CHAPTER XVII
THE MIDNIGHT INTRUDER
Once in their rooms the drooping spirits of the picnickers revived,somewhat. It was a fine night, the air warm and fragrant. The windows ofthe sleeping rooms were wide open and the moonlight streamed across thefloor, filling the whole place with its soft radiance.
"Oh look!" cried Grace, going over to the open window. "What a darlingbalcony! I believe the other rooms all open out on it too. Good-bye,"she called to Mollie and the countess, as she stepped nimbly over thesill. "I'm going to make a call."
Grace had hardly disappeared, before the countess went quickly to thedoor, closed it, then came back to Mollie, her finger on her lip.Drawing Mollie over to one corner of the room, where they could not beobserved from the outside, the countess whispered. "Mademoiselle Mollie,I believe you love me and trust me, even more than do your friends, andbecause of this I am going to ask you to do me a very great favor."
Mollie's blue eyes looked lovingly up into the dark eyes of thecountess. So fervent was her feeling of adoration for this fascinatingstranger that she was prepared to grant any favor that lay within herpower. "I should dearly love to help you in any way I can," she saidearnestly. "You make me very, very happy."
The countess kissed her.
"Dear child," she continued, "the thing I am going to ask seems simpleenough, but some day you will understand how much it means to me. Wait amoment," she added almost under her breath. "There is some one whom Ihold in such dread that, even in this desolate and far-away place, he orhis confederate might be listening."
She looked about her cautiously, then went to the window and anxiouslyscanned the balcony. It was quite empty. Her eyes searched the longavenue leading to the grove that looked like a huge black spot in themoonlight. Then she returned to Mollie and said softly, "I am not afraidof ghosts, and neither are you, Mollie, I am sure, because there are nosuch things; but this place fills me with foreboding. It is so lonesome,so utterly dismal. What was that? I thought I heard a noise below. Didyou hear anything?"
"Perhaps it was Jim closing up for the night," replied Mollie, pressingclose to the countess for comfort. "But what was the favor? I will doanything for you."
"This is it," answered the countess, her voice again dropping to awhisper. "Will you, for a few days, carry a paper for me? It is a verydangerous paper, dangerous, that is, because some one else wishes it,but it is a very valuable one to me because I may need it, and if youwill keep it safely hidden until I do need it, you will not only bedoing me a service but Mademoiselle Warren also."
Mollie looked puzzled. The countess's words were shrouded in mystery.
"Does it concern the Count de Sonde, too?" she asked breathlessly.
"Yes," replied the countess; "it concerns him very intimately. Will youdo this for me, little Mollie? I know now that the paper is not safeeither in my house or on me. It would be quite safe with you, however.Even my enemy would never think of that, and, if anything should happento me, you may produce the paper at once. Give it to Mr. Stuart. He willknow what should be done."
The countess took from her dress a square, flat chamois bag whichfastened with a clasp and evidently contained a document of some sort.
"Fasten it into your dress with this pin," she said, "and keep the pinas a memento of our friendship."
And the pin, as Mollie saw later, was no ordinary affair, but a broadgold band on which was a beautifully enameled coat of arms.
"Is this another secret session?" cried Ruth's voice gayly from thewindow.
The two conspirators started nervously.
"Come into our room," Ruth continued. "Papa has sent up the luncheonhamper. There are still some sandwiches and fruit left; likewise a boxof candy. We were too frightened to have appetites at supper, but Ithink a little food, now, will cheer us mightily."
"This looks quite like a boarding-school spread," exclaimed Miss Sallieas they gathered around the feast. "But it is really a good idea. I feelthat this little midnight luncheon might help me keep up my courageuntil I get to sleep."
"What a jolly little feast," cried the Countess Sophia. "I am quitebeginning to take heart again after that fearful ordeal below. I had afeeling all the time that the chairs were not really empty."
"Goodness me!" cried Grace, "do change the subject, or we shall beafraid to go to bed at all."
"And I move that we take to our couches at once," said Ruth, "while wehave the courage to do so. Madame de Villiers, are you not afraid tosleep alone?"
"Not in the least, my dear. I am not afraid of the most courageous ghostthat ever walked. I believe I will retire at once. I am very tired."
Taking one of the candles which stood in a row on the mantel, making acheerful illumination, the stately old woman bade them good night, andthe tapping of her stick resounded through the empty hall.
Soon after Grace, Mollie and the countess stepped through the window,and down the balcony to their room.
"You'd better close your shutters," called Grace over her shoulder."We're going to."
"And lose all this glorious moonlight?" asked Ruth. "Never. This balconyis too high from the ground for any one to climb up, easily, andbesides, old Jim is going to be on guard to-night. Aunt Sallie thinks wehad better try to make ourselves comfortable without doing muchundressing. Even if we don't sleep very well to-night, we can make upfor it when we get back to the hotel." With these words Ruth blew outthe candles and five minutes later, their shoes and outer clothingremoved, she and Barbara and Miss Sallie were fast asleep.
Grace and Mollie, however, struggled vainly with the heavy woodenshutters, but try as they might they could not succeed in closing themtightly. After some subdued laughter and many exclamations theyabandoned their task in disgust, and blowing out their candles preparedthemselves for sleep.
At midnight Ruth awoke with a start. She had a distinct sensation thatsome one had been looking into her face. But the room was still floodedwith moonlight, and she could see plainly that, except for her sleepingcompanions, no one was there. She turned over and closed her eyes again,but the sudden waking had driven sleep away.
