Chapter VI: Part 6

She had read stories and seen pictures of people who escaped from bonds like hers, who freed themselves from more urgent dangers than this. And she tried; she tried to narrow one hand so that it would slip out of the bandage that held her wrists; tried to move her ankles. But she had never realized before how it hurt to have one’s hands tied behind the back, or the pain of a gag. And worse than anything were the tides of panic fear that threatened her again and again, in this utter helplessness. She could not make a sound; she could not even sit up; her struggles had no other effect than to leave her panting, desperate, with a cold sweat on her forehead. She lay quiet again, in the dark room.

And then an appalling thought struck her.

If Aunt Emma were to profit by that will, not only must she herself die, but Uncle Rufus must die first. That will had condemned him to death, as surely as if she had sent a bullet through his head; perhaps even at this moment--

She remembered the utter terror she had seen in his eyes. First Fennel, and then this forlorn and helpless old man, both to die because she had made fatal errors…

She strained her ears, to catch any sound from that next room, and once more that panic desperation assailed her; she tugged wildly at her bonds, made strange stifled sounds that frightened her.

She did not know whether hours or minutes went by. There were periods when she was scarcely conscious, and other times when she reflected, with a cool, impersonal lucidity.

“If Aunt Emma’s going to let Mrs. Frick come out here to-morrow, that means that she’ll be ready for her. She couldn’t possibly afford to let me talk to Mrs. Frick. She can’t afford to let me go--after this. She doesn’t mean to let me go… There’s no one to help me. She can make Miles think and act as she pleases. Mr. Fennel’s--gone… Wren’s gone. Mr. Purvis and Doctor Coat will believe what she tells them. The taxi-driver’s doing just what I told him to do--notifying Mrs. Frick. I’ve got to help myself.”

But how?

“I don’t know,” she said to herself. “But I won’t give up. I shan’t struggle any more. I’ll save my strength. I’ll try not to think of what’s happened…”

She made a gallant effort to remember poems she had learnt in school, to fill her mind with fine and beautiful thoughts. But while she repeated lines to herself, horrible images came into her mind: Uncle Rufus in his terror, Fennel at the bottom of that old quarry. Fennel, above all. She could see him so clearly, could recall the tones of his voice, his vivid smile.

The door opened, and a sturdy white figure stood before her, outlined against the dim light in the hall. She paused a moment, and then entering the room, screwed a bulb into the electric light socket and turned on the switch, closed and locked the door, and kneeling beside the girl, untied her hands.

Di gave a smothered scream of pain as her arms dropped to her sides and the blood began to circulate. Aunt Emma untied the twisted handkerchief that had cut so cruelly into the corners of her mouth, and that done, sat down on the edge of the bed.

“My God!” she said, with a sigh.

Her face looked drawn with weariness, its fresh color vanished; she sat staring at the ground.

“Miles has told me,” she said. “What folly! What criminal folly! All my plans ruined…”

Di sat down in a chair, and tried with numb, clumsy fingers to untie her ankles.

“Everything ruined…!” Aunt Emma went on. “And I’m dragged, against my will, into a dangerous and repugnant course… I never forsaw this…” She sighed again. “It’s too late now,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Uncle Rufus--?” asked Di, with dry, stiff lips.

“He doesn’t really matter,” said Aunt Emma. “It’s you I’m thinking of. It’s you I’m sorry for.”

Her ankles freed, Di looked up, into that tired, middle-aged face, framed in gray hair. This could not be a criminal, a monster of duplicity and evil…

“Then--if you’re sorry--” she began.

“I’ve never disliked you,” Aunt Emma went on, indifferent to her words. “I hoped at first that you’d marry Miles. That was my first plan. That would have kept the money in my control. And it would have been a very good thing for him. But that failed. And now that you know what he’s done… That’s the end, of course.”

“What--do you mean?” asked Di.

“Why, that you can’t live,” said Aunt Emma, sighing again. “And I’m sorry.”

“Do you mean,” asked Di, “that you’re going to try to murder me?”

“There’s nothing else I can do,” said Aunt Emma.

They both spoke in ordinary, normal tones, sitting in that commonplace hotel bedroom, filled with the garish light of the unshaded bulb.

