AT THE FORK OF THE ROAD

Gretchen looked at the panting woman before her with concern.

“Plees, Mees Hull, sit awhile,” she begged, pointing to one of the comfortable wicker chairs on the side veranda of Ten Acres. Gretchen had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hull toiling up the brick walk, which led from the Rockville Turnpike into the grounds, and, by a circuitous route through the trees, up to the old mansion, and skirted it on either side. She had left the pantry window to open the little-used north door to admit her. Mrs. Hull subsided into the nearest chair with thankfulness.

“I declare, Gretchen,” she gasped, “this is a fearful place to reach from the city, unless you have a car.”

Gretchen’s smile, while expansive, was a trifle vague. It showed her pretty dimples to advantage. “Plees, I get you a drink—”

“Of water,” firmly. “I never touch anything stronger, Gretchen,” and the chambermaid vanished inside the house.

Mrs. Hull was grateful for the cool breeze which fanned her hot cheeks, and she drew her breath with more regularity and ease after a few minutes of absolute quiet. From where she sat she had an extended view of the old-fashioned garden, with its box-hedge maze, one of the historic features of the place, and the pergola almost completely hidden under its cover of rambler roses. As she sat waiting in patience for Gretchen’s return, she saw three men emerge from the pergola and go toward the lodge gates. By his height and the use of his cane she judged the outside man to be David Curtis; Sam Hollister she recognized at once; but the man nearest to her was a stranger.

Gretchen’s return and her glass of water diverted Mrs. Hull’s attention from the three men, and when she looked again in the direction they had taken they were not in sight.

“How pretty you have grown, Gretchen,” commented Mrs. Hull, regarding her admiringly. “You are stouter than when you arrived here from Europe with Miss Lucille, and it is becoming to you,” hastily, observing that Gretchen evidently considered her last remark a doubtful compliment.

“Thank you, madame!” Gretchen dropped a pretty curtsy—one of her foreign ways, as Herman termed it; his attentions to the little Dutch girl had early been discouraged, and his liking had, as in many similar cases, changed to dislike. He had resumed “keeping company” with Susanne, hoping that the astute French girl had not observed his inclination to stray from her side. If she had noticed his sudden ardor for the pretty stranger, Susanne gave no sign, and domestic affairs at Ten Acres had settled down into their well-oiled, accustomed groove.

“You like it here, Gretchen?” asked Mrs. Hull, transferring her gaze from the girl to the view over the garden. The varying shades of green of the late spring were restful to the eyes, and Mrs. Hull was unmindful of the lengthy pause before her question was answered.

“But, yes, madame; it’s ver’ nice,” replied Gretchen. “Would madame like annudder drink?”

“No, no more, thanks.” Mrs. Hull took her handkerchief out of her bag. “If ever you decide to leave here, and there may be changes now, remember, you must come to us, Gretchen. I shall always keep a place for you.”

“You are mos’ kind, madame.”

“Not a bit; Miss Lucille is devoted to you, we all are,” finished Mrs. Hull. “Is that Fernando coming out of the maze?” As she put the question, Mrs. Hull handed the empty glass to Gretchen and her eyes rested full on the girl’s face. Gretchen’s eyes were fixed upon the man Mrs. Hull had seen a moment before and a rich carmine dyed her cheeks a deep red. Astonished at the effect of her question, Mrs. Hull repeated it.

“No, no, madame; it is Damason,” stammered Gretchen. “Will madame come inside?”

“Is Miss Lucille at home?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Then run along and ask her to come out here,” directed Mrs. Hull. “And, Gretchen, you need not mention to Mrs. Meredith that I am calling upon my daughter.”

Gretchen was saved a trip to Lucille’s bedroom, for she met her at the foot of the circular staircase. Her shoes were dusty, as from walking, and Gretchen concluded that she must have entered only a moment before by the front door. A second more and Lucille was with her mother on the veranda.

“Gretchen must wear Mercury wings,” said Mrs. Hull, after kissing her warmly. “I just saw Damason crossing the garden and mistook him for Fernando, and Gretchen nearly blushed her head off when I called her attention to him.”

Lucille’s pale, set face relaxed into a sunny smile. “That is a budding romance,” she explained. “We are all wondering which brother Gretchen will marry.”

“It must be very uncomfortable to be courted by a twin.” Mrs. Hull swung her chair with ponderous grace toward the one her daughter was occupying close at hand. “I hope Gretchen makes a wise choice.” Then in an altered voice: “Why are you remaining here?”

“Because it is best.” Lucille was careful to speak low. “Have you seen father?”

“No, not since breakfast. Why?” And there was unmistakable anxiety in Mrs. Hull’s usually expressionless voice.

“He was here just after luncheon and made a most unfortunate scene—”

“About what?”