Was that a noise?
Ruth held her breath and listened. There was not a sound except theregular breathing of Miss Sallie.
Ruth lay with every nerve strained to catch the lightest footfall. In amoment it came again, very faint but still distinct. Something--someone--moved somewhere.
She sat up in bed and touched Barbara lightly on the cheek.
Barbara opened her eyes slowly then sat up. Ruth pointed to the nextroom. The two girls listened intently. Again there was the sound, asoft, a very soft footfall on a creaking board.
Cautiously the two girls climbed from the bed and crept over to the doorbetween the two rooms. On a small bed at the far side of the room laythe countess, sleeping soundly. Grace and Mollie also were fast asleepin the other bed. Suddenly Ruth gripped Bab's arm. The eyes of bothgirls were riveted on the old fashioned dressing table in one corner ofthe room. Before it stood the same terrible old man that Bab had seen atthe villa. He was examining minutely every thing on the dresser. Next heturned his attention to the girls' walking suits which hung over thebacks of the chairs. He searched the pockets of the coats, the linings,and even the hems of the skirts.
"He is certainly looking for a paper," Barbara thought, as she watchedhim make his systematic search, "and he certainly has something to dowith the countess's affairs."
Barbara's mind reverted to the group she had seen on the hotel veranda,the night before. What was the explanation of it all? Was the countessreally an impostor and why, when she evidently feared Monsieur Duval andignored Mrs. De Lancey Smythe, did she hold interviews late at nightwith them? She had distinctly refused the "Automobile Girls'"invitations to the hotel, yet she had not refused to meet others there.And what part could this ferocious looking old man possibly have in thedrama?
All this passed rapidly through Bab's mind as with her hand claspedtightly in Ruth's the two girls
watched the intruder with bated breath.To Bab there was something strangely familiar about him, his movementssuggested some one she had seen before, yet she could find no place inher memory for him.
Failing to find what he desired, the old man again turned toward thecountess a look of indescribable menace on his face. He took a steptoward her then--a sudden burst of weird music floated up from thegloomy drawing room. With a smothered exclamation the intruder whirledand making for the window swung himself over the ledge. Ruth clutchedBarbara for support. She was trembling with fear.
"Don't be frightened, dear," soothed Bab bravely. "That isn't ghostmusic. It's only Miss Thorne playing the harp. It's an unearthly hourfor music, but she couldn't have begun to play at a more opportunemoment, either. I believe that frightful old man thought it was ghostmusic. Just listen to it. It's enough to give any one the creeps."
The demented old woman played on in a wailing minor key, and presentlyfootsteps were heard coming down the hall. By this time Mollie, Graceand the countess were wide awake and seeing Bab and Ruth in their roomdemanded to know what had happened. A moment later Madame de Villiersand Miss Sallie, both fully dressed, entered the room.
"No more sleep for me to-night," announced Miss Stuart firmly. "I feelthat the sooner morning comes and we get out of this house the betterpleased I shall be."
At that instant a melancholy strain like the wail of a lost soul rosefrom down stairs. Then all was silent.
"I begin to believe it is the departed spirit of her sister Lucy thatexecuted that last passage," shuddered the countess. "Come, my dears letus finish dressing. It will soon be morning and then surely some waywill be provided for us to go back to Palm Beach."
"Shall we tell her?" whispered Ruth to Bab.
"We'd better," nodded Bab. "Then she will be constantly on her guard."
"Listen, everyone," commanded Ruth. "We are going to tell you somethingbut you mustn't feel frightened. We think the countess should know it atonce. You tell them about it, Bab."
Bab obediently began a recital of what had transpired after she and Ruthhad been so suddenly wakened. The others listened in consternation toher story. The countess who turned very pale while Bab was speaking,looked appealingly at Madame de Villiers. The stern old woman wasapparently much agitated. "He shall not harm the Countess Sophia," shemuttered, forgetful of those about her. "I will protect her even fromhim."
"Aunt Sallie, shall I call Father?" asked Ruth a few moments later. Theseven women were seated about the room in silent dejection.
"No, Ruth," responded her aunt. "We will not waken him. A man that cansleep through a concert such as we were favored with deserves to be leftin peace. It is after four o'clock now. I think we'll let him sleepuntil six, at least. Then after breakfast, perhaps, he will be able todevise some means by which we may return to the hotel."
It was a very tired and sleepy band of picnickers that gathered aroundthe Thorne breakfast table that morning, and breakfast was not over whenthe honk of an automobile horn was heard and a large touring car rolledup the avenue.
"Hurrah!" shouted Ruth. "It's Mr. Warren. Oh, but I'm glad to see him."
It was indeed Mr. Warren, who, when the party did not return that night,had taken the fastest launch he could find and made for the picnicground. He had discovered the note, as Mr. Stuart had hoped, hadreturned to the hotel where the history of Thorne house and its mistresswas not unknown and had come for them himself after a few hours sleep.
"I should be happy and honored if you would all come again," said MissThorne as she waved adieu to her guests from the front piazza, while Jimand Chloe bobbed and bowed and chuckled over the generous present theyhad each received from Mr. Stuart.
As the automobile rolled down the avenue they caught a last glimpse ofthe mistress of Thorne House still waving her handkerchief, and in everyheart was a feeling of tender sympathy for the little old woman whosepresent was so irrevocably linked to the past.