He pondered this a moment, then his lips curved into an ironical smile.
"No doubt another family secret!" he said. "One would think we were in Corsica or Sicily! Well, we'll try to bear it. By the way, who's this fellow Godfrey, who sent you that message?"
"He's a newspaper-man, a friend of mine—a mighty clever fellow."
His face grew grimmer still.
"More food for the yellow press," he said, with a harsh laugh. "They certainly owe us a vote of thanks."
He was in a dangerous mood. I saw his face harden and darken as he gazed out through the window. His lips moved, but no sound came from them. Then they closed again, compressed and bloodless, and he settled back in his seat as though he had taken a final resolution. I shuddered as I tried to guess what it was. I could imagine but one end for a drama so hideous as this.
And then, as I lay back in the seat, gazing at him, a sudden ray of light flashed across my brain. That contour of the face—that poise of the head—where had I seen them? Where but in the portrait of Ruth Endicott which hung upon the wall of the Kingdon cottage! Since he resembled his father, he would, of course, resemble her. Another link in the chain, I told myself; and trembled to think how strong it was.
Nothing about the house had changed. As we drove up to the door, I saw that the blinds were still drawn, as they had been at the time of my first visit, and no ray of light came through them. It seemed a house of death, and a little shiver ran through me as Curtiss rang the bell.
There was a long delay; a delay that tortured me: for a dark vision danced before me—the vision of a girl lying dead beneath the windows of the library, with a portrait pressed close against her heart. So vivid was it that I could not shake it off, and I nearly cried aloud as a light was switched on the hall, and the door suddenly opened. I looked up expectantly—but it was not Lucy Kingdon; it was a servant whose face I did not remember. She took our cards and showed us into the room which, when I had seen it last, was gay with flowers. Then she left us. Not until she had gone did I remember that Lucy Kingdon was still fighting a battle with death.