FOSTER TOWNSEND was noticing a change in his niece’s manner and behavior. The change, it seemed to him, dated from the evening when Seymour Covell and Bob Griffin renewed their acquaintanceship in the library, when they met in his own and Esther’s presence. At least, if not that evening, then certainly the next morning. Prior to that, for two weeks or more, she had been, he thought, unusually grave and quiet, and at times in her manner toward him there was—or he fancied there was—a certain constraint which he did not understand. He did not question her concerning it; that troubled conscience of his made him not too eager to press an understanding. She could not have learned from Jane Carter the real reason why her European trip had been given up. He had sworn the Carter woman to secrecy and her obligation to him was too great to allow her to risk dropping a hint to Esther in the letters which the latter occasionally received.
Nevertheless there was something wrong. He thought it quite probable that, as Griffin did not call, the pair might have had a falling out. Soon, however, he heard of Elisha Cook’s illness and Bob’s absence was explained. The telegram announcing Seymour Covell’s visit, followed by the prompt appearance of that young man at the Townsend mansion took his mind from other matters and he ceased to wonder concerning Esther’s odd behavior. Then, all at once, her behavior became still more odd, although in an exactly opposite way, and was again forced upon his attention.
From the morning following the Griffin call—a surprisingly short one it had seemed to him considering their fortnight’s separation—her gravity and preoccupation disappeared. Now she very seldom went to her room to remain there alone for an hour or more. She was with him or with Covell the greater part of every day and in the evenings. She was always ready to sing or play when asked and from being but passively interested in the “Pinafore” production she became very eager and seemed to look forward to each rehearsal. These rehearsals were almost nightly as the date of performance drew near, and between times Josephine and Rackstraw spent hours practicing their scenes together in the parlor at or beside the piano. And Bob Griffin came no more to the house.
Esther’s attitude toward Seymour Covell had changed also. When he first came she was pleasant and agreeable when in his company, but she never sought that company. In fact, her uncle was inclined to feel that she kept away from it as much as she politely could. There was no doubt whatever that Covell sought hers. From the moment of their introduction he had sought it. During his first meal at the Townsend table he, as Nabby told her husband, repeating what the maid had told her, looked at Esther “a whole lot more than he did at what was on his plate.”
“Did she look at him as much as all that?” Varunas had asked.
“I didn’t hear. I don’t know’s I’d blame her much if she did. He’s worth lookin’ at. Handsome a young feller as I’ve ever set eyes on. I don’t know’s I shan’t be fallin’ in love with him myself,” Nabby added, with a surprising affectation of kittenishness.
Varunas seemed to find it surprising enough. He looked at her for a moment and then turned on his heel.
“Where you goin’ now?” his wife demanded.
“Down street—to buy you a lookin’ glass,” he retorted and slammed the door.
This new change in Esther affected her relations with the visitor. She avoided him no longer. They were together a great deal, although, to be entirely honest, he was still the pursuer. Foster Townsend was not wholly satisfied with this condition of affairs. He liked young Covell well enough; for the matter of that it would have been hard not to like him. As Covell, Senior, wrote in his first letter, he possessed the knack of making people like him at first sight. Varunas, crotchety as he very often was, liked him immensely, although he refused to admit it to his wife, who was continually chanting praises.
Townsend was a good judge of men and prided himself upon that faculty, so, although he found his friend’s son agreeable, witty, a fascinating talker and the best of company, he reserved his decision concerning what might lie beneath all these taking qualities until he should come to know him better. As he would have expressed it, he wanted time to find out how he “wore.” There were some objections already in his mind. He expressed one of them to Varunas, with whom he was likely to be as confidential as with any one except his niece—or, of course and at times, with Reliance Clark.
“He’s almost too good looking,” he said. “I never saw one of those fellows yet—one so pretty that he looked as if he belonged in a picture book—who wasn’t spoiled by fool women. There are enough of that kind in Harniss who would like nothing better than the chance to spoil this one; that is plain enough already. And he doesn’t mind their trying—that is just as plain.”
