The Moving Finger Read online

  Vera went straight to the boudoir, but before she reached it Millicent walking down the hall paused in the act of entering her own room and called her name softly.

  “Mother is lying down,” she said as Vera drew nearer. “Dorothy and I have just left the boudoir. Come and join us in my room.” And she held out her hand with a little affectionate gesture which was characteristic of her. Vera smiled, and under sudden impulse kissed her; there was something very winsome about Millicent, mere child as she was.

  “Thanks, Millicent, I’ll come and sit with you later; but first I must take my ‘constitutional’—I haven’t had a walk for several days, and I need the fresh air.”

  Millicent stroked her cheek with tender fingers. “Perhaps the wind will put color there,” she said. “You are not getting proper rest, Vera; for your pallor and heavy eyes tell the story.”

  Vera shook her head in dissent. “I only need fresh air; don’t let that foolish sister of mine put ideas into your head.” She stopped abruptly as Hugh Wyndham stepped out of his aunt’s bedroom and joined them.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Deane,” he commenced cordially, but she returned his greeting so perfunctorily that Millicent’s eyes opened wide in surprise, and, reddening, Wyndham turned to his cousin. “Are you going to motor in to Washington with us, Millicent? Better come; you don’t have to leave the car or talk to anyone,” guessing the cause of her hesitancy.

  “True—” but still Millicent paused.

  “I think you had better go,” put in Vera quietly, and barely glancing at Wyndham she went to her own room.

  Wyndham smiled reassuringly as he caught Millicent’s puzzled frown. “Vera’s nerves are on edge,” he said. “I quite understand her seeming rudeness.”

  “Well, I don’t,” confessed Millicent. “Dorothy has a much sweeter disposition than her sister, and on her account I overlook Vera’s occasional tempers. Go and get the limousine, Hugh; Dorothy and I will be ready in ten minutes.”

  However, it was less than the prescribed ten minutes when Millicent and Dorothy stood waiting in the lower hall for the arrival of the car, and the latter, going into the library to collect some notes she had left there, encountered her sister on her way out of the side entrance to Dewdrop Inn.

  “I wish you were going with us, Vera,” she exclaimed impulsively. “Do come, there’s plenty of room in the limousine.”

  “Not today, dear.” And Vera tempered the refusal with a kiss. She glanced at the yellow copy paper Dorothy was busy stuffing inside her muff. “Did you use the telephone in Mrs. Porter’s boudoir about fifteen minutes ago?”

  Dorothy shook her head. “No, but Mrs. Porter and then Hugh tried to get Central.” Her sister’s reference to the boudoir recalled a recent conversation, and she added briskly: “Vera, why are you so stand-offish with the Porters? They are fond of you, yet you never spend any time with them, and I think they feel it.”

  Vera drew back from Dorothy’s detaining clasp. “I am here in my professional capacity, Dorothy, and I don’t wish to intrude upon them,” she said gently. “Better that they think me ‘stand-offish’ than say I take advantage of ‘auld lang syne’ and push myself forward.”

  “What nonsense! I declare, Vera, you are downright provoking, not to say morbid,” protested Dorothy. “It’s the result of never getting away from the atmosphere of the sick room. I don’t see how you stand it; the mere sight of suffering drives me wild, and to think of poor Craig Porter, whom I used to dance with, lying there inert—I just could not go to his room today when Mrs. Porter asked me to do so,” she wound up. “His changed appearance would break me down completely. How can you watch him night after night?”

  “You and Craig were great friends, whereas I never knew him in those days.” Vera lowered her voice. “Let me see, did you first meet him when we were in mourning?”

  “No, before that, when Millicent and I were at Catonsville together. We were great chums.” And she smiled, then winked away a sudden rush of tears. “Poor Craig!”

  “Don’t call him ‘poor’—he is rich in accomplishment,” rapped out Vera. “Think what he has done for the Allies; get Mrs. Porter to tell you of the honors paid Craig by the gallant Frenchmen, and never call him poor again.”

