III
Whitford was one of those rare men who are equally attractive to both men and women. Any prejudice that might have been aroused in masculine minds by his dilettantism was offset by his adventures as a traveler, hunter and soldier.
“Now, heroes,” began Mrs. Burton, when they were seated, “tell us some war stories. I was brought up on my grandfather’s stories of the Civil War, but the boys we know who went overseas to fight never talk war at all!”
“No wonder!” exclaimed Whitford. “It was only a little playful diversion among the nations. That your idea, Storrs?”
“Nothing to it,” Bruce assented. “We had to go to find out that the French we learned in school was no good!”
Whitford chuckled and told a story of an encounter with a French officer of high rank he had met one wet night in a lonely road. The interview began with the greatest courtesy, became violent as neither could make himself intelligible to the other, and then, when each was satisfied of the other’s honorable intentions, they parted with a great flourish of compliments. Bruce capped this with an adventure of his own, in which his personal peril was concealed by his emphasis on the ridiculous plight into which he got himself by an unauthorized excursion through a barbed wire entanglement for a private view of the enemy.
“That’s the way they all talk!” said Connie admiringly. “You’d think the whole thing had been a huge joke!”
“You’ve got to laugh at war,” observed Whitford, “it’s the only way. It’s so silly to think anything can be proved by killing a lot of people and making a lot more miserable.”
“You laugh about it, but you might both have been killed!” Mrs. Burton expostulated.
“No odds,” said Whitford, “except—that we’d have missed this party!”
They played bridge afterward, though Whitford said it would be more fun to match dollars. The bridge was well under way when the maid passed down the hall to answer the bell.
“Just a minute, Annie!” Constance laid down her cards and deliberated.
“What’s the trouble, Connie? Is Shep slipping in on us?” asked Mrs. Burton.
“Hardly,” replied Constance, plainly disturbed by the interruption. “Oh, Annie, don’t let anyone in you don’t know.”
They waited in silence for the opening of the door.
In a moment Franklin Mills’s voice was heard asking if Mr. and Mrs. Mills were at home.
“Um!” With a shrug Constance rose hastily and met Mills at the door.
“I’d like to see you just a moment, Connie,” he said without prelude.
Whitford and Bruce had risen. Mills bowed to them and to Mrs. Burton, but behind the mask of courtesy his face wore a haggard look.
Constance followed him into the hall where their voices—Mills’s low and tense—could be heard in hurried conference. In a moment Constance went to the hall telephone and called a succession of numbers.
“The club—Freddy Thomas’s rooms——” muttered Whitford. “Wonder what’s up——”
They exchanged questioning glances. Whitford idly shuffled and reshuffled the cards.
“He’s looking for Leila. Do you suppose——” began Mrs. Burton in a whisper.
“You’re keeping score, aren’t you, Storrs?” asked Whitford aloud.
They began talking with forced animation about the game to hide their perturbation over Mills’s appearance and his evident concern as to Leila’s whereabouts.
“Mr. Thomas is at the club,” they heard Constance report. “He dined there alone.”
“You’re sure Leila’s not been here—she’s not here now?” Mills demanded irritably.
“I haven’t seen Leila at all today,” Constance replied with patient deliberation. “I’m so sorry you’re troubled. She’s probably stopped somewhere for dinner and forgotten to telephone.”
“She usually calls me up. That’s what troubles me,” Mills replied, “not hearing from her. There’s no place else you’d suggest?”
“No——”
“Thank you, Connie. Shep’s still away?”
“Yes. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
Mills paused in the doorway and bowed to the trio at the card table. “I’m sorry I interrupted your game!” he said, forcing a smile. “Do pardon me!”
He turned up the collar of his fur-lined coat and fumbled for the buttons. There seemed to Bruce a curious helplessness in the slow movement of his fingers.
Constance followed him to the outer door, and as it closed upon him walked slowly back into the living room.
“That’s a pretty how-d’ye-do! Leila ought to have a whipping! It’s after eight and nothing’s been seen of her since noon. But she hasn’t eloped—that’s one satisfaction! Freddy’s at the club all right enough.”
“She’s certainly thrown a scare into her father,” remarked Mrs. Burton. “He looked positively ill.”
“It’s too bad!” ejaculated Whitford. “I hope she hasn’t got soused and smashed up her car somewhere.”
“I wish Freddy Thomas had never been born!” cried Constance impatiently. “Leila and her father have been having a nasty time over him. And she had cut drinking and was doing fine!”
“Is there anything we can do?—that’s the question,” said Whitford, taking a turn across the floor.
Bruce was thinking hard. What might Leila do in a fit of depression over her father’s hostility toward Thomas?...
“I think maybe——” he began. He did not finish, but with sudden resolution put out his hand to Constance. “Excuse me, won’t you? It’s just possible that I may be able to help.”
“Let me go with you,” said Whitford quickly.
“No, thanks; Mr. Mills may come back and need assistance. You’d better stay. If I get a clue I’ll call up.”
It was a bitter night, the coldest of the year, and he drove his car swiftly, throwing up the windshield and welcoming the rush of cold air. He thought of his drive with Shepherd to the river, and here he was setting forth again in a blind hope of rendering a service to one of Franklin Mills’s children!...
On the unlighted highway he had difficulty in finding the gate that opened into the small tract on the bluff above the boathouse where he had taken Leila and Millicent on the summer evening when he had rescued them from the sandbar. Leaving his car at the roadside, he stumbled down the steps that led to the water. He paused when he saw lights in the boathouse and moved cautiously across the veranda that ran around its land side. A vast silence hung upon the place.
He opened the door and stood blinking into the room. On a long couch that stretched under the windows lay Leila, in her fur coat, with a rug half drawn over her knees. Her hat had slipped to the floor and beside it lay a silver flask and an empty whisky bottle. He touched her cheek and found it warm; listened for a moment to her deep, uneven breathing, and gathered her up in his arms.
He reached the door just as it opened and found himself staring into Franklin Mills’s eyes—eyes in which pain, horror and submission effaced any trace of surprise.
“I—I followed your car,” Mills said, as if an explanation of his presence were necessary. “I’m sure—you are very—very kind——”
He stepped aside, and Bruce passed out, carrying the relaxed body tenderly. As he felt his way slowly up the icy steps he could hear Mills following.
The Mills limousine stood by the gate and the chauffeur jumped out and opened the door. No words were spoken. Mills got into the car slowly, unsteadily, in the manner of a decrepit old man. When he was seated Bruce placed Leila in his arms and drew the carriage robe over them. The chauffeur mounted to his place and snapped off the tonneau lights, and Bruce, not knowing what he did, raised his hand in salute as the heavy machine rolled away.