  “Tell me more about Betty,” Zizi said, “that is, if you don’t mind talking about her.” “Oh, no,” Minna returned, “I love to talk about her. It’s the only way I can keep my hope alive!” Zizi was sitting with Mrs Varian while the nurse went out for a walk. There was a mutual attraction between the two, and the sympathetic dark eyes of the girl rested kindly on the face of the bereaved and suffering mother. “Tell me about her when she was little. Was she born in New York?” “No; at the time of her birth, we chanced to be spending a summer up in Vermont,—up in the Green Mountains. I hoped to get home before Betty arrived, but I didn’t, and she was born in a tiny little hospital way up in a Vermont village. However, she was a strong, healthy baby, and has never been ill a day in her life.” “And she is so pretty and sweet,—I know not only from her picture, but from everything I hear about her. I’m going to find her, Mrs Varian!” Zizi’s strange little face glowed with determination and she smiled hopefully. “I don’t doubt your wish to do so, Zizi, dear, but I can’t think you will succeed. I’m so disappointed in Mr Wise’s failure——” “He hasn’t failed!” Zizi cried, instantly eager to defend her master. “Don’t say that,—he is baffled,—it’s a most extraordinary case, but he hasn’t failed,—and he won’t fail!” “But he’s been here a week, and what has he done so far?” “I’ll tell you what he’s done, Mrs Varian.” Zizi spoke seriously. “We were talking it over this morning, and he’s done this much. He’s discovered, at least to his own conviction, that Betty was really kidnapped. That those letters you have received are from the abductors and that through them we must hope to trace Betty’s present whereabouts. This would not be accomplished by merely following their instructions as to throwing money over the cliff. As you know, Doctor Varian advises strongly against that,—and Mr Wise does, too. But they have learned of some more letters found among your husband’s papers, signed ‘Step,’ and we hope to prove a connection between those and the kidnapper’s letters.” “What good will that do?” Minna asked, listlessly. “Oh, Zizi, you’re a dear girl, but you’ve no idea what I’m suffering. Nights, as I lie awake in the darkness, I seem to hear my baby Betty calling to me,—I seem to feel her little arms round my neck—somehow my mind goes back to her baby days, more than to her later years.” “That’s natural, dear, when you’re so anxious and worried about her. But, truly, I believe we’ll get her yet. You see, everything points to the theory that she is alive.” “I’m so tired of theories,—they don’t help any.” “Oh, yes, they do, dear. Now, try to get up a little more hope. Take it from me,—you’ll see Betty again! She’ll come dancing in, just as she used to do,—say, Mrs Varian, why did she and her father squabble so?” “I can’t explain it. I’ve thought over it often, but it seems to me there was no reason for it. He admired Betty, he was proud of her beauty and grace and accomplishments, but there was something in the child that he didn’t like. I hate to say this, but he seemed to have a natural dislike toward her that he honestly tried to overcome, but he utterly failed in the attempt.” “How very strange!” “It surely is. I’ve never mentioned it to any one before, but you are so sympathetic, I want to ask you what you think could have been the reason for anything like that?” “Did Betty feel that way toward him?” “Oh, no! I mean, not naturally so. But when he would fly at her and scold her for some little, simple thing, of course she flared up and talked back at him. It was only petty bickering, but it was so frequent.” “Wasn’t Mr Varian pleased when he learned that you expected another child?” “Yes, he was delighted. He feared it might not live,—as the others hadn’t, but he was pleased beyond words at the prospect, and we both hoped for a healthy baby. He was so careful of me,—so devoted and loving, and so joyful in the anticipation of the new baby.” “He was with you in Vermont?” “Oh, yes; we had a cottage, and he stayed there while I was in the hospital during my confinement. The house was near by, and he could come to see me at any time.” “Well, I can’t understand his turning against her later. Do they look alike?” “No,—that is, they have similar coloring, but no real resemblance.” “Betty doesn’t look like you, either?” “Not specially. Though I can’t see resemblances as some people do. She was——” “Is, Mrs Varian!” “Well, then, Betty is a dear, pretty, sweet-faced girl, healthy and happy, but not remarkable in any