  “I wasn’t alluding to his past, but his present,” explained Dorothy, somewhat startled by the gleam in her sister’s eyes. “I understand he can’t utter a sound or move a muscle.”

  “He can’t.” She paused as Millicent’s voice echoed down the hall. “Go, dear, they are calling you.”

  But Dorothy lingered. “Have you any errands I can attend to for you in town?”

  “N-no—wait.” Vera spoke hurriedly as steps approached. “See if you can find my package of visiting-cards—”

  “I told you months ago, Vera, that you hadn’t any left,” interrupted Dorothy.

  “Perhaps you can find an old one, even if it’s black-edged, in my desk—”

  Dorothy shook her head violently. “I can’t; I looked there at Christmas and could not find any kind of a card. Coming right away, Murray,” as the footman appeared. “Do you wish me to order some cards struck off?”

  “Yes,” called Vera. “Pay for it with the money I gave you yesterday.” And Dorothy disappeared with Murray in attendance.

  Vera waited until convinced that the limousine must have driven off, then, tossing the blue cape with its small picturesque red cross about her shoulders, she opened the side door and, skirting the back of the house, walked swiftly past the garage. Passing down a lane she crossed a field and went up a path leading to the “side hill,” as that part of the Porter plantation was called.

  The cold and wind of the preceding day had abated, and Vera took deep breaths of the delicious, invigorating air, as, deserting the path, she made her way among the trees and dead underbrush to a clearing high up on the hillside, which, except from above, was invisible from the path she had quitted some moments before. A huge mica rock, known locally as Diamond Rock, occupied most of the clearing, and Vera exclaimed with pleasure as she caught the rainbow effects produced by the winter sunshine on its surface. Stepping in clefts in the rock she slowly mounted to the top and made herself comfortable. Once settled on her perch, she turned her attention to the panoramic view of the Potomac River far below her and the surrounding countryside.

  But she barely saw the landscape, her thoughts being concentrated upon the Porter limousine and its occupants. Too late she regretted that she had not accompanied Millicent and Dorothy to Washington. But when her sister had asked her, a feeling of abhorrence had swept over her at the prospect of being inclosed in a small space and listening to their chatter. Her desire to be out in the open and by herself had gained the mastery; for an hour at least she could wrestle with her problems and decide on the future. She resolutely determined to put all thought of the past out of her mind, but it was a greater task than she had imagined—the past would not bury its dead!

  Great drops of perspiration beaded her forehead as incidents of the past three days rose before her: her first glimpse of Bruce Brainard in bed Monday night—the tragedy—the inquest—the detectives—Vera plucked at her handkerchief and pressed it against her forehead and her cheeks, rubbing the latter vigorously. She must not think of the past; the future concerned her more intimately.

  She must decide on a course of action before Detective Mitchell devised other methods to trap her, and remembrance of the scene in Brainard’s bedroom twenty-four hours before brought a hot flush of resentment in its train. She would square accounts with the detective before many days had passed, and her pretty teeth met with a determined snap. What troubled her was Beverly Thorne. She wished that she might dismiss him from her mind; then shivered involuntarily as she grudgingly admitted to herself that she feared his quick intelligence, his ever-searching eyes and cynical smile. It was an evil fate that had thrown him across her path. As the thought crossed her mind, she saw someone moving in and out among the trees to her right. The n
ewcomer was making his way down the hillside, and she watched him idly.

  The man kept a zigzag course and she was unable to get a good look at his face as, with cap pulled down over his forehead and the collar of his Norfolk jacket turned up, he seemed intently scanning the ground, pausing now and then to watch a switch which he carried loosely before him in both hands. Suddenly he stopped and, facing in her direction looked up long and earnestly into the bare branches of a tall tree. Vera’s breath forsook her as she recognized Beverly Thorne. Had she conjured him to appear?

  After testing a lower branch of the tree with his weight Thorne transferred his attention to the cleft stick in his hand and strode onward. He was within a few yards of Vera before he discovered her presence. There followed a momentary hesitation on his part, then he advanced to the rock and bowed gravely.

