IV
In dust, in gasoline fumes, in an endless procession of cars, Mr. Donalds proceeded on his way. They stopped for gasoline, they stopped while Wickey investigated a knock in the engine, they stopped again[Pg 252] and again because the procession stopped. Signs told them to “go slow,” and they went slow, until Mr. Donalds was on the verge of frenzy.
He tried to be calm. He reminded himself that he was a relentless human bloodhound, never to be eluded, and that no matter where the criminals went, were it to the very ends of the earth, they could not escape him. Even these thoughts could not appease him. He was hungry, he was extremely thirsty, and he was displeased with his red morocco slippers.
It is fortunate that he did not know how streaked with dust and perspiration his face was, how rumpled his stubby hair. As it was, when he caught any one staring at him, he believed it was because of the ruthless determination of his expression.
At last Wickey turned off the Post Road and stopped halfway down a lane, before a little old-fashioned cottage which bore this sign:
YE BETSY BARKER TEA HOUSE
“Here’s where she went,” said Wickey.
Mr. Donalds sprang out, and, bidding the man wait, opened the garden gate and advanced up the path. The cottage door was unlatched, and he entered, to find himself in a dim, cool little room, filled with small tables and high-backed settees.
There was no one else in the room. He had come in so quietly, in his slippers, that no doubt he had not been heard. He waited a moment, and then he rapped vigorously upon one of the tables.
Almost immediately there entered a thin little white-haired woman wearing a chintz apron.
“Tea?” she asked in a little bleating voice.
She was such a very respectable sort of little woman, and the atmosphere of the place was so very tranquil, that Mr. Donalds felt somewhat abashed.
“No, thank you,” he said. “I’m looking for a woman with red hair and a child in a pink hat.”
Suddenly the whole thing seemed to him so fantastic that he was almost apologetic—until he observed that the woman’s face grew very pale.
“Ha!” he cried. “I see you know something of this! Then—”
“I—I—I—” she faltered. “You must be mistaken. I—I never heard of them. They’ve gone away.”
“You contradict yourself, madam!” said Mr. Donalds sternly. “Come, tell me what you know—at once!”
“I—I—I—” said she, trembling with an alarm which he could not but think guilty. “Oh! Please go away!”
“Go away!” he repeated, affronted and amazed. “I have come here for the purpose of—”
She began to cry. Mr. Donalds had not been an employer of great numbers of female stenographers for years and years without learning to withstand tears. In fact, he had formed the notion that women generally cried whenever they had made a mistake, and that it was a feminine way of apologizing.
“Come, come!” he said. “Tell me where the child is—immediately!”
But all she did was to back into a corner and go on crying. Mr. Donalds was not profoundly moved. On the contrary, he was irritated.
“I shall search the premises,” he announced, and made for the door.
The woman came after him, calling in a loud and terrified voice:
“Evelyn! Evelyn! Evelyn! Quick!”
This was undoubtedly a warning, and Mr. Donalds went forward very rapidly. He reached the foot of a narrow, boxed-in stairway, and had his foot on the bottom step, when, with a rustle of skirts and a click of high heels, down rushed a little human whirlwind, with such impetuosity that he had just time to spring aside.
“What do you mean by this?” the whirlwind demanded. “What’s he been doing, Betsy?”
“He—he—he—” bleated the other.
Mr. Donalds was silent, staring at this new one. She had red hair. She had, moreover, the air of one who is capable of anything. He felt absolutely certain that she was the kidnaper; and he decided that he would confute, abash, and alarm her by a sudden onslaught.
“Come!” he shouted. “Where is the child? Quick! No nonsense! Where is the child?”
“Do you imagine I’m going to tell you?” said she.
He was very much taken aback and shocked by this unaccountable display of effrontery.
“Then you do not deny it?”
“Certainly not!” she replied calmly. “I admit it.[Pg 253]”
“Then stand aside! I shall search the house!”
“By all means,” said she. “The more time you waste over it, the better for me.”
Now, there might be some truth in this. He hesitated, scowling, staring at the criminal, who returned his stare without flinching. He saw that he had no ordinary person to deal with. This was a master mind.
“I shall call the police,” he said, but he didn’t mean it.