“Hush!” Lucille’s firm hand closed over her mother’s bare wrist with a force which made her wince. “He was present when Sam Hollister read Cousin John’s will. By the terms of that will Anne inherits this place and one million dollars.”

“And you—”

“A paltry one hundred thousand dollars.” The bitterness in her voice cut Mrs. Hull and she involuntarily laid her hand over her heart as if in actual physical pain. Her daughter was oblivious of her emotion as she continued her account of the scene in the library. “Father declared the codicil Cousin John signed Sunday night, revoking Anne’s bequest in my favor, had been purposely mislaid or stolen outright—”

“Lucille!”

“Let me finish, mother.” Lucille had inherited her father’s intolerance of interference, even in trivial matters. “Father plans to contest the will.”

Mrs. Hull stirred unhappily in her chair. “Why will Julian act without thought!” she exclaimed.

“He wished to protect my rights—”

Mrs. Hull appeared silenced, if not convinced. It was fully five minutes before she spoke again.

“And you still wish to remain here as Anne’s guest?” she asked.

Lucille colored warmly. “You never look ahead, mother,” she complained.

Mrs. Hull dropped her eyes that Lucille might not see the sudden tears which filled them. She played nervously with her handkerchief before addressing her again.

“Where is your father now?” she inquired.

“He returned to Washington.” Lucille sighed. “I presume he is at the office.”

A troubled look crossed Mrs. Hull’s face. “He spends too much time there,” she said. “Julian is no longer a young man. I cannot help but think, as much as I like Gerald Armstrong, that he shirks his obligations to your father, Lucille.”

“Please, mother, no criticism of Gerald.” Lucille laid a warning finger across her mother’s lips.

Mrs. Hull stared at her daughter in silence. Mother love sharpened her usually abstracted gaze, and she saw with a dull ache in her heart the dark circles under Lucille’s handsome eyes and the paleness of her usually rosy cheeks. Impulsively she leaned forward and threw her arms about the girl.

“Is all well between you and Gerald?” she asked wistfully.

“Yes, mother,” but Lucille looked elsewhere than into her mother’s kindly eyes as she withdrew from her embrace. “Here comes Cousin Belle. Pull yourself together.”

Mrs. Meredith’s unexpected appearance through the north door took away what little wits Mrs. Hull had remaining to her. She stood in awe of her husband’s cousin, a feeling which she had never been able to conquer in the passing years and which had always prevented any degree of intimacy.

“I saw your arrival some time ago, Claire,” said Mrs. Meredith, with a perfunctory kiss on both cheeks. “And I waited in the library for you.”

“My dear, I was so out of breath.” Mrs. Hull shook her head pathetically. “When you reach my age and, eh, circumference, you will understand, Belle, that I had to rest in the nearest chair.”

Mrs. Meredith prided herself on her figure, and her smile at Mrs. Hull’s remark was pitying.

“Julian should engage a chauffeur and permit you the use of his car,” she stated. “Come inside, Claire, and remove your coat and hat. You must stay to dinner.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

“But you must.” Mrs. Meredith’s tone held just the right shade of cordiality, and Mrs. Hull looked hopelessly at her quick-witted daughter. But Lucille failed her by taking Mrs. Meredith’s side.

“Do stay, mother,” she urged, slipping her arm about her waist as they walked through the north door, through the reception hall and into the library. “It will be so nice to have you.”

But Mrs. Hull did not accept the chair her daughter led her to; instead she turned and faced Mrs. Meredith with simple dignity.

“Lucille has just told me of what transpired after Cousin John’s will was read this afternoon,” she began. “Do you think it proper that Lucille and I remain as guests at Ten Acres?”

A swift change passed over Mrs. Meredith’s handsome face, but one that neither of her guests could interpret. Advancing she laid her hand for an instant on Mrs. Hull’s ample shoulder.

“Whatever is done about the probating of John’s will, will be decided by our lawyers,” she said. “If the will is contested, it will be a friendly suit in law. Personally I believe that Julian will reconsider and withdraw his hot-tempered threat. You know, Claire, that he is a creature of impulse.”

Whatever reply Mrs. Hull would have made was checked by the entrance of Anne. She was a favorite with Mrs. Hull, and the latter kissed her with tender warmth.

“You don’t look a bit well, Anne,” she announced, with customary candor, holding the girl at arm’s length. “Why don’t you send her away for a change, Belle? This atmosphere of gloom,” looking about the somber room, “is enough to depress the stoutest heart.”

Anne smiled as she pressed her hand, then turned to her mother.

“Sam Hollister has just telephoned Herman that neither he nor Doctor Curtis will be here for dinner,” she said.

