IX
THE BUNGALOW
As soon as I could break away and leave him I did, and betook myself toMrs. Carew's house. My resolve was taken. Late as it was, I wouldattempt an interview with her. The lights still burning above and belowgave me the necessary courage. Yet I was conscious of some embarrassmentin presenting my name to the astonished maid, who was in the act ofextinguishing the hall-light when my vigorous ring prevented her. Seeingher doubtful look and the hesitation with which she held the door, Itold her that I would wait outside on the porch till she had carried upmy name to Mrs. Carew. This seemed to relieve her and in a moment I wasstanding again under the vines waiting for permission to enter thehouse. It came very soon, and I had to conquer a fresh embarrassment atthe sight of Mrs. Carew's nimble and gracious figure descending thestairs in all eagerness to greet me.
"What is it?" she asked, running hastily forward so that we met in thecenter of the hall. "Good news? Nothing else could have brought you backagain so soon--and at an hour so late."
There was a dangerous naivete in the way she uttered the last threewords which made me suspect the actress. Indeed I was quite conscious asI met her thrilling and expressive glance, that I should never feelagain the same confidence in her sincerity. My judgment had beenconfounded and my insight rendered helpless by what I had heard of herart, and the fact that she had once been a capable player of "parts."
But I was man enough and detective enough not to betray my suspicion,now that I was brought face to face with her. It had always been latentin my breast, even in the very midst of my greatest admiration for her.Yet I had never acknowledged to myself of what I suspected her, nor didI now--not quite--not enough to give that point to my attack which wouldhave insured me immediate victory or defeat. I was obliged to feel myway and so answered, with every appearance of friendly confidence:
"I fear then that I shall be obliged to ask your pardon. I have no goodnews; rather what might be called, if not bad, of a very perplexingcharacter. The child has been traced"--here I purposely let my voicehalt for an instant--"here."
"Here?" her eyes opened, her lips parted in a look of surprise soingenuous that involuntarily I felt forced to add, by way ofexplanation:
"The child, I mean, who was carried screaming along the highway in awagon and for whom the police--and others--have for two days beenlooking."
"Oh!" she ejaculated with a slight turn of her head aside as shemotioned me toward a chair. "And is that child Gwendolen? Or don't youknow?" She was all eagerness as she again faced me.
"That will be known to-morrow," I rejoined, resisting the beautifulbrightness of her face with an effort that must have left its mark on myown features; for she smiled with unconscious triumph as she held myeyes for a minute in hers saying softly, "O how you excite me! Tell memore. Where was the wagon found? Who is with it? And how much of allthis have you told Mrs. Ocumpaugh?"
With the last question she had risen, involuntarily, it seemed, and asthough she would rush to her friend if I did not at once reassure her ofthat friend's knowledge of a fact which seemed to throw a gleam of hopeupon a situation hitherto entirely unrelieved.
"Mrs. Ocumpaugh has been told nothing," I hastily returned, answeringthe last and most important question first. "Nor must she be; at leastnot till certainty replaces doubt. She is in a critical state, I amtold. To rouse her hopes to-night only to dash them again to-morrowwould be cruel policy."
With her eyes still on my face, Mrs. Carew slowly reseated herself."Then there are doubts," she faltered; "doubts of its being Gwendolen?"
"There is always doubt," I replied, and openly paused in manifestnon-committal.
"Oh!" she somewhat wildly exclaimed, covering her face with herhands--beautiful hands covered with jewels--"what suspense! what bitterand cruel suspense! I feel it almost as much as if it were my Harry!"was the final cry with which she dropped them again. And she did feelit. Her features had blanched and her form was shaking. "But you havenot answered my questions as to where this wagon is at present and underwhose care? Can't you see how anxious I must be about that--if it shouldprove to be Gwendolen?"
"Mrs. Carew, if I could tell you that, I could tell you more; we shallboth have to wait till to-morrow. Meanwhile, I have a favor to ask. Haveyou by any chance the means of entrance to the bungalow? I have a greatand inappeasable desire to see for myself if all the nooks and cornersof that place have given up their secrets. It's an egotistical desire,no doubt--and may strike you as folly of the rankest--but we detectiveshave learned to trust nobody in our investigations, and I shall never besatisfied till I have looked this whole spot over inch by inch for theclue which may yet remain there. If there is a clue I must find it."
