. It was as if the friendly tree had miraculously gone out of its way to help him. To Merle's imagination this seemed like a sign of providential approval.

There still remained the disposition of the field mouse, but this offered only a momentary difficulty. The solution was found in a bag cleverly improvised from the curate's silk handkerchief, the ends gathered together, dumpling-wise, and secured by the string of his eyeglass detached for the purpose. And, thus enveloped, the little creature was safely and comfortably suspended (like a princess swung in a Sedan chair) from the top button of Horatio's black coat. This arrangement left the curate's hands free for climbing.

Having assured himself that the combined strength of the branches and the glass would bear his weight, Horatio proceeded with the descent and found this perfectly easy; but just as he had reached the jumping-off place, the curate was brought to a palpitating halt by the sound of steps in the conservatory beneath him. Parting the wistaria leaves and peering downward through the glass he saw Anton, the chauffeur, moving among the plants from the direction of the library.

"What's he doing there, I wonder?" thought Merle. "What business has Anton in the conservatory?"

As he came directly underneath the spot where Horatio was crouching, the chauffeur stood still and looked about him cautiously. Apparently satisfied that he was unobserved, he pulled a blue-and-white envelope from his pocket, and, skillfully loosening the flap, took out a paper which, as he held it scarcely two feet below him, Merle could see was a cablegram. After a glance at the contents, Anton replaced the paper in its envelope and quickly retraced his steps toward the library.

It all happened so quickly that, even had Merle tried to read the cable, he could not have done so. Some figures and the word "Gramercy" caught his eye. Then, as he looked away, the humorous appropriateness of the term eavesdropper to his position on the roof caused him to laugh aloud. It was fortunate for the Reverend Horatio that Anton was out of hearing, more fortunate than the gentle curate dreamed.

CHAPTER VI

HESTER OF THE SCARLET CLOAK

Great was the rejoicing in the home of the field mouse on the return of the prodigal. Merle, happy in the success of his mission, watched the little fellow scamper off among the barley stalks and made no attempt to follow his course or intrude upon the welcoming festivities.

His errand of mercy accomplished, the curate's path of duty now led directly back to Ipping House, back to the prison cell where Roget and Cruden and all the police platoon of beetle-colored books and the funereal inkstand and the penholder of evil tasting wood grimly awaited him. A straight and narrow path between the high hedge and cornfields, over the meadow, across the old stone bridge, down the lane to the park gate on the Ippingford road—all to be drearily retraced. In the opposite direction lay a new and untrod path, a woodland way that whispered invitingly with mysterious darknesses and possibilities of adventure.

The process of reasoning by which the Reverend Horatio Merle convinced himself that a woodland path, starting in exactly the opposite direction was a short cut to Ipping House was anything but satisfactory when he afterward attempted to reveal it to Mrs. Merle. Indeed, but for the ready tact of Martin Luther on this occasion, he would have been left entirely without an audience, as, in the middle of his explanation, the door was slammed indignantly by the departing Harriet.

"In any case," he told himself, as he turned his back upon the cornfield, "I can think about Progressive Mothers just as well in this wood as I can shut up in my study."

Strange to relate, that was the last thought on the subject of Progressive Mothers that visited the curate for many hours. It was as if the spirit of the wood had overheard his rash boast and summoned all its forces to teach Horatio a lesson. Never was there such a conspiracy. With one accord birds, trees, flowers, butterflies, and all the creeping things of the wood united to compass the downfall of Horatio Merle. His surrender was complete and, from the moment of his entrance into the wood, the all-important matter of the address passed completely from the clergyman's mind. The Bishop of Bunchester was right when he said that Merle was a born naturalist.

At the end of two hours Horatio sat down to rest on the bank of a rocky brook, tired and happy, without the least idea where he was. His hat was gone, his feet were wet through, owing to the treachery of a moss-covered stone, and his coat was torn and smeared with leaf mold. Earlier in his wanderings the joyful curate had fallen into a deep saw-pit concealed by tall bracken and he bore upon his person the marks of his struggles to extricate himself.

Merle looked at his watch. The hands pointed to a quarter past one, indicating to Horatio that it was exactly five minutes to two. The original walk from Ipping House to the cornfield had taken him fifteen minutes, and this was the short cut home!

What would Harriet think? The thought of what Harriet would think brought Harriet's husband to his feet and approximately to his senses. The first rational idea since his unhappy inspiration of the short cut now came to him. He would follow the brook. "A brook can't go round in a circle, so it must lead somewhere," he reasoned, "and anywhere is better than nowhere."

