“What's interesting you. My way of speaking? I'm American.”
The boy shook his head. “We 'ad Canadian soldiers 'ere during the war; they're pretty near Americans.”
“Then what is it?”
“It's that you're the second gent to-day to slip me a shilling for telling 'im about this 'ouse. And it's something else.” He sank his voice to a whisper. “Don't look round. There's been some one a-peeking from be'ind a bedroom winder most of the time as we've been talkin'. I'd best be goin'. Good evenin', mister.”
Not to attract attention by loitering, Hindwood set off at a businesslike pace down the road toward the headland. As he drew further away from the house, he walked more slowly; he was trying to sort out his facts. The woman who lived there had a Russian name. Santa Gorlof! She dressed like a widow. That would be to disguise herself. The news about the gentlemen friends who visited her was quite in keeping with the character which the Major had bestowed on her, but not at all welcome. She had lived there for a year, off and on. Her companion was an old woman, nearly a hundred—the Little Grandmother! But who was this man who earlier in the day had bribed the boy that he might obtain precisely the same information? He reminded himself that the police were hunting for her. The man might be a detective. If justice had already run her to earth, Seafold was the last place in which he ought to be found. If the boy had been accurate about the trains, there was no escape till the morning. Even though he were to hire an automobile, he would be placing his visit to Seafold on record. Self-preservation rose up rampant. What a fool he'd been to involve himself in so perilous an affair!
And yet, once more and for the last time, he longed to see Santa's face. Why was it? Was it because her hearsay wickedness fascinated him? It was not because he loved her. It was not to gratify morbid curiosity—at least not entirely. Perhaps it was because he pitied her and, against his will, discovered a certain grandeur in her defiance. She had played a lone hand. Like a beast of prey in the jungle, she was surrounded; at this moment she must be listening for the stealthy tread of those who were encompassing her destruction, yet she had not lost her cunning. She was fighting to the end. Probably this time, as when the firing-squad waited for her in the woods of Vincennes, she was planning to employ a man as her substitute—himself. The fact remained that in her desperate need, she had appealed to him for help. There was the barest chance that she was innocent—a victim of false-appearing circumstances. He wanted to judge her for himself by tearing aside the widow's veil and gazing on her destroying beauty.
Turning off the road, he struck across the links, climbing toward the towering headland. The wind, coming in gusts, rustled the parched gorse and brittle fronds of bracken. Behind his back the sun was setting, flinging a level bar of gold across the leaden sea. In sudden lulls, when the wind ceased blowing, the air pulsated with the rhythmic cannonading of waves assaulting the wall of cliffs. When he listened intently, he could hear the ha-ha of their cheering and their sullen moan as they were beaten back. It was strange to think that two weeks ago he had been in New York, intent on nothing but acquiring a fortune. Women had not troubled him. Why should he now permit this woman, chance-met on ship-board, to divert him—a woman who could never be closer to him?
He had reached the summit of the promontory. Etched against the sky-line, his figure must be visible for miles. The sun sank lower and vanished. Gazing through the clear atmosphere, far below him he could discern every detail of the house to which he had been tempted. It looked a fitting nest for an old poet. It held no hint of terror. At the same time it was strategically well situated for occupants who wished to keep an eye on all approaches.
He had been watching for any sign of movement, when a curious thing happened. Though no figure appeared, from one of the upper windows a white cloth fluttered. He shaded his eyes with his hand. The signal was repeated. He tapped his breast and pointed, as much as to say, “Shall I come?” The cloth was shaken vigorously. On repeating the experiment, he obtained the same result. When he nodded his head in assent, the fluttering ended.
So every step of his progress had been observed by some one spying through a telescope from behind the curtained windows! The first moment he had afforded an opportunity by looking back, the signaling had commenced. That so much secrecy should be employed seemed to betoken that Santa's case was desperate. That she should have run the risk of tempting him down from London must mean that he possessed some peculiar facility for rendering her a much needed service.