The Destroying Angel

"How do you mean me to interpret that?" she demanded, straightforward.

"The intention was not uncomplimentary, perhaps," he said gravely; "though the clumsiness is incontestable. As for the rest of it – I'm not trying to flirt with you, if that's what you mean – yet. What I wished to convey was simply my intention no longer to bear my masculine weight upon a woman – either you or any other woman."

A smile contended momentarily with the frown, and triumphed brilliantly.

"I beg your pardon, I'm sure. But do you mind telling me what you do mean to do?"

"No."

"Well, then – ?" The smile was deepening very pleasantly.

"I mean to ask you," he said deliberately, taking heart of this favourable manifestation: "to whom am I indebted – ?"

To his consternation the smile vanished, as though a cloud had sailed before the sun. Doubt and something strongly resembling incredulity informed her glance.

"Do you mean to say you don't know?" she demanded after a moment.

"Believe me, I've no least idea – "

"But surely Mr. Ember must have told you?"

"Ember seemed to be labouring under the misapprehension that the Fiske place was without a tenant."

"Oh!"

"And I'm sure he was sincere. Otherwise it's certain wild horses couldn't have dragged him back to New York."

"Oh!" Her tone was thoughtful. "So he has gone back to town?"

"Business called him. At least such was the plausible excuse he advanced for depriving himself of my exclusive society."

"I see," she nodded – "I see…"

"But aren't you going to tell me? Or ought I to prove my human intelligence by assuming on logical grounds that you're Miss Fiske?"

"If you please," she murmured absently, her intent gaze seeking the distances of the sea.

"Then that's settled," he pursued in accents of satisfaction. "You are Miss Fiske – Christian name at present unknown to deponent. I am one Whitaker, as already deposed – baptized Hugh. And we are neighbours. Do you know, I think this a very decent sort of a world after all?"

"And still" – she returned to the charge – "you haven't told me what you mean to do, since you refuse my help."

"I mean," he asserted cheerfully, "to sit here, aping Patience on a monument, until some kind-hearted person fetches me a stick or other suitable piece of wood to serve as emergency staff. Then I shall make shift to hobble to your motor-boat and thank you very kindly for ferrying me home."

"Very well," she said with a business-like air. "Now we understand one another, I'll see what I can find."

Reviewing their surroundings with a swift and comprehensive glance, she shook her head in dainty annoyance, stood for an instant plunged in speculation, then, light-footed, darted from sight round the side of the bath-house.

He waited, a tender nurse to his ankle, smiling vaguely at the benign sky.

Presently she reappeared, dragging an eight-foot pole, which, from certain indications, seemed to have been formerly dedicated to the office of clothes-line prop.

"Will this do?"

Whitaker took it from her and weighed it with anxious judgment.

"A trifle tall, even for me," he allowed. "Still…"

He rose on one foot and tested the staff with his weight. "'Twill do," he decided. "And thank you very much."

But even with its aid, his progress toward the boat necessarily consumed a tedious time. It was impossible to favour the injured foot to any great extent. Between occasional halts for rest, Whitaker hobbled with grim determination, suffering exquisitely but privately. The girl considerately schooled her pace to his, subjecting him to covert scrutiny when, as they moved on, his injury interested him exclusively.

He made little or no attempt to converse while in motion; a spirit of bravado alone, indeed, would have enabled him to pay attention to anything aside from the problem of the next step; and bravado was a stranger to his cosmos then, if ever. So she had plenty of opportunity to make up her mind about him.

If her eyes were a reliable index, she found him at least interesting. At times their expression was enigmatic beyond any rending. Again they seemed openly perplexed. At all times they were warily regardful.

Once she sighed quietly with a passing look of sadness of which he was wholly unaware…

"Odd – about that fellow," he observed during a halt. "I was sure I knew him, both times – last night as well as to-day."

"Last night?" she queried with patent interest.

"Oh, yes: I meant to tell you. He was prowling round the bungalow – Ember's, I mean – when I first saw him. I chased him off, lost him in the woods, and later picked him up again just at the edge of your grounds. That's why I thought it funny that he should be over here this morning, shadowing you – as they say in detective stories."

"No wonder!" she commented sympathetically.

"And the oddest thing of all was that I should be so sure he was Drummond – until I saw – "

"Drummond!"

"Friend of mine… You don't by any chance know Drummond, do you?"

"I've heard the name."

"You must have. The papers were full of his case for a while. Man supposed to have committed suicide – jumped off Washington Bridge a week before he was to marry Sara Law, the actress?"

"Why … yes. Yes, I remember. But… 'Supposed to have committed suicide' – did you say?"

He nodded. "He may have got away with it, at that. Only, I've good reason to believe he didn't… I may as well tell you: it's no secret, although only a few people know it: Ember saw Drummond, or thinks he did, alive, in the flesh, a good half-hour after the time of his reported suicide."

"Really!" the girl commented in a stifled voice.

"Oh, for all that, there's no proof Ember wasn't misled by an accidental resemblance – no real proof – merely circumstantial evidence. Though for my part, I'm quite convinced Drummond still lives."

"How very curious!" There was nothing more than civil but perfunctory interest in the comment. "Are you ready to go on?"

And another time, when they were near the boat:

"When do you expect Mr. Ember?" asked the girl.