DROP EVERYTHING COME HOME AT ONCE IMPORTANT MISSION FOR YOU. T. E. Thorne.
An important mission for him! Nathan had a queer, telepathic intuition that something had happened, or was about to happen, that was to affect his career and perhaps his whole life vitally. It never left him. In fact, it grew upon him as he entered Vermont the next afternoon and his train drew into Paris about half-past seven o’clock.
Usually Nat wired Milly when he was returning from his trips; his wife was piqued and exasperated when he “walked in on her” with no food ready in the house or when she was in the midst of neighborhood or family activities such as occupied her time while her husband was absent. But he had been so intent on making his trains that this time he had forgotten. When the man finally alighted on the depot platform Sunday evening, the place showed no signs of life; not even a Ford taxi met the train. So Nathan left his suit cases in the baggage room to be brought up next morning and started toward the business section afoot.
He entered the Metropolitan Drug Store pay-station and called Ted Thorne. Ted was out for the evening and Nat promised to call him later. Then he called Milly to inform her that he had returned to town and would be up in a few minutes. Milly did not answer the ‘phone.
“Probably down to her mother’s,” he said. So he stopped for a lunch at the Élite, lit a cigar and headed for Preston Hill at a leisurely pace. This was about half-past eight.
It was one of those blowy nights in early March with the wind drying up the snow puddles and clouds scurrying across the face of a high white moon. Spring would be on New England in a handful of weeks. Already most of the snow had gone and only sickly, dirty patches, the last vestiges of winter drifts, were disclosed on the northern sides of walls and fences where the sunlight failed to touch them.
His house was dark when he finally turned into Vermont Avenue. As Milly had not answered the ‘phone, he thought nothing of it. He went up the front veranda steps and let himself into the hall with his latchkey. The warm odor of his own home was pleasant and inviting, the house welcomed him after his three-weeks’ absence by its mellow darkness. He pressed on the lamp button in the hall and called his wife’s name. But he received no answer. The house was very quiet. The wind blew a loose blind somewhere. On the distant kitchen sink-shelf a brassy alarm clock ticked faintly. Nathan hung hat and coat on the hall hat-tree and pressed out the hall light as he moved into the sitting room on the west side.
He pulled the tiny chain on the reading lamp and looked around for his mail. It contained nothing of interest, most of it being bills. He glanced over the recent copies of the Daily Telegraph. But his thoughts were upon Ted Thorne and why he should have been called so abruptly off the road.
After a time the moon got around to where it cast a splotch of lemon-colored light on the sitting-room floor. The window shades had not been drawn. Nathan glanced up and saw the cold, round disk behind the gaunt, waving tree boughs. He turned his chair—a heavy wing-rocker—so that it faced the window, its back to the room. Then he reached a hand and pulled off the reading light to enjoy the wild, windy beauty of the outside night.
He had turned many bitter things over in his mind and it was after nine o’clock when the man heard a strange sound. It seemed to come from the rear of the house, out on the back porch beyond the kitchen. At first Nat thought it some freak of the wind. Then, as the latter died down and perfect quiet reigned for a moment, the sound came again, sharp and distinct.