Daphne Deane

by Grace Livingston Hill

  But Keith Morrell was out under the far stars walking toward his old home, sleepy and cross and wishing he hadn't come till morning. He was puzzling over why William Knox should be out all this time hunting Gowney and decided that was improbable, for the neighborhood where Gowney lived was not a very savory one if he judged by his brief excursion there with young Ransom Deane in search of the Gowney boy. And it did not seem to him that timid little William Knox was a man who would choose midnight for a visit to the haunts of possible semi-gangsters.

  So Keith finally put away the thought of Knox and went toward his old home. He might just as well stay there for the night. It was too late to take the train to the city. He could hear the whistle now as it came around the curve, and he was too far from the station to make it in time. Besides, why waste time going back and forth to the city? There were plenty of comfortable couches and beds in his house. He could just drop down on the parlor couch and sleep. Then in the morning he would be on hand, and if there was any funny business going on about the old house he would be able to check up on it. Of course, there was a very nice boardinghouse in the town, and the inn was a half mile down the road, but why bother? He would go home.

  His direction led past Emily Lynd's house. If there had been a light there he would have stopped to see her, late as it was, for he knew that she was wakeful and liked late guests to help her through the weary hours of the night. But the little white cottage with its wonderful old fanlight over the front door was dark as a pocket, so he walked on as silently as he could not to waken her.

  He did not know that Emily Lynd had been lying in a dark room all the evening the better to watch the Morrell house and make sure if a light appeared there again, and that she had settled it with herself that she would call up the police the minute she saw that light again. But there had been no light so far, and only the distant muffled sound of a car a few minutes before. She was almost dropping off into a doze when Keith's quiet footsteps roused her to alertness once more. But Keith's footsteps, quiet as they were, were not furtive enough for the tramp or gangster for whom she was watching. Her ears were attuned for gangsters. Long years of wakefulness had made her keen to judge people by their walk. She decided that the steps must belong to her neighbor Mr. Galloway who lived at the far end of the street and sometimes came home on the midnight train.

  As Keith walked on past Miss Lynd's house intending to enter his own property by the little wicket gate at the side, he was suddenly surrounded by memories of other days, old friends and scenes like a panorama hedging his path. This was the way he used to take on his way home from school all his younger days. Here was the broad stone walk of the Whitman house where the boys used to stop to spin their tops and shoot their marbles when they were just in the primary. Farther on in the road was the place he first learned to mount his bicycle, his mother and father standing at the fence to watch and applaud at his success. There at the corner was the spot in the hedge where his little dog Dash used to come out barking to meet him and later, in high school days, limp down the path to the gate to wag his aged tail. This was the road where he rode his pony, too. And afterward when the pony was exchanged for a horse it was down this road he always rode for his morning exercise when he was at home from college in summertime.

  When he came to his own gate, his breath caught in his throat, for it seemed to him, though the night was dark with scrappy clouds hiding most of the stars, that the little old gate stood out from the night and welcomed him and that his mother must be there somewhere in the shadows waiting for him, as she used to do all through the years. Oh, how he suddenly missed his mother! He felt a return of that shrinking from the old house that had kept him away so long. Perhaps he had been wrong to come alone. The dreariness had been somewhat dispelled from his thoughts since he came with Daphne Deane in the brightness of the morning, but now it had returned full force. He cast a wistful eye across the lawn and over the street beyond, to the house where the Deanes lived. Perhaps he had a furtive hope that there would be a light there and he could enlist Donald to come with him. It would be less forlorn. But the Deane house was dark and silent across that wide stretch of night, and he sighed as he put out his hand to open the little gate, half hesitating even then. But for shame! He was a man. What was this womanish dread that was upon him? He opened the gate and went up the grass-grown path of stepping-stones, walking rapidly the familiar way toward the house.

  If he had but known it, he was not alone. Quite nearby there were a number of eyes that were not sleeping. Besides the eye of a loving God who was yearning over him and preparing the way that he should walk in the days that should follow, there was Daphne Deane at her window and Emily Lynd at hers, watching, listening, alert to any sound or spark of light. And there was always Mrs. Gassner whenever anything was going on in the neighborhood, no matter how silent and furtive. Ever since she had sighted that light from the coal hole in the Morrell cellar, she had been making a practice of taking an afternoon nap so that she would be fresh to keep vigil and sift this thing down to the bottom of the mystery. Mrs. Gassner loved a mystery, but better than all, her ambition was to be able to unravel it herself and give out the news of its solving to the world.

  But Keith had not for a long time now been God-conscious, as he used to be when he was a lad, and he had never been conscious of the neighbors, except Emily Lynd, and he thought her asleep. There was Daphne Deane over there in that house in the darkness asleep, too, of course, and he had been schooling himself for the last few days to recognize the fact that she belonged to that new minister and must not be reckoned on in his thoughts. He had enough complications without that.

  And yet, perhaps all these were God's ministering angels that night in His great scheme of things; even Mrs. Gassner, though she might have been surprised if she had been told of it.

