Marguerite Ferney saw him to the door. She was very charming, very graceful in her thanks, and Dr. Doe bustled off on his long round convinced that he had met a very charming woman who, through her own kindness of heart, had been temporarily saddled with an invalid.
As soon as his busy little car had shot out of the drive, Marguerite Ferney ran up the broad staircase and tapped at the library door. A minute or so later she was seated on the arm of Carlton Webb’s chair, talking excitedly.
“He swallowed it like a lamb,” she said, “and the girl played up magnificently, without realizing it, of course. She still thinks he was sent by her guardian, and he’s positively convinced that she’s just the invalid everyone thought she was at the Arcadian. How’s that?”
“Splendid, my dear Marguerite, splendid. So far it’s gone through perfectly. But we’re not out of the wood yet. This is the beginning.”
Carlton Webb’s voice was very grave.
“We mustn’t make a false step anywhere. However, at the moment everything’s perfect. That man’s evidence will be most useful at the inquest.”
Marguerite shuddered. “I hate to hear you use that word,” she said. “She looks very ill. Very ill indeed. I almost believe my own story. You haven’t done anything . . . that can be traced?”
“Nothing at all. I’ve told you, Marguerite. I’m not a fool. In a couple of days, if she’s left entirely as she is, that girl will be as fit and well as ever she was. She’s just weak now. That’s all. It’s rather as though she’s been starved. However, we’ve accomplished the first two steps. Now we must take the third. We must establish our alibi, that’s the important thing. We’ve got to be somewhere else, somewhere where we can be seen at the very moment that our young friend meets with her unfortunate accident.”
He rose to his feet and, linking his arm through the woman’s, stood for a moment staring through the broad window, across the lawn to the dazzling strip of water beyond.
“It looks very peaceful, doesn’t it?” he said, and added with a little laugh which had in it something so completely callous that Marguerite shivered. “No one would dream of those currents. Quite the most dangerous on the East Coast, aren’t they? Even on a day such as this.”
Marguerite turned away. “You frighten me, Carlton,” she said huskily.
His grip on her arm startled her with its force.
“Don’t be a fool. It’s nearly over now.”
They found Judy lying back among her cushions. She looked up anxiously as they approached.
“That funny little doctor, he didn’t guess, did he?”
“No, my dear. He’s gone off with a most satisfactory report from our point of view for Sir Leo. He says you’re to take it very easy for at least three days, so you’re safe for that time, at any rate. And meanwhile your uncle will have arrived. I can’t think what is delaying him so long.”
A shadow of alarm passed over the girl’s face, and Marguerite went on.
“Never mind, my dear. You’re quite safe with me.”
Judy looked up at her gratefully.
“You’re incredibly kind, Marguerite. I’m afraid I’m being an awful nuisance.”
Carlton Webb smiled. “Of course you’re not,” he said. “By the way, Miss Wellington, Marguerite doesn’t want me to ask you this, but I feel I ought to. After all, it’s only a few hours, and I know you won’t mind. You see, it’s Marguerite’s birthday today, and on these occasions she always takes the servants over to Loo, which is miles away on the other side of the bay, to a local fair and concert. It’s over about ten o’clock, and I know it wouldn’t amuse you. But I wondered if you’d mind if we didn’t alter our plans. You’d be perfectly safe here alone, you see, and we shan’t be very late. The arrangement has been made for some time, and I hate to disappoint the servants.”
“But of course not.”
Webb smiled at the eagerness with which the girl rose to the bait.
“Of course not,” she repeated. “I shall be delighted. I can sit here until I feel tired, and then I’ll go to bed.”
Marguerite shook her head. “I can’t have it,” she said. “I can’t have you left here alone. It seems so rude.”
She paused, anxious lest she had made her protest too strong.
“Of course not,” said Judy. “I’d like to be left alone—really I would.”
Carlton Webb clinched the matter.
“Oh, well, then,” he said, “that simplifies everything. I’m so glad we shan’t have to disappoint the staff after all.”
Judy lay back among the cushions and closed her eyes. She felt too weak even to be frightened.
Carlton Webb nodded secretly to Marguerite, and together they moved softly and exultantly away.
Marguerite came across the lawn to say goodbye to her just after five o’clock. She looked very lovely, Judy thought, her long silk coat and picture hat a fitting accompaniment to her befrilled gown of ninon.
“Now, my dear,” she said, “you’re sure you’ll be all right? I feel a complete pig leaving you alone, but I don’t like to disappoint the staff. Your room has been prepared for the night, and you’ll find all the refreshment you want in the dining room. I’ve had a cold meal laid out there. We shall lock all the doors and windows at the front of the house, so you’ll be perfectly all right here, won’t you? We shall be back about half-past ten. Good-bye, dear.”
She stooped as though she were about to kiss the girl, but thought better of it. It was as though some shadow had passed between the two women. Judy felt the checked impulse and wondered, but only for a moment. She repeated her statement that she would be perfectly all right, and Marguerite hurried off.
