He started, and the color came in a wave across his face. For some reason the slight upon his amateur detecting seemed to sting. I was glad. I would have liked to strike him, to cause him physical pain. I came in a sort of rush straight over to him, and he drew warily back till he stood against the wall, his eyes narrowed upon me, his head bent, as I have seen the eyes and heads of men about to strike.
“Listen to me,” I said; “I give you fair warning. This afternoon I saved your life at the risk of my own. I may not be able to do that again. I advise,”—here I threw all the contempt possible into my voice,—“I advise you to keep out of this, to stay in your room and lock your door at night. Don't smile. It is a very serious warning. Good-night, dreamer, and—lover without faith.”
At this he put his hand to his eyes, and I left him standing with this gesture of ashamed defeat.
It was a night of full and splendid moon; my room was as white as the calyx of a lily, so white that its very radiance made sleep impossible. Besides, I was excited by my battle with Paul Dabney, and by the thought of that paper in my dress. God willing, now, the struggle would soon be over. If I lived through the next twenty-four hours, I would find the treasure, capture the thieves, confront Paul Dabney with my innocence and my achievement, and leave “The Pines” forever. My ordeal was not so nearly over as I hoped. There were further tangles in the female spider's web. It makes me laugh now and blush to think how, all the while, the creature made her use of me, how the cat let the little mouse run hither and thither in its futile activity; no, not altogether futile, I did play an extraordinary rôle. I did that very afternoon save Paul Dabney's life; I did bewilder the queen spider and disturb and tear her web, but, when all is said and done, it was she who was mistress of “The Pines” that night.
I did not light my gas, so splendid was the moon, but crouching near my open window on the floor, I took out the paper and spread it open on my knee. It was covered with close lines in the Russian script. The writing was so fine and delicate that, to read it, I should need a stronger light. I rose, drew my shade and lit the gas. Again I spread out the paper, then gave a little exclamation of dismay. It was the Russian script, perfectly legible to me, but, alas! the language was not that of modern Russian speech. It was the old Slavonic language of the Church. The paper was as much a mystery to me as though it were still hidden in the bookcase.
CHAPTER XI—THE SPIDER
IN vain I tortured my wits; here and there a word was comprehensible. I made out the number 5 and fairly ground my teeth. Here was the key to the secret; here was my chart, and I could not decipher it. I folded up the paper with great care, ripped open a seam of my mattress, and folded the mystery in. By night I would keep it there; by day I would carry it about on my body. Somehow, I would think out a way to decipher it; I would go to New York and interview a priest of the Greek Church. If necessary I would bribe him to secrecy... my brain was full of plans, more or less foolish and impossible. At any rate, I reasoned that the Red-haired Woman, not finding any paper in the bookcase, would do one of two things—either she would suspect a previous theft and disposal of the treasure and give up her perilous mission, or she would suspect me whom she had found once at night before the book-shelves. In this case I was, of course, both in greater danger, and, also, providentially protected. At least, she would not kill me till she had got that paper out of my possession. My problem was, first, to find the meaning of my valuable chart, then to put it in her way, and, while she endeavored to get a translation—I could not believe her to possess a knowledge of ecclesiastical Russian—it was my part to rifle the hoard and to set the police on her track. When I had the meaning of the paper, I would send word to the police at Pine Cone. Till then, I would play the game alone. So did my vanity and wounded feelings lead me on, and so very nearly to my own destruction.
After I had finished sewing up my mattress-seam, I put out my light and went to stand near my window. Unconsciously affected by my fears, I kept close to the long, dark curtain, and stood still, looking down at the silvered garden paths, the green-gray lines of the box, the towering, fountain-like masses of the trees, waving their spray of shadow tracery across the turf. I stood there a long time brooding over my plans—it must have been an hour—before I saw a figure come out into the garden. It was Paul Dabney. He was walking quietly to and fro, smoking and whistling softly. I could hear the gravel crunch beneath his feet.