Varunas nodded. He had half a mind to repeat a few stories he had heard. There was Margery Wheeler, people were saying that she was making a fool of herself over young Covell, although they did say that he paid little attention to her. And there was a girl named Campton, whose family lived on the lower road, not far from Tobias Eldridge’s home, who was pretty and vivacious and who bore the local reputation of being a “great hand for the fellows.” She had a passable voice and was one of Sir Joseph Porter’s “sisters or cousins or aunts” in the “Pinafore” chorus. She and Seymour Covell were friendly, it was said. Mrs. Tobias Eldridge was responsible for the report that he had been seen leaving the Campton cottage at a late hour. Mrs. Eldridge confided to a bosom friend that, from what she could make out, he didn’t come to that cottage very early either. “Saw Esther home from rehearsal first and then went down to Carrie Campton’s without tellin’ anybody; that’s my guess, if you want to know,” she whispered. “But for heaven’s sake don’t say I ever said such a thing. Course it may not be true, but Tobias himself saw somebody he was sure was him comin’ out of their front door at twelve o’clock last time he went to lodge meetin’. Last time Tobias went, I mean.”
The bosom friend had imparted this confidence, as a secret not to be divulged, to another bosom friend, and, at last, some one had whispered it to Varunas Gifford. Varunas was tempted to tell the story to his employer, but decided not to do so. It might stir up trouble; you never could tell how Cap’n Foster would take a yarn of that kind. He would be just as likely as not to declare it was all a lie, and no one’s business anyhow, and give him—Varunas—fits for repeating it. And, after all, it was no one’s business—except Seymour’s. Young fellows were only young once and Carrie Campton was “cute” and attractive. Varunas cherished the illusion that when he, himself, was young he had been a heartbreaker. And he liked Covell. So he said nothing about the rumored philandering.
The advance sale of seats for the “Pinafore” production had exceeded all expectations. And the evening of the performance brought to the town hall the largest audience it had ever held, even larger than that attending the Old Folks’ Concert. Miss Abbie Makepeace, who contributed the Harniss “locals” to the Item, sat up until three o’clock the following morning writing rhapsodies concerning the affair. She used up the very last half inch of space allotted to her and interesting jottings like “Our well known boniface Mrs. Sarepta Ginn will close her select boarding house and hostelry on the fifteenth of the month for the season as usual” were obliged to be put over for another week. Abbie’s whole column was filled with naught but “Pinafore.” “I never supposed there could be anything else as important as that happen in this town in one week,” she explained to Reliance Clark the next day. “If I’d ever expected—but, my soul, who could expect such a thing!”
Varunas made no less than three trips from the mansion to the hall that evening. His first passengers were Esther and Seymour Covell, who, being performers, were obliged to be on hand early for dress and make-up. The next occupants of the rear seat were Foster Townsend and Captain and Mrs. Benjamin Snow. The Snow carryall was in the paintshop and Townsend had invited them to ride with him. Nabby and the maid were the third load. It was not until the Giffords were in their seats at the hall that Varunas found opportunity to ask the question which was in his mind.
“Nabby,” he whispered, “is anything the matter between Seymour and Esther? Have they had a fallin’ out or anything?”
His wife turned to look at him. “What makes you ask that?” she whispered, in return.
“The way they acted all the time I was drivin’ ’em down here to-night. Never hardly spoke a word to each other, they didn’t. That is, she never. He set out to once or twice, but she scarcely so much as answered him. Anything happened that you know of?”
She shook her head. “They was that way all through supper,” she said. “Cap’n Foster noticed it, too. The hired girl said she suspicioned somethin’ was up, so I made an excuse and went into the dinin’ room myself. They was mum as a deef and dumb asylum when I was there and I see the cap’n watchin’ ’em and pullin’ his whiskers the way he does when he’s bothered. I couldn’t make it out. They were sociable as could be at dinner time and I heard ’em singin’ their songs and laughin’ in the parlor afterwards. Whatever happened must have been after that, that’s sure.”
