Classic Audiobook Collection - Blotted Out by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding ~ Full Audiobook [mystery]

Episode Date: December 27, 2023

Blotted Out by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding audiobook. Genre: mystery Fresh off a ship into New York, James Ross expects anonymity: no family, no friends, no ties. Instead, before he can even step onto the dock, a note pulls him into a stranger's life. A woman named Amy Solway claims to be his cousin and begs him to help her immediately by posing as her newly hired chauffeur. James agrees, thinking it will be a brief favor. But the moment he enters Amy's house, he stumbles on a horrifying secret: a dead man hidden under a sofa, and a household acting as if nothing is wrong. Worse, Amy has been waiting for a different James Ross altogether, and the mistake could be dangerous for both of them. Alone in a city that does not know his face, James must decide whether to walk away, or to stay and untangle a web of false names, desperate lies, and quiet threats that spread far beyond one locked room. As the pressure mounts and every explanation contradicts the last, James learns how quickly a life can be rewritten, and how hard it is to prove the truth once it has been blotted out. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:12:03) Chapter 02 (00:20:26) Chapter 03 (00:29:01) Chapter 04 (00:40:06) Chapter 05 (00:50:03) Chapter 06 (01:00:50) Chapter 07 (01:11:27) Chapter 08 (01:20:15) Chapter 09 (01:30:15) Chapter 10 (01:39:18) Chapter 11 (01:48:17) Chapter 12 (01:58:38) Chapter 13 (02:08:24) Chapter 14 (02:20:03) Chapter 15 (02:30:24) Chapter 16 (02:40:08) Chapter 17 (02:50:57) Chapter 18 (03:02:48) Chapter 19 (03:13:41) Chapter 20 (03:19:10) Chapter 21 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Blotted out by Elizabeth Sansa Holding In this story, a Tigris masquerades is a beautiful woman. In other words, Amy Ross was predatory and cruel. Chapter 1 James Ross was well content that morning. He stood on the deck, one elbow on the rail, enjoying the wind and the cold rain that blew in his face, enjoying still more as feeling of complete isolation and freedom.

None of the other passengers shared his liking for this, bleak November weather, and he had the windward side of the deck to himself. He was alone there, he was alone in the world, and he meant to remain alone. Through the window of the saloon he could, if he liked, see the severe eagle-nose profile of Mrs. Barron, who was sitting in there more majestic than ever in her shore-going outfit. She was a formidable lady, stern, resolute, and experienced. She had marked him down as soon as he had come on board at San Juan. Yet he had a son. He had escape from her. He had got the better of her, and so skillfully that even to this moment she was not sure whether he had deliberately avoided her, or whether it was chance. Yes, even now,

if the weather had permitted, she would have come out after him with her card. But if the weather had permitted that, Ross would not have been where he was. The day before she had captured him for an instant in the dining saloon, and she had said that before they landed she would give him her card. He had thanked her very civilly, but he had made up his mind that she should do nothing of the sort, because if she did, she would expect a card from him in return, she would want to know where he was going, and he meant that she should never know, and never be able to find him. Even she was not likely to go so far as to rush across the rain-swept deck with that card of hers.

He could also see, if he liked, little blonde head of Phyllis Baron, who was sitting beside her mother, her hat her head. her lap. He knew very well that Phyllis had taken no part at all in pursuing him, yet in a way she was far more dangerous than Mrs. Barron. Before he had realized the danger, he had spent a good deal of time with Phyllis, too much time. It was only a five days run up from Puerto Rico. He had never seen her before he came on board, and he intended never to see her again, and he felt that it might take him considerably more than five days to forget her. This made him uncomfortable. Every glimpse of that quiet, thoughtful little face so very pretty, so

touching in its brave young dignity and candor, gave him a sort of qualm, as if she had spoken a friendly word to him, and he had not answered. Indeed, so much did the sight of Phyllis Baron to squide him that he turned away altogether. And now, through the downpour, he saw the regal form of the Statue of Liberty. It pleased him, and somehow consoled him for those qualms. It was a symbol of what his life was going to be, a life of completeest liberty. He had left nobody behind him. There was nobody waiting for him anywhere in the world. He cared for nobody. No, not he, and nobody cared for him. That was just what he liked. He was young. He was in vigorous health. He had sufficient money, and no one on earth had any sort

of claim upon him. He could go where he pleased and do what he pleased. He was was free. And here he was coming back to what was after all his native city, and not one soul there knew his face. He smiled to himself at the thought, his dower, tight lips smile. Coming home, eh? And nobody to greet him but the statue of liberty. He was glad it was so. He didn't want to be greeted. He wanted to be let alone. And in that case he had better go now, before they came alongside the pier and Mrs. Baron appeared. He went below to his cabin, intending to stop there until all other passengers had disembarked. The steward had taken up his bags, and the little room had a forlorn and untidy look, not an agreeable place in which to sit, but it was safe.

Ross hung up his wet overcoat and cap, and sat down with a magazine to read, when he could not read a word. The engines had stopped, they had arrived, he was in New York, in New York. In New York. York. Tries he would to stifle his emotions, a great impatience and restlessness filled him. There were in this city thousands of men to whom Manila and Mayeges would seem names of almost incredible romance, men to whom New York meant little but an apartment, the subway, the office, and the anxious and monotonous routine of earning a living. But to Ross, New York had all the allurement of the exotic, and those other ports had meant only exile and discontent. He thought uncharitable thoughts about Mrs. Barron because she kept him imprisoned here when he so longed to

set foot on shore. There was a knock at the door. Well, Ross demanded. Note for you, sir, answered the steward. Ross grinned to himself at what he considered a new instance of Mrs. Barron's enterprise. For a moment he thought he would refuse to take the note, so that he might truthfully say he had never got it. Then he reflected that Mrs. Barron was never going to have a chance to question him about it, and he unlocked the door. We've docked, sir, the steward said. I know it, Ross agreed briefly. He took the note, tipped the steward, and locked the door after him.