  Daphne had been roused from her first sleep about midnight by the sound of that furtive motor, puffing under its breath, and the soft, almost inaudible crunch of the stealthy car as it rolled to a stand in the Morrell drive.

  She was at the window instantly and on the alert, her heart beating wildly as hearts will do when a mystery seems to be developing in the darkness. Silly! Of course, it was nothing, and yet she had to wake up and watch. She wondered if Father ought not to write Keith Morrell and tell him about it. But no, of course, that would be foolish when it might be just a weary milkman taking a rest in between towns. Perhaps she ought to call Donald and let him listen, too. Though she hated to because he had to get up so early in the morning to get to his work.

  Then she distinctly heard a low murmur of a voice. That couldn't be a mistake. Well, perhaps it was two milkmen talking.

  But all at once a dim light flared, making a kind of dull glow for an instant, and while it lasted she distinctly saw an open doorway--the outside cellar door of the Morrell house and two dark figures carrying something bulky and heaving out of the door!

  Her heart was in her mouth. Was somebody stealing things systematically, night by night, through the cellar door? She might call Don, but that would waken Mother, and perhaps the children.

  There was utter blackness now where the light had been. Maybe she had just thought she saw it. But no, there it was again, briefer, dimmer, but still the doorway with men and a bulky object between them. But--what was that? A quick sharp light like a single beam cutting the darkness back there in the cellar! Gone instantly like the rest but then a dancing speck of light around at the end outside of the house, low flashing then sweeping in a wide circle, showing quick glimpses of shrubs and bushes, glancing across the dark hood of a huge truck and darting away again as if someone were hunting for something! Suddenly a low sound of a curse rumbling on the night across the garden, but unmistakable! Something heavy dropped, a movement in the bushes, a stealthy closing of that cellar door, silence! Awful, menacing silence! And yet with the return of the darkness, a tantalizing challenge that perhaps this was only illusion.

  A moment later the sound of
feet in the grass along the end of the house, hurrying feet, and three gun shots rang out in quick succession. And was that a moan? A cry for help?

  "Don! Come quick! Wake up, Don!"

  "I'm here!" said Donald from the doorway. "I heard! I'm going over! Someone is hurt!"

  "Oh, Don! Not alone! Wait! I'm coming, too!"

  "No! Don't think of it! Call the police, and get a bed ready if someone is hurt!"

  He was gone.

  There was utter darkness and silence now, when she turned her eyes back to the window, and then she heard the stealthy truck backing hurriedly out, sliding down the hill--! Silence!

  She hurried to the telephone.

  Emily Lynd had not slept a wink. She had lain there placidly, sometimes praying, sometimes just thinking, staring over at the familiar darkness. And then suddenly she saw the light but not in the place where it had shone before. It was at the front door, flashing about like a will-o'-the-wisp, not in the least furtive, swinging about investigating the front porch like one who belonged there.

  She stared at it in amazement. The mystery deepened. Then the light walked on across the porch and stood at the far end, pointing up and then down and then sweeping around the lawn. She could dimly see a figure holding it high. But it stepped down and went out of sight, and Emily Lynd reached out a trembling hand for the telephone. The time had come for her to act. The police might laugh at her afterward if they liked, for a silly old woman, but she could not stand this any longer. She got her call in a whole minute before Daphne reached her telephone, and Daphne was told the line was busy, so she went frantically back to her window to watch till the operator called her.

  Meantime, Mrs. Gassner over at her window was placidly eating a midnight lunch with which she had thoughtfully supplied herself before coming to her post of observation, a piece of apple pie, a hunk of cheese, and a couple of doughnuts, with some cold coffee left over from dinner. But she did not take her eyes from the square of dark window before her as she groped to the plate in her lap and fed her wide mouth generously.

  Mrs. Gassner heard the truck, too. She had heard it before but had not connected it with the other light she had seen, as her window did not exactly face the back cellar door of the Morrell house, though it had a much better view of the coal hole than Daphne had. That coal hole had somehow escaped the notice of the intruders, whoever they were, perhaps because it was located in the alcove where the coal was kept and they hadn't seen it and covered it as they had the cellar windows. But there had as yet been no sharp light from the coal hole tonight as there had been other evenings, and Mrs. Gassner finished her pie in a leisurely way and had about decided that it was folly to sit up longer, there would be no further doings tonight, when suddenly she saw the light flashing around from the end of the front porch and moving out to the lawn at the end of the house in her plain view. Her jaws paused in the manipulation of the last delicious bite of cheese to look in amazement. It had been a long time since anything so entirely satisfactory in the way of developments in a mystery had come her way to justify her vigils.

  As the light continued to dance along the end of the house, coming nearer and nearer, she caught a glimpse of that dimmer light in the cellarway, vague and indistinct. But Mrs. Gassner had a good imagination and did not need much to go on. She reached out for her telephone and called William Knox's number.

  And when Martha Knox excitedly came to answer, she shouted into the phone: "Is this Martha Knox? Well, this is Harriet Gassner, and there's odd doings going on at the Morrell house right now this minute, lights and strange noises, and I'm just letting you know that I ain't going to keep still any longer. I'm telephoning the police! I don't care whether you like it or not!" And she hung up.

