Miss Maitland Private Secretary Part 12

"Find out Price's movements on the night of July seventh, everything he did, everywhere he went." He turned to me. "And you want to remember not a hint of this gets to Mrs. Janney. She hates Price and when her blood's up she's a red Indian. We don't want the family drawn in until we know something."

CHAPTER XI-FERGUSON'S IDEA

During these days d.i.c.k Ferguson thought a good deal and said very little. Like the rest of his world he wondered over the unsolved mystery of the Janney robbery, but his wonderings contained an element of discomfort. He heard the subject discussed everywhere and often the name of Esther Maitland came up in the discussions. Not that any one ever suggested she might be involved;-it was more a sympathetic appreciation of her position. Every one spoke very feelingly about it:-poor girl, so uncomfortable for her, knowing the combination and all that sort of thing-the Janneys had stood by her splendidly, but still it _was_ trying.

It tried _him_ a good deal, made inroads on his temper, until it lost its sunny evenness and he was sometimes short and surly. The day after Molly and Esther went to town he had been called to a conference in the Fairfax house on the bluff. A gang of motor boat thieves had been operating along the Sound, had already stolen two launches, and the owners of water-front property had convened to decide on a course.

Ferguson, with a small fleet to his credit, had taken rather a high hand, and shown an unwonted irritation at the indecision of his a.s.sociates. If they wanted their boats protected it was up to them to do it, establish a sh.o.r.e police patrol financed by themselves. That was what he intended to do and they could join with him or not as they pleased. He left them, ruffled by his brusqueness and remarking grumpily that "Ferguson was beginning to feel his money."

He went from the meeting to his own beach and on the way met Suzanne returning with Bebita from the morning bath. They stopped for a chat in the course of which Suzanne made a series of remarks not calculated to soothe his perturbed spirit. They were apropos of Miss Maitland, who had taken an early morning swim, all alone, refusing to wait and go in with them. Suzanne said it was a pity Miss Maitland kept so much to herself-the girl seemed depressed and out of spirits lately, didn't he think so? Quite different to what she had been earlier in the season, seemed to be troubled about something. Too bad-every one liked her so much, and people _did_ talk so. Then with an artless smile she went off under her white parasol.

There was no smile on Ferguson's face as he walked to his boat houses.

He told his men of the police patrol-to operate along the sh.o.r.e after nightfall-gave a few gruff orders and disappeared into a bath house.

When he emerged, stripped for a swim, he stalked silently by them and dove from the end of the wharf. They were surprised at his manner, usually so genial, and wondered among themselves watching his head, sleek as a wet seal's, receding over the s.h.i.+ning water.

The head was full of what Suzanne had said. Though he had offered no agreement to her suggestions, he _had_ noticed the change in Esther. He had noticed it soon after the robbery, in fact before that, for it had dated from the evening when she dined at his house, the night the jewels were taken. Disturbance grew in him as he thought:-if so shallow a creature as Suzanne could see it, others could. And Suzanne had no sense, no realization of the weight of words. She might go round chattering like a fool and get the girl talked about. It would be the decent thing to give Esther a hint, put her wise to the fact that she ought to brighten up-not give any one a chance to say she was not as she had been.

As his long, muscular body slid through the water he decided to go over and have a talk with her. The decision cheered him, for to be with Esther Maitland was the keenest pleasure he knew.

Suzanne had told him she and her mother would be out that afternoon, so at three-the hour they were to leave-he set out for Gra.s.slands by the wood path. As he crossed the garden his questing glance met an encouraging sight-Esther Maitland sitting under a group of maples at the end of the terrace. She was alone, an empty chair beside her, her head bowed over a book.

Her welcoming smile was very sweet; his eye noticed a faint color rise in her cheeks as he came up. These signs were so agreeable that he would like to have sat there, placidly enjoying her presence, but he was a person who once possessed by an idea "had to get it out of his system."