Extraordinary the way this lady had pursued him, all the way across. He was not handsome, not entertaining, not even very amiable. She knew nothing about him. Indeed, as far as her knowledge went, he might be any sort of dangerous and undesirable character. Yet she had persistently and obviously done her best to capture him for her daughter. He glanced at himself in the mirror, a lean and hardy young man, buried dark, with features characteristic of his family, a thin, keen nose rather long upper lip, a saturnine and faintly mocking expression. They were a disagreeable family, bitterly obstinate, ambitious, energetic, and grimly unsociable.

And he was like that too, like his father and his grandfather and his uncles. Without being in the least humble, he still could not understand what Mrs. Barron had seen in him to make her consider him a suitable son-in-law. With Phyllis Barron it was different. He had sometimes imagined that her innocent and candid eyes had discerned in him qualities he had long ago tried to destroy. It was possible that she had found him a little likable.

But she wouldn't pursue him. He was certain that she had not written this note or wanted her mother to write it. When he had realized this danger, and had begun to spend his time talking to the doctor instead of sitting beside her on deck, she had never tried to recall him. Whenever he did come, she always had that serious, friendly little smile for him, but she had tried to make it very plain that where she was concerned he was quite free to come or to go, to remember, or to forget. Well, he meant to forget.

His life was just a beginning, and he did not intend to entangle himself in any way. He sighed, not knowing that he did so, and then, out of sheer idle curiosity, just to see how Mrs. Barron worked, he opened a note. Dear cousin James, it began. But as far as he knew, he hadn't a cousin in the world. With a puzzled frown, he picked up the envelope. It was plainly addressed in a clear small hand to Mr. James Ross, on board the SS Farragut. Must be a mistake, though, he muttered. I'll just see.

And he went on reading. You have never seen me, and I know you have heard all sorts of cruel and false things about me. But I beg you to forget all that now. I am in such terrible trouble, and I don't know where to turn. I beg you to come here as soon as you get this. Ask her Mrs. Jones, the housekeeper.

Say you have come from Cren's agency about the job as chauffeur. She will tell you everything. You can't refuse just to come and let me tell you about this terrible thing. Your desperately unhappy cousin, Amy Ross Solway, Days End, Y'Gat Road, near Stamford. He sat, staring in amazement at this letter. It's a mistake, he said aloud. But all the same it filled him with a curious uneasiness. Of course it was meant for someone else, and he wanted that other fellow to get it at once.

He wanted to be rid of it in a hurry. He had nothing to do with anyone's cousin Amy and her terrible trouble. He rang the bell for the Stuart, waited, rang again, more vigorously, again waited, but no one came. Then, putting the note back in its envelope, he flung open the door and strode out into the passage, shouting, Stuart! With a pretty forcible voice. No one answered him. He went down the corridor, turned a corner, and almost ran into Mrs. Barron.

Mr. Ross, said she, in a tone of stern triumph. So here you are. Phyllis, dear, give Mr. Ross one of our cards, with the address. Then he caught sight of Phyllis, standing behind her mother. In her little close-fitting hat, her coat with a fur collar, she looked taller, older, graver, quite different from that bright-haired, slender little thing in a deck-chair. And somehow she was so dear to him,

so lovely, so gentle, so utterly trustworthy. I'll never forget her, he thought, in despair. Then she spoke, in a tone he had not heard before. I'm sorry, she said. I haven't any cards with me. Phyllis, cried her mother. I particularly asked you. I'm sorry, Phyllis declared again. We'll really have to hurry, mother. Goodbye, Mr. Ross. Her steady blue eyes met his for an instant, but for all the regards.

in pain he felt, his stubborn spirit effused to show one trace. Evidently, she knew he had tried to run away, and she didn't want to see him again. Very well. Goodbye, Miss Baron, he said. She turned away, and he too would have walked off, but the dauntless Mrs. Baron was not to be thwarted. Then I'll tell you the address, said she. Hotel Benderly, West 77th Street. Don't forget. I shan't, Ross replied.

Thank you. Goodbye. He went back along the corridor, forgetting all about the note, even forgetting where he was going, until the sight of a white jacket in the distance recalled him. Stuart! he shouted. The man came toward him, anxious and very hurried. Look here, said Ross. This note.

It's not meant for me. Beg your pardon, sir, but a boy brought it aboard and told me to give it to you. I tell you it's not meant for me, said Ross. Take it back. But it's addressed to you, sir, Mr. James Ross. There's no other Mr. Ross on board. The boy said it was urgent. Take it back, Ross repeated.

I shouldn't like to do that, sir, said the Stuart firmly. I said I deliver it to Mr. Ross. If you're not satisfied, sir, the purser might... Oh, all right, Ross interrupted with a frown. I haven't time to bother now. I'll keep it. but it's a mistake, and somebody is going to regret it. End of Chapter 1.

Chapter 2 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sansae Holding. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. A casual acquaintance in San Juan had recommended the Hotel Mistin to Ross. Nice, quiet little place, he had said, and you can get a really good cup of coffee there. So when the United States customs officers had done with Ross, he secured a taxi and told the chauffeur to drive him to this hotel Miston. Not that he was in the least anxious for quiet,

or had any desire for a cup of coffee, simply he was in a hurry to get somewhere, anywhere, so that he could begin to live. In spite of the rain, he lowered the window of the cab and sat looking out at the astounding speed and vigor of the life about him. This was what he had longed for. This was what he had wanted. For years and years he had said to himself that when he had,

he was free, he would come here and make a fortune. Well, he was free, and he was in New York, and he had already the foundation of a nice little fortune. For eight years he had worked in the office of a commission agent in Manila, and every day of those eight years he had told himself that he wouldn't stand it any longer. But he had stood it. His grandfather had been a cynical old tyrant. He had thwarted the boy in every ambition that he had. When James said he wanted to be a civil engineer, as his father had been, old Ross told him he hadn't brains enough for that. James had not agreed with him, but as he had no money to send himself home to college, he had been obliged to put up with what old Ross called the sound practical education.

At 18, his education was declared finished, and he went to work. He hated his work. He hated everything about his life. And from his meager salary he had saved every cent he could so that he would get away. Long ago he had saved enough to pay his passage to New York, but he had not gone. His grandfather was old and ill, and because of his bitter tongue, quite without friends. He certainly gave no sign that he enjoyed his grandson's company, and James showed no affection for him. Their domestic life was anything but agreeable.