"Clue?" She was looking at me a little breathlessly. "Clue to what? Thenshe wasn't in the wagon; you are still seeking her--"
"Always seeking her," I put in.
"But surely not in the bungalow!" Mrs. Carew's expression was one ofextreme surprise. "What can you find there?"
"I do not know. But I want to look. I can go to the house for a key, butit is late; and it seems unpardonable to disturb Mrs. Ocumpaugh. Yet Ishall have to do this if you have not a key; for I shall not sleep tillI have satisfied myself that nothing can be discovered on the immediatescene of Gwendolen's disappearance, to help forward the rescue we bothare so intent upon."
"You are right," was the hesitating reply I received. "I have a key; Iwill fetch it and if you do not mind, I will accompany you to thebungalow."
"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," I replied with my best bow;white lies come easy in our trade.
"I will not keep you a minute," she said, rising and going into thehall. But in an instant she was back. "A word to my maid and a coveringfor my head," she explained, "and I will be with you." Her mannerpointed unmistakably to the door.
I had no alternative but to step out on the porch to await her. But shewas true to her word and in a moment she had joined me, with the key inher hand.
"Oh, what adventures!" was her breathless cry. "Shall I ever forget thisdreadful, this interminable week! But it is dark. Even the moon isclouded over. How shall we see? There are no lights in the bungalow."
"I have a lantern in my pocket. My only hope is that no stray gleam fromit may pierce the shrubbery and bring the police upon us."
"Do you fear the police?" she chatted away, almost as a child might.
"No; but I want to do my work alone. There will be little glory orlittle money in it if they share any of my discoveries."
"Ah!" It was an irrepressible exclamation, or so it seemed: but I shouldnot have noted it if I had not caught, or persuaded myself that I hadcaught, the oblique glint from her eye which accompanied it. But it wasvery dark just at this time and I could be sure of nothing but that shekept close to my side and seemed more than once on the point ofaddressing me in the short distance we traversed before reaching thebungalow. But nothing save inarticulate murmurs left her lips and soonwe were too busy, in our endeavors to unlock the door, to think ofconversation.
The key she had brought was rusty. Evidently she had not often made useof it. But after a few futile efforts I succeeded in making it work, andwe stepped into the small building in a silence that was only lessprofound than the darkness in which we instantly found ourselvesenveloped. Light was under my hand, however, and in another moment thereopened before us the small square room whose every feature had taken ona ghostly and unfamiliar air from the strange hour and the unwontedcircumstances. I saw how her impressionable nature was affected by thescene, and made haste to assume the offhand air I thought most likely toovercome her apprehension. But the effect of the blank walls before her,relieved, but in no reassuring way, by the long dark folds of the rugshanging straight down over the mysterious partition, held its ownagainst my well-meant efforts, and I was not surprised to hear her voicefalter as she asked what I expected to find there.
I pointed to a chair and said:
"If you will sit down, I will show y
ou, not what I expect to find, buthow a detective goes about his work. Whatever our expectations, howeversmall or however great, we pay full attention to details. Now the detailwhich has worried me in regard to this place is the existence of acertain space in this building unaccounted for by these four walls; inother words, the portion which lies behind these rugs,"--and throwingaside the same, I let the flame from my lantern play over the walled-upspace which I had before examined with little satisfaction. "Thispartition," I continued, "seems as firm as any of the walls, but I wantto make sure that it hides nothing. If the child should be in some holeback of this partition, what a horror and what an outrage!"
"But it is impossible!" came almost in a shriek from the woman behindme. "The opening is completely walled up. I have never known of itsbeing otherwise. It looked like that when I came here three years ago.There is no possible passage through that wall."
"Why was it ever closed up? Do you know?"
"Not exactly. The family are very reticent about it. Some fancy of Mr.Ocumpaugh's father, I believe. He was an odd man; they tell all mannerof stories about him. If anything offended him, he rid himself of itimmediately. He took a distaste to that end of the hut, as they used tocall it in the old days before it was remodeled to suit the house, so hehad it walled up. That is all we know about it."
"I wish I could see behind that wall," I muttered, dropping back the rugI had all this time held in my hand. "I feel some mystery here which Ican not grasp." Then as I flashed my lantern about in every directionwith no visible result, added with the effort which accompanies suchdisappointments: "There is nothing here, Mrs. Carew. Though it is thescene of the child's disappearance it gives me nothing."