Varunas nodded. “Oh, well,” he observed philosophically, “probably ’tain’t nothin’ much. They’ll get over it. Young fellows and girls are always squabblin’ when they’re keepin’ company. Huh,” with a chuckle, “I remember one time when I was sparkin’ around with—” He paused and changed the subject. “There’s Cornelius Gott, struttin’ in,” he said. “Goin’ to lead the music, they tell me. Got his funeral clothes on, of course. He gives me the creeps, that feller does. When I think of all the folks he’s helped lay out—Godfreys!”
Mrs. Gifford ignored the talented Cornelius.
“Why didn’t you finish what you was sayin’ first along?” she demanded, tartly. “Who was this one you used to spark around with? I don’t recollect ever hearin’ about her afore.”
Her husband shifted on the settee. “Oh, nobody, I guess,” he muttered. “I was just talkin’.”
“Humph! I guess ’twas a nobody, too. Nobody that was anybody would have done much sparkin’ with you.”
“Is that so? Well, I never noticed you lockin’ the door when I used to trot around three times a week.... Oh, well, there, there! let’s don’t fight about what can’t be helped—I mean what’s past and gone. If Seymour and Esther have had a rumpus probably ’twon’t last long.... I don’t know, though; she’s pretty fussy. All the Townsends are hard to please. You’ve got to step just so or they’ll light on you. Look how that Griffin boy was hangin’ around; and now where is he? Don’t come nigh the place.”
Nabby sniffed. “He never amounted to anything,” she declared. “I knew perfectly well Esther’d hand him his walkin’ ticket when she got ready. Mercy on us, Varunas Gifford, you ain’t puttin’ old Lisha Cook’s grandson in the same barrel with Mr. Covell, are you?”
The overture began just then and the curtain rose soon afterward. The group of tars adjacent to the rickety canvas bulwarks of the good ship “Pinafore” announced that they sailed the ocean blue, taking care to obey orders and not lean against those bulwarks. They welcomed their gallant captain, who in turn informed them that he never swore a big, big D. Abbie Makepeace glanced anxiously at the Rev. Mr. Colton when she heard this; but, as he was smiling, she decided it might be proper to smile a little, too. Rackstraw and Josephine and Dick Deadeye and Sir Joseph and all the rest made their entrances and were greeted with applause. The performance swung on, gaining momentum and spirit as the performers recovered from stage fright. The voice of the prompter was heard not too frequently and none of the scenery fell down, although it suffered from acute attacks of the shivers. A great success, from beginning to end.
But, whereas at the Old Folks’ Concert, Esther Townsend had scored the unquestioned hit of the evening; on this occasion her triumph was shared by another. If, as Josephine, she was applauded and encored and acclaimed, so also was Seymour Covell as Ralph Rackstraw. If some of the mothers and fathers in that hall could have read the minds of their daughters while that handsome sailor was on the stage, they might have been surprised and disturbed. Covell was entirely at ease. There was no awkwardness or stage fright in his acting or singing. His voice rang strong and true, he played his part with grace and dash, and when in the final chorus, arrayed in the glittering uniform of a captain in the Royal Navy, he clasped Josephine in his arms and tunefully declared that the “clouded sky was now serene,” even the demurely proper Miss Makepeace was conscious of a peculiar thrill beneath the bosom of her black silk. The fascinating young gentleman from Chicago was before, as well as behind, the footlights the hero of the performance.
Esther, in spite of the applause and encores, the floral tributes and the praise of her associates behind the scenes, was conscious that she was not doing her best. Even in the midst of her most important scenes she found her thoughts wandering miserably. Memories of the happy evening of the concert kept intruding upon her mind. When the bouquets were handed her by Mr. Gott she accepted them smilingly, but with no inward enthusiasm. Her uncle’s floral tribute was even more beautiful and expressive than on the former occasion and from her Aunt Reliance came a bunch of old-fashioned posies which were lovely and fragrant. A magnificent cluster of carnations bore the card of Seymour Covell. She scarcely looked at them; she and Mr. Covell had had an unpleasant scene in the parlor that afternoon. He might not have meant to be presuming—he had protested innocence of any such intention and had contritely begged her pardon—but she was not in a forgiving mood. It had been a horrid day and the evening was just as detestable. She cared little for the approval of her friends and nothing whatever for the flowers they gave her. There were no tea roses among them. Bob Griffin was not in the audience. She had looked everywhere for him but he was not there. There was no reason why he should be, of course. Considering the way he had treated her he would have been brazen indeed to come.
