  The flivver pulled up at the side of the dirt road and stopped. Ezra Parker, behind the wheel, switched off the motor and likewise the lights. Patches of moonlight filtered through interlocking branches that arched the grassgrown highway. These silvery patches seemed but to deepen the velvety black of the woods. After the noisy chugging of four ancient cylinders the silence of the forest was oppressive. “Yonder’s the road to Turner’s,” Ezra volunteered, pointing toward a narrow track, choked with weeds, which led off to the right. “The house is two or three miles farther on.” “I know! I’ve been over it twice in a car—and gee whiz!—it sure is a tough one to drive,” piped Charlie from the back seat. “We’ve got to hop it now,” said Bill. “Hand me the extra rifle, and come on.” Followed by young Evans, he stepped down to the roadway. “So long, fellows,” Ezra bade them, “better watch your step when you get near Turner’s.” “We will,” returned Bill. “Got the times fixed in your mind, Ezra, and all the rest of the instructions?” “You bet. I’ll write them down soon as I get home. Don’t worry, I won’t let you fellows down.” He backed the car across the road, swung round his front wheels and chugged off in the direction of Clayton. “And that’s that,” said Bill. “I hope Dad will approve,” said Charlie. Bill’s face took, on a look of grim determination in the darkness. “It’s just too bad if he doesn’t. Don’t shoulder that rifle, Charlie. It’s likely to hit a branch and go off. Hold it in the hollow of your arm, like I’m carrying mine. Keep three or four paces behind me—and remember, no more talking until we are inside the garage. If you see me drop down—flop!” “O.K.” grunted the youngster. “On your way. If anybody spots us it won’t be my fault.” They strode down the road toward Turner’s for a mile or more. Neither the tall lad nor the short one uttered a word. Bill drank in the crisp, cool night air, pleasant after the dusty highway. On either hand dense woods shut out the moonlight. Directly overhead, however, light filtered between the treetops, flecking the overgrown trail with splotches of silver. When they came to an open woodlot, Bill paused. “Yes, I think from what Ezra said, we go to the left here. We’ll see where it lands us.” Shortly after passing round the field, a dense wood of pines showed up against the moonlight on their right hand. Between them and the pines was a broad stone fence. “We’ll hang out here for a few minutes,” Bill remarked. “There’s nothing like making quite certain. If you hear anyone following, Charlie, it means we were noticed in the car, and we’re probably in for a rousing time.” After an interval he got up and stretched himself, gave a curt order and plunged abruptly into the heart of the woods. Bill had no idea how far they penetrated, but they appeared to go forward for a good fifteen minutes before they struck upon a grassgrown avenue or drive among the trees, and at the end of it they saw a clearing. Both lads stopped. A gentle wind stirred in the tree-tops, and above its rustle, they suddenly heard the soft wash of the sea. Bill turned and Charlie followed his gaze. Set back, quite close to the woods, amid overgrown lawns and shrubbery, there glimmered in the pallid moonlight, the outlines of a house. “Turner’s!” whispered Bill as Charlie came close. “It looked different from the air, but I guess it’s the place, all right.” “Sure—and there’s the garage, see it?” “Come along.” Emerging stealthily from the trees, he quickly glanced about, crossed the path, cut in behind a screen of shrubbery and made his way round the side of the house to the garage. Without hesitation he went forward, pulled the right hand door slightly ajar and slipped in, with Charlie at his heels. The darkness closed in upon them. “Just a moment, and I’ll be with you,” a cautious voice spoke nearby, and Bill recognized it as Mr. Evans’. The door behind them shut with a slight click, and Bill felt one of his hands caught in a firm grasp. “Charlie, take Bill’s other hand. We won’t show a light just yet. Come this way.” They passed on until they came to what Bill decided was a closet in one corner of the garage. He heard Mr. Evans open a door, and at the same time he spoke again. “Shut the door after you, Charlie, and see that the lock snaps. There are twelve steps down, Bill. Come along—the youngster knows his way from here.” Bill, still grasping Mr. Evans’ hand, felt for the first step, found it and descended after his guide. On level ground once more, he counted eighty-four paces and two turns in the dark tunnel before he was led up a flight of twenty-two steps at the farther end. There came a pause, followed by a click. Then he was pulled gently forward and his hand released. He waited; then a leaping shaft of light from a single unshaded lamp disclosed a large and soundly furnished room, with books lining the walls and deep armchairs grouped about. On a table in the center were a large plate of sandwiches, some glasses and several bottles of ginger ale. “Me for that!” cried Charlie, his face shining in anticipation. “That boy’s head is in his stomach,” declared Mr. Evans. “But I suppose at his age I was always hungry too. Well, I’m glad to see both of you. I need your help, Bill, because I can’t drag in the police on this matter—at least, not yet. They would spoil everything. Help yourself from the table, lad, before Charlie gobbles all the sandwiches. Then tell me about your trip. Something happen to the car? Or did you think your plane would prove the