Sick at heart, James saw his youth slipping by, wasted, his abilities all unused, he had told himself that he had done his duty, and more than his duty. to his grandfather, yet he could not leave him. Then, six months ago, the old man had died, leaving everything he had to my grandson, James Ross, in appreciation of his loyalty, the only sign of appreciation he had ever made. It was a surprisingly large estate. There was some property in Puerto Rico where James had spent his childhood with his parents, but the greater part consisted of very sound bonds and mortgages in the hands of a New York lawyer,

Mr. Teagle. Mr. Teagle had written to James, and James had written to Mr. Teagle several times in the last few months. But James had not told him when he expected to arrive in New York. He had gone to Puerto Rico in a little cargo steamer

by the way of Panama. He had wound up his business there, and now he wanted to walk in on Mr. Teagle in the most casual fashion. He hated any sort of fuss. He didn't want to be met at the steamer, he didn't want to be advised and assisted. He wanted to be let alone.

The taxi stopped before the hotel Mistin, a dingy little place not far from Washington Square. Ross got out, paid the driver, and followed the porter into the lobby. He engaged a room and bath and turned toward the elevator. Will you register, sir? asked the clerk. Ross hesitated for a moment, and he wrote J. Ross New York.

After all, this was his home. He had been born here, and he intended to live here. He went upstairs to his room, and locking the door, sat down near the window. The floor still seemed to heave under his feet like the deck of a ship. He visualized the deck of the ferrigut and fill us in a deck chair, looking at him with your dear, friendly little smile. He frowned at the unwelcome thought. That was finished, that belonged in the past.

There was a new life before him, and the sooner he began it, the better. He reached into his pocket for Mr. Teagle's last last. letter and brought out that note to Cousin James. At the sight of it, he frowned more heavily. He tossed it across the room in the direction of the desk, but it fluttered down to the floor. Let it lie there. He found Mr. Teagle's letter and took up the telephone receiver, presently, Mr. Teagle's office, came a brisk, feminine voice. I'd like to see Mr. Teagle this morning, if possible. Sorry, but Mr. Teagle won't be in today. Will you leave a message?

No, said Ross, no thanks, and hung up the receiver. He sat for a time looking out of the window at the street far below him. The rain fell steadily, and was a dismal day. He could not begin his new life today, after all. Very well, what should he do then? Anything he wanted, of course. Nobody could have been freer. He lit a cigarette, and leaned back in the chair.

Freedom, that was what he had wanted, and that was what he had got. and yet? He turned his head to look for an ashtray, and his glance fell upon that confounded note on the floor. In the back of his mind he had known all the time that he would have to do something about it. He disliked it and disapproved of it, a silly, hysterical sort of note, he thought,

but nevertheless it was an appeal for help, and it was from a woman. Somebody ought to answer it. He began idly to speculate about the terribly unhappy Amy Ross Solway. Perhaps she was young, not much more than a girl, like Phyllis. Not much, he said to himself. She wouldn't write a note like that. She's not that sort, no matter what sort of trouble menaced.

It occurred to him that if Phyllis Baron were in any sort of trouble, she would never turn to James Ross for help. He had shown her too plainly that he was not disposed to trouble himself about other people and their affairs. His family never did. They minded their own business. they let other people alone, and other people soon learn to let them alone. Very satisfactory. Lucky for this Amy Ross Solway that she didn't know what sort of fellow had got that note of hers.

Still, something had to be done about it. At first he thought he would mail it back to her, with a note of his own explaining that he was not her cousin James, but another James Ross, who had got it by mistake. But no, that meant too much delay, when she was no doubt waiting impatiently for a gallant cut. Then he thought he would try to get her on the telephone, but that idea did not suit him either, and was always awkward trying to explain anything on the telephone. And besides, she seemed anxious

for secrecy. He might explain to the wrong person and do a great deal of harm. He began to think very seriously about that note now, and for some unaccountable reason, his thoughts of the unknown woman were confused with thoughts of Phyllis Barron. It seemed to him that if Phyllis could know how much attention he was giving to this problem which was not his business, she would realize that he was not entirely callous. If she thought he was, she misjudged him. Perhaps he was not what you might call impulsively sympathetic, but he was not lacking in all decent feeling. He was not going to ignore this appeal. I'll go out there, he decided. I'll see the same he Ross Sawway and explain. And if it troubles anything real, I'll... he hesitated. Well, I'll...

give her the best advice I can, he thought. No, James Ross was not what you might call impulsively sympathetic, but considering how vehemently he hated to be mixed up in other people's affairs, it was creditable of him to even think of giving advice, creditable of him to go at all. He arose, put on his overcoat, cut up his hat, and went downstairs. Nobody took any notice of him. He walked out of the Hotel Mistin, and he never came back. End of Chapter 2

Chapter 3 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sansae Holding This Liebervox recording is in the public domain It did not please the young man to ask questions in this his native city He had spent time enough in studying a map of New York And he knew his way about pretty well But there were naturally things he did not know

For instance he went to the Pennsylvania station and learned that his train for Stamford left from the Grand Central. It was after one o'clock then, so he went into a restaurant and had lunch before going farther, his first meal in the United States. He had never enjoyed anything more, to walk through these streets, among the hurrying and indifferent crowds, to be one of them, to feel himself at home here,

filled him with something like a latian. It was his city. A little after three he boarded the train. In spite of his caution and his native reticence, he would at that moment have relished to talk with one of his fellow countrymen in the smoking car. He was not disposed to start a conversation without encouragement, though, and nobody took any notice of him. Nobody had since his landing.

A clever criminal, escaping from justice, could not have been much more successful than leaving no traces. When he got out at Stamford, the rain had ceased, but the sky was menacing and overcast. He stood for a moment on the platform, again reluctant to ask questions, but there was no help for it this time. He stopped a grocer's boy and asked him where Wyget Road was. The boy told him, but it's a long way he added. Ross didn't care how long it was. This was the first suburban town he had seen, and it charmed him.

