"Be sure you do not get lost again!" Mrs. Atterbury warned her, with a smile which struck a chill to the girl's heart. "If you go beyond the gates, turn only in one direction and when you are tired, retrace your steps. I shall expect you home in an hour."
There was more than a hint of spring in the languorous, humid air, and the sight of a venturesome robin preening his scarlet breast on the lawn made the blood leap in her veins. In spite of the dark shadows which surrounded her, and the problematic future looming ahead, the youth in Betty responded joyously to the burgeoning year and she quickened her pace as she passed out of the tall gate.
Chance led her to turn southward along the drive and at the corner she came face to face with a man lounging against a lamp-post. He was smooth shaven and respectable in appearance, but the cap pulled low over his eyes gave him a furtive air and his burly figure and truculent bearing made her think somehow of a policeman, although the clothes he wore resembled those of an artisan. He glanced at her sharply and moved on, but the trail of cigarette stubs about the lamp-post told of a lengthy vigil, and Betty's heart contracted in sudden apprehension.
Could he be a detective watching the house? Had the law already found a trail from that secluded spot on Vanderduycken Road to the place where George Breckinridge had so mysteriously come to his end? Would swift retribution descend and engulf her also, the innocent with the guilty, while yet her position had availed her nothing?
She walked on quickly without looking back, conscious of the stranger's scrutiny. Her step was still brisk, although the buoyancy had died out of it as the momentary, carefree happiness was blotted from her face. The future, black and uncertain, stretched forth tentacles of doubt and dismay which dragged at her spirit and the bright day seemed suddenly lowering and chill.
A half-mile further on, she came to a low, square, ivy-covered gate-post, and paused almost wistfully to examine the springing green of the new shoots, when a sedate step upon the stone flagging made her glance upward.
A woman was coming toward her down the path which flanked the driveway from the house; an erect, elderly woman with smooth, white hair beneath her severe toque and a figure as trim as that of a girl. She was peering about her with an alert, bird-like movement of her head as if unaccustomed to viewing the world without artificial aid for her eyes and she had evidently not as yet observed the girl at the gate.
For an instant Betty stood rooted to the spot, staring as though she could scarcely credit the evidence of her senses. Slowly the blood receded from her face, leaving it blanched and ghastly, and into her eyes, dulled with introspection but a moment since, there crept a look of livid fear.
She swayed, then with a sobbing gasp turned blindly and fled as if the very fiends of darkness were pursuing her, back toward the doubtful haven of the house among the cedars.
She had scarcely traversed a hundred yards, however, when she collided violently with a young man whose approach she had not been conscious of in her supreme agitation. She clutched at him instinctively as the impact threatened to sweep her off her feet and he put out a steadying arm.