  Then she called the police: "There's somebody breaking into the old Morrell house! Is this the police headquarters? Yes, I said there was someone breaking into the old Morrell house! What? Who am I? What does that matter? Oh, I see. Well, I'm not ashamed to tell my name. I am Mrs. Silas Gassner. No. Mrs., I said. Silas is asleep! He's had a hard day and I didn't wake him. He doesn't wake easy. Besides, I wouldn't want him to go over there alone. I didn't think you'd like it. It's the business of the police, isn't it? What? Yes, I said there was somebody breaking in---- What? Why I'm watching 'em right now!"--Mrs. Gassner would have made a splendid radio announcer for football games and prize fights--"Yes, they've got a flashlight and some kind of a truck at the back door, and I think they're stealing all the furniture. And there goes a shot! Goodness! You better come right now! I heard somebody groan! Maybe it's murder! There! I hear the truck backing out. They're getting away! You better hurry! It sounds as if they'd turned into the pike the other side of the Morrell house. You can catch them if you come around Maple Lane and head 'em off! What? Officer! Officer! I said!-- My word! They've hung up! I wonder why! Now they won't be able to head them off. I'll have to call them again! Don't tell me men aren't hotheaded, even policemen! Operator! Operator! Give me the number again! I wasn't through speaking! You cut me off! Yes----you did! My word! Can't you attend to your work at this time of night when so few are telephoning, or were you asleep? Well, hurry up! What say? You can't get them? But I tell you I was just talking to them! My word! Such inefficiency! And we pay to have telephones and policemen!" And then suddenly there flashed lights all about, springing up from everywhere, motorcycles and police cars with long streams of fierce light pouring out columns of brightness into the night, surrounding the Morrell house on every side, tall, stalwart state troopers from the nearby station scattering in every direction. It was almost more than she could handle and keep her head.

  But over on Miss Lynd's side of the Morrell estate, two long bright columns of light streamed forth from a car that stood by the side entrance, and Emily Lynd, almost too excited to look, suddenly saw a dark crouching figure dart from one clump of shrubbery to another and dash toward the long black truck without a light that was coasting down the gentle incline that passed Miss Lynd's house. The dark man moved stealthily, not knowing, of course, that the band of light from that car by the house made a brilliant background and silhouetted him distinctly for an instant, just as he gave a spring to the running board of the truck and was drawn up by unseen hands while the truck slid on down the hill and rounded the curve out of sight.

  "Did you see that, Delia?" Miss Lynd said to her nurse and companion, who in dressing gown and slippers had been watching from the other window.

  "I certainly did!" said Delia. "That must have been the man who fired those shots. And he's got away!"

  "He mustn't get away!" said Emily, reaching for her telephone.

  "Is this the chief of police? Yes, this is Emily Lynd. Yes, the same one who called. Yes, your men are here, but there were shots fired and I saw a man run across the lawn and jump the fence in front of my house and get in a truck that was moving very quietly without lights past the house. He's getting away, but I should think you could head him off yet if you went at once. They're headed toward the pike. A long black truck. No, we couldn't see the license number. It was too dark."

  The next morning the papers came out with a few of the facts concerning the shooting, and credit was given to Emily Lynd for first calling the police. The other calls were included under the phrase "and a few of the other neighbors also reported lights seen."

  "Now isn't that the limit!" said Mrs. Gassner bitterly, sitting at her breakfast table beside her morning coffee, with the paper spread before her on the table. "Emily Lynd, a poor bedridden invalid! How could she see anything from away over there? To give her the credit of sending in the alarm, and never say a word about me, an able-bodied woman who knew what she was talking about. I've a notion to phone them and make them correct that in tomorrow morning's paper!"

  Chapter 17

  Daphne, having sent in her report to the police, flew upstairs to prepare the guest room for a possible patient. As she passed the window she heard Donald's special whistle for Ransom ring out. But Ranse had just
passed her, going down the stairs like a streak, pulling his sweater on, his tousled head bobbing in the doorway, then disappearing into the darkness. It seemed but an instant before he reappeared breathless, pausing at the door to shout: "He wants the cot ta carry him over on. He says fer you ta phone the doctor quick!"

  Then he disappeared again, the cot from the attic under his arm, bumping along on every step.

  Daphne, quick and efficient, called the doctor and then with swift fingers put clean sheets on the guest bed. She had it ready by the time the men came slowly up the steps carrying the cot with its burden.

  Then her mother appeared, calm and collected.

  "They'll want hot water," she said. "I wish your father were home, but he'll be here in the morning. Go back to your bed, Beverly," she said to the little girl who appeared wide-eyed and shivering with excitement. "It's just somebody who has been hurt. They are bringing him here. There they come now. Go back to your room quick, dearie. And shut the door!"

  Then to the men below she spoke, low voiced: "Right up here to the room at the head of the stairs, please."

  Silently they all worked, bringing water, old linen cloths. The doctor was there almost immediately and down on his knees beside the injured man.