  “You have caught me trespassing,” he began. “What is the forfeit?”

  Vera pointed in the direction he had come where a wire fence could be seen in the distance; she knew that placards placed at intervals announced: “No trespassing under penalty of the law.”

  “As a ‘J. P.’ you must be aware of the penalty exacted for trespass,” she answered, preparing to rise.

  He noticed her movement, and raised his hand. “Don’t let me drive you away,” he begged, appreciating to the full the charming picture she made perched on the rainbow-hued rock, her blue cape and its red cross in striking contrast to the dull colors of the woods. “I am going.”

  His announcement, however, while it had the effect of inducing Vera to remain where she was, proved a mere figure of speech, as he did not move from his place by the rock. At the end of a long silence Vera could not restrain her impatience, and he caught the antagonism she strove but faintly to conceal.

  “Miss Deane”—Thorne skirted the rock and came closer to her—“I am afraid you harbor resentment against me. I assure you that I had no hand in the trick played on you by Detective Mitchell yesterday.”

  “Your presence with the detective in the spare bedroom leads me to think otherwise,” she replied coldly.

  “I can explain,” he began, but her raised hand stayed him.

  “Why attempt an explanation, doctor?” she asked, and her disdain showed so plainly that he colored with indignation.

  “Because I desire to set myself right in your eyes,” he answered.

  “With what object?”

  His eyes did not fall before the challenge in hers, while a warm, sunny smile lightened the severe lines of his stubborn chin and determined mouth.

  “Object—matrimony,” he retorted, and she detected the twinkle in his eyes and the faint mockery discernible in his voice. Her resolve was instantly taken; she would meet him on the ground he had chosen—woman’s wit against man’s intelligence was a game old when Methuselah was young. She rose and dropped Thorne a half courtesy, balancing herself on the rock with graceful ease.

  “On so short an acquaintance your jest is flattering, but ill-timed.” She paused, then added, “I thank you—and decline.”

  “Wait.” He laid down the switch of witch-hazel and drew nearer. “Our acquaintance is not so short; it commenced six years ago in New York.”

  Vera stared at him intently. “I fail to recollect,” she began, and paused uncertainly.

  Instead of answering verbally he took out his leather wallet and, searching among its contents, finally produced a black-edged visiting-card. On the reverse side were traced the words:

  February 14—In grateful remembrance.

  Chapter XI

  Mrs. Porter Grows Inquisitive

  A Silence followed, so heavy as to be felt, then Vera took the black-edged card and, reversing it, read the engraved name. A rush of memories obliterated the bleak countryside. In its place she saw a busy city street, a swaying figure, a cry for help, the later clang of the emergency ambulance—and the last agonizing parting from her beloved mother. She had been conscious of the aid rendered by the skilful hospital interne, but her mother had focused her attention to the exclusion of all else. After the funeral she had sent a present with her card “In grateful remembrance” to the city hospital authorities, asking them to see that it reached the surgeon who had attended her mother.

  A sudden rush of tears almost blinded Vera, and the card fluttered to the rock unheeded.

  “Dr. Thorne”—her voice was not fully under control and a quiver crept into it—“I did not know—I had no idea—” She stammered and broke down.

  “Don’t.” Thorne swung himself up on the rock beside her and gazed at her with contrition. “Please don’t cry.”

  But the injunction was hardly needed, for Vera pulled herself together, and except for a few tears which she winked violently away, she had herself in hand again as she faced him.

  “The card—” she commenced, but he did not allow her to finish the sentence.

  “The card,” he echoed, stooping to pick it up, “would never have been shown you except that I knew of no other way to break down your unfriendly attitude to me. Please,” coloring warmly under his tan, “never allude to it again.”

  Vera looked at him long and steadily. She saw a well-set-up figure with the unmistakable air of good breeding; her eyes traveled slowly up to his face, and paused there, meeting the steady gaze of the somewhat quizzical gray eyes. His hair, slightly silvered at the temples, had a wave in it which suggested that under due provocation it might curl rather attractively, without altering the somewhat grave air of the professional man. Vera held out her hand. “Let me have the card?” she asked.

