CHAPTER XXXII

THE STORM

Long after the luncheon gong had sounded Betty Thompson sat at her desk in the library, too agitated to think of eating, too anxious about the outcome of things to take her mind off the tense situation. Whichever way she turned perplexities confronted her. There in the conservatory was the stolen money, but she had promised not to touch it until this wretched detective had gone. When would he go? And there in her little chamber was this unfortunate girl, Hester Storm, whom she must save somehow, but how? And, wandering about the village of Ippingford--what could be keeping him?--was Lionel Fitz-Brown, bearer of that desperate cable message that might save Hiram Baxter or--or it might ruin him. Oh, dear, why didn't Lionel come back?

When Horatio entered presently with some food on a tray, a little cold meat and a salad, Betty shook her head sadly. She had no appetite, she really could not eat.

"You seem troubled, my dear," said Merle with kindly concern. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No, thank you," she answered wearily.

The clergyman put down the tray, looked about him cautiously, and then, tiptoeing close to Betty, he whispered: "Miss Thompson--that man--the detective?"

"Yes?"

Horatio lifted his chin wisely, and, with a tragic thumb, pointed to the library door.

"He's still waiting. He seems to be everywhere at once. In the words of King Solomon, he lieth in wait at every corner. I wish he would go away."

"I wish he would," she sighed.

"He acts as if he thought we were sheltering a fugitive in this house."

Betty started. "Is that such a dreadful thing to--shelter a fugitive?"

"My dear," said the curate earnestly, "I am speaking of a fugitive from justice, a malefactor, and to shelter such a person is tantamount to becoming a partner in his crime. It is a grave offense in the eyes of the law; it means imprisonment; it means----"

"Mr. Merle," interrupted the girl indignantly, "do you mean to tell me that if a repentant sinner came to you for help and protection you, as a Christian, would refuse to shelter him?"

Horatio stroked his side whiskers and opened and closed his mouth several times with clerical deliberation.

"This is one of those delicate questions, Miss Thompson, one of those delicate questions that--that----"

But Betty would not be put aside with pompous generalities.

"Mr. Merle," she asked earnestly, "suppose you had made a promise to shield some one, to save her from a terrible disgrace?"

"Some one who had done wrong?"

"Yes, she has done wrong, but--she is sorry for it--she has made amends."

"Then, my dear, your duty is plain. If she truly repents of her sin, and if you have given your promise----"

"But suppose keeping my promise to save this person--suppose it means--telling a lie?"

"Ah," replied the clergyman, solemnly lifting two scandalized palms, "it is my duty to forbid you, my child, under any circumstances to tell an untruth--even to save another from destruction."

As he uttered these words he blinked uneasily behind his powerful glasses, and immediately added with nervous haste: "I say that as a minister of the church, but--er--as a man----"

"Yes? As a man?" she questioned eagerly.

It is impossible to know how Horatio would have extricated himself from this dilemma, for, just as he was searching for some theological barrier against the girl's persistence, the telephone rang sharply.

Betty took up the receiver. "Yes?" she answered, while the curate wiped his brow and observed this fair American with wondering interest. What a country America must be, he reflected, if so charming and clever a young lady was a specimen of its secretaries! What must its leisure class be? Then he remembered that Hiram Baxter had once assured him that plumbers and gasfitters were the only leisure class in America. He had asked Harriet to make a note of the fact. Extraordinary, this American aristocracy of plumbers and gas-fitters!

The secretary, meantime, was listening, with brightening eyes and a flush of pleasure, to the telephone message.

"Don't you know who it is?" she smiled. "Miss Thompson. Yes, I was in Brighton, but I came up here this morning for--for some things."

Then there was a pause of listening, while the girl's face took on a startled expression. "The Bishop of Bunchester? Oh! I see. Very well, I'll tell Mr. Merle." And she hung up the instrument.

"It was Mr. Robert Baxter," she explained to Merle. "He is on his way here in the motor with a friend of yours."

"A friend of mine?"

"I suppose he's a friend of yours--the Bishop of Bunchester."

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the curate. "The Bishop of Bunchester!" He took off his glasses and rubbed them nervously.

"They will be here shortly and Mr. Robert wanted me to ask you," her eyes twinkled mischievously, "I don't understand what you have to do with it, Mr. Merle, perhaps he meant Mrs. Merle, but he asked if you would please see about one of the guest rooms."

"Quite right, my child," answered the clergyman gravely. "I will take great pleasure in arranging everything for his lordship. You see, I am--I am one of the servants in the house."

With a sort of humble dignity Horatio took up the tray while Betty stared at him in puzzled interest.