Such a prosperous, orderly, lively town. He thought that he might like to live here. Thus was closing in early this dismal day. It was almost dark before he reached the hill he had to climb. The streetlights came on, and through the windows of houses he could see shaded lamps and shadows of people, comfortable rooms, bright little glimpses of domestic life. Past him, along the road, went an endless stream of motor cars. With a rush and a glare of light, he scarcely realized that he was in the country

until he came to the top of the hill, and saw before him a signpostmarked, Why get road? He turned down here, and was it once in another world. It was dark and very, very quiet. No motors passed him, no lights shone out, he walked on quite alone, under tall old trees, to which clung a few leaves, trembling in every gust of wind. Overhead, ragged black clouds flew across the darkening sky, the night was coming fast. And now he began to think about his extraordinary errand. Now he began to think that he had been a fool to come. But it did not occur to him to turn back. He never did that. He was sorry he had begun a foolish thing, but now that he had begun, he would carry on. If it took him all night, if it took him a week, he would find

days end and do what he had set out to do. There was no one to ask questions of here, no human being, no house in sight. On one side of him was a belt of woodland. on the other, an iron fence which appeared to run on interminably. Well, he also would go on interminably, and if Day's End was on Yagat Road, he would certainly come to it in the course of time. He did. There was a break in the fence at last,

made by a gateway between stone pillars, and here he saw by the light of a match, Day's End in gilt letters. He opened the gate and went in. The long driveway stretched before him, treeline. He went up at briskly. He saw nothing and heard nothing, but he had a vague impression that the grounds through which he passed were sombre and forbidding, and he expected to see a house in keeping with this notion

an old sinister house suitable for people in terrible trouble. It was not like that, though. The turn in the driveway brought him in sight of a long façade of lighted windows, and a large, substantial, matter-of-fact house, which made him feel more of a fool than ever. Yet still he went on, mounted the steps of a brick, terrace and rang the doorbell. The door was opened promptly by a pale and disagreeable young housemaid. I want to see Mrs. Jones, the housekeeper, said Ross. You ought to go to the back door, she remarked sharply. You ought to know that much. Ross did not like this, but it was not his habit

to let his temper override discretion. Oh right, he said, and was turning away, ready to go to the back door, ready to go anywhere, said that he accomplished his mission when the housemaid relented. As long as you're here, you can come in, she said, this way. He followed her across a wide hall, with a polished floor and a fine old stairway rising from it to a door at the farther end. It's the room right in front of you when you get to the top, she explained. She opened the door, he went in, she closed the door behind him, and he found himself in what seemed a pitch black cupboard. But as he moved forward, his foot struck against a step, and he began cautiously to mount a narrow boxed-in staircase until his outstretched hand touched a door. He pushed it open and found himself in a well-lighted corridor and facing him a white-painted door.

And behind that door he heard someone sobbing in a low-wailing voice. He stopped, rather at a loss. Then because he would not go back, he went forward and knocked. Who is it? voice. I came to see Mrs. Jones, Ross replied casually. It was a moment's silence, and the door was opened by the loveliest creature he had ever seen in his life. He had only a glimpse of her, of an exquisite face, very white, with dark and delicate brows and great black eyes, I faced childlike in its soft, pure contours, but terribly unchildlike in its expression of

terror and despair. Wait, she said. Go in and wait. She brushed past him with a flutter of her filmy grey dress and a breath of some faint fragrance and vanished down the back stairs. Ross went in as he was instructed and stood facing the door

waiting with a certain uneasiness for someone to come. But nobody did come and at last he turned and looked about him. It was a cozy room with a cheerful red carpet on the floor and plenty of solid old-fashioned walnut furniture about. It was well-worned by a steam-raised and well lighted by an alabaster electrolyre in the ceiling, a clock ticked smartly on the

mantelpiece, and on the sofa lay a big yellow cat pretending to be asleep, with one gleaming eye half open. It was such a thoroughly commonplace and comfortable room that the young man felt reassured. He decided to ignore the wailing voice he had heard, and the pallid lovely creature who had opened the door. For all he knew such things might be quite usual in this household, and anyhow it was none of his business. He had come to see Mrs. Jones and to explain an error. He watched the smart little clock for five minutes and then began to grow restless. He had walked a good deal this day.

He was tired. His shoes were wet. He wanted to be done with this business and to get away. Another five minutes. It seemed to him that this was the quietest room he had ever known. Even the tick of the clock was muffled like a tiny pulse. It was altogether too quiet. He didn't like it at all. He frowned uneasily and turned toward the only other living thing there, the cat. He laid his hand on its head, and in a sort of drowsy ecstasy, the cat stretched out to a surprising length, opening and curling up its paws. Its claws caught in the linen cover and pulled it up a little, and Ross saw something under the sofa. He doubted the very evidence of his senses. He could not believe that he saw a hand stretched out on the red carpet. He stared and stared at it,

and credulous. Then he stooped and lifted up the cover and looked under the sofa. There lay a man, faced downward. He was very still. It seemed to Ross said it was this man's stillness which he had felt in the room. It was the quiet of death. End of Chapter 3. Chapter 4 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sancey Holding. This Liebervox recording is in the public domain. Ross stood looking down at the very quiet figure in a sort of daze. He did not find this horrible, or shocking. It was simply impossible. Here in this tranquil, cozy room, no, it was impossible. Going down on one knee, he reached out and touched the nape of the man's neck, but he did it mechanically. He had known from the first glance that

the man was dead. No living thing could lie so still, quite cold. The sound of a slow footstep in the corridor startled him. He sprang to his feet, pulled down the linen cover, and was standing idly in the centre of the room when a woman entered, a stout elderly woman with calm brown eyes behind spectacles. Well, said she, I came to see Mrs. Jones, said Ross, I had a note. He spoke in a tone as matter-of-fact as her own, for to save his life he could think of no rational manner in which to tell her what he had seen. Such a preponder thing to tell a sensible elderly woman. The very thought of it dismayed him.

Of all things in the world, he hated the theatrical. He could not be, and he would not be dramatic. He wished to be casual. But in this case it would not be easy. The thing he had found was in its very nature dramatic, and was even now defying him to be casual and sensible. He would have to tell her, point blank, and she probably would shriek or faint, or both.