“You can’t expect not to be found out,” said Di. “Mrs. Frick will make inquiries. Even Doctor Coat and Mr. Purvis will ask questions.”

“I think I’ve planned it pretty well,” said Aunt Emma. “But I didn’t come here out of mere wanton cruelty--to gloat over you, and so on. I’m really very sorry. Only, it’s a question of my safety, the opportunity to go on with my work, against your life; and naturally… The idea of killing you is horrible to me. And no doubt to you, also,” she added, politely. “I thought--I hope you’ll take the way I shall suggest. It is as your mother did. It will look quite natural to outsiders. Coat and Purvis believe that you were filled with remorse for your uncle’s condition. They’ll see that when you heard of his death--”

“His death…?”

“You committed suicide,” Aunt Emma went on. “I give you my word to make it as easy as possible for you. The ground out there slopes down pretty sharply. The chances are that it will be a fatal fall. But if it isn’t, if you’re injured and in pain, I’ll attend to you immediately. I’ll see that you don’t suffer at all.”

“And if I don’t do that!”

“Well, you’ll have to go out of that window,” said Aunt Emma. “If you won’t do it voluntarily there’ll have to be a very unpleasant struggle.” She rose. “Think it over!” she said. “Think of your mother in this room. She found that life wasn’t worth living. And it isn’t for you either. You’re ineffectual, incompetent. You’re of no value to anyone. There’s nothing ahead of you but a lifetime of poorly paid work.”

She unscrewed the bulb and put it in her pocket. Di made a rush for the door, but it shut in her face, and the key turned outside.

Chapter Fifteen. A White Figure

She was free to move about now; to call for help if she wished; she was left quite undisturbed to make what plans she could for her escape.

And she could make none. It occurred to her to knock on the wall of Uncle Rufus’s room, but she decided against it. It would either frighten the old man still more, or wake in him hopes that she saw no way to realize. Or perhaps he could no longer hear anything…

She would have done anything possible to help him, but she could think of nothing. There had been, in that talk with her aunt, something that robbed her of the last hope. Her death had been arranged in so cool and matter-of-fact a way; she herself was so utterly negligible; there was nothing in her aunt to which she could appeal.

If this were to be her last hour, she meant it to be a good one, undaunted by fear and weakness. She faced her danger with courage and dignity. She thought of all the happy moments she had had, of all the people who had been kind to her, with a regret that was almost impersonal. It seemed to her that the past was already immeasurably remote. She thought, above all, of Fennel.

Then her mind turned to her childhood, and she tried to remember her mother. Here, in this room, her mother had battled with despair and anguish, and had lost. The room seemed filled with that tragic presence. In the darkness, the daughter tried to recapture some childish memory of that face, that voice; she wanted to feel near to her mother. She wanted to understand how her mother could, of her own free will, have left her child.

Was it because, after all, life was not worth living?

“If she could come back, just for a moment,” she thought. “If she could tell me why she wanted to die--and what she found--on the other side… How could she bear to leave me?”

Aunt Emma had said that some strange and disturbing thing lingered here… If only she could pierce the veil, could come closer to that presence…

“Mother…” she said, half-aloud.

She had no one else to love. It seemed to her that if her mother would draw near to her, and she could go--with her… It would be good to go…

Why not? Why wait for a horrible and futile struggle? Did not the very walls of this room whisper to her--“Life is cruel, and death is peace”--Why not go to her mother…?

She rose, and crossed the room to the open window. Here, on this very spot, her mother had last stood… Out there--

An awful fear choked her; her heart seemed to stop. For there, at the foot of the dark pines, lay a white figure.

“Mother!” she said, inaudibly.

Her mother had come back, to show her the way. One instant, and she could lie there too--

“Miss Leonard!” said a voice behind her.

She turned, to see a figure standing there in the dark. Another ghost… She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came.

“Steady!” said the voice. “Steady, dear girl!”

His arm was about her shoulders, and she clutched his coat frantically.

“How can you come!” she whispered. “You were dead, too.”

“Never was less so,” he answered. “But come now. Let’s get away.”

“How--could you come?”

“I found the kitchen door open, and I saw the back stairs, and came up them. I didn’t know where you’d be, or whether I’d be--welcome. But I saw this door locked, with the key outside. Didn’t want to knock, you see, so I walked in.”