Comforted by this logic, Horatio followed the course of the brook. If it did not go in a circle, there were times when Merle was not sure whether it was the same brook or another one going in the opposite direction.

"It must go somewhere," he repeated firmly when, for the second time, he passed the chimney of a ruined paper mill he had left behind several minutes before. And, sure enough, another turn of the brook brought him to the edge of the wood. Here the brook surpassed all its previous feats of contortion and doubled back, growling and grumbling, as if to say it had come miles out of its way and missed an appointment with a most important river, all on account of an absent-minded curate.

Emerging from the wood and descending a steep bank, Merle found himself in a narrow lane which he recognized as a tributary of the Ippingford road. On the other side of the lane at the top of the bank was a thick hedge which formed one of the boundaries of the Millbrook golf course. Here the wanderer had a choice of two ways. The lane, though a trifle the longer, was easier walking than the golf course. On the other hand, it was the more frequented, the golf course at this season being often quite deserted, which was an important consideration in Horatio's hatless and earth-stained condition.

The sound of a distant auto horn decided the wavering curate and he scrambled up the bank, trusting to luck to find an opening in the hedge. The only opening provided by the playful goblin who was conducting Merle's fortunes was scarcely more than a thinness, but Horatio plunged into it, appalled by the thought that Harriet might be in the approaching vehicle. She sometimes went for a ride with the Winkles in their big car, and if Harriet should see him now, if anyone should see him now!

As the automobile shot past, Merle crouched motionless, safely obliterated by the hedge whose color scheme matched his own. Then, as he tried to push on through the branches, he was suddenly restrained, not by ordinary thorns, but by the uncompromising pull of a rope of barbed wire that formed an extra barrier along the top of the hedge and that now had hooked itself firmly into Horatio's coat. Squirm and struggle as he would, the agitated naturalist could not free himself, and, to make matters worse, as he reached his left leg forward and tried to brace himself for a better pull by digging his boot into the turf of the golf course, he felt his toe violently caught in a fierce grip and so powerfully held that he was now literally anchored in the middle of the hedge, unable to move a single inch forward by reason of the cruel barbed wire or a single inch backward on account of whatever savage creature had seized his extended toe—a most painful and embarrassing position for this kindly Christian gentleman!

Horatio's first effort was to get rid of the animal that was holding his left foot. It must be a dog, he reasoned, yet it was strange that he had heard no growl. What else but a dog could it be? He peered through the branches, but could distinguish nothing except the green of the turf.

"Whoa, doggy! Good boy!" he called out caressingly, at the same time trying discreetly to withdraw his leg; but the grip held firmly.

"A most extraordinarily steady dog," reflected Merle. "And a silent dog." He wondered if it was possible that he had been bitten by a canine deaf mute. There was no question that he had been bitten by something, for he could feel the teeth on the toe of his boot.

At this moment Horatio was conscious of footsteps approaching along the path outside the hedge and, screwing his head around, he made out the figure of a woman in a brilliant red cloak. There was no longer any question of concealment. He must get out of this painful position and, in his most conciliatory tone, he addressed the lady from the depths of the hedge.

"My dear madam, I regret exceedingly the necessity that compels me——"

"Oh!" cried the lady, and Merle observed that the scarlet cloak had stopped, while a pair of lustrous, dark eyes gazed suspiciously in his direction. "Don't be alarmed, my friend," he begged. "I wish you no harm. On the contrary, I need help. The fact is, some animal, a dog, I think, has hold of my left foot."

"A dog!" exclaimed the other, stepping back.

"He won't hurt you," said Merle reassuringly. "He's on the other side of the hedge. Can you see him, my dear?"

Encouraged by these words, the lady, now seen by Merle to be young and dark and decidedly good looking (although plainly dressed), drew nearer to the mysterious voice and was presently searching among the leaves and branches for an explanation of this singular summons.

"I don't see anything," she said.

"Perhaps if you threw a stone, or—could you go through the hedge? You see, I am caught on this barbed wire."

"Wait! It's your coat sleeve," exclaimed the young woman. "There!" and with a quick turn of her hand she released the impaled garment.

"Thank you," he murmured. "Be careful of the dog! I'm going at him now. Hey, there! Good heaven!"

As he spoke Horatio, loosed from the restraining wire, stumbled on through the hedge, while the young woman stared apprehensively after him. There was a clank of metal, a few muttered words, and then Merle came struggling back, scratched, torn, and panting, but full of eager interest.

"What do you suppose had hold of my toe?" he burst out.

For a moment Hester (for it was she) surveyed him in silence, then she let herself go in a fit of uncontrollable laughter, while Merle looked at her in pained surprise.

