Charred Wood Part 4

Mark opened his letter. It was from the lady of the tree--only a few lines--an invitation to tea that afternoon at the house behind the great wall. Twice he read it over.

"Dear Mr. Griffin: Monsignore is coming to tea at four o'clock to-day.

Won't you come with him? He likes you--that I know--and he always looks lonesome when he comes alone, with only two women to talk to.

Sincerely, Ruth Atheson."

That was all. The letter went into Mark's pocket as he saw Saunders looking over the top of his paper.

"Getting acquainted in Siha.s.set pretty quickly, eh?" ventured the detective.

"Yes," replied Mark, "bad pays get acquainted fast." The reply was obviously inadequate, but Mark wanted the detective to know. Saunders took the bait, hook and all.

"Siha.s.set's getting up in the world," he commented. "Square, tinted envelopes for bills were just coming in at New York two weeks ago."

Both gentlemen were evidently quite pleased with themselves. Saunders took the cigar Mark offered, and they sat talking over first editions until ten.

"Going out?" Saunders asked, as Mark threw away his cigar and rose.

Something in his tone made Mark think he wanted him to go. Why?

"Just for a little while. Want to go?"

"No, I'm going to write letters. I'll go out later."

Mark understood. Saunders suspected him to be an accomplice of the woman and intended to search his room. Mark thought quickly.

Immediate action was necessary; there were important papers in his room, and he didn't care to have his ident.i.ty known just now. Then he smiled cheerfully, for his whole plan of action was suddenly clear.

Not only would he guard his papers, but he'd keep the detective guessing--guessing _hard_. He walked to the desk and addressed the clerk:

"Has any of the town banks a safety deposit vault for the public?"

"Yes, sir. The National has one and its terms are very reasonable."

Mark went to his room, and carefully gathered every sc.r.a.p of paper.

The useless went into the old stove which had stood all summer waiting the winter's need; the others he carefully placed in his pocket. Then he went out. At the bank he rented a box and left the papers he didn't want Saunders to see. He felt satisfied that nothing Saunders found would relieve him of suspicion. The burning of the papers would make the detective all the more certain that Mark ought to be watched. That would help Miss Atheson by keeping the detective on the wrong scent.

At noon Mark went to his room to wash before lunch. Saunders had not been very clever. There was a tell-tale smudge on the stove--a smudge made by a hand that had blackened itself by diving down into the ashes to search among the burned papers. Mark knew that Saunders had lost no time in searching his room, and he was happy to be still under suspicion.

But Mark was not so happy in contemplating the rest of the situation.

He was getting deeper into a game he knew nothing about. What was the reason for the suspicion against the girl? Could she be a thief--or worse? Mark had heard of pretty criminals before, and he knew that beauty without is no guarantee of virtue within. But he had resolved to go through with the adventure, and he would not change his mind. He argued, too, that it was not entirely the beauty of Ruth Atheson that interested him. There was an indefinable "something else." Anyhow, innocent or guilty, he made up his mind to stand by her.

At lunch he met Saunders again and found him overly friendly, even anxious to talk. The detective opened the conversation.

"Going to see the Padre again?"

"I have an engagement with him this afternoon. I rather like the Padre!"

"Sure you do," said the detective. "Everybody does. The Padre's a wonder, and the last man one might expect to find in a little parish like this."

Mark wanted to learn more on that score.

"True enough," he said. "In the Anglican Church they would make such a man a bishop, or at least a dean."

"Well, they didn't do that with the Padre." The detective shook his head as if to express his regret that something of the kind had not been done. "He was the right hand man of the old Bishop of the diocese; but the new Bishop had to have new counselors. That's one way of the world that the church fellows have gotten into. Some say that it broke the Padre's heart, but he doesn't look it. Must have hurt him a little, though. Human nature is human nature--and after all he did for the Church, too."

"Did he do so much?" questioned Mark.

"Sure he did! You saw the Cathedral, didn't you, when you pa.s.sed through the city? Well, the Padre built that, and the big college, too, the one you see from the train. He was president of the college.

He was the life and soul of the Catholic Church in this section."

"Why was he dropped?"

"Search me," offered the detective. "No one knows that except the Bishop, I guess. Padre came here six months ago. Some of the young priests used to come to see him, but seldom any of the older ones. I got all I know from one of those young chaps--the one I told you I met on the train. He almost cried over the affair."

"It's sad enough to make any friend cry over it," said Mark; "but somehow it makes the man seem bigger to me."

"True." Saunders was clearly the Padre's admirer. "They say he had the best pulpit in London before he went over to the Catholics--big salary, and all that. Then he had to begin all over again as a layman.

Went to school, by gos.h.!.+--dead game! But when they made him a priest he jumped right to the front. His last money went into the college he built. He has only five hundred a year to live on now. You know, Griffin, if it wasn't for the rotten way the Church treated him, I honestly believe the Padre could put some religion into me. He's a power here already. Look at the way he makes that girl at Killimaga work."

It seemed to Mark that the detective was beginning to fence again.

"She's a stranger, isn't she?" he asked.

The detective half closed his eyes. "How do you know?"

"You told me so."

Saunders blew a thoughtful smoke ring.

"I guess I did. You know, of course, Killimaga was rented to her about the time Padre came here. The old Irishman who built it, died, and his family went over to your country to buy a t.i.tle for their only daughter. The girl up there must be a rich one to rent such an estate; and, Griffin, that old Irishman had taste, believe me. His gardens are a wonder. Ever see them?"

"No."

"Try to; they're worth while. This girl spends her money and herself on the Padre's charities. He directs, and she does things for the mill people. By gad, Griffin, they just love her! I pa.s.sed her just now going into O'Leary's. The old man was crushed at the mill, and died yesterday. It's dollars to doughnuts she takes care of that family all winter. Where she gets the money is beyond me."

"You Americans are all rich," said Mark. "You English think we are, but you only see the gang that goes over to the other side every summer. There's one Atheson family in America worth millions, but I know that crowd; she doesn't belong to it. I don't know what Atheson family she does belong to. She's a mystery, with her Killimaga and her money and her veil."

"Why," said Mark, "every woman wears a veil--the sun, you know."

"Yes; the sun, and the rain, and the shade, and _every_ kind of weather!"

The detective's face was betraying him again. But the luncheon was over, and Mark would not be probed. He had made up his mind to go early to the rectory, so he left Saunders with a parting shot:

"You'd better go on with the book sales. You've loafed all day.

That's bad business policy for a Yankee. What would your wooden nutmeg ancestors say to that?"

Saunders grinned.

"They wouldn't like it," he answered. "They're not like ancestors who wouldn't have been able to sell even a real nutmeg."