“He said--he killed you.”

“His mistake, whoever he was. I was knocked out for a while. Then I found myself lying in a quarry, and I got up and came out. I went to a doctor--but I only told him I’d been in an accident. I haven’t told the police or anyone. I wanted to see you first. I’d have come before, but--I was a little--bothered by that whack I got. Now let’s clear out.”

“No! We can’t leave Uncle Rufus without--”

“Uncle Rufus!” he repeated. “But look here! You needn’t worry about _him_.”

“I do! You don’t know--”

“I know one thing,” he said. “The poor old fellow was dead when we carried him in--”

“No! He’s--there--in the next room…”

“He’s dead,” said Fennel. “I’m sorry if I’m--blunt, but--”

“Come and see!” she cried. “If it’s not too late.”

“Wait a minute! I--you see, I don’t exactly understand what’s going on here. And I’m sure you don’t. That’s why I didn’t call in any outside help. I wanted to know first how much you’re--involved in this.”

“I don’t know exactly what you mean.”

“I mean,” he said, “have you promised to conceal anything--given any sort of help--done anything that could get you in trouble with the law?”

“I--don’t know,” she said, doubtfully. “I don’t think I have.”

“Good!” he said, “Then we don’t care how much of a row we raise, do we?”

“But if I had--?” she asked.

“Then I’d have had to get you away quietly.”

“But did you think I might have done something--wrong?”

“No,” he said, “Nothing wrong, and nothing silly. But you might have made a mistake. And there’s something going on here. When we carried the poor old fellow in, I saw that he was dead. But your aunt behaved as if he were alive. That’s why I wanted to see you that evening. I wanted to tell you, and get you out of the way before the big break. Now it’s too late. Now you’ll have to be mixed up in it.”

“I did do one thing. I made a will. You see, Uncle Rufus had left his money to me, and I made a will leaving half of it to Aunt Emma.”

“How did she work that?”

Di hesitated a moment.

“I wanted to find out what had happened to you. We made a bargain--”

“I see!” he said, and was silent for a moment. Then he took his arm from about her shoulders and moved away a little.

Everything he did was right, every action, every word of his was perfectly clear to her; she knew how he felt about things; she knew that he understood her. His quiet acceptance of the situation had steadied her, made her feel resolute and safe.

“The trouble is,” he said, “that there are three men here, and my wrist’s broken--”

“Oh!” she cried.

“It’ll mend. But we’ll have to manage carefully. Somehow we ought to get a look at the man in the next room. I want you to be able to swear that he’s not your uncle… I’ll just take a cautious survey.”

He went over to the door, but he did not open it. She came to his side.

“I _was_ a fool!” he said. “When I unlocked the door, I left the key there. And now we’re locked in.”

For a moment they were silent.

“What about the window?” he said. “You were looking out when I came in--”

“Oh, it was horrible!” she cried. “I thought I saw something… I was nervous…”

They went together to the window--and it was still there, that white figure.

“Do you--see it?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said.

“I thought--it was my mother. She--died like that. She--fell from this very window…”

He reached for her hand and held it.

“No way to get out of here,” he said. “Can you shoot?”

“Shoot?”

“I have an automatic, but I can’t do much with my left hand.”

“I never even saw one, except in the movies,” she said. “And I’m afraid--I _couldn’t_ shoot anyone--even if I knew how.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” he said. “I was only thinking of shooting the lock, so that we could get out.”

“I’ll try it.”

“I’m afraid it would--”

Something fell past them, something like a great white bird and struck the ground with a terrible thud, and did not move.

And from the next room came a scream.

“My child! You’ve killed my child…! Let me _go_…! My child…”

“It’s Wren!” cried Di.

“Stand here!” said Fennel. “You can see the white doorknob. Stand close--there. Aim just below the knob. Pull the trigger.”

The noise dazed her. And in the next room that wild voice was still shouting; some article of furniture was overturned with a crash.

“Try again!” said Fennel’s quiet voice beside her. “Not so high.”

Again a stab of flame and the crash of the shot, and the splintering of wood.

“Too low!” said Fennel. “Now! This time you’ll do it.”

She aimed with desperate care, tried to steady her shaking hand. Her finger was on the trigger, when there came a yell from the next room.