"But it's true," he insisted, "something did have hold of my toe. It wasn't a dog, but—look! You can see where its tooth went through my boot. It's lucky I wear long ones, isn't it? Otherwise it might have gone through my foot. Do you see?"

"Yes, sir, I see," answered the girl, checking her hilarity as she recognized, in spite of his battered condition, a wearer of the cloth. And, sure enough, there in the toe of his left boot was a small, round hole to which the curate pointed proudly.

"You couldn't possibly guess what made that hole," he declared, "not in a hundred guesses, so I'll tell you. It was a mole trap. Fancy that! You know, they set them on the golf course and I poked my toe right into one. A mole trap, of all things!" Then, glancing anxiously at his watch, "Half past three! Bless my soul! I can't possibly get back to Ipping House before four o'clock."

At the mention of Ipping House the Storm girl looked at him with startled interest and forthwith her whole manner changed.

"Is that where you live?" she asked.

"That's where I am visiting," answered Merle, and his face clouded as he thought of Harriet. "Ah, well, we must make the best of it," he sighed. "That little field mouse is happy and—my dear young lady, I cannot express to you my gratitude for the admirable way in which you came to my rescue."

"Oh, that's all right."

"Allow me to present myself. I am the Reverend Horatio Merle. I judge by your appearance and—er—accent that you are a stranger in this region?"

"Yes," answered Hester, with a quiver of hesitation, "I—I just got off the train."

Horatio was immediately interested. "The train from London?"

"Yes. I was never here before and——" the pathetic note sounded in her rich, low voice, "I'll be very grateful, sir, if you will advise me where to go."

"Why—haven't you friends in Ippingford?" asked Horatio in surprise.

The girl shook her head and her dark eyes rested on the curate with such an expression of sadness and sweet resignation that he felt inexpressibly touched.

"My dear young lady," he said in ready sympathy, "my dear Miss—er——" he paused to give her an opportunity to tell him her name, but this was precisely what the adroit young woman was not yet prepared to do. She was not sure what name to give him.

Miss Thompson knew her as Jenny Regan, the name she had given to the police, and it was in pursuit of Miss Thompson (and her golf bag) that she had come to Ippingford. On the other hand, various newspapers had chronicled the fact that a young woman named Jenny Regan was implicated in the robbery of the bishop's purse, and to give that name here might make trouble for her. And yet if she gave her real name, Hester Storm, what would Miss Thompson think?

"I have had such a hard time, especially this last year," she murmured, avoiding the difficulty.

"You must tell me all about it," said the curate kindly. "Come—as we walk along—all about it."

So it befell that Hester Storm, having started out aimlessly along a country road, her mind filled with schemes for getting at Miss Elizabeth Thompson, had, by a lucky chance, fallen in with this guileless and amiable party who actually lived at Ipping House and who might be of the greatest use to her.

As they strolled on, side by side, the girl elaborated for Horatio's benefit the same hard luck story that she had invented for Betty on the train, the same nursery governess struggles, the same disappointments and humiliations, only she did the thing much better for Horatio, having had more practice, and, as she finished, the curate's eyes were filled with tears.

"My dear young lady, I am inexpressibly touched by your misfortunes, believe me, I am deeply affected." The intensity of his emotion, as he spoke these words, caused the reverend gentleman to open his pale blue eyes very wide (and his powerful glasses magnified them still farther) so that Hester thought of him suddenly as a strange, blue-eyed owl bending over her and, to hide her merriment, was forced to turn away.

"Look at that queer old girl coming down the road," she tittered, feeling that she must laugh at something.

"Queer old girl!" repeated Horatio, focusing his vision in this new direction. "Why, bless my soul, it's Harriet!"

A moment later Mrs. Merle joined them, stern of aspect, a female inquisitioner, with power of life or death, her husband felt, over wayward though well meaning naturalists.

"Horatio!" breathed the lady, and that one word held such depths of scorn and menace that the curate never again doubted the possibility of eternal punishment.

"My dear Harriet," he began weakly, but she cut him short.

"Who is this person?" she demanded, with a freezing glance at Hester.

Then came Horatio's great moment when, inspired with the courage of despair, he rallied against the breaking storm and, for once in his life, as Hiram Baxter would have expressed it, played Harriet to a standstill. Not one instant did he give his wife to press her attack, not one word of explanation or apology did he vouchsafe, but, by a masterly use of the feminine method, he put the astounded lady at once on the defensive, then held her there with admirable strategy, then drove her back, point by point, until she was utterly and ignominiously vanquished.