way.” “Did she inherit your disposition or her father’s?” “Neither particularly. But I don’t think a young girl often shows definite or strong traits of character.” “Some do,” Zizi said, thoughtfully. “How about talents? I want to find out, you see, more of what Betty is like.” “She has a little musical talent, a taste for drawing, and a fondness for outdoor sports,—but none of these is marked. I can’t describe the child otherwise than as a natural, normal everyday girl. I adore her, of course, but I am not blind to the fact that she is not a genius in any way.” “Nor do you want her to be! As you’ve told me of her, she seems to me a darling, and I mean to find her for you,—and for Mr Granniss.” “Yes, Rodney loves her, and he is as desolate as I am at her loss. Oh, Zizi, have you really any hope, or are you just saying this to comfort me?” “I really have hope, and more, I have conviction that we will yet have Betty back here. But it is not yet a certainty, and I only can offer you my own opinions. Still, dear, it’s better to hope than to despair, and any day may bring us good news.” Zizi recounted this whole conversation to Pennington Wise, not so much because she deemed it important, as that he wanted every word she could get, reported to him. The man was frankly bewildered. “It’s too ridiculous,” he exclaimed to Zizi, “that I, Pennington Wise, should have a great, a unique mystery, as this one is,—and not be able to make one step of progress toward its solution!” “‘Step,’” Zizi said, “makes me think of that black-mailing person, Stephen, or whatever his name is. Let’s work from that end.” “I’ve tried and there’s no place to start from. You see, the letters signed ‘Step’ are as untraceable as the kidnappers’ letters. They’re typed, not on the same machine, but on some equally obscure and unavailable one. It’s impossible to hunt a typewriter, with no suspect and no indication where to look!” “It would be for an ordinary detective, Penny, but for you——” “That’s just it, Ziz. An ordinary detective would say, ‘pooh, of course we can trace that!’ But I’m not an ordinary detective, and my very knowledge and experience prove to me how baffling,—how hopeless—this search is. Sometimes I think Frederick Varian did away with Betty.” “That’s rubbish!” Zizi said, calmly. “But I do think there was some definite reason for Mr Varian’s attitude toward his daughter.” “No question of her paternity?” “Good Lord, no! Minna Varian is the best and sweetest woman in the world! But I’ve a glimmer of a notion that I can’t work out yet,——” “Tell me.” “It’s too vague to put into words.” Zizi knit her heavy eyebrows, and screwed up her red lips. And then the carpenters came, and the demolition of Headland House began. It was carefully managed; no rooms that the family used were put in disorder, but the kitchen quarters, and the cellar were desperately dug into. “The kitchen is indicated,” Wise said to Doctor Varian. “For it is clear to my mind that Betty was carried out through it.” “Through the kitchen?” “Yes; you see, Doctor, we must reconstruct the matter like this. Betty came back to the house alone. She came in the front door with her father’s key. Now, she must have been attacked or kidnapped then and there. I mean whoever did it,—and we have to assume somebody did do it,—was in the house waiting. Well—say he was,—for the moment. Then, say Betty put up a fight, which of course she would, then she was carried off through the kitchen by means of the secret passage, which we have got to find! She had the yellow pillow in her hands for some reason,—can’t say what—and she dropped it on the kitchen floor,—or maybe the villain used the pillow to stifle the girl’s screams.” “Go on,” said Doctor Varian, briefly. “Then, owing to the girl’s struggles, the string of beads round her neck broke, and scattered over the floor.” “Only part of them.” “Yes; the others stayed with her, or were picked up by the kidnappers.” “More than one?” “I think two. For, when Mr Varian arrived upon the scene, one of them turned on him,—and killed him,—while there must have been another to hold Betty. It is possible there was only one, but I doubt it.” “And you think the concealed entrance is through the kitchen?” “That, or the cellar. Anyway, there is one, and it must be found! It was used the night Martha was killed,—it was used the night North disappeared,—why, man, it must be there,—and I must find it!” “True enough, and I hope you will.” “Here’s something, Penny,” Zizi said, appearing suddenly at his elbow. “I’ve found a stain on my