“Pray do!” said she.
It was Mr. Donalds’s belief that those who could not be bullied must be bribed; so he changed his tone.
“Madam,” he said, “my sole object is the recovery of the child. To accomplish this, I am willing—”
“Come into the tea room, Mr. Henderson,” she interrupted, “and we’ll discuss the matter. I can assure you that the child is quite safe and happy, and that you will accomplish nothing by violence. No, Mr. Henderson—the best thing you can do is to come to terms with me.”
“My name is not Henderson,” he began, but she had gone past him into the tea room, and he followed.
“Tea, Betsy dear!” said she. “For two, please!”
“No!” said Mr. Donalds. “I do not want tea!”
“And sandwiches,” went on the red-haired woman, unperturbed. “And cake, if you please, Betsy dear. Sit down, Mr. Henderson!”
“I shall stand,” said he, and stand he did, with his arms folded.
The woman sat down, and she said nothing. Mr. Donalds appreciated the cleverness of this silence. By saying nothing at all she had him at a disadvantage, for she did not mind waiting, and he did. He was obliged to begin.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Well!” she returned briskly.
There was another silence—quite a long one.
“I suppose,” said Mr. Donalds, at last, “that you have some sort of terms to suggest. Let me hear them!”
“Certainly,” said she; “but here’s our tea. How nice! Thank you, Betsy dear!”
Mr. Donalds remained silent until the timid Betsy had set the tea out on the table and once more retired.
“Now!” he said grimly. “The terms, madam—the terms!”
“Mr. Henderson,” she replied in a grave tone, “I wish you would sit down and take a cup of tea—and a sandwich. They’re very nourishing sandwiches. I made them myself; and you need nourishment and refreshment. You are tired, and in an extremely nervous condition.”
This was almost more than Mr. Donalds could bear. He struggled with his indignation for a moment, and then gave a short laugh.
“No doubt my pitiful condition distresses you very greatly,” he observed, with biting sarcasm.
“It does,” said she. “I am a good judge of character, and, since I have actually seen you, I am inclined to believe that you are not really a bad or heartless man. I feel now that what you have done, you have done more through lack of understanding than from deliberate cruelty.”
“Upon my word!” said Mr. Donalds.
He was dazed. He sank heavily into a chair opposite her, and stared at her; and she actually smiled at him—smiled gravely but kindly.
“Good!” said she. “Now we can talk like two reasonable human beings. Milk and sugar?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said he, as if in a dream. “I don’t want it, anyhow.”
“I don’t care much for tea myself,” she told him; “but it is refreshing. A sandwich? If you don’t like cheese, I’ll get you—”
“I do like cheese,” he admitted.
“Most men do,” said she. “My poor husband was so fond of it! He was a newspaper man, and when he came home late I would make him a nice little Welsh rarebit, and he’d have that and a glass of beer. That was years ago, of course, when you could get beer.”
She sighed, but Mr. Donalds understood that the sigh was only for her late husband, not for any other vanished joys.
“I do like to see a man comfortable!” she suddenly remarked.
He believed her. Extraordinary and preposterous as it was, he believed that she really wished him to be comfortable. She had prepared a cup of tea for him, and she watched him while he drank it and ate a sandwich—yes, two or three sandwiches—with the air of a solicitous hostess.
“Another cup?” she asked. “And now won’t you smoke?”
“Thank you,” said he.[Pg 254]
He lit a cigar and took a few puffs. He really felt very much better now. The tea and the sandwiches had done him good, and the atmosphere of the place was most restful. The sun was sinking. Already the corners of the room were shadowy, and a shaft of mellow light from the window illumined the woman’s glittering hair in a singular fashion. Seen thus, and through a faint haze of tobacco smoke, she looked not exactly pretty, but certainly attractive, so straight was she, so trim, so smart, so self-possessed.
Mr. Donalds came to his senses with a start.
“The terms, madam!” he said—not savagely now, but firmly.
“Mr. Henderson,” she replied, “I shouldn’t like you to misunderstand me. Perhaps it is a weakness, but I shouldn’t like you to think that my motives were unworthy.”
“I—” he began, and stopped himself just in time. “I don’t think so,” he had been about to say, but that would never do; so he said nothing.