more useful?” “Both,” said Bill from the table, where he was pouring himself a glass of ginger ale. Taking a couple of sandwiches, he went over to an armchair and sank back in its comfortable depths. “Your friends, or enemies, or whoever they are,” he went on, munching as he talked, “are quite active around New Canaan. They made things hum for a while, and wrecked your car into the bargain. If their shooting hadn’t been putrid, you’d be minus a son now, Mr. Evans. It’s not my place to criticize, but don’t you think it was pretty risky, sending a boy his age on such a dangerous undertaking?” Mr. Evans started up from his chair in consternation. “You don’t mean they tried to shoot the boy!” “I certainly do mean just that.” The father put an arm about his son’s shoulders and held him close. “The devils!” he muttered. “I’d no idea they would dare resort to such methods! If I had, he never would have been sent. And I don’t blame you, Bill, for thinking me a heartless parent. If anything had happened to this boy——But there’s no sense in making excuses now. Tell me just what happened.” He carted Charlie, sandwiches and ginger ale over to his chair and deposited them there, seating himself on the broad arm at his son’s side. “Well, the first I knew of it,” began Bill, and continued with a recitation of their adventures since the thunderstorm had awakened him the night before. When he had finished, he got up to replenish his glass. “Splendid! I’m extremely proud of you both. Now tell me of the arrangements you’ve made with Parker.” “Starting tomorrow night, he is to fly the Loening over this property. If he sees a light in the garage he will know that we want him. He will then continue on his way out to sea for a few miles, come back over Twin Heads and land in the harbor near the channel that leads out to the Atlantic. We will get in touch with him there. In any case, unless he is molested, he is to wait on the water until daylight.” “And if we do not need him, what then?” “Why, the garage will be dark, and he’ll go out to sea, swing round and go back to Clayton.” “Did you arrange any set time for his flights?” “Yes. Tomorrow he will be over this house at midnight. The next night at one o’clock. The night after, at two, and the following one at three. Then he starts all over again. I arranged his trips in that order, so that anyone spying would not be able to count on a set time.” Mr. Evans nodded his approval. “That is very satisfactory, Bill. You think Parker is to be trusted, of course?” “I’m sure of it, sir. Hope you don’t think I set his salary at too high a figure?” “I’ll double it if he proves useful,” Mr. Evans declared. “Now get off my knee, Charlie, while I pay Bill back for what he has spent on my account.” He dug into a trousers’ pocket, fished out a roll of bills and handed it to Bill. “That’s what I owe you—and keep the balance for expenses. You may need it before long.” “Thanks, sir.” Bill pocketed the money. “Can you tell us something of what we’re up against, sir?” Mr. Evans glanced at his watch. “Goodness! It’s time you fellows were in bed. I’ll go into details, Bill, after breakfast.” “But, Dad, we slept all day!” Charlie expostulated. “Never mind, son. You won’t be the worse for a few hours more. We’ll all need clear wits in the morning.” Beckoning the lads to follow, he went to the door. Their feet echoed on the polished tiles of the hall, a vast place which looked like a black cavern above them, the dim shape of a wide staircase beyond. Following Mr. Evans’ lead, they mounted the stairs, his flashlight flickering on the thick carpet and heavy oak banisters. In the corridor above, he stopped and flung open a door. They entered a large, square bedroom. Twin beds stood against opposite walls, and heavy dark hangings concealed the windows. These curtains, Mr. Evans drew back, and through the shutters there gleamed the faint gray light of a waning moon. A solitary night-owl made eerie music in the woods. “Sleep well,” said Charlie’s father. “I’ll call you two at seven. We’ll have breakfast and I’ll explain my problem to you. Good night.” “Good night, Dad.” “Good night, sir.” Mr. Evans departed with a wave of his hand. “I forgot to say,” he added, putting his head inside the door again, “if you wake earlier than seven, don’t raise a row. No bursting into happy song, Charlie....” He grinned at his son, nodded, and was gone. Bill sat down on his bed and took off his shoes. “I wonder why he warned us about noise,” he remarked as he struggled with a knot. “Ask me something easy,” yawned Charlie. “You’ll soon find out that there’s more hush stuff about this house than there is at a funeral.” “Cheerful simile!” grunted Bill. He dropped a shoe, stripped off his outer garments, and got into bed wearing his underclothes. He was dreaming of masked foes, who kept climbing up from airy depths, to creep on him unawares, when one of these fiends clutched him by the shoulder. Suddenly he found himself sitting up in bed, shaking with the terror of nightmare. “Are you dead—or what?” Charlie stood beside him, and leaned over to shake him again. Through partly opened shutters daylight streamed into the room. “I’m awake,” said Bill with an effort. “What time is it, anyway?” “Nearly nine o’clock—that’s why I’m worried. I just woke up myself—Dad hasn’t called us or come near us yet. Do you s’pose something has happened to him, Bill?” Bill jumped out of bed. “Wait till I get some clothes on—then we’ll find out.” |
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