This he proceeded to do, advancing on his subject with what he thought was a crafty indirectness:

"You know, Miss Maitland, you're not a credit to Long Island."

She raised her brows, deprecating, also amused:

"What have I done?"

"It's what you haven't done. We expect people to come here worn and weary and then blossom like the rose. You've gone back on the tradition."

She stretched a hand for a bundle of knitting-a soldier's m.u.f.fler-on the table beside her:

"I don't feel worn or weary and I'm sorry I look so."

"Oh, you always _look_ lovely," he hastily a.s.sured her. "I didn't mean that it wasn't becoming. But-er-er-what I wanted to say was-er-why is it?"

Miss Maitland began to knit, her face bent over the work, her dark head backed by the green distances of the lawn. Ferguson thought she had the most beautifully shaped head he had ever seen. He would like to have leaned back in his chair studying its cla.s.sic outline. But he was there for a purpose and he held himself sternly to it, looking at her profile and trying to forget that it was as fine as her head.

"I don't know why it is," she answered, "but I do know that you're not very complimentary."

"If you give me a dare like that I'll show you how complimentary I _can_ be. But I'll put that off until later. What I think is that you're worrying-that the robbery has got on your nerves."

"Why should it get on my nerves?"

He was aware of her eyes-diverted from the knitting-looking curiously at him:

"Why, it's been so-so-unpleasant, all this fuss and publicity. It's been a shock."

Her hands with the knitting dropped into her lap. She was now staring fixedly at him:

"Do you mean that I'm worrying because I think I may be suspected of it?"

He was shocked to angry repudiation.

"Good Lord, no! What a thing to say!"

She took up her work, and answered with cool composure:

"Nevertheless I _have_ wondered if anybody ever thought it. You see I'm the only one in the house-the only one who knows the combination-who _is_ a sort of stranger. Dixon and Isaac are like members of the family."

"Don't talk such rubbish," he protested, then leaning nearer, "Have you had _that_ on your mind all this time? Is _that_ what's made the change?"

She looked up at him, startled:

"Change-what change?"

"Change in you. Yes," in answer to the disturbed inquiry of her glance, "there is one. I've noticed it; other people have."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, you're different, you've lost your good spirits. You're not like you were before this happened."

Her response came with something combative in its countering quickness:

"I'm busier than I used to be. Since the robbery I've taken over a good deal of the housekeeping. Mrs. Janney has been much more upset than you guess."

"And you're so withdrawn, keep more to yourself. I used to find you about when I came over; now I almost never see you."

The interview had taken on the character of a verbal duel, he thrusting, she parrying, both earnest and insistent.

"I've just told you; I have more work, I've not the leisure I used to have."

"So busy you have to shun people?"

"That's absurd, you imagine it. I've never shunned any one and there's no reason why I should."

"I agree with you but let me ask one more question. You say your work is harder and you _do_ look tired and worn out. Why don't you take a decent rest on your holidays? Last year you spent them here, out of doors, loafing about. Now you go to town. I've been over twice on Thursdays and when I ask for you, always hear you're in the city. And you've been at other times too-Mrs. Janney told me so. It's the most fatiguing thing you can do in this hot weather. Why do you go?"

He saw her color suddenly deepen. She had let the knitting drop to her lap and now she took it up again and began to work, very fast, the needles flas.h.i.+ng in her white hands. She smiled as she answered:

"You seem to have kept rather a sharp look-out on me, Mr. Ferguson. Did it never occur to you that a woman _might_ need clothes, or might want to see a friend who happened to be staying in town for the summer?"

The young man had been admiring the white hands. As she spoke something in their movements caught and held his eye-they were trembling. He was so surprised that he made no answer, his glance riveted on them trying to hold the needles steady to their task. Miss Maitland made an effort to go on, then dropped the knitting in a bunch on her knees and clasped the hands over it. Neither speaking, their eyes met. The expression of hers, furtively apprehensive like a scared child's pierced his heart and he leaned toward her, his sunburned face full of concern: