“Nothing could be more wonderful,” Grace murmured, too overcome for speech.
“And now!” Miss Baxter sprang to her feet. “This is Christmas Eve, and I must be on my way. I’ll see you again soon!”
With a wave of her hand, as if she might be a feminine Santa Claus, she was gone, leaving the astonished Grace to stare after her.
“Life,” she thought, “is strange, so very strange, so much mystery!” She closed the door, but did not stir from her place. She was thinking, and they were long, long thoughts.
These thoughts were broken in upon by a second knock on the door. No light tap of a sparrow’s wing, this knock, but one like the thump of a policeman demanding admittance in the name of the law. Her hand trembled as she gripped the knob.
CHAPTER XXIII
A PROMISE THAT IS A THREAT
The silence in that little gray home out there on the snow-blown prairies lasted for ten long moments. To those who waited time seemed to creep at a snail’s pace. Drew Lane, shifting uneasily in his chair, was about to suggest something—he will never know what—when, sudden as before, all thoughts were drawn to the mysterious talking reflector against the wall.
The instant a voice broke the silence in that corner, Drew Lane leaped to his feet. Tom Howe, crouching like a cat, remained motionless in his chair. There was something menacing, sinister, altogether terrible about that voice. The words, more spoken than whispered, caused Johnny’s blood to freeze in his veins.
“Listen, you Hell hounds!” Those were the words. “Listen! You whisper, do you? Well, so do we! You narrow-cast, and you think we can’t listen. Well, we can!
“Listen!” The voice became more terrible. “You have been on our trail long enough! Public enemies! Bah!”