The Blue Lights Part 25

The idea possessed her completely. As the man drove out into the lane, and rattled down the hill toward the main road, she suddenly realized that she must follow; yet how could she hope to do so, on foot? The woman had gone back into the house. Regardless of consequences, Grace ran out into the lane, and after the wagon at full speed.

When she reached the main road the vehicle had already turned into it and was some distance away, headed for Paris, at a speed which, slow for a horse, was still much faster than she could possibly walk.

She looked up and down the road helplessly. There were several other wagons approaching, all going in the same direction--cityward. She realized that they were country people, farmers, taking their vegetables and flowers to the markets.

The first one to reach her was driven by a buxom-looking young woman, wearing a plaid shawl. Grace hailed her. "Will you be so good, Madame, as to take me to Paris?"

The woman glanced at her shrewdly. "I have a heavy load, Mademoiselle,"

she replied. Her voice was cold, uninterested.

"I will pay you five francs--"

The words had barely left Grace's lips, before the woman had pulled up her horse. "Five francs, Mademoiselle? That is another matter. Get in."

Grace clambered up beside the woman and glanced down the road ahead. The canvas-covered wagon was still in sight--mounting a hill some three or four hundred yards ahead.

The woman looked at her curiously, noting her dress, her hands, her shoes. "You are not of the country, Mademoiselle," she remarked, pleasantly.

"No. I belong in Paris." She turned to her companion. "I should like to return there as quickly as possible."

"My Susette does not care to go above a walk," the woman remarked, gazing at her horse, plodding along with mechanical steps, as though utterly unconcerned as to whether or not they ever reached Paris. The wagon ahead was now out of sight, over the brow of the hill.

"Would you like to make a louis?" Grace took a gold piece from her purse and held it in the sunlight. It glistened brightly.

The woman drew back, regarding her companion suspiciously. "A louis? Who would not? What do you mean, Mademoiselle?"

"There is a wagon ahead of us, a canvas-covered wagon, with a white horse. I am following it. If you will keep that wagon in sight until we get to Paris, I will give you this louis."

She turned the gold piece about, making it sparkle in the sun. The woman glanced first at her face, then more carefully at the coin, then, reaching over, took it in her fingers, and raised it to her mouth. Grace wondered what she was about to do. In a moment she had sunk her teeth into it, then returned it to her companion. "It shall be as you say, Mademoiselle," she exclaimed as she pulled in the reins. "Allons, Susette!"

The horse, evidently awakened from his morning dreams, started forward with a suddenness which almost precipitated Grace from her seat. The trees along the roadside began to fly past them. In ten minutes they were close behind the canvas-covered wagon, now moving along at a brisk pace.

When they reached the fortifications, the two wagons were separated by not more than a dozen feet. Grace's companion glanced at her sharply.

"From here I go to Grennelle, Mademoiselle," she exclaimed.

Grace looked at the wagon ahead. "Follow it, please," she said. "I will give you another five francs."

The woman obeyed in silence. The wagon in front of them headed off toward the northwest, going in the direction of Pa.s.sy. Before a great while it crossed the Pont de Pa.s.sy, turned into the Rue Nicolo, and came to a stop before a small brick house, standing in a little garden.

Grace jumped down at the corner, after giving the woman the louis and the additional five francs. "Thank you," she said, and started slowly up the street.

The wagon with the canvas cover stood quietly alongside the curb. The old man who drove it had approached the door of the house, and was ringing the bell.

Presently one of the windows on the top floor was thrown open, and a man's head was thrust out. Grace could not see his face clearly. He looked down at the man at the door, who at the same time looked up. The window was instantly closed, and a few moments later the door of the house opened and the man came out.

He stood talking with the driver in low tones for a few moments. Grace had walked on up the street, fearing to attract attention. Looking back, she saw that the two men were gazing after her. She dared not turn her head again, but at the next corner turned into a cross street. Then she stopped, and cautiously peered around the corner. The two men had gone to the wagon and were lifting out the large basket. A few moments later they disappeared with it into the house.

After a time, the old man returned with the basket in his hands. From the way he carried it Grace could see that it was empty. He tossed it carelessly into the wagon, mounted the seat, and drove off.

Grace looked at her watch. It was half past seven. She felt cold and hungry, and determined to get something to eat at once. A little pastry cook's shop and restaurant on the opposite side of the street attracted her attention, and she crossed over, entered, and ordered rolls and coffee. She could see the windows of the house into which the two men had carried the basket, from where she sat.

She scarcely knew what to do next. It seemed almost certain that Mr.

Stapleton's child was in the house across the way, and yet--it was merely an intuition, a guess, which might turn out to be entirely wrong.

Yet she feared to go away, not knowing at what moment the child, if he was indeed there, might be taken elsewhere, and the clue hopelessly lost.

She finished her rolls and coffee, taking as much time to consume them as she could. She had just made up her mind to go, when the door of the house across the street opened, and a man came out. He was dark, and heavily built, and dressed in the costume affected by artists. He headed directly for the pastry shop, and Grace realized that he was about to enter it.

She turned her face away, fearing lest he might have noticed her, as she walked up the street. He did not even glance in her direction, however, but went at once to a counter at the rear of the place.

The proprietor came up to him with a smile, rubbing his hands together cheerily. "Ah! Monsieur Durand. Up early this morning, I see. What can I do for you?"

She did not catch the other's reply, nor did she dare to glance at his face. She shrank back into her corner, and, picking up a newspaper which lay in the window sill, began to read.

The new customer remained but a few moments. When he left, Grace saw that he carried a large paper bag with him, which appeared to contain rolls or bread.

He again entered the house, but this time remained inside but a few moments. A little later she left the shop, and watched him as he disappeared down the street.

For half an hour she walked about, wondering whether she should telephone Monsieur Lefevre now, or wait until she had made certain that the whole affair was, after all, not a wild goose chase. Suddenly she was seized with a new determination. She went boldly up to the house, and rang the bell.

In a few moments a sleepy-looking maid opened the door, eying Grace with lazy indifference.

"I wish to see Monsieur Durand," the latter said.

"He's out."

"Then I must wait. I am a model. He instructed me to come at eight o'clock, and to wait until he returned."

The girl shrugged her shoulders, and pointed to the stairs. "Top floor front," she grumbled, and turned away.

Grace lost no time in getting up the stairs. To her surprise, the door of the studio, upon which was a card bearing Monsieur Durand's name, was unlocked. She pushed her way boldly in, and looked about. The room was scantily furnished, and contained little besides a couple of modeling stands, several large plaster figures and casts, two chairs, and a couch, evidently used as a bed. At the rear of the room was a closet.

She turned to it and threw it open. It contained only an a.s.sortment of clothes.

She felt completely baffled. There was no possible place, here, in which the child she was seeking could be hidden. Evidently she had been on the wrong track. And yet--what had the wicker basket contained?

Suddenly she stopped, quivering with excitement. From somewhere in the room--she could not tell where--there came a low sobbing sound, as of a child, crying to itself. It vibrated throughout the room, at one moment close to her ears, the next far off, intangible, like a whispered echo.

She stood, listening, every nerve tense with excitement, and still that low sobbing went on, coming from nowhere, evanescent as a dream.

The thing seemed unreal, horrifying. She gazed about helpless. Then she heard the front door of the house suddenly slam, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.

CHAPTER XIV.

Richard Duvall rose, the following day, with a less troubled mind than at any time since his arrival in Paris.

His calculations of the night before had brought him to a definite conclusion.