She bore the congratulations and handshakes as best she could, but she whispered to her uncle that she was very tired and begged to be taken home as soon as possible. The Snows were left at their door and she and Foster Townsend and Nabby and Varunas rode back to the mansion together. Seymour Covell remained at the hall. He had promised to help in the “clearing up.” He suggested that he be permitted to walk home when the clearing up was over, but to this Captain Townsend would not consent. “Varunas will drive back for you,” he said. An argument followed, for Covell insisted that he might not be ready to leave for two hours or more and Gifford must not be kept from his bed so long. It ended in a compromise. Varunas was to drive the span to the hall once more, hitch the horses in one of the sheds at the rear, and return to the mansion on foot.
“By the time you’re through, Seymour,” declared the captain, “you won’t want to do any more walking. You’ll be glad enough to ride. It won’t do the horses any harm to stand in the shed a warm night like this.”
Esther went to her own room, almost immediately after her arrival at the big house. She was too weary even to talk, she told her uncle. Townsend announced his own intention of “turning in” at once. “No need for any of us to sit up for Seymour,” he added. “I told Varunas he needn’t, either. Seymour will do his own unharnessing. He is handy with horses and he’ll attend to the span; he told me he would.”
So, within an hour after the fall of the final curtain, the Townsend mansion was, except for the hanging lamp burning dimly in the front hall, as dark as most of the other houses in Harniss. The lights in the town hall were extinguished just before midnight. The rattle of the last carriage wheel along the main road or the depot road or the Bayport road died away. From the window of the bedroom in their house on the lower road Mr. Tobias Eldridge peered forth for his usual good-night look at the sky and the weather.
“Clear as a bell,” announced Tobias. “Never see so many stars in my life, don’t know as I ever did. Lights things up pretty nigh much as moonlight.”
“Oh, come to bed,” ordered his wife, who was already there. “I never see such a man to sit up when there wasn’t any need for it. I’ll bet you there ain’t another soul wastin’ kerosene along this road from beginnin’ to end. Do put out that lamp.”
Her husband chuckled. “You’d lose your bet,” he observed. “There’s a light in the Campton settin’-room. I can see it from here. Carrie ain’t home yet, I guess. Say, she looked mighty pretty up there on the stage to-night, didn’t she?”
Mrs. Eldridge sniffed. “She done her best to look that way,” she said. “Paint and powder and I don’t know what all! If I was her folks she’d be to home before this, now I tell you. Put out that lamp!”
Tobias obeyed orders. “Women are funny critters,” he philosophized. “You are all down on Carrie because she is pretty and the boys like her. Next to Esther Townsend she was the best-lookin’ girl in that show to-night. I heard more than one say so, too.”
“Umph! More men, you mean. I don’t doubt it. Well, handsome is that handsome does, but men don’t never pay attention to that. There’s no fool like an old fool—especially an old man fool. Well, you’re in bed at last, thank goodness! Now let’s see if there is such a thing as sleep.”
If Tobias had been permitted to remain longer at the window, and if he had looked up the beach and away from the village instead of down the road leading toward it, he might have noticed another yellow glare flash into being behind the dingy panes of a building not far from his post of observation. He would have been surprised and perhaps disturbed to the point of investigation had he seen it, for the building was his own property; this light came from the bracket lamp in Bob Griffin’s “studio” beyond the low point, facing the sea.
Esther had been wrong when she decided that Bob was not in the town hall during the performance of “Pinafore.” He had made up his mind not to go near the place. He had no wish to see her under such conditions. He tried to convince himself that he never wished to see her again—anywhere, at any time. She had treated him abominably. She had led him on, had encouraged—or, at least, had never discouraged—his visits and his society. She must have guessed that he was falling in love with her; surely it was plain enough. And then, when circumstances had forced from him avowal of that love, she had not—no, she had not resented it. She had even allowed him to think that his affection was, to an extent, returned. And she had been glad when he announced his intention of joining her in Paris. And then—oh, he must not think of the happenings since then!