"I have just been in great peril, my dear," he answered gravely. "In my stained and disordered garments you may see evidence of the—er—struggle."

"The struggle? Horatio? You have been attacked?" his wife cried in alarm.

Realizing the value of this suggestion and gaining confidence with every word, the curate continued, facing Harriet almost sternly now.

"You may see for yourself, my dear, where the weapon penetrated."

"The weapon? Oh, Horatio!" She trembled.

With accusing forefinger, as if Harriet herself were to blame, the curate pointed to the sinister hole in his boot. "There!" he said. "And if this young lady had not rushed to my assistance with a courage and resourcefulness that I have rarely seen equaled——" he paused to control his emotion, while Mrs. Merle wrung her hands in distress.

"I have been so hasty, so inconsiderate," she wailed. "I shall never forgive myself. And you, my dear young lady," she turned her brimming eyes to Hester, whose face was averted, "what must you think of me? Horatio, introduce us," she whispered.

"Certainly, my dear, this is my young friend, Miss—er——"

Then the adventuress decided. "Miss Hester Storm," she said simply and, with her wonderful, wistful smile, she held out her hand to Mrs. Merle.

"I'm sure I'm very grateful for what you've done, Miss Storm," said Harriet graciously.

And presently these three, such was the effectiveness of Merle's new diplomacy, were walking on most amicably toward Ipping House, the subject of conversation being the wrongs suffered by Hester in a thankless world and the obligation of the Merles to now, in some measure, relieve these wrongs. It may be added that never, to the end of her days, did Harriet Merle fully and clearly grasp the details of the terrible danger from which this dark-eyed damsel had saved her husband.

As a turn in the road brought into view the tiny gable of the gray stone lodge of Ipping House, Harriet saw an opportunity to prove the genuineness of her penitence and gratitude.

"I have it," she exclaimed with a pleased look. "The very thing, Horatio!"

"What, my dear?"

"Old Mrs. Pottle!"

"You mean——" he glanced benevolently at Hester.

"I mean that Miss Storm has no place to go in Ippingford, no friends except ourselves and—there are two spare rooms at the lodge. I am sure Cousin Hiram would have no objections, and poor Mrs. Pottle needs some one to help her. Would you mind helping at the lodge, my dear?"

"No, indeed," answered Hester sweetly. "I am only too glad to help. It's so kind of you and your husband to give me the opportunity."

Thus it came about that, on the following evening, Hester of the scarlet cloak was watching eagerly near the lodge when Hiram Baxter's big automobile swung in through the gate and moved swiftly up the drive with a musical murmur of its smooth running engine. On the back seat was Miss Elizabeth Thompson, and Hester thrilled with excitement as she recognized the fair American, the lady of the golf bag. Here was her chance, her great chance, but—she had one misgiving. Miss Thompson knew her as Jenny Regan, and now she had given the curate and his wife her real name, Hester Storm.

CHAPTER VII

THE NEW SECRETARY

Hester's problem was exceedingly simple; she wanted two or three minutes alone with Miss Thompson's golf bag. That was all she asked of fortune, two or three minutes; and, for the accomplishment of this purpose she had summoned all her wits and all her daring. Easy enough to talk about keeping straight, but if you happened to be a girl who knew where $25,000 was lying in wait for some one to pick it up and were the only person in the world who had a line on this pleasant bunch of money—say, what was the use of arguing? She had made the break and would see the thing through. It wasn't every well-meaning citizen who could land a fortune by putting in a little time chasing a golf bag!

Meantime, while this dark-eyed schemer waited for a chance to ravish the beautiful bank notes from their unsuspected hiding place, Betty Thompson, all unconscious of Hester's presence, was going through agitated hours in the little mezzanine chamber opening off the library that she had chosen for her bedroom, partly on account of its appropriate situation for a secretary and chiefly because of its quaint unusualness. At the first glance her fancy had been taken by the odd little staircase that curved up in a corner of the big room to a narrow door high in the paneled oak wall. For the rest it was a plain, convent-like chamber with whitewashed walls and one small window opening, like that of Horatio's study, over the roof of the conservatory.

Little it mattered to Betty whether her room was large or small and whether its furnishings were sumptuous or simple. She had more important things to think of, poor child, and a problem to face that required all her fortitude. Here were the hopes and dreams of her life rudely shattered and her whole outlook changed in a moment. Instead of being rich, as she had always thought herself, with a fortune that meant freedom, pleasure, everything, it now appeared that she was a poor girl with a burden of debt and must work for her living. She who had never learned to work and who hated drudgery, who had often asked herself how shop girls and office girls could possibly endure their dull existence, now she must work for her living! No wonder Miss Betty Thompson tossed sleepless and wretched and tearful through most of this first night at Ipping House, after a forlorn dinner sent to her room, under plea of headache, and then scarcely touched.