Yes, she said, I'm Mrs. Jones. A note? Her voice trailed away and she stood regarding him in thoughtful silence. Ross was quite willing to be silent a little longer, while he tried to find a reassuring form for his statement. He looked back at her, his lean face quite impassive, his mind working furiously. Yes, said Mrs. Jones. Miss Salway did think for a time that she might need someone to advise her, but everything's quite all right now. She paused a moment. She'll be sorry to hear you've made the journey for nothing. She'll appreciate your kindness, I'm sure.

But everything's quite all right now. Oh, is it? Murmored Ross. He found difficulty in suppressing a grim smile. Everything was all right now, was it? And he could run away home? He did not agree with Mrs. Jones. Yes, she replied.

It was very kind of you to come, but... Wait, cried Ross, for she had turned away toward the sofa. without so much as turning her head she went on a few steps, took the knitted scarf from her shoulders and threw it over the end of the sofa. And he saw then that just the tip of the man's fingers had been visible and that the trailing end of the scarf covered them now. She knew. Well, she asked, looking inquiringly at him through her spectacles,

No, it was impossible. The whole thing was utterly impossible. This sedate, respectable, grey-haired woman, this housekeeper who looked as if she would not overlook the smallest trace of dust in a corner certainly surely would not leave a dead man under her sofa. She was stroking the cat, and the animal had assumed an expression of idiotic delight, pink-tong protruding a little, eyes half open. Would even a cat be so monstrously indifferent if what he thought he had seen under the sofa were really there?

Would you like me to telephone for a taxi to take you to the station, asked Mrs. Jones, very civilly. Ha, not Ross. You want to get rid of me, don't you? And that aroused all his stiff-necked obstinacy. He would not go away now, after all his trouble, without any sort of explanation of the situation. There's a good train, Mrs. Jones, began, with calm persistence, but Ross interrupted.

No thanks, he said, I'd like to see Miss Salway first. His own word surprised him a little. After all, why on earth should he want to see this Miss Solway? A few hours ago he had been greatly annoyed at the thought of having to do so. He would have been only too glad never to see or hear of her again. It's because I don't like being made such a fool of, he thought. For the first time since she had entered the room, Mrs. Jones' calm was disturbed. She came nearer to him and looked into his face with obvious anxiety,

speaking very low and far more respectfully. It would be much better not to, she said. Much better, sir, if you'll just go away. I want to see Miss Solway, Ross repeated. There's been a mistake, and I want to explain. I know that, sir, she whispered. Of course, as soon as I saw you, I knew you weren't Mr. Ross, but... Look here, said Ross bluntly.

What's it all about, anyhow? There was a little difficulty, sir, said Mrs. Jones, still in a whisper, but it's all over now. All over now? A new thought came to Ross. Had the man under the sofa been Miss Salway's terrible trouble, and had cousin James been sent for it to help in doing what had already been done? He had at this moment a most clear and definite warning from his brain.

Clear out, it said. Get out of this now. Don't wait. Don't ask questions. Just go. Off through his body, this warning signal ran, making a scalp. prickle and his heart beat fast.

It is bad for you here. Go. Now. And his stubborn and indomitable spirit answered, I won't. I want to see Miss Salway, he said aloud. Mrs. Jones looked at him for a moment and apparently the expression on his face filled her with despair.

Oh dear, she said with a tremulous sigh. I knew. I told her it was a mistake to send. Oh, dear. Ross stood there and waited. If you'll go away, she said, Miss Sawway will write to you. Ross still stood there and waited. Very well, sir, she said with another sigh.

If you must, you must. This way, please. He followed her out of the room and he noticed that she did not even glance back. She couldn't know. It was impossible that anyone who was aware of what lay under the sofa could simply walk out of the room like that, closing the door upon it. They went down the corridor,

which was evidently a wing of the house, and turned the corner into a wider hall. Mrs. Jones knocked upon a door. Miss Amy, my pet, she called softly. The door opened a little. The gentleman, said Mrs. Jones, he will see you. All right, answered a voice he recognized.

The door opened wider, and there was the girl he had seen before. Her body and that soft. gray dress, seemed almost incredibly fragile, her face colorless, framed in misty black hair with great, restless black eyes and delicate little features, was strange and lovely as a dream. Too strange, thought Ross, for the first time he realized the significance of her presence in the housekeeper's room. He remembered the wailing voice, her air of haste and terror as she brushed past him. She had been in there alone. What did she know? What had she said?

scene. I had a note from you, he began. Hush, said Mrs. Jones. If you please, sir. It's a mistake, Miss Amy, my pet. This isn't Mr. Ross. It's quite a stranger. Obviously she was warning her pet to be careful what she said, and Ross decided that he too would be careful. He would have his own little mystery. Quite a stranger, he repeated. But how did you get my note, asked the girl. It was given to me, he answered. He saw Mrs. Jones and the girl exchange a glance. If I hold my tongue and wait, he thought, they'll surely have to tell me something.

But I don't, the girl began, when to Ross's amazement Mrs. Jones gave him a vigorous push forward. You're the new chauffeur, she whispered fiercely. Then he heard footsteps in the hall. He stood well inside the room, now a large room, furnished with quiet elegance. It was what people called a boudoir, he thought, as his quick eye took in the details, a dressing table with rose-shaded electric lights and gleaming silver and glass,

a little desk with rose and ivory fittings, the silver balls of white chrysanthemums on the table. I'm afraid we can't take you, said Mrs. Jones, in an altogether new sort of voice, brisk and a little loud. I'm sorry. Ross was very well aware that someone else had come to the door and was standing behind him. He was also aware of a sort of triumph in Mrs. Jones' manner. She thought she was going to get rid of him, but she wasn't. If it's a question of wages, he said, I'll take a little less. He saw how greatly this disconcerted her.

No, she said, no, I'm afraid not. What's the matter? What's the matter? What's the matter? demanded an impatient voice behind him. He turned and saw a stout middle-aged man of domineering aspects standing there and frowning heavily. The young man's come to apply for the chauffeur's position, sir, Mrs. Jones explained. But I'm afraid... Well, what's the matter with him? cried the domineering man. Can he drive a car? Has he got references, eh?