frock that’s exactly like the one we noticed on poor Martha’s hand.” “What?” “Yes, a green stain,—a long swish, as of green paint,—but it isn’t paint.” Zizi held up a little linen frock that she sometimes wore mornings. On the side, down near the hem, was a green smear, and it was similar in appearance to the strange mark on the hand of the dead girl. “Where’d it come from?” asked Wise, shortly. “I don’t know, but it’s the dress I wore when I was exploring the cellar, and it got pretty dirty.” “Been washed?” “No, I shook off and brushed off most of the dirt, but this stain stuck, and wouldn’t brush off. That’s how I noticed it.” “Coincidence, I’m afraid. Or maybe Martha went down cellar that night for something.” “But what in the cellar would make a mark like that?” “Dunno, Ziz. There’s no green paint down there.” “It isn’t paint, Penny,” Zizi persisted. “It doesn’t smell like paint.” “What does it smell like?” “There’s no odor to it, that I can notice. But it’s a clue.” “So’s the yellow pillow,—so are the scattered beads,—so was the footprint of cellar dust on the library floor,—but they’re all blind clues,—they lead nowhere.” “Penny Wise! what ails you? I never knew you so ready to lie down on a job!” “No, Zizi, not that. It’s only that I can see how futile and useless all these clues are. We’ve got to get some bigger evidence. In fact, we can do nothing till we find the way the criminal got in and out of this house. Don’t tease me, Zizi, I never was so put about!” “You must be, when you revert to your old-fashioned phrases!” the girl laughed at him, but there was deepest sympathy in her dark eyes, and an affectionate, brooding glance told of her anxiety for him. Yet the carpenters found nothing. They proved beyond all possible doubt that there was no secret passage between the interior of Headland House and the outer world,—that there could be none, for every inch of space was investigated and accounted for. “There’s no way to get into that house except through its two doors or its windows,” the master carpenter declared, and the men who were watching knew he spoke the truth. “It proves,” Granniss said, looking up from the plans to the actual walls, “it’s all just as this drawing shows it.” “It certainly is,” agreed Doctor Varian. “There’s no missing bit.” “No,” said Wise, thoughtfully, “there isn’t. And, at least, the carpenters have proved that there is no secret passage built into this house. Yet there is one. I will find it.” For the first time, his words seemed to be spoken with his own conviction of their truth. His voice had a new ring,—his eyes a new brightness, and he seemed suddenly alert and powerful mentally, where, before, his hearers had thought him lacking in energy. “You’ve thought of a new way to go about it?” asked Granniss. “I have! It may not work, but I’ve a new idea, at least. Zizi, let me see that stained dress of yours again.” Obediently Zizi brought her frock with the smear still on its hem. Wise looked at it closely, sniffed it carefully, and gave it back, saying: “If you want to remove that stain, dear, just wash it with soap and water. It’ll come off then. Now, I’m going down to the village, and I may not be back for luncheon. Don’t wait for me.” He went off, and Doctor Varian said to Zizi: “Do you think he really has a new theory, or is he just stalling for time?” “Oh, he’s off on a new tack,” she said, and her eyes shone. “I know him so well, you see, I’m sure he has a new idea and a good one. I’ve never seen him so cast down and so baffled as he has been over this case,—but now that his whole demeanor is changed, he has a fresh start, I know, and he’ll win out yet! I never doubted his success from the beginning,—but the last two days he has been at the lowest ebb of his resources.” “I have to go back to Boston this afternoon,” Doctor Varian went on, “but I’ll be up again in a few days. Meantime, keep me informed, Rodney, of anything new that transpires.” Down in the little village of Headland Harbor, Pennington Wise went first to see Claire Blackwood. She seemed to know more about Lawrence North than any one else did, yet even she knew next to nothing. “No,” she told the detective, “the police haven’t found out anything definite about him yet. Why don’t you take up the search for him, Mr Wise?” “I’ve all I can do searching for Betty Varian,” he returned with a rueful smile. “I’m not employed to hunt up North, and I am to find Miss Varian. But surely the police can get on the track of him,—a man like that can’t drop out of existence.” “That’s just what