It was late the next morning when Mrs. Baxter knocked at Betty's door and entered with brisk salutations. Was the headache better? Yes, thanks, it was. And would the new secretary have breakfast in bed? The new secretary laughed and admitted that, for this once, she would very much enjoy some coffee and toast in bed, nothing else, please; and she assured Mrs. Baxter that never again would she be so neglectful of her duties. What must Mr. Baxter think of her?

"Mr. Baxter went into town on the early train," answered Eleanor reassuringly, "so don't disturb yourself. I think he left some papers for you with Bob."

"Oh!" said Betty, and she recalled, with a thrill of pleasure, the tall, clean-cut, young American who had met them at the station. Nice eyes had little Bobby, who was now big Bobby! Very nice eyes! And rather good shoulders! Extremely good shoulders! Must have been an athlete at college—rowed on the crew and that sort of thing. She would ask him. Stop, she would do nothing of the sort! She mustn't ask personal questions or think of him as Bobby. He was Mr. Robert Baxter, a very serious person with papers for her to copy, and she was—she was the new secretary!

Strange to say, this thought that in the night had brought such gloom came now to Betty as a matter of amused contemplation. Mr. Robert Baxter! Ahem! And more than once, while she carefully dressed, the American girl flashed mischievous and approving smiles into the glass out of her deep, blue eyes and, when, shortly after ten, she descended to the library by her little winding stairs, she was as fresh and lovely a vision of a fair young woman as one would wish to see, quite in spirit with the pleasant sunshine flooding the park and the blackbirds rejoicing in the beeches. Miss Thompson's buoyant youth and sense of humor had come to the rescue.

A glance showed her that the library was empty and she spent some moments enjoying the dignity of this long, spacious room that was to be the scene of her labors. Those old carved oak panels of the napkin pattern, how she loved them! And the Elizabethan ceiling and the tall, deep windows opening on the conservatory! Surely the very last place where one would expect to find the desk of a hustling American man of business. Yet there it was, waiting for Betty to begin, not a roll-top desk, thank heaven, but an antique piece of curious design and richly inlaid standing near one of the great windows and now heaped with a pile of mail for Hiram Baxter that had accumulated since his sailing from New York.

At a little distance from this desk was a long, narrow table, also carved, but of a later period, with a standard telephone at one end and a typewriter at the other, while between these were rows of neatly arranged papers, pamphlets, and reports. On top of the typewriter lay a large sheet of paper, on which the new secretary read a blue-penciled message to herself:

"Dear Miss Thompson," began the message. "Father has gone to town. You will find some correspondence on the other desk that he wants you to look over. Please make a little abstract of who wrote the letters and what they are about. I'll be in shortly and explain. Yours truly, R. BAXTER."

It was with mingled emotions that Betty read this note. "Dear Miss Thompson!" There it was in black and white! And, having seen it, she did not particularly like it. Nor the cool way in which Bobby Baxter gave her orders! He would be back shortly to explain. Indeed! R. Baxter would be back shortly. Very well! When R. Baxter came back she would show R. Baxter that she could be just as stiff and business-like as he was.

Seating herself at the desk, Betty began with the letters, looking up from time to time to enjoy the changing greens of the conservatory that shimmered in through the leaded window panes. And presently she smiled at her foolish annoyance. Why shouldn't Bob be stiff and business-like? It was all her doing and it was too late now to draw back and——. Here was a task that she had given herself, a sort of penance that would show how deeply she realized her great obligation to Hiram Baxter. She had set out to be the new secretary, and, in spite of R. Baxter, with his eyes and his shoulders, in spite of annoyances or humiliations, she would be the new secretary.

Thus resolved, Betty threw herself zealously into her work and presently brought such a spirit of intensely modern activity into this ancient and solemn room that the row of ancestors in their dull frames above the paneling looked down in faded astonishment at this vivid, self-reliant, American girl bending busily over her desk by the window.

So absorbed was the new secretary in these duties that she did not hear a quick step in the conservatory nor the opening of the farther French window as Bob Baxter, glowing with health after a brisk walk, stepped into the library. He paused at the sight of Betty and waited, smiling, for her to look up, which she presently did with a startled "Oh!"

"I beg your pardon," he said presently. "I see you're on the job, Miss Thompson."

"Yes," she said briefly, wondering if this was a sarcastic reference to her late appearance.