Yes, sir, Ross replied. Let's see your references. I left them at the agency, said Ross, as if inspired. Agency sent you, eh? Well, they know their business, don't they? Can you take a car to pieces and put it together again? Have your brains enough to keep your gasoline tank filled, and to remember that when you're going round a corner some other fellow may be doing the same thing? Yes, sir, said Ross.

The domineering man stared hard, and Ross met his regard steadily. He'll do, said the man, I like him. Looks you straight in the face, level-headed, well set up, good nerves, doesn't drink. We'll give him a chance, Eddie. He went out into the hall. "'Eddie!' he shouted. "'I want Eddie.' "'Mr. Jones came close to Ross.

"'Go away,' she whispered. "'You must go away.' The domineering man had come back into the room. "'Now then, what's your name?' he demanded brusquely. "'Moss,' said Ross. "'Moss, eh? Very well. "'Ah, here's Eddie. "'Eady take this young man over to the garage.

"'See that he's properly looked after. "'He's our new chauffeur.' End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 A blotted out by Elizabeth Sansae Holding. This Liebervox recording is in the public domain. The door closed behind them, and Ross found himself in the hall, alone with this Eddie. He stared at each other for a moment, then in spite of himself, a grudging smile dawned upon Ross's lean and dower face. Eddie grinned from ear to ear.

Come on, Chauver, he said. I'll show you your stall. A shake yet he was, very slender with black hair well-oiled and combed back from his brow, and wearing clothes of the latest and jauntiest mode. But he lacked the lily-like languor of the true shake. His rather handsome face was alert and cheerful, and although he moved with the somewhat super-sillious grace of one who had been frequently called a just wonderful dancer, there was a certain wiry vigor about him. Ross followed him down the hall at around the corner,

into the corridor where Mrs. Jones' room was. Ross saw that the door was a little ajar, and he dropped behind because he wanted to look into that room, but Eddie, in passing, pulled it shut. Did he know too? Certainly he did not look like the sort of youth who went about closing doors unbidden, simply from a sense of order and decorum. And that grin, did it signify a shrewd understanding of a discreditable situation? It was at this instant that Ross began to realize what he had done. Only dimly, though, for he thought that in a few moments he would be gone, and the whole affair finished as far as he was concerned.

He felt only a vague disquiet and a great impatience to get away. He went after Eddie down the back stairs and threw a dark passage on the floor below, at the end of which he saw a brightly lit kitchen where a cook bent over the stove, and that same disagreeable housemaid was mixing something in a bowl at the table. Then Eddie opened a door and a wild gust of wind and rain sprang at them. Step right along, shover, said Eddie, here, this way. And he took Ross by the arm. It was as black as the pit out there, the wind came whistling through the pines, driving before great

sheets of rain that was half sleet. It was a world of black, bitter, cold and confusion, and Ross thought of nothing at all except getting under shelter again. It was only a few yards, then Eddie stopped, let me. go of Ross's arm and slid back a door. This door opened upon blackness too, but Ross was glad enough to get inside. He closed the door, turned on a switch, and he saw that they were in a garage. It was a very ordinary garage, neat and bare, with a cement floor and two cars standing side by side, yet to Ross it had a sinister aspect. He was very weary, wet and chilled to the bone,

and this place looked to him like a prison, a stone dungeon. Storm or no-house. A storm or no storm he wanted to get out, away from this place and these people. Look here, he began, but Eddie's cheerful voice called out, this way, and he saw him standing at the foot of a narrow staircase in one corner. The one thing which made Ross go up those stairs was his violent distaste for the dramatic. He felt that it would be absurd to dash out into the rain. Instinct warned him, but once again he defied that warning, and up he went. He was surprised and pleased by what he found up there, the jolliest, coziest little room, green rug on the floor, big arm chairs of imitation red leather, reading lamp.

It was not a room of much aesthetic charm, perhaps, but comfortable, cheerful and home-like, and warm. The rain was drumming loud on the roof and dashing against the windows, and Ross sighed as he looked at the big chairs. But he was beginning to think now. Take off your coat and make yourself at home, said Eddie. No, Ross objected. I can't stay tonight. Didn't bring my things along. Oh, didn't you? said Eddie. Why not? Because I didn't come prepared to stay. What did you come for? asked Eddie.

Now this might be mere idle curiosity, and Ross decided to accept it as that. No, he said slowly, I'll go back to the city and get my things. It's raining too hard, Eddie declared. It wouldn't be healthy for you to go out just now, Shover. This was a little too much for Ross to ignore. Just the same, he insisted. I'm going now. Nope, said Eddie. Ross moved forward, and then he moved too,

so that he blocked the doorway. He was grinning, but there was an odd light in his eyes. Now look at here, he said. You just make yourself comfortable for the night, see? Ross looked at him thoughtfully. He believed that it would not be difficult to throw this slender youth down the stairs and to walk out of the garage, but he disliked the idea. I don't want to make you any trouble, Eddie, he explained almost mildly, but I'm going. Nope, said Eddie.

Ross took a step forward. He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a revolver. Nope, he said again. What? I cried Ross astounded. Do you mean? Tell you what I mean, said Eddie. I mean to say that I know who you are and what you come for.

You're going to sit pretty till tomorrow morning. That's what I mean. He spoke quite without malice. Indeed, his tone was good-humored. But he was in earnest, he and his gun. It was no doubt about it. It was not Ross's disposition to enter into futile arguments. He took off his overcoat, sat down,

calmly took out his cigarette and lit it. I see, he remarked, but I'd like to know who I am and what I came for. I'd like to hear your point of view. Maybe you wouldn't, said Eddie. Anyway, that can wait. Got to see about feeding you now. He locked the door behind him and dropped the key into his pocket. Then he opened another door leading out of the sitting room disclosing a small kitchen.

Last chover we had, he was a married man, he explained. Him and his wife fixed the place up like it is. I've been living here myself lately. Let's see. I got pork and beans, coffee, cake, good cake, cook over at the house, made it. How does that strike you? Good enough, answered Ross, a little absently. Eddie was moving about in the kitchen, whistling between his teeth.