Judy remained looking after her, and as the slender, graceful figure disappeared into the house something made her raise her eyes, and she caught a glimpse of Carlton Webb standing in the library window looking down at her. He disappeared the moment her eyes rested upon him, and she had no time to see the expression upon his face, but an unaccountable thrill ran through her, a feeling of terror she could not in any way account for.
She pulled herself together. It was this terrible lethargy that had come over her, this strange lack of strength which made her feel so helpless and afraid.
It was over an hour later, when the sun had disappeared behind the cliff and the long golden fingers were stretched out across the lawn and the sea beyond, that she heard the telephone bell. It rang insistently, its shrill trilling piercing through the warm sunlight and demanding attention.
Judy pulled herself painfully to her feet. She had only just enough strength to walk, she found, and her head felt light and swimming.
She made her way into the front hall where the instrument stood, and shivered a little. The great place seemed very dark and lonely after the warm brightness of the evening.
She took up the instrument and pressed it to her ear. The first thing she heard was her own name, “Judy Wellington,” muttered in the muffled, unrecognizable voice which any cross-country line seems alone able to produce.
“I want to speak to Judy Wellington.”
“Yes?” she said. “Who is it? Judy Wellington speaking.”
“Oh, is that you, Judy? Thank God! Can you hear me? The line’s very bad. It’s I—Uncle Jim.”
“Oh, my dear, I hardly recognized you!”
Such a wave of relief passed over the girl that any suspicion which might have been aroused by the peculiar indistinctness of the voice was prevented from arising.
“Listen, Judy.” The voice, although by no means clear, sounded urgent. “I can’t come near the house—the roads are being watched—but I must see you. It’s a matter of life and death. I’m going to the disused building on the other side of the bay. I should think you could see it quite distinctly from the lawn of the house.”
“Yes, I can.” Her voice was shrill with excitement. “A lonely, square place on the other side of the river mouth.”
“That’s it. I’m going there. As soon as
I arrive I’ll put a light in one of the upper windows. Now, listen, Judy. I want you to come. Is it possible? Can any of the people there lend you a boat?”
“They’re all out,” she said. “But, never mind, I’ll get there somehow, darling, if I have to swim for it.”
In her excitement she forgot her weakness. Her only desire was to get to the man who called her.
“I’ll put a light,” the voice continued. “Get a boat. There’s sure to be one there. Good-bye, my darling.”
There was a faint click at the other end of the wire, and then silence. Judy listened intently, but there was no further message. She hung up the receiver and started off towards the garden door.
At the sudden vigorous movement she all but fell again, and with a sense of dismay she realized her terrible physical weakness. But Judy was no coward, and now she was moved by one of the strongest impulses in the world. She had no means of knowing that the message was false, and for her the command was one which had to be obeyed.
Somehow she got through the garden and down to the beach. She had noticed a boathouse there, and now found to her relief that it was unlocked and contained a tiny rowing boat, quite light enough for her to handle alone.
At first she thought she was to be defeated in her efforts to get it launched, but with a thrill of satisfaction she realized that the tide was coming up and that soon it would flow over the sandy bottom of the shed and lift the boat itself.
She walked back to her seat under the trees and sat there watching the square building across the bay. It was just a little square speck, seeming no bigger than a rabbit hutch, and although she strained her eyes she knew that she would never be able to detect any movement round about it.
She even searched the house for some field glasses, but found none, and came back disconsolate.
To her despair, her exhaustion seemed to be growing rather than diminishing, but, working it out in her own mind, she thought she could manage it. After all, the boat was light, and the distance seemed short.
The bay looked completely calm, with only the merest ripple indicating where the waves rose and fell.
Gradually the time passed. The sun sank lower. Judy strained her eyes. Surely there was a light in the upper window? At first she was not sure if it were the rays of the setting sun reflecting on the glass, but as the horizon grew more grey she saw that it was indeed a light.
With stumbling feet she hurried to the boat-house. The little craft was afloat. Completely oblivious of everything but her desire to get to the man to whom she considered herself a daughter, she stepped into the water and guided the boat out into the shallows.
It took her a tremendous effort to climb inside, and each oar felt as though it had been made of lead. But the light still beckoned her, blinking across the grey water.
Judy grasped the oars. It seemed a very long way, and it was going to be a tremendous test of endurance, she knew. What she did not know was that the river, flowing down against the incoming tide, made currents of which even the most experienced fishermen of the East Coast were afraid; currents against which no single man could hope to pull a boat to safety.
Judy took a deep breath, and the next moment she did what Carlton Webb, sitting safely in his stall surrounded by a crowd of witnesses and miles away from the scene of departure, felt sure she would do.
She pushed the little boat out into midstream.
CHAPTER XX
The Last Throw
“THERE’S NOT a light in the whole blinking house.”
Bloomer lowered his voice as he spoke.
“It seems a funny thing to me, doesn’t it to you, Captain?”
The two men were standing together in the dense shrubbery which surrounded the drive of the great gaunt house. It was just dusk, and the hour at which Lionel Birch had considered it best to attempt the rescue.