"I've just been for a walk around the pond. They call it a lake, I'm told." He settled himself comfortably on a fat blue davenport that offered its ample hospitality just beyond the typewriter.

"Do they?" she replied, scarcely looking up.

"Why, yes."

She faced him now and decided that he had not meant to be sarcastic. And he was good looking. How could she have thought him plain the night before? It was such a relief to see a man clean shaven after those hideous mustaches and scraggly beards in Paris!

Then she resumed her work, while the object of her approval picked up a newspaper listlessly, and for several minutes there was no sound in the library save the rustle of sheets. Then suddenly Bob's expression changed to one of absorbed interest.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed. "Robbery in a railway carriage!! Five thousand pounds! That's $25,000! Why, he's a friend of father's! He visited us in New York!"

Betty looked up quickly. "You mean the Bishop of Bunchester?"

"Oh, you've read it?"

"No, no—that is, I mean it happened two days ago. Are there any developments?"

"It seems they have a new clew." Then he read aloud: "Among papers left by the suspected woman, Jenny Regan, at her lodgings on Fulham Road, was the visiting card of a young American lady whose name——" he paused to turn over the page.

"Yes?" she asked eagerly.

"Whose name," he went on, "is withheld by the police in the hope that it may aid in discovering the criminal."

"How could it aid in discovering the criminal?" she questioned.

"Oh, they have detectives on the case."

"Detectives! Really!" and, with a thrill of excitement, Betty once more busied herself with her work, while Bob continued his reading, glancing from time to time in the direction of the new secretary. What an interesting face! And such hands! A lady's hands! An artist's hands! Where in the world had the old gentleman discovered this girl?

"I suppose my father found you in London?" he asked presently.

"Yes," she replied, and he noticed her low pleasant voice and admired the rippling mass of her glossy brown hair as it lifted from her white neck. Here was a stenographer, he reflected, with the well-groomed look of a thoroughbred. The old gentleman certainly was a wonder!

Bob wanted to keep her talking, but could think of nothing in particular to say. Queer how this girl put him ill at ease. And why should he wish to keep her talking, anyway? His dealings with stenographers had always been on a basis of calmest and most business-like indifference, but somehow this one affected him strangely; she "rattled" him.

"Do you take rapid dictation, Miss Thompson?" he finally ventured.

Betty hesitated a moment and her heart sank as she thought of her limitations at the machine. When she had told Hiram Baxter that she could work a typewriter she was speaking from the standpoint of an amateur who had taken the thing up largely as a diversion.

"You mean in shorthand? No, I don't; I'm not a stenographer."

Young Baxter looked at her in surprise. "Not a stenographer?"

"I take dictation direct to the machine," she explained. "Mr. Baxter thinks there are qualities in a private secretary that may be more important than the ability to take rapid dictation."

Bob nodded wisely. "I see. I guess Father told you about the—er—trouble he had with his last secretary?"

"You mean the leak in the New York office?" said Betty quickly.

Bob lowered his voice. "That's what I mean. You'll have to be very careful in this position, Miss Thompson. We're in a fight with the big copper trust and Father has enemies, people who are watching every move he makes and are doing their best to ruin him. That's why Dad went to town this morning. That's why I jumped on a quick steamer the day after he sailed from New York. I heard of things that——" he looked about him cautiously, "that I wouldn't trust in the mails."

"You suspect some one—here?" she whispered.

"I don't know, but—I want you to keep your eyes open. The market has been strong lately and we've been buying Independent copper all the way up the line. Ten points more will let us out even, but——" he stopped short as a man's figure passed through the conservatory. It was Anton, the chauffeur.

"What is it, Anton?" he called.

A man with a twisted nose and a shock of black hair appeared at the French window and touched his cap politely. "Looking for a wrench, sir. I'm fixing up the runabout."

"Where's the car?"

"The countess and Mr. Fitz-Brown are out in the car, sir."

"Oh!" said Bob, whereupon the chauffeur, with another salute and a keen glance at the new secretary, withdrew.

"Mr. Baxter," inquired Betty, "isn't there a great risk in buying stock when you don't really pay for it?"

"You mean on a margin? Of course there's a risk. That's what keeps us worried."

"Then—why do you do it?"

"We can't help it."

"Why?"

"You see, Father inherited this fight from his partner. He's dead. It's a long story. Dad will be sure to tell you some day."

Betty burned with eagerness to hear this story, to know more about her father, yet she dared not press her questions, and suddenly Bob became silent. Then, as if restless, he rose from the davenport and strolled over to one of the windows, then turned again, toying with a cigarette case.

"Do you mind?" he asked politely, indicating the silver box.