"Oh, Mr. Merle!" she said. "If you don't mind leaving that tray, perhaps I might eat a little--later."

"Certainly. I'll leave it here. By the way, my dear," he paused at the door, "the difficult question--that was troubling you?"

"Yes?"

"Why don't you put it to the bishop?"

"Perhaps I will," said Betty, and, long after the curate had gone, she sat still at her desk, thinking. Nor could all her worries and perplexities silence the glad thought that very soon she would see the man whose voice had just thrilled her over the telephone, the man who, without knowing it, had made her suffer, and who now, without knowing it, had made her happy.

Following a sudden joyous impulse, Betty took a key from her bag and, opening the top drawer of her desk, drew out, with loving touch, a small book beautifully bound in dark green leather. It was a little volume of the thoughts of Marcus Aurelius. And her eyes fell upon one of her favorite marked passages:

"It is in thy power, whenever thou shalt choose, to retire into thyself. For nowhere, either with more quiet or freedom from trouble, does a man retire than into his own soul, particularly when he has within him such thoughts that, by looking into them, he is immediately in perfect tranquillity; and I affirm that tranquillity is nothing else than the good ordering of the mind."

She pondered these comforting words, then, shyly, with a little gasp of pleasure, turned back to the flexible cover, where a flap of silk formed a thin pocket for some few sacred things, a picture of her mother, a faded and flat-pressed flower and four-leaf clover that once had been important, and, with these, the typewritten letter that Bob Baxter had dictated to her in this very room, the letter beginning "My dearest Betty" that she had shamefacedly saved from rumpled oblivion in the scrap basket, and ever since had treasured among her precious possessions.

Once again Betty read over this wonderful epistle, and she recalled all the nice loyal things Bob Baxter had said that day about his little pal of olden times. Did he mean them then? Had he forgotten them now? She sighed. He couldn't have meant them very much and be carrying on as he was with Kate Clendennin. Poor little pal of olden times!

And now a singular thing happened. As Betty looked fondly at the typewritten words she suddenly had an uncomfortable feeling that some one had entered the room and was looking at her. There had been neither sound nor word, but she knew that a person was standing there. And, glancing up, she saw Hester Storm at the half-open door of the mezzanine chamber, her dark eyes fixed on her benefactress in silent supplication.

"Oh!" cried Betty, in quick self-reproach.

Hester touched a warning finger to her lips and disappeared into the chamber. Whereupon Miss Thompson, dreading some new development, moved swiftly toward the little stair. On the way she stopped, in an impulse of kindness, and took up the tray of food.

"Poor girl! She's had nothing to eat," she thought, and, a moment later, she joined Hester in the bedroom.

Thus it came about that when Robert Baxter, in brilliant color and fine spirit, burst into the library a few minutes later, eager to see Betty Thompson, he found the big room empty. But there on the davenport were signs of a recent feminine occupation, suede gloves, a smart traveling hat and veil, and a lizard skin bag with silver monogram. Betty was evidently somewhere about, and the young fellow settled himself down to wait. He must talk to Betty, he must explain that he hadn't meant to hurt her feelings the other day at Brighton. He was only having a joke with her--why, he wouldn't hurt her feelings for the world.

As the young man glanced about the library his eyes fell on the little volume of Marcus Aurelius, and, taking it up carelessly, he came upon the letter shut within its pages. He had no thought of prying, indeed, he had no idea to whom the book belonged, and, before he realized what he was doing, he had read his own letter.

"By the Lord Harry!" he muttered, and the hot blood rushed to his face as he understood what this meant. That dear girl! His Betty! To think that she had kept that letter! He remembered seeing her crumple it up and throw it in the waste basket. She must have stooped down and picked it out again--and smoothed it--and folded it--and kept it. His plucky little pal! His Betty!

Bob rose and strode unhappily about the room. What a fool he had been not to recognize Betty! Couldn't he have seen that she was no ordinary secretary? My God! A child would have understood. And the worst of it was he had liked her all the time, he had looked at her and wondered about her, and--and then he had gone and made a silly idiot of himself with Kate Clendennin. It was sickening.

Bob had just brought himself to this state of righteous penitence and self-abasement when the door from Betty's chamber opened, and Betty herself appeared. She was stronger and happier now from having cheered and strengthened a disheartened sister woman. She was resolved to give Hester Storm this one last chance that she begged for to make good. She would try to save the girl from prison. She would hide her for a few hours, until Grimes had gone. This much she had promised sacredly to the pleading penitent, and she would keep her word.

At the sight of Betty, Bob went toward her eagerly, holding out his hands.