“Help! Help! Murder!”

The shot went wild.

“Last bullet,” said Fennel. “Never mind, dear. You’ve splintered the wood. I’ll see if I can kick through that panel.”

“Help!” yelled that voice.

“We’re coming, Wren!” she called, with all her strength.

Fennel gave the door a well-directed kick; a second.

Then another shot sounded, there was a cracking, tearing sound, and Fennel collapsed on the floor.

“What happened?” she cried. “Oh, what’s the _matter_?”

“Stand away from that door!” he shouted.

But she was on her knees beside him. She spoke to him, but he did not answer. All noise had ceased in the next room, all noise everywhere had ceased; there was a silence that seemed to ring in her ears.

“James!” she said.

“Yes?” he answered, in his ordinary, composed voice.

“What’s happened to you?”

“I got a bullet in the leg,” he said. “Through the door.”

She was passionately determined to be as quiet, as cool as he; she _must not_ disappoint him.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

For answer he laid his head back against her shoulder, and she began to stroke his forehead.

Outside the pines stirred in the breeze, and far away a dog barked and a motor horn sounded.

“I must get him to a doctor,” she thought.

They were locked in this room. And God knows who or what was in the corridor outside. Even if she could get out, how was she to leave him alone in this horrible house while she went for help? He might be bleeding to death, dying here, now, with his head against her shoulder. No one knew they were here. No one would come.

“James,” she said, “can you move?”

“I--can,” he answered, “but--I don’t care much about moving--just now…”

“I’ll bring the chair for you to lean against,” she said. “I want to look around.”

She pushed the chair so that he was propped up against it, and then she stood behind, in the dark, and tried to think. Other people had escaped from situations like this… She could not make a rope of sheets, to lower herself from the window, for there was only a mattress on the bed.

“If I threw out the mattress,” she thought, “and then jumped… If I missed it, if I hurt myself, he’d be worse off than ever. Perhaps I can kick the door panel in…”

She had an unconquerable aversion to making any more noise. But it must be tried. She had started forward, when a sound outside made her jump. Was it possible…? She went to the window; her glance fell indifferently upon the two white figures that lay there; she strained her ears to catch that sound again.

No doubt about it; a car was coming up the hill.

“This way, please!” she called. “_Please_ come here! Please come here! This way! I need help! Please--!”

Her light young voice seemed to float off on the breeze; there was no answer. Now she could see the glare of the headlights as the car turned the corner.

“Please come here!” she cried, desperately. “This way!”

“My darling child!” called back a strong, beautiful voice. “What _are_ you doing?”

“Angelina!” she cried. “Don’t go away!”

The car had stopped and Angelina sprang out, and ran along the path. She stopped suddenly, and bent over the white figure lying there.

“What’s this?” she cried.

“Angelina! Get in somehow--”

A man had got out of the car, and stood beside Angelina, looking up at the window.

“Come in!” cried Di, in a fury of impatience. “There’s someone hurt here. I’m locked in. Hurry up!”

They both disappeared round the corner of the house, and for a long time she heard nothing.

“James!” she said. “Could anything happen to them…?”

“Nothing can happen to Angelina,” he said.

Then she heard voices outside, Angelina’s voice. The key turned in the lock, the door was flung open, the light of an electric torch shone in her face.

“James is hurt,” she said, in a quiet, dignified voice.

And that was the end of her strength.

Chapter Sixteen. “It’s Over”

She opened her eyes to look into the face of Doctor Coat, who was bending over her. She stared up at him in wonder; he gazed back at her with an expression so unutterably woebegone that her heart sank.

“James…?” she asked.

“The young man? Doing very nicely,” he answered. “And how are _you_ feeling now?”

She forgot to answer him. She was looking about the shabby little old-fashioned room where she lay on a sofa; the chairs ranged against the walls, the ancient magazines upon the center table, evidently Doctor Coat’s waiting-room. Then at last she was really out of that house…

“What happened?” she asked.

But Doctor Coat turned away his head.

“Oh, please tell me!” she cried, alarmed, and, as he turned back to her, she saw tears in his eyes.

“I have known Emma since she was a child,” he said. “I can scarcely grasp this… I… find this… very hard… to credit…”

She was sorry for him, but, in her anxiety, she could not spare him.

