Ross could not understand why that notion came as a shock to him. Naturally, the man under the sofa had a name; every one had. Yet, directly he thought of that figure as “Martin Ives,” instead of “the man,” the whole affair grew ten times more tragic and horrible—and ten times more dangerous.
“A man” might disappear, but not Martin Ives. Martin Ives was real, he had friends; he must have lived somewhere. He would be sought for—and found.
“This Donnelly—” thought Ross. “He’s got this far already. And he’ll keep on.”
In his mind he envisaged the inexorable progress of the search. Step by step, hour by hour. If this man went away, another would come. The awful march of retribution had begun. Nothing could stop it.
“Murder will out.”
His anger, his impatience, had quite vanished now. He could not resent Donnelly’s presence, because he was inevitable. He seemed to Ross the very personification of destiny, not to be eluded, not to be mollified. He looked at him and, as he had expected, found the cold blue eyes regarding him.
“Do you think you can help me?” asked Donnelly.
“I don’t see how,” said Ross. “I don’t know the fellow you’re looking for. I’ll have to get along, now. Got to drive down to the station.”
“Well,” said Donnelly, blandly, “I can wait.”
“Not here!” said Ross, with energy. “They wouldn’t like—”
“Oh, no, not here!” said the other. “See you later. So long!” And off he went.
Ross watched his burly figure tramping along the driveway until he was out of sight; then he made haste to get himself ready, took out the car, locked the garage, and drove up to the house.
It was much too early. There he sat, shut up in the snug little sedan, with the snow falling outside, as if he were some unfortunate victim of an enchantment, shut up in a glass cage. And he began to think, now, of what lay immediately before him.
“I’ll have to make some sort of excuse to Mr. Solway for going away,” he thought. “A lie, of course. I wish to Heaven I didn’t have to lie to him. Then I’ll get the child, and clear out. I’ll find some sort of home for her. Phyllis Barron will help me.”
The idea dazzled him, the magnificent simplicity of it, the unspeakable relief of just picking up the child and walking off. No explanations, no more lies. He contemplated it in detail. How he would walk into the Hotel Miston, into his comfortable room, and unpack his bags. How he would take the child to Phyllis Barron, and tell her that here was a poor little kid who had nobody in the world. She would know what to do; she would help him; the nightmare would end.
As for Amy—
“I’ll have it out with her today!” he thought. “I’m not called upon to give up my entire life for that girl. I’ve done enough, and more than enough.”
The door opened, and out came Mr. Solway. Ross jumped out and opened the door of the car.
“Ha!” said Mr. Solway. “Very sensible—very sensible! You came early, so that you’d have time to drive carefully. Very important—weather like this. Very sensible! But wait a bit! Mr. Dexter’s coming along.” Standing out in the snow, he shouted: “Gayle! Come, now! Come!” to the unresponsive house; then, he got into the car.
“I’d like to speak to you for a minute, sir,” said Ross.
Mr. Solway observed how white and strained the young man’s face was, and he spoke to him very kindly.
“Well?” he said. “What is it, Moss?”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to leave tomorrow, sir.”
“Leave, eh?”
“Yes, sir. I—it’s—family troubles, sir.”
“Married man?” asked Mr. Solway, in a low voice.
“No, sir,” said Ross. The honest sympathy in the other man’s tone made him sick with shame. “It’s a—a younger sister of mine.”
“Well, my boy,” said Mr. Solway, “I’m sorry, very sorry. You’re the sort of young fellow I like. Family troubles— Too bad! I’m sorry. Come back here any time you like.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Ross.
“Nonsense! Nonsense! You’re the type of young— Ha, Gayle! Step in! Step in. Start her up, Moss!”
Ross did so. He had never been more unhappy in his life than he was now, with his lie successfully accomplished.
“This finishes it!” he thought, as he drove back from the station. “I’m going to see Amy, and have it out with her. I’ll tell her about this Donnelly. I’ll warn her—”
And then go off and leave her to face the consequences alone?
“But, hang it all, she’s not alone!” he cried to himself. “She’s got Solway, and she’s got her Gayle. Why doesn’t she go to him? He’s the natural one to share her troubles.”
Unfortunately, however, he could not help understanding a little why Amy did not want to tell Gayle. He had had another good look at Gayle when he got out of the car at the station, and he was obliged to admit that there was something very uncompromising in that handsome face. Nobody, he thought, would want to tell Gayle Dexter a guilty secret.
“I suppose she doesn’t particularly mind my knowing anything,” he reflected, “because, as far as she’s concerned, I don’t count.”
This idea pleased him as much as it would please any other young fellow of twenty-six. And, combined with his many anxieties, and his hatred and impatience toward his present position, it produced in him a very unchivalrous mood. He brought the car into the garage, and sat down on its step, with his watch in his hand. He gave Amy thirty minutes in which to send him a message.