From time to time he addressed a cheerful remark to his captive, I got no answer. Presently he brought in a meal of a sort, and set it out on a table. Here you are, he announced. Rosser up his chair and fell too. with a pretty sharp appetite. Look here, he said abruptly. Who was that man, the one who hired me?

Him? The Prince of Wales, that he replied. Thought you'd recognized him. This was Ross's last attempt at questioning. Indeed, he was quite willing to be silent now, for his deplorably postponed thinking was now well underway. His brain was busy with the events of this day, this immeasurably long day.

Was it only this morning that he had got the note? only this morning that he had said goodbye to Phyllis Barron. She'd be a bit surprised as she knew where I'd gone, he thought. And then, with a sort of shock, it occurred to him that nobody, absolutely nobody on earth knew where he had gone or cared. These people here did not know even his name. He had come here and walked into this situation, and if he never came out again, who would be troubled?

Mr. Teagle had not expected him at any definite time, and would wait for weeks and weeks before feeling the least anxiety about his unknown client. The people at the Hotel Mistin would scarcely notice for some time the absence of Mr. Ross of New York, especially as his luggage remained there to compensate them for any loss. Nobody would be injured or unhappy, or one jot the worse, if he never saw daylight again. This was one aspect of a completely free life which he had not considered. He was of no interest or importance to anyone, He began to consider it now.

Eddie had cleared away their meal and had been turning over the pages of a magazine. Now he began to yawn and presently getting up, opened another door, to display a tidy little bedroom. Whenever you're ready to go bye-bye, Chauver, he suggested. Thanks, I'm all right where I am, Ross asserted. Suit yourself, said Eddie. He set a chair against the locked door, pulled up another chair to put his feet on, and made himself as comfortable as he could.

But Ross made no such effort. His family had never cared about being comfortable. No, there he sat, too intent upon his thoughts to sleep. The realization of his own utter loneliness in this world had set him to thinking about the man under the sofa. There might be someone waiting, in tears, in terrible anxiety for that man. Probably there was.

There were very, very few human beings who had nobody to care. He had made up his mind to go to the police with his story the next morning, and he saw very clearly the disagreeable position into which his perverse obstinacy had brought him. He had discovered a man who was certainly dead and possibly murdered, and he had said not a word about it to anyone. He had refused to go away when he had a chance, and now here he was, held prisoner, while, if there had been foul play, the person's responsible would have ample time to make what arrangements they pleased.

He could very well imagine how his tale would sound to the police. Good Lord, he said to himself. What a fool I've been. End of Chapter 5. Chapter 6 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sansa Holding. This Liebervaux's recording is in the public domain. It seemed to Ross that the great noise of the wind outside was mingled now with the throb of engines and the rushing of water. He thought he felt the lift and roll of the ship beneath him. he thought he was lying in his birth again, on his way across the dark waste of waters toward New York. He wondered what New York would be like.

Phyllis Baron was knocking at his door, telling him to hurry, hurry and come on deck. This did not surprise him. He was only immensely relieved and glad. I knew you'd come, he wanted to say, but he could not speak. He tried to get up and dress and go out to her, but he could not move. He made a desperate struggle to call to her. Wait, wait, he tried to say, I'm asleep, but I'll wake in a minute. Please don't go away.

Then with the supreme effort he did wake. He opened his eyes. There was Eddie, stretched out on his two chairs, sound asleep, and there was a muffled knocking at the door and a little wailing voice. Eddie, Eddie, oh, can't you hear me, Eddie! For a moment Ross thought it was an echo from his dream, but as the drowsiness cleared from his head, he knew it was real. He got up and touched the sleeping youth on the shoulder.

There's someone calling you, he said. Eddie opened his eyes with an alert expression and glared at Ross. What? he demanded sternly. No monkey tricks now. As a matter of fact, he was still more than half asleep, and Ross had to repeat his statement twice before it was understood. Then he sprang up, pushed aside the chairs, and unlocked the door. It was Miss Salway.

She came in like a rath. She was wrapped in a fur coat, but she looked cold, pale, affrighted, her black eyes wide, her misty dark hair and disorder, a fit figure for a dream. Eddie, she said, go away. Look at here, Miss Amy, Eddie protested anxiously. Wait till morning. But it is morning, she cried. Go away, Eddie, quick, I want to speak to.

Go away, do. I only have a minute to spare. morning, thought Ross. He looked at his watch, which showed a few minutes past six, then at the window. It was as black as ever outside. Look at here, Miss Amy, Eddie began again. If I was you, I'd... Get out, fool! she cried.

Idiot! This instant! Her fierce and sudden anger astounded, Ross. Her eyes had narrowed, her nostrils dilated, a short upper lip was drawn up in a sort of snarl. Yet this rage was in no way retort. It was like the fury of some beautiful little animal. He could perfectly understand Eddie's answering in a tone of resigned indulgence. All right, Miss Amy, have it your own way. It seemed to Ross that that was the only possible way for any man to regard this

preposterous and lovely creature, not critically, but simply with indulgence. Taking up his cap and overcoat, Eddie departed, whistling as he went down the stairs. Miss Solway waited, scowling until he had gone, then she turned to Ross. Who are you? she demanded. He was greatly taken aback. He had not yet had time to collect his thoughts. Nothing much remained in his mind except the decision of the night before

that this morning he was going to the police with an account of what he had seen. And stronger and clearer than anything else was his desire and resolve to get away from here. Oh, tell me she entreated. Ross reflected well before answering. Eddie suspected him of something, heaven knew what. Perhaps this girl did too. He imagined that they were both a little afraid of him. And if he held his tongue and didn't let them know how casual and unpremeditated all his actions had been,

he might keep them in wholesome doubt about him, and so get away. My name's Moss, he replied as if surprised, I came to get a job. No, she said. You got my note, but how could you? Who can you be? Nana said, but I don't believe it. I knew. As soon as I saw you, I felt sure you'd come to help me.

Oh, tell me, my cousin James sent you, didn't he? James Ross? asked Ross slowly. Yes, she answered eagerly. My cousin James, he did. I know it. Mother always told me to go to him if I needed help. Of course I know he must be old now.