“Please tell me about Wren!” she said.

“Now, my dear Miss Diana!” he said, with a pitiable attempt at professional cheerfulness, “put off your questions until you’ve had a good rest. To-morrow--”

“I can’t wait--a minute! It’ll make me much worse, not to know. Is Wren--?”

“It’s horrible!” he cried. “Unbelievable! A holocaust…”

He began to pace up and down his shabby, brightly-lit little room, intolerably stirred, filled with bewilderment and grief.

“Three dead!” he said.

“Who? Oh, if you’d just please tell me! Can’t you see…?”

“Yes, I can,” he said. “Only, it’s so difficult… I haven’t quite grasped it yet… They sent a chauffeur for me, and I went… I hadn’t been warned in any way. I thought of course it was Emma who had sent for me… I went to Rufus’s room--and I found Wren there, dying from the effect of a murderous assault made upon him; he said by Peter Leonard… By Peter Leonard… Even then I didn’t understand. I looked about the room for Emma and there was no one present but this chauffeur in uniform. He heard Wren’s last statement…

“No one will ever believe us--Purvis and me. In court--we shall appear--either fools--or knaves… But it isn’t hard to deceive people who are utterly unsuspicious. No doubt I am very much to blame. I never examined the patient. I saw him only in a darkened room, heavily muffled. But he had always had that peculiar habit of muffling himself. If there was anything strange about his voice or manner, I attributed it to his illness… I--I _couldn’t_ have suspected that Rufus was dead, buried in the cellar, with no more ceremony than a dog, and that the man I had seen in his place was Wren. It’s the sort of thing that--doesn’t occur to anyone… He had had similar attacks and Emma understood the treatment of them…

“When Emma told me he wanted to make a will in your favor, I was pleased. I was always fond of your mother--”

“Did you know how she died?” the girl interrupted.

“Why, yes, my dear. Typhoid.”

“What makes you think that?”

He looked at her in surprise.

“I saw her the week before--the end. She was in the hospital then, and on the road to recovery, we all believed. Then she had a relapse--Don’t cry! Don’t cry, my dear!”

He drew a chair up beside the sofa, and sitting down, patted her shoulder.

“Don’t cry!” he said. “It was a very happy end. She always had the greatest confidence in your father. She was sure he was going to make a fortune for you. A happy life, my dear, and a happy death.”

She could not stop weeping; tears were streaming down her face; she groped for a handkerchief, and he gave her one of his own.

“You’re _sure_?” she asked.

“Absolutely! Come, come!”

“Just--don’t pay any attention--to this,” she said. “Go on telling me…”

“I’ve sent for Purvis,” he went on. “It will be a terrible blow for him… Rufus, or the man we thought was Rufus, was apparently too weak to talk. Purvis drew up the will in the form Emma said he wanted. He had not enough strength to sign his name, but he made his mark which we both witnessed… How could we suspect anything wrong? Emma did not benefit in any way; she was not even mentioned in the will. And later on, when you insisted upon making a will in her favor, we saw nothing amiss. We thought you were grateful to her, and perhaps a little--overwrought… Why did you make that will?”

“I’ll tell you later. Please go on!”

“Wren was able to tell us only the main facts of this--this imposture. Emma had forced him into it by threatening to send his child to an institution. He said he agreed… He had rebelled against helping to bury poor Rufus, and in the end had had a physical encounter with Peter in which Peter had badly wounded his foot with a spade. I saw that wound… Emma told him that if he would impersonate Rufus for a few days, until the will was made, he would then pretend to recover and could start to return to Rufus’s place in New York, and could disappear on the way. He believed her--then, and he had been promised a large reward. He had planned to take his child to some doctor he had heard of in Switzerland. But he was well aware that his life was in danger. He felt that as long as you were in the house, they would not dare to make away with him. He had the highest opinion of your courage and intelligence--the greatest faith in your kindness. The fact that he was making a will in your favor was a great comfort to him. They had told him that he would be allowed to leave to-day. A number of persons, yourself and Purvis and I among them, would have seen him take the train to New York, with his cap and muffler and so on. Then in the waiting-room at the Grand Central, he would have removed the disguise. And in order that nothing should happen to you, when you got this money, he had written you a letter, explaining everything. He was very anxious that you should enjoy this fortune. But unluckily, Emma found that letter…

“I don’t know whether in any case he would have been allowed to leave the house. I--am afraid not. I am afraid that I should have signed a death certificate without any proper examination… And looking back upon it now, I think… But that’s too horrible!”

