The cold and wind of the preceding day had abated, and Vera took deep breaths of the delicious, invigorating air, as, deserting the path, she made her way among the trees and dead underbrush to a clearing high up on the hillside, which, except from above, was invisible from the path she had quitted some moments before. A huge mica rock, known locally as Diamond Rock, occupied most of the clearing, and Vera exclaimed with pleasure as she caught the rainbow effects produced by the winter sunshine on its surface. Stepping in clefts in the rock she slowly mounted to the top and made herself comfortable. Once settled on her perch, she turned her attention to the panoramic view of the Potomac River far below her and the surrounding countryside.
But she barely saw the landscape, her thoughts being concentrated upon the Porter limousine and its occupants. Too late she regretted that she had not accompanied Millicent and Dorothy to Washington. But when her sister had asked her, a feeling of abhorrence had swept over her at the prospect of being inclosed in a small space and listening to their chatter. Her desire to be out in the open and by herself had gained the mastery; for an hour at least she could wrestle with her problems and decide on the future. She resolutely determined to put all thought of the past out of her mind, but it was a greater task than she had imagined—the past would not bury its dead!
Great drops of perspiration beaded her forehead as incidents of the past three days rose before her: her first glimpse of Bruce Brainard in bed Monday night—the tragedy—the inquest—the detectives— Vera plucked at her handkerchief and pressed it against her forehead and her cheeks, rubbing the latter vigorously. She must not think of the past; the future concerned her more intimately.
She must decide on a course of action before Detective Mitchell devised other methods to trap her, and remembrance of the scene in Brainard’s bedroom twenty-four hours before brought a hot flush of resentment in its train. She would square accounts with the detective before many days had passed, and her pretty teeth met with a determined snap. What troubled her was Beverly Thorne. She wished that she might dismiss him from her mind; then shivered involuntarily as she grudgingly admitted to herself that she feared his quick intelligence, his ever-searching eyes and cynical smile. It was an evil fate that had thrown him across her path. As the thought crossed her mind, she saw someone moving in and out among the trees to her right. The newcomer was making his way down the hillside, and she watched him idly.
The man kept a zigzag course and she was unable to get a good look at his face as, with cap pulled down over his forehead and the collar of his Norfolk jacket turned up, he seemed intently scanning the ground, pausing now and then to watch a switch which he carried loosely before him in both hands. Suddenly he stopped and, facing in her direction looked up long and earnestly into the bare branches of a tall tree. Vera’s breath forsook her as she recognized Beverly Thorne. Had she conjured him to appear?
After testing a lower branch of the tree with his weight Thorne transferred his attention to the cleft stick in his hand and strode onward. He was within a few yards of Vera before he discovered her presence. There followed a momentary hesitation on his part, then he advanced to the rock and bowed gravely.
“You have caught me trespassing,” he began. “What is the forfeit?”
Vera pointed in the direction he had come where a wire fence could be seen in the distance; she knew that placards placed at intervals announced: “No trespassing under penalty of the law.”
“As a ‘J. P.’ you must be aware of the penalty exacted for trespass,” she answered, preparing to rise.
He noticed her movement, and raised his hand. “Don’t let me drive you away,” he begged, appreciating to the full the charming picture she made perched on the rainbow-hued rock, her blue cape and its red cross in striking contrast to the dull colors of the woods. “I am going.”