Shifting Sands

by Sara Ware Bassett

  Chapter VII

  It was late afternoon and, alone in the kitchen, Sylvia yawned.

  Since noontime she had sat reading and straining her ears for a sound inthe room overhead, but there had been none. He was sleeping after hishearty dinner and that was encouraging.

  Doctor Stetson had hoped the wrist would not be painful enough tointerfere with the rest the patient so obviously needed, and apparentlythis hope was being realized.

  Sylvia was glad he was asleep--very glad indeed. She did not begrudgehim a moment of his slumber. But what a delightful person he was whenawake! His eyes were wonderful--so dark and penetrating. They boredright through you. And then he listened with such intentness, watchingevery curve of your lips as if fearing to lose a word. Such attentionwas distinctly flattering. Even though your chatter was trivial, hedignified it and transformed it into something of importance.

  How interested, for example, he had been in Marcia; in learning she hadbeen married and now lived a widow in the old Daniels Homestead! Andwhat a host of inquiries he had made about Jason--the sort of man hewas and how long ago he had died!

  Sylvia had not been able to answer all his questions, but of courseshe had asserted that Marcia had adored her husband because--well, notso much because she actually knew it, as because widows always did.Certainly Marcia had declared she loved the Homestead so deeply shenever intended to leave it, and was not that practically the same thingas saying she loved Jason, too?

  Anyway, how she had felt toward him was not really a matter of any greatimportance now because he was dead.

  The thing that really mattered was Mr. Heath's interest in her--Sylvia;in her trip East and her description of Alton City, the littlemid-western town which was her home. How he had laughed at her rebellionat being a school-teacher, and how insidiously he had hinted she mightnot always be one! And when she had tossed her curls at him as she oftentossed them at Billie Sparks, the soda fountain clerk, how cleverly hehad remarked that sunlight was especially welcome on a grey day.

  Oh, he knew what to say--knew much better than Billie Sparks or evenHoratio Fuller, the acknowledged beau of the town. In fact he made bothof them seem quite commonplace--even Hortie. Fancy it!

  Probably that was because he had traveled.

  Apparently he had been almost everywhere--except to Alton City. Odd heshould never have been there when he had visited just about every othercorner, both of America and of Europe. Not that he had deliberately saidso. He was far too modest for that.

  It was while trying to find out where his home was that she had stumbledupon the information.

  And come to think of it, she did not know now where he lived, shesuddenly remembered.

  At the time she thought he had named the place; but she realized onreviewing the conversation that he had not. In fact, he had not told hermuch of anything about himself. It had all been about surfboating inthe Pacific; skiing at Lake Placid and St. Moritz; climbing the Alps;motoring in Brittany.

  She actually did not know whether he had a father or a mother; a brotheror a sister.

  At Alton City you would have found out all those things within the firstten minutes.

  Perhaps that was the reason he piqued her interest--because he was notlike Alton City--not like it at all.

  Why, were Stanley Heath to stroll up Maple Avenue on a fine, sunnyafternoon everybody--even the boys that loafed in front of Bailey'scigar store and the men who loitered on the post-office steps--wouldturn to look at him.

  He would be so different from everybody else he would seem a being fromanother planet.

  It would be fun, she mused, to walk with him through this main streetwhile those on both sides of it craned their necks and asked one anotherwho he was. More fun yet to dash through its shaded arch of trees ina smart little car, talking and laughing with him all the way, andpretending to be unconscious of the staring spectators, although ofcourse she would be seeing them all perfectly well out of the corner ofher eye.

  She had done this sometimes with Hortie Fuller, simply because she knewevery girl in Alton City envied her his devotion.

  But what was Hortie compared with Mr. Stanley Heath?

  Sylvia tilted her small up-tilted nose even higher.

  So occupied was she with these dramatic fancies she had not thought onceof Prince Hal. In fact she had supposed that he had gone up the beachwith Marcia.

  Now she suddenly became aware that he stood sniffing about the hearth,scratching at its surface as if he scented something beneath.

  He must not do that, and she told him so in no uncertain terms.

  Nevertheless, in spite of the rebuke, he continued to poke away at thespot, whining faintly, until his persistence aroused her curiosity andshe went to see what disturbed him.

  One brick projected ever so slightly from the others, and it was at thisthe setter was clawing.

  "What is it, Prince? What's the matter?" whispered she.

  Delighted to have gained her attention, the dog barked.

  "Oh, you mustn't bark, darling," she cautioned, muzzling his nose withher hand. "You'll wake Mr. Heath. Tell Missy what the trouble is. Do yousmell a mousie under there?"

  For answer the dog wagged his tail.

  "I don't believe it," Sylvia demurred. "You're only bluffing. Betweenyou and Winkie-Wee there isn't a mouse about the place. Still, you seemterribly sure something is wrong. Well, to convince you, I'll take upthe brick."

  Fetching from the pantry a steel fork, she inserted the prongs in thecrack and pried the offending brick out of its hole.

  Instantly the dog snatched from the space beneath a handkerchiefcontaining a small, hard object.

  Sylvia chased after him.

  "Bring it here, Hal! That's a good dog! Bring it to Missy."

  The setter came fawning to her side and unwillingly dropped his prize ather feet.

  As it fell to the ground, out rolled such a glory of jewels the girlcould scarcely believe her eyes.

  There was a string of diamonds, dazzling as giant dewdrops; a pearland sapphire pendant; several beautiful rings; and an oval brooch, itsemerald centre surrounded by tier after tier of brilliants.

  Sylvia panted, breathless. She had never seen such gems, much less heldthem in her hands. How she longed to slip the rings upon her fingers andtry the effect of the diamonds about her slender throat!