“I give you my word,” she continued, in a voice almost sorrowful, “that I personally have nothing whatever to gain by this. My only object has been to secure justice for others.”
“Justice!” repeated Mr. Donalds. “You call it justice to—”
“I do,” said she. “Now please listen. First”—she paused—“first, that poor creature—that governess—”
“Ha!” cried Mr. Donalds. “Miss Mackellar! So she is a party to this!”
“No, she isn’t. She’s simply a victim, and I don’t wish her to suffer for what isn’t her fault. Any one could see what she is,” the red-haired woman went on with great earnestness. “She’s perfectly helpless. She’s a victim of life—of man.”
“I’m sure I—” he began indignantly.
“I’m sure you’ve frightened her. I’m sure you’ve discharged her.”
“Naturally!”
“Well, then, the first article of our agreement must be this,” said she. “Miss—Mackellar, you said? Miss Mackellar is to have an annuity of one thousand dollars a year.”
“No!” shouted Mr. Donalds. “No! I refuse!”
“Then it’s a deadlock,” said she, and poured herself another cup of tea.
A silence.
“You assure me that the woman is absolutely innocent of any participation in the kidnaping?” demanded Mr. Donalds.
“Absolutely! Any one could see that. She’s only a poor, muddled, tired little woman who does her best. She needs help, and you can very well afford to do this for her.”
“Very well!” said Mr. Donalds. “I agree to this—outrage!”
To tell the truth, the red-haired woman’s description of Miss Mackellar had rather touched him.
“Will you write it down, please?” said she. “Just say that you will provide an annuity of one thousand dollars a year for Miss Mackellar, as from the 10th of April, 1925.”
She spoke in an efficient, businesslike tone, which somehow gave an air of plausibility to this incredible proposal, and he obeyed. He wrote on a page of his notebook, signed it, and put it on the table before him.
“And now,” she went on, “you will agree to settle upon Judith, for life, an income of—”
“Judith!” he cried. “This is too much!”
“Write this,” she said calmly, “and I shall at once take you to the child.”
“This is blackmail!” he cried. “This is extortion!”
“Mr. Henderson,” she replied sternly, “don’t you think, in your heart, that you ought to do this for Judith? Think, Mr. Henderson! Think of all that poor Judith—”
“Who the devil is Judith?” he roared. “I never heard of her!”
“Mr. Henderson!”
“My name is not Henderson—I told you that before! My name is Donalds—William Donalds, importer. Here! Here’s a card!”
From his pocket he pulled not one card, but many, and they fell all over the table.
“Donalds!” he repeated. “Now you know with whom you have to deal. This farce must end! This—”
He stopped, because such an extraordinary change had come over the woman. Her face had grown alarmingly white, and she was staring at him with a sort of horror.
“You—you must be Mr. Henderson!” she said faintly.
“I will not be!” he shouted. “I [Pg 255]refuse! Nothing can induce me to assume a false name! You have kidnaped my grandchild—”
“Your niece, you mean.”
“I don’t! I mean my grandchild. I have no niece. I—”
“Wait a minute!” she interrupted. She rose to her feet and stood, holding the back of the chair. “I’m afraid,” she said, “that there’s been—some terrible mistake!”
“You mean—the child? Quick! Something has happened to the child?”
“No,” she said. “No—it’s just—me.”
Criminal though she was, he could not help feeling sorry for her.
“Madam, you are ill,” he said. “Sit down again!”
She shook her head.
“Mr. Donalds,” she said. “I—I must apologize. I’m afraid—it’s the wrong child!”
“The wrong—”
“Yes. Please come!”
She went out of the room, and he followed her up the stairs. She opened the door of a room, and there, on a bed, he saw his grandchild, sleeping peacefully.
“No!” he whispered. “No—it’s the right child!”
“It isn’t the one I meant,” said she.
He looked at her.
“Then you are not acting on behalf of my scoundrelly nephew, Masterton Donalds?” he said.
“I never heard of him.”
“But I thought—he has made certain threats that he would attempt to force me to make him an allowance. I thought—”
“No,” said the red-haired woman in a very low voice. “Take her! I’m sorry. It was all a mistake!”