Well, he was through with her forever. Absolutely through. He could go to Paris now with a clear conscience. His grandfather was practically well again and he might go when he pleased. Yet so far he had made no new reservations nor set a date for his departure. To be away, far away, where he could not see her or hear of her ought, considering everything, to have been an alluring prospect—but it was not.
On the evening of the opera he had remained with his grandfather until the latter’s early hour for retiring. Then he came downstairs and tried to read, but soon threw down his book and went out. He harnessed the horse to the buggy and drove out of the yard with no definite destination in mind. The horse, perhaps from force of habit, turned east along the main road. Later that main road became the main road of Harniss. By that time Bob had decided to go to the town hall—never mind why; he, himself, was not certain. He left the horse and buggy at the local livery stable. It was after eight when he climbed the steps of the hall. The curtain had risen and there was “standing room only,” so the ticket seller told him. He crowded in behind a double row of other standees at the rear of the ranks of benches and remained there, looking and listening, to the bitter end.
It was bitter. When she made her first entrance and smiled in pleased surprise at the applause which greeted her, he began to suffer the pangs of self-torture. The sight of her, beautiful, charming, the sound of her voice, the zest with which she played her part—all these were like poisoned arrows to him. If she had shown the least evidence of the misery she should have felt, which he was feeling—but she did not. To all outward appearance she was happy, she was enjoying herself. She had forgotten him entirely. And the tender looks which she bestowed upon Seymour Covell as her sailor lover were altogether too convincing. Those love scenes which Bob had resentfully remembered when she told him Covell was to play Rackstraw were far worse in their portrayal than in his fancy. A dozen times he was on the point of leaving the hall, but he did not leave; he remained and saw and suffered. Furiously jealous, utterly wretched, he stood there until the curtain fell. Then he hurried out into the night, eager to get away from her, from the crowd, from everybody—from his own thoughts, if that were possible.
It was not, of course. At first he started toward the stable where he had left the Cook horse and buggy. Half-way there he changed his mind and, leaving the main road, turned down the lower road until he came to the beach. He was in no hurry to get back to Denboro. His grandfather was sure to be awake and expecting him and ready for questions and conversation. He would have to tell where he had been and, if he mentioned the “Pinafore” performance, that would have to be described in detail. He simply could not talk about it now, that evening, and he would not. The memory of the final tableau, with Esther and Covell in close embrace, was—was— If he could only forget it! If he could forget her!
He tramped the beach for miles in the starlight. At last, suddenly awakening to a realization of the distance he had traveled, he turned and walked back again. He endeavored to dismiss the evening’s torture from his mind and to center his thinking upon himself and what his own course should be. The sensible thing was to go abroad at once. He would go. Then, having clenched his teeth upon this determination, he immediately unclenched them.... To go and leave her with her scheming uncle had been bad enough, but to leave her with this other fellow, who was, of course, just one more pawn in the Townsend game, that was the point where his resolution stuck and refused to pass.
He came opposite his beach studio and, acting upon a sudden impulse, unlocked the door and entered. He lighted the bracket lamp and sat down in a chair to continue his thinking, and, if possible, reach some decision. It was as hard to reach there as it had been during his walk. Covell—Covell—Covell! For that fellow to marry Esther Townsend! Yet, on the other hand, why not? Handsome, accomplished, fascinating—the son of a millionaire! And backed by the influence of the big mogul of Ostable County! What chance had Elisha Cook’s grandson against that combination? If Esther had ever really loved him—Bob Griffin—then— But she did not. She had thrown him off like an old glove. Then, in heaven’s name, why was he such a fool as to waste another thought on her?
He rose from the chair determined to sail for Europe by the next steamer. He blew out the lamp, locked the door, and started, walking more briskly now, in the general direction of the livery stable. Still thinking and debating, in spite of his brave determination, he had reached a point just beyond the Campton cottage on the lower road when he heard a sound which caused him to awaken from his nightmare. A thick dump of silver-leaf saplings bordered the road at his left and in their black shadow he saw a bulk of shadow still blacker, a shadow which moved. He walked across to investigate.