Cold fear assailed David, but he did not speak, and it was left to Bloomer to utter the thought which was in both their minds.
“I ’ope we’re not too late.”
David caught his breath, and his mouth set in a hard, firm line. A soft rustling in the bushes sounded close at hand and Lionel Birch himself moved softly up beside them.
“All doors locked,” he murmured. “The place seems to be empty.”
It was very eerie standing there in the swiftly growing darkness, the trees overhead soughing gently in the light wind, but none of the three men who stood so grimly in the shadows had time or inclination to notice anything of that sort. Their minds were fixed upon their project, their ears strained to catch the faintest sound which might lead them to the girl they sought.
“We’ll get in somehow,” said David doggedly. All his old caution had deserted him. He was thinking only of Judy. “There’s a wall round the side there. I’ll scale it and try one of the garden windows.”
“Careful, Captain.” Bloomer spoke warningly. “It may be a trap.”
David smiled bitterly. “I almost hope it is. I’d like to get my hands on some of these gentry.”
They followed him gingerly across the path, their feet scrunching noisily on the gravel. David rediscovered the wall, and, leaping up, caught the parapet and hung there a moment before swinging himself over.
Still all within the house was silent as the grave, and Bloomer, at any rate, was conscious of a growing conviction that the birds had flown.
Once in the garden, with the others close on his heels, a surprise awaited David. The house was open and the French windows onto the lawn swung wide.
They entered the building, their guns drawn, and as they made a tour of inspection a growing sense of bewilderment seized all three. A fire was still burning in the kitchen, cold food was laid out in both the dining room and the servants’ hall, and there was every evidence not only that the house had not long been unoccupied but that its residents intended to return.
They located Judy’s room and found it empty, but it still contained her clothes. All her hats and coats were still in the wardrobe.
“It almost looks as though they left her here,” said David wonderingly. “Unless——” The word died on his lips. He could not bring himself to utter the awful thought which had passed through his mind.
He moved to the window and looked down into the darkening garden. He could see the dim outline of the lawn and the white froth of the gentle waves on the beach. There was no moon, and the sea beyond looked grey and mysterious.
Suddenly his attention was caught by something, and his smothered exclamation brought the other men to his side.
“Bloomer,” he said, “what do you make of that?”
The ex-sergeant followed the direction of his gaze and whistled softly.
“Looks to me like a signal,” he said.
David was staring fixedly at the light in the top window of the disused house across the bay.
“That’s about it, Captain.” Bloomer was trembling with excitement. “I know this place fairly well. I’ve been ’ere before. As far as I know there’s no one living just across the bay there. It’s a lonely sort of place. The town’s higher up the river. That’s what that is. It’s a signal. I wonder——”
But David was already out of the room and hurrying down the stairs. They followed him across the lawn and came up to find him flashing his torch into the empty boathouse.
The tide was on the turn, and already the tiny waves were receding, leaving the floor of the shed smooth unbroken sand.
“She’s been here. This is Judy’s. I bought it for her myself.”
By the light of a match Lionel Birch was examining a blue scarf which he had picked up from higher up on the beach. Judy had worn it in the garden and had dropped it in her haste to get to the boathouse.
David cupped his hands and shouted through them.
“Judy! Judy! Judy!”
There was silence, and then his only answer was the far-away cry of a startled sea gull. He tried again, his strong clear voice echoing through the night.
“Judy!”
There was silence for a moment, and then from very far away, and so faint that at first they thought it was a hallucination, there came an answering hail. They listened intently, and it came again, carried to them by the faint breeze from over the water.
“Help me! Help me!”
Lionel Birch shouted like a maniac, and Bloomer, his small blue eyes round with anxiety, whispered in David’s ear.
“God knows what’s happened, Captain,” he murmured. “I know this bay—it’s notorious. There’s two or three cross-currents that make a reg’lar whirlpool out there. What are you going to do?”
David stripped off his coat.
“I shall have to swim for it,” he said. “There’s not another boat. You go and phone, Bloomer. Try and get some help. And you, Mr. Birch, see if you can get her to go on calling us. That’ll give me a chance to find her. Thank God it’s not misty.”
Lionel Birch shook his head. “I can’t let you take the risk, my boy,” he said. “I used to be a first-class swimmer once upon a time.”
David shook his head, and his voice was very quiet and compelling in the grey darkness.
“No, I’m sorry,” he said. “This is a job for me.”
He called the girl again, and again the faint halloo returned. To his anxious ears it sounded weaker now and yet more frantic.
He waded out into the water and struck out in the direction of the sound. David was a fine swimmer. He cut through the water with long powerful strokes. All his weakness of the morning had vanished, and he swam confidently.
At about a hundred yards from the shore, however, he began to realize what Bloomer meant by cross-currents. He entered a belt of icy water flowing much more swiftly than that through which he had come. Its strength surprised him, and as he went on he found himself dragged this way and that and realized that it was all he could do to keep himself on his course, while progress was almost impossible.
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