  Prudence, however, overmastered the impulse. Marcia might return andsurprise her at any moment. Before that the treasure must be returned tothe place from which it had been taken.

  Gathering the rainbow heap together, she reluctantly thrust it into itsblue leather case, snapped the catch, and placed it once more under thebrick.

  Then with relief she stood up and wiped the perspiration from herforehead.

  It was not until she was again in her chair, book in hand, andstruggling to quiet her quick breathing that she discovered she stillheld in her hand the handkerchief that had been wrapped about thejewel-case.

  How stupid of her! How insufferably careless!

  Well, she dared not attempt to replace it now. There was no time.Instead, she smoothed it out and inspected it.

  It was a man's handkerchief of finest linen and one corner bore theembroidered initials S. C. H.

  She had known it all the time! There was no need to be told the jewelswere his. What puzzled her was when he had found time to hide them. Hehad not, so far as she knew, been left alone a moment and yet here washis booty safe beneath the floor.

  She rated it as booty, because there could be no doubt he had stolen it.He had stolen it from that Long Island estate, escaped in his speed boatand here he was--here, under this very roof!

  A robber--that was what he was!

  A robber--a bandit, such as one saw in the movies!

  That explained why he was so well-dressed, so handsome, had suchfascinating manners. He was a gentleman burglar.

  All up-to-date villains in these days were gentlemen. Not that she hadever encountered a villain in the flesh. St
ill, she had read romancesabout them and was there not one in every moving-picture? They were notdifficult to recognize.

  Now here she was, actually in the same house with one! How thrilling!Here was an adventure worthy of the name. She was not in the leastfrightened. On the contrary, from the top of her head to the soles ofher feet she tingled with excitement. She could feel the hot, pulsingblood throb in her throat and wrists. It was exhilarating--wonderful!

  Of course Marcia must not know.

  She, with her Puritan ideas, would unquestionably be shocked to discoverthat the man she was sheltering was a thief. She would probably feel ither Christian duty to surrender him to Elisha Winslow.

  How unsuspecting she had been! How naively she had clapped her pursedown on the table and proclaimed exactly where her gold beads were kept!

  A thief in the room overhead! Think of it! The very thief for whom allthe police in the countryside were searching! He was no small, cheaptype of criminal. He did things on a big scale--so big that radioannouncements had been broadcast about him and no doubt at this instantdetectives and crime inspectors were chasing up and down the highways;dashing through cities; and keeping telephone wires hot in wild searchfor the gentleman asleep upstairs!

  Sylvia stifled her laughter. The whole thing was ironic.

  Why, that very morning had not Elisha Winslow, the Wilton sheriff, whohad frankly admitted he yearned for excitement, helped undress thewretch and put him comfortably to bed? The humor of the situation almostovercame her.

  It seemed as if she must have someone to share the joke. But no oneshould. No! Nobody should be the wiser because of her. The poor, huntedfellow should have his chance. He was an under-dog and she had alwaysbeen romantically sorry for under-dogs.

  It was a little venturesome and risky, she admitted, to obstruct justiceand should she be found out she would, without doubt, be clapped intojail. Still she resolved to take a chance.

  After all, who could prove she had known Stanley Heath to be what hewas? Nobody. She would not even let him suspect it.

  The important thing was to await an opportunity and soon--before he wasable to be about--return the handkerchief she held in her hand to itsplace beneath the brick. Then all would be well. This should not bedifficult. It would be quite easy to get Marcia to take up Mr. Heath'ssupper.

  In the meantime, the situation was intensely amusing. Its dangerappealed to her. She had always enjoyed hair-breadth escapades. Anythingbut dullness. That had been the trouble with Alton City--it had beendull--deadly dull.

  But Wilton was not dull. In spite of the fact that only this morningElisha Winslow had complained the town was in need of a stirring up, itseethed with electricity. If she chose, she could hurl a bomb-shell intoits midst this very minute. But she did not choose.

  Instead she intended to play her own quiet game and keep what she knewto herself. She wondered why. Perhaps she was falling in love with thisadventurer. Yes, that must be it. She was in love with him--in love witha bandit!

  How scandalized Alton City would be! How the whole town would hold upits hands in horror if it knew!

  Horatio Fuller--dubbed Hortie because of his high-hat manners andbecause his father owned the largest store in town--picture his dismayif he guessed her guilty secret! Perhaps he would shoot the fellow--orthe fellow shoot him. That was what usually happened in moving-pictures,somebody always shot somebody else.

  She wouldn't want Hortie to be shot. The thought of it sobered her.After all, Hortie was a dear, she liked him--liked him very much. On theother hand, she would not want Stanley Heath shot either.

  Perhaps it would be just as well to leave out all this shooting, whyheap horror upon horror? To be married to a bandit was adventure enoughwithout being the wife of a murderer.

  Sylvia's imagination had traveled so swiftly and so far that it came toearth with a crash when Marcia opened the door.

  Her hair, tossed by the wind, clustered about her face in small, moistringlets; her cheeks were scarlet, her eyes shone.

  It was not alone the buffeting of the salt breeze nor the exhilarationof walking against it that had transformed her into something radiantlylovely. From within glowed a strange fire that made her another creaturealtogether.

  "Why--why--Marcia!" breathed Sylvia, bewildered.

  "I've had such a glorious walk, dear!" cried Marcia. "The fog has liftedand the sky is a sheet of amethyst and gold."

  "Did the men get the boat off?"

  "Yes. She is floating tranquilly as a dove."

  "What is her name?"

  "_My Unknown Lady._"

  "Mercy on us! That ought to satisfy even Elisha."

  "It did," said Marcia.