“You mean I was to die, too?”

“She told Purvis and myself that you were brooding over your responsibility for your uncle’s attack of illness, and that she found you had suicidal tendencies… I _cannot_ credit this…! I have known Emma since she was a child…”

“She’s gone?”

“She and Peter.”

“But Miles?”

“We found Miles--dead--in the dining-room. He had shot himself.”

“Oh,” she cried. “If he’d only known!”

“Known what?”

“He thought that he had done some--committed a dreadful crime--but he hadn’t. If I could have told him!”

“His troubles are over, my dear,” said Coat, and was silent for a moment. Then he went on:

“Perhaps the most shocking part of this whole terrible affair--to me--was the part played by those unfortunate children… I have never particularly interested myself in mental cases, and I took it for granted that Emma was giving them the best possible treatment. She was not. She had made no effort whatever to ameliorate their condition. She used them, in the most callous and unethical way, for her experiments. I don’t mean that they were physically ill-used. Simply, she took advantage of their misfortune for her own ends. She withheld any treatment that might have helped them. Wren told me this. I don’t know how he came to suspect it--”

“One of the children was his?”

“Yes. Emma had come across the child, and had offered to adopt it and give it proper care and treatment. And the wretched man had acted as an unpaid servant for years, in the belief that he was benefitting his child. Your friend did a very beautiful thing.”

“What friend--did what?”

“Mrs. Blessington. He wished to see the body of his child. And found it was not his child, but the other one. And Mrs. Blessington made him a solemn promise that she would look after his daughter, would take her to the best specialists, would do everything humanly possible. It was the greatest possible comfort to him in his last moments.”

“That’s like her,” said Di. “And the other poor little thing was dead?”

“That disaster is inexplicable to me. Near where the child fell, we found a peculiar object, a sort of dummy in a white dress… Fennel thinks that the child saw this from the upper window, and in some way was influenced by the suggestion. But I don’t know… Perhaps at the inquest…”

He rose hastily, and crossed the room, stood by the window with his back to her.

“I can’t tell you--” he said, unsteadily, “how sorry I am that you will have to be dragged into this--horrible thing. The innocent to suffer for the guilty… But there is no escape for you--or for any of us. The publicity will be merciless… I only hope to Heaven that Emma will not be found and brought back. I--should find it--very painful--to appear as a witness--against my old friend… As it is, we shall come out badly, Purvis and I…”

She lay still, thinking of that. It was not over; she had not escaped. Every detail of this monstrous crime, every smallest action of her own, would be made public. She would be an important witness in an incredibly sensational case, she would be examined, cross-examined, re-examined, all her words would be printed in the newspapers, she would have to endure the most hateful and shameful publicity. All her life, people would remember--“Yes--the one who was mixed up in that murder case.” It seemed to her that, when she had crossed the threshold of that house, she had left normal, cheerful life behind her forever. That shadow could never lift.

“And now--how are you feeling?” asked Doctor Coat. “The effects of such a shock--”

To his surprise, she rose to her feet.

“I feel perfectly all right,” she answered. “What ought I to do? Tell the police?”

“Fennel has looked after that.”

“I’ve dragged _him_ into it,” she thought. “He’s not only been wounded--twice--but he’ll have to be a witness, too.”

She tried to consider what to do now. In the circumstances, it wouldn’t be fair to go to Mrs. Frick’s. Reporters would come, and the police… Hadn’t she read of “material witnesses being kept in prison”? She didn’t care. If she were not in prison, what could she do? It would be impossible to get a job now… She would be a notorious character. She might even be suspected of complicity.

“Mrs. Blessington waited to take you back to New York,” Doctor Coat continued, “but I said I feared you couldn’t stand the journey. However, you seem so much better than I expected--shall I call her in?”

“She’s here?”

“Waiting in the next room. I should be glad to see you go with her. A very kind and generous woman…”

He opened the door into another room, and Angelina hastened in; she was pale, but radiant as usual.