"Betty! Betty!" was all he could say.

"There!" she said, smiling happily and giving him her hand. "It's all right, Bob; it's all right."

"No, no, it's all wrong," he insisted.

She loved his nice naughty child penitence. Nor did she object to his masterful way as he drew up chairs.

"I've a lot to tell you," he went on, "but----"

Her dimple deepened at his embarrassment, and she reflected that he certainly needed a woman to help him pick out his cravats.

"I'm listening," she said demurely.

"This is the first chance I've had to speak to you since that day at Brighton--when you--

"I'm sorry I--I lost my temper, Bob," she whispered.

"Sorry," he burst out. "Why should you be sorry? You did the right thing. You called me down, but--you didn't say enough--not half enough."

"I didn't?"

He caught the mischief of her eyes, and, suddenly, as they remembered Betty's slashing outburst, they both were seized with a wild desire to laugh.

"My little pal! Betty Thompson!" he exclaimed in the old cordial way. "Say, why didn't you tell me about this--secretary business?" He tried to take one of her hands in his, but she drew it away gently. "Why didn't you, Betty?"

"I--I didn't want to," she answered in a low tone.

"That's no answer. I don't see why you did it."

"You don't? Bob, you must see why I wanted to help Guardy when he's been so good to me, and--he had no secretary, and--I've been so extravagant. Think of all the money Guardy has given me, and I--I supposed it was mine, I thought it was money father left me, but--he really left nothing. He--he left nothing."

"Nothing? He left the finest, pluckiest girl in the world. And, anyway, I don't see why you had to hide your name. Why didn't you say you were Betty Thompson and not just any old Miss Thompson? I mean any young Miss Thompson," he added, laughing.

She hesitated before answering.

"Bob, you may not believe me, you think musicians are crazy people--yes, you do, you said so, but--I've worked hard at my singing, and--I have a voice, a fine voice. I've sung in concerts, and--I'm going to make a name for myself, not like Melba or Emma Eames, but--well, you'll hear of Elizabeth Thompson some day, and it won't be as a secretary pounding on a typewriter, either; it will be as a singer. So there!" She drew herself up with a flash of the eye and a lift of the chin that made Bob thrill as he watched her. "Now you see why I'm just plain Miss Thompson."

"Betty, you know you've been talking nonsense; you know you've not given me the right reason."

Betty dropped her eyes in confusion. "If there was another reason it was a--foolish reason, and----" suddenly she drew back, and, with a start of remembrance, changed the subject. "How stupid! We're forgetting the bishop."

"Hang the bishop! He's lying down. He says we're going to have a storm--says he aches all over--that's how he knows."

"How interesting! I believe we are going to have a storm. Look, Bob." She pointed to a line of heavy clouds advancing formidably in purple black masses.

He shook his head. "I don't want to talk about the storm, Betty, or about the bishop or about any other old thing. I want to talk about you. Tell me about that foolish reason. I love foolish reasons."

"Well, I--I thought it would be--amusing to--see if--you would know me." She doled the words out teasingly, then, with a laugh of half triumph, half reproach: "And you didn't, you didn't!"

"How do you know I didn't? I knew you all right the other day at Brighton."

"Yes, but your mother told you. Oh, you needn't look so innocent. I'm sure she did. Why, you didn't even remember the little keepsake you gave me."

"What keepsake?"

"Ah! I told you! And I've kept it all these years."

She opened her lizard skin bag and produced a silver pencil with a whistle at the end.

"There! I suppose you've even forgotten the whistle." She blew shrilly on the little plaything.

Bob looked at her out of straightforward loyal eyes. "I own up, Betty, I had forgotten. I didn't know you until Mother gave the thing away, but I'll say this, you made me think of Betty. I never knew how it was, but--now I know." He leaned toward her eagerly. "There's only one Betty in the world; there couldn't be two and----"

"It really is going to storm, Bob," she said, rising nervously. "Just hear that wind. And see how dark it's getting."

She felt caressing shivers running up and down her back as she caught the unsteadiness of his voice.

"Sit down, Bob. I'm going to sing for you. I'm going to sing my favorite song."

He tossed his big shoulders impatiently, and she flung him a pouting reproof.

"Oh, well, if you don't care to hear my favorite song."

"I do care, Betty. I'm crazy to hear it, but--hello!" He paused as a pompous cough and ponderous tread resounded through the hall.

"It's the bishop," said Betty, and the words were scarcely spoken when his lordship entered, his benignant smile relieving the formidable impressiveness of his ecclesiastical coat and buckled knee breeches.