"No, I like it," she said. It was evident that he had no intention of going and she must begin this copying if she was ever to get it finished. The time had come when she must demonstrate her ability to use the keys. So, gathering up a pile of letters, she moved resolutely over to the typewriter.

"This machine is very dusty," she decided, after a preliminary examination. "Here's a brush to clean the keys, but—do you suppose I could have a little olive oil?" she asked.

"Why, certainly, I'll get you some," and he hurried off, thus giving Betty a few minutes for preliminary practice. Fortunately, the keyboard was the one she knew already and she soon found, to her great relief, that she could do the work fairly well.

When Bob returned with the oil Betty thanked him sweetly and then, while she fussed with the levers, managed tactfully to turn the conversation back to Mr. Baxter's partner. And presently she learned the sickening truth that Hiram Baxter's present difficulties were entirely due to the fact that her father had been led into speculation.

"It was the old story, Miss Thompson; he thought he could pull a fortune out of the market, but——" Bob shrugged his shoulders.

"He lost?"

"Lost his money and a lot of Father's. They had been partners for twenty-odd years, did a nice conservative banking business until this thing happened."

"Oh! Oh!!" murmured the unhappy girl. "Why did he do it?"

"The same old reason. They always lived in a rather large way. The old man had a daughter, an only child, and—he just worshiped her, lavished things on her. I'd have done the same, for she's a corking fine girl, Betty is, only—it took a lot of money and—Betty wanted to live in Paris and—oh, well, you understand."

"You mean she was extravagant?"

"Generous—extravagant—it comes to the same thing, and the old gentleman wanted to leave her so she could live as she pleased, but—he didn't do it."

Bob had risen again and stood leaning against one of the stiff-backed chairs, blowing cigarette smoke thoughtfully toward the conservatory. For a few moments Betty could scarcely trust herself to speak.

"And the girl—Betty—what became of her?" she asked presently.

"Oh, she's over in Paris, I believe. She doesn't know a word of this. I'm only telling you as Father's private secretary and—you understand this is absolutely confidential, Miss Thompson?"

"Of course."

"It would break Betty all up if she knew it."

"But—don't you think——" hesitated the girl and, despite her bravest efforts, her eyes betrayed her deep distress.

Bob looked at her fixedly. "I say, you have a tender heart, Miss Thompson. What were you going to say?"

"I only meant—it seems unfair to—to—the girl," stammered Betty. "It puts her in a false position. Perhaps she has been spending a lot of money that she thought was hers."

"That's all right," declared Bob cheerfully. "Father and I will stand for it. We're pretty keen about Betty and—she's going to have everything she wants. So remember, if she shows up here, which she's apt to do, not a word about this, Miss Thompson."

"I'll remember," answered Betty, with a deeper meaning than her companion suspected.

Then there was silence again, broken only by the clicking of the machine.

"It's odd about Betty," Bob went on, half to himself. "I haven't seen her since she was a little tot about eleven. She was sailing for Europe."

Betty faced him with brightening eyes. "Really? You haven't seen her since then?"

He shook his head. "The last I saw of Betty was a little figure in a gray ulster and a Tam o' Shanter waving an American flag to me from the deck of a big steamer that was getting smaller every minute, while the lump in my throat was getting bigger."

The agitated girl bent closer over the keyboard to hide her mantling color, while Bob continued, all unconscious of the effect he was producing. "That was twelve years ago. Betty must be twenty-three—think of that!"

"Do you think you'd know her if you saw her now?"

"Know her? Know Betty!" he exclaimed. "Of course I'd know her. I'd know her anywhere."

"Is she—er—pretty?"

Bob thought a moment, stroking his chin wisely. "Um—er—well, no, you couldn't call Betty pretty. Sort of lanky, long-legged girl, with freckles, but she had an air about her, even at eleven. I've no use for these magazine-cover sirens, anyway."

"Does she—does she ever write to you?"

He settled himself on the arm of an easy chair. "We used to write, but it dwindled. I haven't heard from Betty in a long time. You see, I've been hustling in New York, and—she's been studying singing in Paris. She thinks she has a voice, poor child!"

Betty smiled and bit her lip.

"I don't know why I'm telling you this. It can't interest you much," he said.

"Oh, but it does," she insisted. "I like to know about the people I am to meet. I suppose Miss Betty Thompson will visit here?"

"She's sure to some time, but you never can tell when. These singing people are all more or less crazy."

"Yes? I should think you'd write and tell her you're here. That would surely bring her."

"Ah! You're teasing now, but—by Jove, that isn't a bad idea! I believe I will write to her."