Of course she didn’t send any. Then he went to the telephone which connected with the house. Gracie’s voice answered him.
“I want to speak to Miss Solway!” he said.
“I’ll see,” said Gracie.
He waited and waited, feeling pretty sure that Amy would not come; that she would, indeed, never speak to him or think of him unless she wanted him to do something for her. But presently, to his surprise, he heard her voice, so very gentle and sweet that he could scarcely recognize it.
“Moss?” she said, as if in wonder.
“Yes,” he said. “Look here! I’d like to—”
“I don’t think I’ll want the car all day,” said she. “Not in this weather.”
“Look here!” he began, again. “I want to speak to you. Now.”
“I shan’t need you at all today, Moss,” said she, graciously, and he heard the receiver go up on the hook.
He stood for a moment, looking at the telephone. His dark face had grown quite pale, and there was upon it a peculiar and unpleasant smile.
But he was, in his way, a just man, and not disposed to let his temper master him. He looked at the telephone, and he thought his thoughts for a few moments; then he resolutely put this exasperation out of his mind, and proceeded with his business.
He decided to go and get the child without any further delay. There was no reason for delay, and, to tell the truth, he was vaguely uneasy with her away. He could easily keep her hidden in the garage until the morning, and then get away early. And he wanted her here.
He took off the hated uniform, dressed himself in his customary neat and sober fashion, put his papers and what money he had into his pockets, and set off toward the station, where he knew he could get a taxi.
The beauty which had so enchanted him early in the morning was perishing fast, now. The fields still showed an unbroken expanse of white, but the trees were bare again. The flakes melted as they fell; the roads were a morass of slush, and all the tingle had gone out of the air. It was a desolate, depressing day, now, with a leaden sky. The slush came over the tops of his shoes, his hat brim dripped, his spirits sank, in this melancholy world.
But at least he was alone, and able to go his own way, in his own good time, and that was a relief. He stopped in the town, and bought himself a pipe and a tin of tobacco. He stopped whenever he felt like it, to look at things; and, passing a fruit stand, went in and bought two apples for the little girl.
“Good for children,” he thought, with curious satisfaction.
He reached the station, and saw three or four vacant taxis standing there; he selected one and went up to it, and was just about to give his directions when a hand fell on his shoulder.
“Well!” said a voice—the most unwelcome one he could have heard.
It was Donnelly, grinning broadly.
“Well!” said Ross, in a noncommittal tone.
His brain was working fast. He couldn’t go to the cottage now. He must somehow get rid of this fellow, and he must invent a plausible reason for being here.
“I walked down to get a few things,” he said, “but I guess I won’t try walking back. The roads are too bad.”
“You’re right!” said Donnelly, heartily.
“Wygatt Road!” Ross told the taxi driver, and got into the cab.
“Hold on a minute!” said Donnelly. “I’m going that way, too. I’ll share the cab with you.”
“Look here!” cried Ross.
“Well?” said Donnelly. “I’m looking.”
The unhappy young man did not know what to say. He felt that it would be extremely imprudent to antagonize the man.
“All right,” he said, at last, and Donnelly got in beside him.
The cab set off, splashing through the melted snow—going back again to that infernal garage. Suppose Donnelly hung about all day?
“Where do you want to get out?” he demanded.
“To tell you the truth,” said Donnelly, “I was waiting for you.”
“Waiting! But—”
“I sort of thought you might be coming to the station some time today,” said the other, tranquilly, “and I waited. Wanted a little talk with you.”
“What about?”
“Well, it’s this. I told you I was looking for a man called Ives.”
“And I told you I didn’t—”
“Now, hold on a minute! You told me you’d never heard of him. All right. Now, I told you I knew Ives came out to Stamford on Tuesday. That was about all I did know—this morning. But I’ve found out a little more since then.”
“What’s that got to do with me?” asked Ross, with a surly air and a sinking heart.
“That’s just what I don’t know. On Wednesday you came to Mr. Solway’s house. You didn’t bring anything with you, and you haven’t sent for any bag or trunk, or anything like that. Now, hold on! Just wait a minute! You said you’d come from Cren’s Agency, I’m told. But Cren’s Agency told me on the telephone that— Now, hold on! Don’t lose your temper! You can clear this up easy enough. Just show me your license. Haven’t got it with you, I suppose?”
“No!” said Ross.
“All right. You’ve left it in the garage. Very well. That’s where you’re going now, isn’t it? Unless—” He paused. “Unless you’d like to come along with me.”
“Come—where?” asked Ross.
“Why, there’s a little cottage off the Post Road,” said Donnelly. “I’d like to pay a little visit there this morning, and it came into my head that maybe you’d like to come along with me, eh?”