As he came near the shadow assumed outline. A two-seated carriage and a pair of horses. He recognized the outfit at once. The horses were the Townsend span and the carriage the Townsend “two-seater.” He could scarcely believe it. What on earth were they doing there, on the lower road, at this time of night—or morning?
The idea that the span might have run away, or wandered off by themselves, was dispelled when, upon examination, he found them attached by a leather hitching strap to the stockiest of the silver-leaf saplings. This, of course, but made the puzzle still harder to answer. Who had brought them there? Varunas alone; or Varunas acting as driver for Foster Townsend? But, if Townsend had come to one of the few houses on that part of the road, where was Varunas, who would, naturally, remain with the horses? And if Varunas had come alone—why? And there was no dwelling within fifty yards of that spot.
Bob turned and looked up the road. The nearest house was that occupied by Henry Campton, father of Carrie Campton whom Bob knew slightly and had seen that evening in the “Pinafore” chorus at the town hall. The Campton cottage was on the other side of the way, but its windows were dark. He turned to look in the opposite direction and as he did so, he heard, from somewhere behind him, a door close softly. Turning once more, he saw a figure walking rapidly toward the spot where the span was tethered.
Bob started to walk away and then hesitated. He was curious, naturally. If the person approaching was Captain Foster Townsend he had no wish to meet him; but if, as was more probable, the person was Varunas Gifford then he was tempted to wait and ask what he was doing there at two o’clock in the morning. So he remained in the shadow by the carriage. It was not until the newcomer was within a few feet of him that the recognition came. The man who had come out of the Campton house was neither Townsend nor Gifford, but Seymour Covell.
Covell did not recognize Bob. It was not until the latter moved that he grasped the fact that there was any one there. Then he started, stopped and leaned forward to look.
“Who is that?” he demanded, sharply. Bob stepped out from the shadow.
“It is all right, Covell,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed.”
Covell did not, apparently, recognize him even then. He stood still and tried to peer under the shade of the Griffin hatbrim.
“Who is it?” he repeated, his tone still sharply anxious.
Bob pushed back the hat. “Griffin,” he answered. “It is all right. Nothing to be frightened about.”
Covell took a step toward him. “Eh?” he queried. “What—? Oh, it is you, is it! I couldn’t see.” Then, after a moment, he added: “What are you doing here?”
The tone in which the question was put was neither pleasant nor polite. There was resentment in it and suspicion, so it seemed to Griffin. He was strongly tempted to counter with an inquiry of his own, for surely his presence at that spot at that time was not more out of the ordinary than Seymour Covell’s. His explanation was easy to give, however, so he gave it.
“Nothing in particular,” he replied. “I have been down at my shanty, the one I use as a studio, and I was walking back when I saw these horses standing here. I wondered, at first, whose they were and then why they had been left here at this time of night. So I stopped for a minute to investigate, that is all.”
The explanation was complete and truthful, but Covell seemed to find it far from satisfactory.
“Humph!” he grunted, still scrutinizing Griffin intently and with a frown. “That is all, is it? You weren’t here for any particular reason, then?”
“No. Why should I be?”
“I don’t know why you should. I can’t see that you need be concerned with these horses. Nor why they were left here or who left them, for that matter. What business was it of yours?”
“Not any, I suppose. It seemed a little odd, considering the time. When I saw whose horses they were I couldn’t imagine why Captain Townsend or his driver had come to this part of the town so late. I never thought of you.... Good-night.”
He turned to go, but Covell detained him.
“Wait!” he ordered. “Say, look here, Griffin, there are a good many odd things about all this, seems to me. I want to know why you— Say, where is this place you call a studio?”
“A quarter of a mile up the beach. Why?”
“Do you usually spend your nights in it?”
“No.”
“You live in—what is it?—Denboro, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are a long way from home, I should say.... Yes, and with a damned poor excuse, if you want to know.”
Bob did not answer. The fellow’s tone and manner were offensive and, disliking him as he did and with his own temper set on a hair trigger just then, he thought it best to leave before the interview became a quarrel. He turned to go, but Covell caught him by the shoulder.
“No, you don’t!” he declared. “You don’t get out of it like that. I want to know why you are hanging around here in the middle of the night.”
