A few moments after his departure another man came out of the saloon opposite, walked quickly to another motor-cycle, mounted it, and went humming after the cloud of dust that hid my mysterious translator.
It was odd that sleepy Pine Cone should at the same time entertain two such travelers on this vehicle; it was even more odd that the second traveler bore so extraordinary a likeness to one of Mrs. Brane's outdoor men, those whom she had described to me as her pet charity.
I might have followed this train of thought to its logical conclusion, I might even have remembered that one of these same men had followed the Baron's departure from “The Pines,” had I not, at the moment, glanced in the opposite direction and seen, far along the wide, dusty highway, the departing brake-cart with George's fat person perched upon its seat. I was possessed by indignation. He was actually leaving Pine Cone without me. He was already too far away to hear my angry shout even if he had not been deaf. As I watched helplessly, Gregory reached the top of the hill, deliberately passed it, and pulled the brake-cart, dilapidated whip, fat George, and all, out of my sight. There was nothing for it but a walk home. I got a wretched lunch in the ice cream parlor, and set out in no very good humor. As soon as I was out of sight of the town, I took out my translation of the chart, refreshed my memory for the last time, tore it into a thousand tiny bits, and buried the shreds deep in the sandy soil of the roadside. I kept the original Slavonic writing in the bosom of my dress. I meant in my own good time to let this paper fall into the hands of the thieves, and so, having notified the police, to catch them in the very hiding-place.
I stepped along rapidly. It was now past noon, a mild November day of Indian summer warmth and softness; the pines swung their fragrant branches against the sky. It was very still and pleasant on the woody road. I was really glad that George had forgotten me. As I came round one of the pretty turns of the road I heard a great, groaning rush of sound, and, hurrying my steps, found that the great dead pine George had pointed out to me had, indeed, true to his prophecy, fallen across the road. It was a great, ragged giant of a tree, and as the bank on one side of the road was steep and high, I was forced to go well into the woods on the other, and to circle about the enormous root which stood up like a wall between me and the road. Back of the tree I stepped down into a hollow, and, as I stepped, looking carefully to my footing, for the ground was very rough, a heavy smother of cloth fell over my head and shoulders, and I was thrown violently backward to the ground. At the same instant the stuff was pulled tight across my mouth. I could hardly breathe, much less cry out. I was half suffocated and blind as a mole. My arms were seized, and drawn back of me and tied at the wrists. The hands that did this were fine and cold, and strong as steel. They were a woman's hands, and I could feel the brush of skirts. It froze my blood to know that I was being handled and trussed up by a pitiless image of myself.
Having made me entirely blind, dumb, and helpless as a log, the creature proceeded to search me with the most intolerable thoroughness. Of course, the paper I had taken from the bookcase was promptly found, and I heard a little gasp of satisfaction, followed by a low oath when she discovered the nature of the script. She was no doubt furious at not being able to find any translation. I was roughly handled, dragged about on the stony ground, tossed this way and that, while the cold, hurried, clever fingers thrust themselves through my clothing. At last they fairly stripped me, every article was shaken out or torn apart, a knife cut off the top of my head-covering, leaving my face in its tight smother, my hair was taken down, shaken out, combed with hasty and painful claws. When, after a horrible lifetime of fear and disgust, anger and pain, the thing that handled me discovered that there was really nothing further of any value to her upon me, she gave way to a fury of disappointment. There, in the still woods, she cursed with disgusting oaths, she beat me with her hands, with branches she found near me on the ground.
“Discipline,” she said, “discipline, and be thankful, my girl, that I don't do you a worse injury. I can't stand being angry unless I make somebody squirm for it. Besides, I mean you to lie quiet for a day or two, till I need you again.”
I did squirm, and she showed no mercy.
Nevertheless, she began to be afraid, I suppose, of being discovered at her cruelty. She threw my clothes over me, laughed at my plight, and I heard her light footsteps going away from me into the woods.
I lay there, raging, sobbing, struggling, till long after dusk, then, my hands becoming gradually loosened, I wriggled one hand free, tore the rope from the other, rid myself of the sacking on my head and sat up, panting, trembling, exhausted, bathed in sweat. Slowly I got into my clothes and smoothed my torn hair, crying with the pain of my hurts. It had been an orgy of rage and cruelty, and I had been, God knows, a helpless victim. Nevertheless, the discipline inflicted upon me did not break my spirit. I was lashed and stung to a cold rage of hatred and disgust. I would outwit the creature, hunt her down, and give her to justice so that she might suffer for her sins. I could not well understand the furious boldness of her action of this afternoon. Why did she leave me to make my escape, to go back to “The Pines,” to tell my story and so to set the police on her track? For some reason she must rely on my holding my tongue. As I stumbled on my painful way, the reason came to me with some certainty. She thought that I, too, meant to steal the fortune. It would not enter the head of a criminal that such a temptation could be resisted by a penniless girl of my history. And, indeed, what other explanation could she possibly entertain for my previous secretiveness? Naturally, she could not understand my desire to triumph over Paul Dabney. And this desire was as strong in me as ever it had been. Indeed, I felt that in a certain way the events of the afternoon left me with slight advantage over my double. It was now a race between us. She knew that I was on the track of the treasure; she knew that I knew of her intentions. I had the translation; she had not. She would have it soon enough, I was sure; therefore I must be quick. No later than that night, or, at farthest, the following night, while she still fancied me laid up by the beating I had received, I must contrive to get at Mrs. Brane's fortune. Dreadful as my experience had been, I was still bent upon the success of my venture; truly I believe I was more bent upon it.
If I failed now, there was no knowing what consequences might fall upon “The Pines” household and upon me. Very easily—I trembled to think how easily—some member of the family might be murdered and I be made to appear the murderess. I had, by my bold course, provided blind justice with a half-dozen witnesses against my innocence. The Baron, the priest, Sara, Henry, Paul Dabney—not one of them but could stand up and swear to my criminality, perhaps to a score of past crimes.