he’s done, though,” said Claire. “Do you know, Mr Wise, I believe Lawrence North is a bigger man than we supposed. I mean a more important one, than he himself admitted. I think he was up here incognito.” “You mean that North is not his real name?” “I don’t know about that, but I mean that he wanted a rest or wanted to get away from everybody who knew him,—and so he came up here to be by himself. How else explain the fact that they can’t find out anything about him?” “Don’t they know his city address?” “Yes, but only an office,—which is closed up for the summer.” “Ridiculous! They ought to find him all the more easily if he is a man of importance.” “I don’t mean of public importance, but I think—oh, I don’t know what! But I’m sure there’s something mysterious about him.” “I’m sure of that, too! And you know nothing of his private life, Mrs Blackwood?” “No; I’ve heard that he is a widower, but nobody seems quite certain. As I told you, up here, nobody questions one’s neighbors.” “Isn’t it necessary, before members are taken into the club?” “Oh, yes; but Mr North wasn’t a member of the club. Lots of the summer people aren’t members but they use the clubhouse and nobody makes much difference between members and non-members. It isn’t like the more fashionable beaches or resorts. We’re a bit primitive up here.” “Well, tell me of North’s financial standing. He’s a rich man?” “Not that I know of. But he always has enough to do what he likes. Nobody is very rich up here, yet nobody is really poor. We’re a medium-sized lot, in every way.” “Yet North owns a fine motor boat.” “About the best and fastest up here. But he doesn’t own it, he rents it by the season. Most people do that.” “I see. And that not very pleasant factotum of his,—Joe Mills,—is he a native product?” “No, he came up with Mr North. He’s grumpy, I admit, but he’s a good sort after all. And devoted to his master.” “Ah, then he must be inconsolable at North’s disappearance.” “No; on the contrary he takes it calmly enough. He says North knows his own business, and will come back when he gets ready.” “Then he knows where North is——” “He pretends he does,” corrected Claire. “I’m not sure that he is as easy about the matter as he pretends. I saw him this morning and I think he is pretty well disturbed about it all.” “Guess I’ll go to see him. Thank you, Mrs Blackwood, for your patience and courtesy in answering my questions.” “Then, Mr Wise, if you’re really grateful, do tell me what you think about the Varian affair. That’s much more mysterious and much more important than the matter of Lawrence North’s disappearance. Are they connected?” “It looks so,—doesn’t it?” “Yes,—but that’s no answer. Do you think they are?” “I do, Mrs Blackwood,—I surely do.” And Pennington Wise walked briskly over to the bungalow of Lawrence North. He found Mills in no kindly mood. “Whatcha want now?” was his greeting, and his scowl pointed his words. “I want you to take me out for a sail in Mr North’s motor boat.” “Well, you gotcha nerve with you! What makes you think I’ll do that?” “Because it’s for your own best interests to do so.” Wise looked the man straight in the eye, and had the satisfaction of seeing Mills’ own gaze waver. “Whatcha mean by that?” he growled, truculently. “That if you don’t take me, I’ll think you have some reason for refusing.” “I gotta work.” “Your work will keep. We’ll be gone only a few hours at most. How is the tide now?” “Plumb low.” “Come on, then. We start at once.” Whether Mills decided it was best for him to consent to the trip or whether he was cowed by the detective’s stern manner, Wise didn’t know and didn’t care, but the trip was made. Wise directed the course, and Mills obeyed. Few words were spoken save those necessary for information. Their course lay out around the headland, and into the small bay on the other side of it. As they rounded the cliff, Wise directed the other to keep as close to the shore as possible. “Dangerous rocks,” Mills said, briefly. “Steer clear of them,” said Wise, sternly. After passing round the headland on all its exposed sides, Wise declared himself ready to return. In silence Mills turned his craft about and again Wise told him to make the trip as close to the rocky cliff as he could manage. “You want to get us into trouble?” asked Mills, as he made a quick turn between two treacherous looking points of rock. “I nearly struck then!” “Well, you didn’t,” said Wise, cheerfully. “You’re a clever sailor, Mills. Get along back home, now.” |
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