Bob shook the grip from his shoulder.
“What is the matter with you, Covell?” he demanded, angrily. “Don’t speak to me like that.”
“I speak as I please. Now then, out with it! What are you doing here?”
“I told you. For the matter of that, what are you doing here, yourself?... Not that I care what you do, of course.”
Covell’s fists clenched. For an instant Bob thought he was going to strike him. He did not, however. Instead he laughed, mockingly.
“Oh, no, you don’t care, do you?” he sneered. “You don’t care a little bit. I could see that when we met that night at the Townsends’. Well, I haven’t met you there since, I’ll say that much.”
It was Bob who narrowed the space between them. His step brought them face to face.
“Covell,” he said, deliberately, “you are drunk, I suppose. That is the only excuse I can think of for you. Well, drunk or sober, you may go to the devil. Do you understand?”
“I understand you all right, Griffin. And I understand why you are hanging around, trying to find out what I do and where I go. I can understand that well enough. You cheap sneak!”
Bob scarcely heard the epithet. It was the first part of the speech which brought enlightenment to his mind. At last he understood, as he might so easily have understood before if he had had time to think. Involuntarily he glanced over his shoulder at the Campton cottage.
“I see!” he exclaimed. “Oh, yes, yes! I see.... Humph!”
Covell had noticed the look and its direction. He raised his hand.
“By gad!” he cried, his voice rising almost to a shout. “I’ll—”
He sprang forward, his fist upraised. Bob, by far the cooler of the two, seized the lifted arm and held it.
“Hush!” he whispered. “Hush, you fool! There is some one coming.”
Some one was coming, was almost upon them. If they had not been so absorbed in their own affairs they would have heard the step minutes before and might have noticed that it had paused as if the person, whoever he or she might be, had stopped to listen. Now the steps came on again and the walker, a man, appeared on the sidewalk opposite. He was evidently looking in their direction.
“Hello!” he hailed, after a moment. “Who is that? What’s the matter? Anything?”
Bob answered. “No. Nothing is the matter,” he said.
“Oh! I didn’t know but there might be.... Say, who are you, anyhow?”
There was no reply to this. The man—his voice, so Bob thought, seemed familiar although he could not identify it—took a step forward as if to cross the road. Then he halted and asked, a little uneasily: “You’re out kind of late, ain’t you?”
Again it was Bob who answered. “Why, yes, rather,” he said, as calmly as he could, considering the state of his feelings. “We’re all right. Don’t let us keep you. You are out rather late yourself, aren’t you?”
In spite of its forced calmness the tone was not too inviting. The man stepped back to the sidewalk.
“Why—why, I don’t know but I be,” he stammered, a little anxiously. After another momentary pause he added, “Well, good-night,” and hurried on at a pace which became more rapid as he rounded the other thicket of silver-leaves at the bend just beyond. He passed out of sight around its edge. Bob, who had been holding the Covell arm during the interruption, now threw it from him.
“There!” he said, between his teeth. “Now go home, Covell. Go home. Unless,” with sarcasm, “you have more calls to make between now and breakfast time. At any rate, get away from me. I have had enough of you.”
Covell did not move. He was breathing rapidly. “You low down spy!” he snarled. “I’d like to know whether you are doing your spying on your own account or whether you were put up to it.... Well,” savagely, “I’ll tell you one thing; your sneaking tricks won’t get you anywhere with—with the one you are trying to square yourself with. You can bet your last dollar on that.”
And now it was Bob who sprang forward. Just what might have happened if Covell had remained where he was is a question. Bob was beyond restraint or words. His impulse was to give this fellow what he richly deserved and to do it then and there.
But Covell sprang backward. Not with the idea of avoiding battle—he was no coward—but to find space in which to meet it. His leap threw him against the fore wheel of the Townsend carriage and the shock almost knocked him from his feet. The nervous horses reared and pranced. The wheel turned.
“Look out!” shouted Bob, in alarm.
The warning was too late. Covell fell—fell almost beneath the plunging hoofs. A moment later, when Griffin dragged him from their proximity, he was white and senseless, an ugly gash in his forehead.