  But instead of complying with her request he slipped the card into his vest pocket. “I’ve carried it so long,” he said softly, drawing closer. “Don’t deprive me of the card.” And as Vera caught the wistful appeal in his eyes a hitherto unknown shyness overpowered her, and she stood tongue-tied. Thorne’s next words, however, brought her back to her surroundings with a jump. “Good heavens, Miss Deane!” he exclaimed as he caught a full view of her face and noted the dark shadows under her eyes and her hectic flush. “You must take care of yourself or you will be ill in bed.”

  “All I need is sleep,” protested Vera, but Thorne shook his head in dissent.

  “Consult your physician,” he advised, a trifle sternly. “With your training you should know better than to trifle with your health. You are on the point of a nervous breakdown.”

  Vera smiled. “You exaggerate,” she said, with an attempt to speak lightly. “I do not need medical attendance. The fresh air this afternoon has done me good, and now,” moving forward to the edge of the rock, “I must return and catch a few hours’ sleep before going on duty.”

  Without a word, but with his jaw set at an obstinate angle, Thorne scrambled down the rock, then turned back to assist Vera, only to find her at his elbow. She smiled up at him, slightly breathless from her exertions. Her face was dangerously close, and as Thorne looked deep into her lovely eyes his pulse lost a beat, then raced on. Hardly conscious of his action he clasped her hand in his.

  “Vera—Miss Deane,” he stammered, and his voice shook with feeling. “What madness led you to become so entangled in Bruce Brainard’s murder?”

  Vera drew back as if struck, and jerked her hand free. “You are mad!” she retorted vehemently. “I am in no way concerned in the tragedy.”

  There was an instant’s pause, then Thorne picked up his witch-hazel stick and stood aside, balancing it in his fingers. With a slight inclination of her head Vera turned to leave him, but she had gone but a few steps when he overtook her.

  “I seem always to give offense,” he said despairingly. “I’m an unlucky devil; never could express myself properly where I feel the most. Just now, Miss Deane, I only meant—” A pause followed as he sought the word he wanted. Vera’s sidelong glance convinced her that he appeared as perturbed as his speech implied. “I only meant to offer my services.”

  “As a physician?”

  He flushed at her tone. “Yes, should you r
equire medical attendance.”

  “Thank you.” Vera stole another look at him under lowered lids, but his air of detached, friendly interest baffled her. What motive had inspired his burst of passion a scant five minutes before? Vera’s eyes closed as if in pain, and there danced before her mental vision the words: “February 14—In grateful remembrance.” Was Thorne sincere in his proffer of friendship or was he still antagonistic to her and trading upon a woman’s sentiment to mask his true feelings? Pshaw! It was only fair to suspend judgment. It was the least that she could do in view of Thorne’s past kindness—but why had he pocketed the card so hastily? Vera opened her eyes to find Thorne anxiously regarding her. With perceptible hesitancy she took up the conversation where she had left off. “Perhaps when you call to see Mr. Porter I will get you to prescribe for me.”

  “I am at your service.” Thorne bowed courteously. “May I accompany you as far as the lane?”

  “Certainly.” And keeping step as much as the trees permitted they finally reached the path and walked briskly down it. Vera, who had been thinking intently, was the first to break the silence. “Have you studied law as well as medicine, doctor?” she asked. “And is that why they made you justice of the peace?”

  “Not entirely,” he responded, as he opened the gate of the lane. “I have a smattering of the law, and a passion for criminal investigation.”

  “Indeed?” Vera was unable to repress a start, and she quickly covered her agitation by pointing to the cleft switch which Thorne still carried balanced lightly in both hands. The switch, apparently of its own volition, had assumed a perpendicular position. “Why are you carrying that twig?”

  “Looking for water; I want to sink an artesian well, and this little wand points the way in my investigation.”