"Ah, my young friends," was his sonorous greeting as he peered among the shadowed spaces of the great room. "Ah, here you are! Quite a charming twilight picture!" He took their hands in a hearty grasp, then, turning slyly to Bob, "I don't think I need apologize for keeping you waiting."

Young Baxter gave a little self-conscious laugh, but Betty immediately became dignified.

"We were talking about--about music."

"Yes," added Bob. "You know Betty has been studying singing in Paris--she has a splendid voice."

"I should very much enjoy hearing Miss Thompson sing." The bishop bowed gallantly.

"You're just in time. Miss Thompson has promised to sing her favorite song, and--er--I was saying it would be rather nice to have it in the dark with--er--the organ accompaniment."

Betty opened her eyes at the glibness of Bob's invention.

"To be sure," approved his lordship. "In the dark, by all means, with the storm raging outside. Bless my soul! Look at that rain!"

The water was coming down in sheets and torrents, lashing the library windows and seething over the glass roof of the conservatory.

"It sounds like a Belasco melodrama," laughed Bob.

"Yes, yes, quite so," murmured the bishop, not understanding in the least this allusion. "And what is your favorite song, my dear?" he asked Betty.

"Oh, I would never have the courage to sing before you," she declared.

"Besides, it's so much more interesting to talk. We'll have some lights and some tea, and--you must tell us what brings you to this part of the world?"

"Why, don't you know? Didn't you tell her?" The churchman turned to Bob in surprise.

"I--er--I thought I did," stammered the latter, but Betty shook her head.

"It's quite a mystery, my dear," the prelate explained. "It's in connection with that unfortunate affair in the train--you remember?"

"The purse?"

"Exactly. I received a telegram this morning from Scotland Yard--the police headquarters."

"Yes?"

"Perhaps you don't know it, but they have sent a detective here, a man named Grimes."

Betty could feel her lips getting white, but she kept her self-possession.

"I know," she said quietly, "I saw him."

"I had a few words with him myself just now. He seems like a straightforward fellow--says he has a clew, but--he isn't quite ready to make his report."

"How can he have a clew in this house?" objected Bob. "The servants have all left, and--I guess it's a false alarm."

"I'm afraid so," sighed the prelate. "We have had so many false alarms. You remember those German musicians, Miss Thompson?"

"I remember."

"They were innocent, it appears, quite innocent. Ah, well, I suppose we must be patient," the prelate continued in a tone of resignation, "and, for the moment, my dear, nothing could be more delightful than the song you were speaking of--in the dark, please."

Betty looked out into the park, where the swaying pines, tortured in the strength of the tempest, were hurling their branches to and fro like huge black hands. She listened to the shrieking of the gale as it rose and fell, then, without speaking, she went to the old organ, and, seating herself at its yellow keyboard, in the paneled recess, began to play softly a tender prelude of minor chords. As her courage grew she swelled into a braver ascending movement with danger notes sounding here and there, and, finally, improvising through a rapid procession of major chords, she swung into a triumphant crashing finale with the full strength of the organ, a storm within and a storm without that stirred old Bunchester to the depths of his tired soul and gave Betty Thompson new courage for the task that was before her.

Suddenly she stopped. There was a moment of tense silence, then her sweet voice lifted in an inspired melody, and, with all the tenderness of her nature, she sang "Annie Laurie."

"Wonderful! Admirable!" exclaimed the bishop when the last note of the haunting words had died away. "You have an exquisite voice, my dear. Really, I--I don't know when I have been more genuinely touched."

Betty herself was so deeply moved that she could scarcely trust herself to speak.

"Bob," she called softly, "will you get my handkerchief? It's there by you--in my desk--the top drawer."

She spoke as if she thought Bob was sitting near her desk, but he rose from the opposite corner of the room.

"Certainly," he said, crossing over. "Wait, I'll turn up the lights," and he did so, touching a button in the wall.

As the electrics flashed out Betty looked about her in surprise.

"Why, how strange!" she cried.

"What?" asked the bishop.

"Surely you--you haven't been sitting there all the time--while I was singing?"

"My dear young lady, I haven't moved from this chair," declared his lordship.

"But you must have moved. Some one moved across this room," she insisted. Then she turned earnestly to Baxter.

"Bob, was it you? Did you move? I couldn't see in the dark, but--I thought it was you."

Her voice was almost pleading now.

"Nobody moved," Bob assured her. "We were too much taken up with your singing. Say, Betty, it was great. I never heard anything like it, never. I knew you could sing, but--by George, I didn't know you were an artist."

The girl's eyes were still troubled.

"You'll think me silly," she said with a strange impressiveness, "but--I know some one passed through this room while I was singing."