"Shall I take it down for you?" She looked at him quite seriously and then put a fresh sheet in the machine as if awaiting his dictation.

"What? On the typewriter? What would Betty think?"

"That depends. Do you owe her a letter?"

"Owe her? It's the other way around. She owes me a whole bunch of letters."

"Well, then, I should think——" she began, but Bob interrupted with a burst of laughter. "Ha, ha, ha! I'll do it. I'll be very stiff and formal. It will puzzle her anyway, but—have you time?"

"Yes, Mr. Baxter," she said, with exceeding amiability. "I am ready."

Thus it came about that Betty's first duty as private secretary was to take down a letter to her own sweet self from a man who seemed to like Betty Thompson, not only as he remembered her eleven years ago, but as he saw her now without knowing it, which struck the fair secretary as decidedly amusing.

"My dearest Betty—" Bob began, then strode about the room in search of further inspiration. "Have you got that?"

"My dearest Betty," repeated Miss Thompson.

"That doesn't sound very stiff and formal, does it?" laughed Bob. "You wait a minute. Now, then." And he went on with suppressed merriment, "What in the world has become of you? I would have written oftener only I've been having such a lively time that I haven't had a moment. That'll make her sit up, eh?"

"Perhaps!" answered Betty demurely, as she clicked off the words.

"I met a dream of a girl in New York," he continued, "a brunette, and another on the steamer, a blonde—that makes two dreams—but they weren't either of them in your class, Betty, dear?" Bob smiled complacently. "How's that, Miss Thompson?"

"Is it true?" asked Betty.

"About not being in her class? Well, I should say so. She's the finest, gamest, bulliest little sport you ever saw. Come to think of it, I don't believe I'll tell her about those other two girls I met. What's the use?"

"Do you think she would care?"

"Maybe not, but it sounds a little fresh and I wouldn't hurt Betty's feelings for the world. We'll cut the letter out, Miss Thompson. I'll write one by hand."

"Very well," obeyed the other, and drawing the sheet from the machine, she crumpled it up and threw it into the waste basket.

"It's funny how that letter brings her back to me," mused Bob. "What a loyal little sport she was! Always getting herself into scrapes to help other people out of them! And generous! Why, she'd give you her last dollar! She'd give you the coat off her back; yes, she would, Miss Thompson."

"She must be a perfect angel," smiled the girl.

"Not she. She's got a temper all right. I wouldn't give a hang for a girl who hadn't a bit of temper. We used to have regular fights. Ha, ha, ha! I remember when we broke Father's glasses in one of our scuffles. I did it, but Betty took the blame, or she tried to. Dad gave me an awful scolding and made me spend three dollars of my money for a new pair. Three dollars is a lot for a little fellow; it was all I had in the world and Betty was so sorry for me that—what do you suppose that little monkey did?"

"What?" questioned the secretary, and there was a quiver in her voice.

"She had no money of her own; Betty never had any money, so she took her new club skates and her bicycle, mind you, she just loved that bicycle, and she sold 'em both to a boy named Cohen for three dollars."

An indignant look flashed in Betty's eyes. "Sammy Cohen! Little Shylock!"

Bob looked at her sharply. "How did you know his name was Sammy?"

"Why—didn't you say Sammy Cohen?" she answered in confusion.

"Did I? Well, anyway, Betty stuffed that three dollars into my savings bank because she knew I wouldn't take it. Can you beat that?"

At this moment their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Parker, the butler, who came to say, with mysterious nods and a grim tightening of the lips, that Mr. Fitz-Brown and the countess had got in trouble with the car at the foot of the hill and that Anton had gone to their assistance. Whereupon Bob Baxter hurried off to see what was the matter and Parker hurried after him, if Parker could ever be said to hurry.

Betty was glad to be alone, and for some minutes she sat thinking—thinking—while a perplexed smile played about her sweet mouth and a new gladness shone in her eyes, a gladness that kept coming back and would not be denied, try as she would to frown it away. There were difficulties and sorrows attending Miss Elizabeth Thompson, but one great cheering fact rose above them and made life seem worth living after all, the eternally blessed fact that, when youth hears the call of love, then nothing else in the world matters very much. She rose suddenly from her chair and, searching eagerly in the waste basket, drew forth a crumpled sheet and, smoothing it out, gazed at it with quickening pulses.

"My dearest Betty," she murmured, and her lovely face was radiant with a great happiness. "My dearest Betty! My dearest Betty!" She spoke the words softly, over and over again. And, yielding to the cry of her heart, she pressed the precious paper to her lips, then proudly, joyously thrust it into her bosom.