“Indeed!” Mrs. Meredith raised her eyebrows in displeasure. “And where have they gone?”

“I don’t know, mother.”

Mrs. Meredith selected her favorite chair. “Switch on the lights, Anne,” she directed. “We might as well make ourselves comfortable until dinner time.”

Two hours later Anne slipped away from the dining room, and telephoned to the garage. A few words to Damason sufficed and she went to the hall closet and took down her sport coat. The dinner had been shorter than usual and, for which Anne was devoutly thankful, had passed off more cheerfully than other meals since the death of her uncle. Gerald Armstrong had appeared just before dinner was announced, looking extremely well groomed in his evening clothes. Mrs. Hull attributed his conversational powers to her presence, but Herman might have contributed another reason for his sudden loquaciousness had he told of an empty cocktail shaker reposing in Armstrong’s bedroom.

All day long Anne’s head had ached with a dull throbbing pain which made her long for forgetfulness—oblivion, even. A desire to be by herself, to get out in the air possessed her, and snatching the first opportunity she had stolen away, hoping that her absence would not be noticed until she had gotten into her roadster and driven off.

She opened the front door cautiously and hurried down the veranda steps and along the driveway toward the lodge. A taxicab turned in at the lodge gates and deposited a passenger and then drove off. But Anne’s attention was centered on her car parked close to the central driveway, and she did not observe a man walking slowly toward her. Her foot was on the running board when a hand was laid on her shoulder.

“Anne!” Gerald Armstrong’s hot breath was unpleasantly close to her face. “Where are you going?”

“For a drive.”

“Then I’ll go with you,” and his dictatorial manner sent a chill down her spine.

“Hop in.”

She was in her place in an instant, her foot on the starter, but the engine was cold. Another second and Armstrong would be by her side. Why hadn’t she told Damason to leave the engine running?

In her haste Anne had switched on her headlights and in their glare she saw a man approaching. He walked with assured tread, his cane tapping time to his footsteps, his sightless eyes looking full at the headlights. Anne stopped her engine and turned to Armstrong standing on the running board.

“My fiance, Doctor Curtis, is going with me,” she said. “Kindly step down and make room for him.” Leaning out of the car, she called: “David!”

At sound of his name in her clear, soft tones Curtis felt his heart leap and was conscious of an accelerated pulse as he increased his footsteps. It was the first time she had ever called him “David.” For the first time in his life he liked his given name!

“What is it—Anne?” he asked. “Where are you?”

“Keep to the right,” she exclaimed. “I am in my car waiting for you.” She breathed more easily as Curtis, touching the fender, passed down the side of the car and stopped by Armstrong.

“You win, doctor.” Armstrong laughed tolerantly, keeping his voice pleasant with an effort. “If you had been a second later, I’d have gone with Anne. I’ll explain to your mother, Anne. By-by.” And with a jaunty wave of his hand, he sauntered back to the house.

Curtis placed his hand on the open door and swung inside the car. He had no key to the situation, but Anne had called him—that was enough. Anne’s foot was on the accelerator as he slammed the door; the next second the gears slipped into place and the powerful roadster started down the driveway and made the turn into the Rockville Pike. Not until then did Anne break her silence.

“I had such a headache,” she said. “And it was so stuffy in the house I stole away, and—and—”

“I came along.” Curtis laughed happily. “Thank God!”

Anne shot a half shy, half merry glance at him. She had been so long immersed in bitter, unhappy thoughts that nature could stand no more. Suddenly she gave way to unrestrained laughter.

“Oh!” she gasped, when she could make herself intelligible between gusts of merriment. “If you had seen Gerald’s face! You came just at the right moment.”

“Thank you—”

“It is I who should thank you for rescuing me from an intolerable situation.” She had sobered as quickly as she had given way to irresistible mirth. “I have a great deal to thank you for.”

“Don’t!” Curtis laid his hand for an instant on hers. “I am happiest when at your service.” His voice deepened with feeling. “I hope that you believe me.”

“I do,” she said, and Curtis’ face lighted with a tender smile and his heart pounded with unusual vigor against his ribs. He was too happy to say more, and for a while they sped down the turnpike in silence.

Once and again she stole a glance at her silent companion, noting with critical eyes his broad shoulders and deep chest. He had taken off his hat and the breeze waved his naturally curly hair out of its severely smooth lines. The stern repression which generally characterized his features had relaxed in his enjoyment of the drive. He looked almost boyish in the dim light from the dash lamp. There was that about Curtis which inspired confidence in young and old, and Anne’s heart sang more lightly as she drove the car at slower speed through Rockville and swung into the road leading to Frederick, Maryland.

“Do you care where we go?” she asked. “Or do you want to return?”

“I should say not,” with honest vehemence. “Keep right ahead. It’s a fine road.”