“My dearest Di!” she cried. “Put some powder on your precious nose and let’s get going!”

“Will I be allowed to go? I mean--the police--?”

“My dear, James can do _anything_ with the police.”

“Did you know him well, Angelina?”

“But my dear! He’s my _brother_! You _must_ have heard me talking about ‘Jammy.’ He’s a marvelous person. He’s written books, my dear, about reptiles. And he’s just come back from a trip up the Amazon, looking for boa-constrictors and things. The police will eat out of his hand. And of course they’re frightfully impressed with Porter’s money. I made a statement!” she added, with relish. “I’ll be in the newspapers to-morrow morning--with one of my photographs. We told them you were _much_ too ill to be questioned to-night, but they’ll be around early to-morrow morning. So come along and get a good night’s rest.”

“Come--where?”

“My dear, some fearful woman told Jammy that you left my house without a penny, and then I remembered… And both Jammy and Porter went for me. I admit that I was a vile beast. But why didn’t you remind me, darling?”

She put her arm about the girl and kissed her.

“I’m going to make up for it, every way I know!” she said. “Porter and I are going to give you the most _peerless_ wedding-present--”

“I’m not thinking of getting married,” said Di, with a faint smile.

“Oh, James told me!” said Angelina. “He wants the engagement announced before the trial.”

“Angelina! No!”

“My dear, you must! Think how romantic--in the newspapers.”

“Angelina, you can’t see anything--romantic--in this terrible affair--”

“Darling,” said Angelina, earnestly, “you haven’t done anything awful, have you?”

“No. But think of the publicity--”

“Well, what of it?”

“Don’t you realize how--disgraceful and--”

“My dear--chump,” said Angelina, “you can’t be disgraced by things that other people have done. You’re trying to act like these people in French novels, when everybody has to commit suicide and break off their engagements because some member of the family has ‘disgraced the name.’ It _will_ be trying and painful for you, but you are no more disgraced than if you’d been in a shipwreck. And you’ve got James and Porter and me to stand by you.”

“Angelina, you don’t understand--”

Then for the first time, Di could realize that Angelina was Fennel’s sister. Across her radiant dark face came a look very like him, cool, steadfast and grave.

“Di,” she said. “You’ve come to the crisis. You’ve been through fear and suffering and horror. And you’ve come through with courage and honesty. James told me. He thinks there never was anyone like you. Now look!”

She drew the girl to the window, and pulled aside the doctor’s prim little curtains. The moon was going down behind a hill, the sky was still bright with the soft radiance; the Spring night was alive with exquisite promise.

“It’s an awfully big world,” said Angelina. “And it’s so beautiful. You’re just coming out of a horrible black hole. And now you’ve got to forget. It’s all over. Now you’ve got to go forward.”

“She’s right, my dear!” said Doctor Coat’s voice behind them.

“And now come on!” said Angelina, quickly dropping her serious air. “James is in the darlingest little hospital here, and we’ll come out to see him to-morrow. Porter’s waiting in the car. We’re going to drive back to New York now--and eat. You look hideously thin. Come on, Di! It’s over! We’re all sorry for the terrible things that have happened--but they’re done. James will be all right in a week or so. And you’re going to be _happy_. Come on, Di!”

[The End]

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. hillside/hill-side, musn’t/mustn’t, wrist-watch/wrist watch, etc.) have been preserved.

Alterations to the text:

Punctuation: fix some quotation mark pairings/nesting and some missing/invisible periods.

[Chapter Four]

(“Uncle Rufus comes out every few months,” he roadside. said, “to see if anyone’s) move “roadside.” to the end of the preceding paragraph.

[Chapter Eight]

Change “It _occured_ to her that her reverie was becoming” to _occurred_.

[Chapter Twelve]

“capable of feeling not the least regret for some _horible_ act” to _horrible_.

(“If you’ll drive to the East _Hazlewood_ Station,” she told) to _Hazelwood_.

[Chapter Thirteen]

“Diana reflected for a _monment_” to _moment_.

“But one of the other two will _succeeed_” to _succeed_.

[Chapter Fourteen]

“It was Aunt Emma who held her bound _ankes_” to _ankles_.

[End of text]