“And there are not many cars out to-night for a wonder.” Anne bent forward and switched on the big lights. “No stars are visible. I shouldn’t wonder if we had a storm.”

As they reached open country Anne pressed down on the accelerator and the car raced ahead. They passed several other motorists and then Anne saw that she had a clear stretch of road before them. The car tore onward, gathering speed for the next hill. As they reached the crest she saw that the ground dipped suddenly in a steep incline and she pressed down on the brake. Instead of checking speed, the roadster gathered momentum. Involuntarily a low cry escaped Anne as the car lurched sideways, then righting itself, swept down the steep hill at breakneck speed.

“What is it?” demanded Curtis quickly.

“The brakes won’t work,” she panted, tugging at the hand brake. “I’ve lost control—”

“Go into second,” he shouted. He heard the noise of the shifting gears as he set the hand brake. Leaning over he grasped the wheel. “I’ll hold it steady; you guide.” He raised his voice. “Is there anything ahead?”

“No.” Her fingers closed over his hands and he swung the car in the direction she indicated, holding it with powerful grip straight in the center of the road. She felt their terrific speed lessen as the car reached the bottom of the steep grade and struck the level, and she shut off the engine. The roadster coasted along for some distance and she caught sight of a fork in the road ahead.

“Turn to the right,” she gasped. “We’ll park in the gutter.” As the car came to a standstill Anne dropped limply back in her seat. Curtis’ voice sounded miles away and there were dancing sparks in front of her eyes.

“There is a box of ammonia vaporoles in the right-hand pocket,” she stammered weakly as her head drooped forward. “I am so ashamed—” her voice died away entirely.

The box was tucked at the bottom of the leather pocket in the door, and Curtis had some difficulty in finding it. With one of the little ampules crushed in his hand, he bent over Anne and held it so that the fumes reached her. She was still only partly conscious when he lowered his hand to unfasten the high collar of her sport coat. As he dragged it back his signet ring caught in a fine gold chain which she wore around her neck and tucked under the front of her low-cut gown.

As Curtis strove to disengage his ring the chain swung back and its pendant struck his hand. It was a key. Instinctively his fingers traced the slightly raised lettering, “Yale,” and then slipped down the key. Mechanically he counted each notch and groove. Curtis drew in his breath sharply. The key was identically the same as the one marked “duplicate” in Meredith’s safe deposit box. How came it to be in Anne’s possession?

A long-drawn sigh from Anne aroused Curtis. Without taking thought, he pressed back the catch of the chain and released the key. As he secreted it carefully in his pocket he slipped the chain inside Anne’s gown again.

“Do you feel better?” he asked, as Anne raised her head.

“Yes.” She struggled upright. “It was silly of me to faint. I am mortified—”

“You need not be,” quickly. “It was a ghastly run down that hill. It won’t be possible to drive this car back. Do you know where we are?”

“We have passed Gaithersburg,” she replied. “There is a farmhouse back in the field there. We have stopped almost in front of its gate—”

“Don’t get out,” exclaimed Curtis, as she half rose. She sank back again, conscious that her knees were shaking under her. “I can make my way to the house and will either telephone to Rockville for a car to run us back, or get one of the inmates of this farmhouse to take us to Washington. They probably have a car.”

“But what about my roadster?”

“I’ll call up the nearest service station and get them to send a trouble wagon for it,” he said, stepping out of the car. “Don’t worry, I won’t be long.”

Anne watched him make his way slowly across the long grass to the fence. “Keep to the right,” she called, and he waved his hand to indicate that he heard and understood. She was still watching him when a car, coming from Rockville, dashed past and took the turn to the left.

The house was fully a quarter of a mile from the road and Curtis walked with care. Anne stared after him anxiously until the darkness hid him from view, then turned around in her seat—to find a masked man standing on her running board.

Anne stared at him in paralyzed silence. Slowly his right hand came into view and a revolver touched her breast.

“Make no noise,” he commanded, and his voice had a terrifying sound coming from behind the black cloth which dropped below his chin. “Give me that key.”

“The key!”

“The key!” with stern emphasis. “Be quick or I’ll—” And the revolver pressed against her side.

Mechanically Anne dragged out her gold chain. It hung suspended in her hand in the light from the dash lamp. Anne gazed at the empty ring of the safety catch, where the key had been fastened, as if hypnotized.

“It’s—gone—gone!” And the horror in her eyes as she raised them to the masked man was more convincing even than her words.

Raised voices coming down the walk from the farmhouse aroused the masked man from his contemplation of Anne and the empty chain. As silently as he had come, he vanished into the night.

Curtis’ hail met with no response and climbing into the car, assisted by the farmer and his son, he found that Anne had fainted again.