I was afraid, so terribly afraid. afraid that he'd left the ship or that I'd forgotten the name of it. But I was right after all. I thought Mother had said he was purser on the Farragut. What? cried Ross. He began to understand now. Years and years ago, the dimmest memory, he had had a cousin James who was purser on one of the Puerto Rico boats. He could vaguely remember his coming to their house in Maya Gez, a gloomy man with a black beard, son of his father's elder brother William. It must have been on the the old Farragut scrapped nearly twenty years ago.

And that cousin James had vanished too, long ago. William Ross had had had three children and outlived them all. Ross could remember his grandfather telling him that. All gone, the old man had said, both my sons and their sons. No doubt the Almighty has some reason for sparing you, but it's beyond me. Your cousin James, said Ross staring at her, because that had been his cousin James. Yes, yes, yes, she answered impatiently.

I told you. Now tell me how. But Ross wanted to understand. What was your father's name, he demanded? Louis Delmano, she replied, but what does that matter? I only have a minute. Then why do you call yourself Solway if your name is...

Oh, she cried, now I see. You didn't know the name of my mother's second husband. Nobody had told you that. Of course, I should have thought of that. Mother told me how horrible her brothers were. When she married Daddy, they were so furious. They said they'd never see her or speak to her or mention her name again. And I suppose they didn't.

Nasty, heartless beasts. They were only sister. Although Ross had never before heard of any sister of his father's, the story seemed to him probable. His grandfather, his father, and his uncle were so exactly the sort of people to possess a sister whose name was never mentioned, grim, savage, old-fashioned, excommunicating sort of people. Yes, it was probable, but it was startling.

Because if this girl's mother had been his father's sister, then he was her cousin James after all. He did not want to be. His dark face grew a little pale, and he turned away, looking down at the floor, considering this new and unwelcome idea. Now you understand, she said, and you did come to him. help me, didn't you? This time his silence was deliberate, and not due to any confusion in his thoughts. The blood in his vein spoke clearly to him. What those other Rossus had condemned,

he too condemned. He was like them. This girl was altogether strange, exotic, and dangerous, and he wanted to get away from her. It was his gift, however, to show no sign of whatever he might be thinking. His face was expressionless, and she read what she chose there. She came nearer to him and laid her hand on his arm. You will help me, she said softly. He looked down at her gravely. He knew that she was willfully attempting to charm him, and how he did scorn anything of that sort.

And yet, he looked at her as some long-forgotten Ross of Salem might have looked at a Bonnie young witch. The creature was dangerous, and yet, Bonnie she was, and a young man is a young man. I don't see he began doubtfully when such a little. Suddenly, she cried, look, and pointed to the window. He turned startled, but he saw nothing there. It's getting light, she cried.

And that was true enough. The sky was not black now, but all grey pallets swept clean of clouds. The rain had ceased, but the mighty wind still blue, and the tops of the trees bowed and bent before it, like inky marionettes before a pale curtain. There was no sign yet of the sun, but you could feel that the dawn was coming. What of it asked Ross briefly.

It's the last day, she answered. What a thing to say. The last day. He filled him with a vague sense of dread, and it made him angry. That's not, he began, but she did not heed him. Listen, she said. You must help me. I don't know what to do.

I'm desperate. I've... She stopped, looking up into his wooden face, then seizing him by the shoulder, she tried to shake him. him. Oh, for heaven's sake, look at me like a human being, she cried. He stared at her, dumbfounded. Stop it, she commanded. You got to listen to me. He had never in his life been so amazed. She had flown at him and shaken him. It was unbelievable. It was pathetic. She was such a little thing, so fierce and so helpless. All right, he said mildly, I'm listening. What's it all about?

His tone, his faint smile, did not please her. Oh, you think it's nothing, she said. You think I'm just a silly girl, making an awful fuss about some childish trouble, don't you? Well, you're wrong. Listen to me. She stopped and drew back a little, looking him straight in the face with those strange black eyes of hers. I've done a terrible thing, she said, and a low, steady voice. A wicked, terrible thing. If I get what I deserve, I'm ruined and lost.

She turned away from him and walked over to the window. Ross turned to and followed her. She was gazing before her at the gray sky, the curve of her cheek, her half-parted lips, her wide brow, were altogether innocent and lovely, but the look on her pale face was not so. It was somber, bitter, and tragic. The sun is coming up, she said almost inaudibly.

Will you help me? Yes, Ross answered. End of Chapter 6. Chapter 7 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sansae Holding. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Ross stood by the window, watching the sun come up, the first sunrise he had witnessed in his native land. From the east the light welled up and spread, slow and inexorable across the sky, like the master's glance travelling over the chill world,

and in his soul Ross dreaded that light. It would mean discovery. That very quiet figure in the housekeeper's room would have his revenge. I'm in it now, Ross muttered, up to the neck. And why? Was it pity for that girl? Was it a stirring of sentiment because she was his kinswoman, his cousin? He did not think so.

He might have pitied her and still gone away. He might have recognized her kinship simply by keeping silent about what he had seen. No, it was something more than that, something he could not quite understand. It was the claim of life upon a strong spirit. You are hearty and valiant, life said. Your shoulders are fitted to bear burdens and bear them you shall. Here before you is a cruel burden, and you cannot turn aside. All the strong one shall be chosen to suffer for the weak.

You are chosen, and you shall suffer. Well, he did. I've done a wicked, terrible thing. If I get what I deserve, I am ruined and lost. That was what she had said. to him, and he interpreted it readily enough. It was hideous to think of, but not difficult to believe. She was, he thought, capable of any imaginable thing, good or evil. She would not weigh or calculate or even understand, she would only want. She would want to possess something,

or she would want to destroy something which irked her. And after all, he thought, it's not a hard thing to do. Even a little weak thing like her can—his mind balked the fatal word, but With a frown, he deliberately uttered it to himself. King kill, he said. I've got the face this squarely. Other women have done things like that. A few drops of something in a glass, perhaps. An uncontrollable shudder ran through him.

No, he thought. I even think that. I'll wait till she's told me. The whole thing may be some accident, something else. But he remembered that she had been there alone in the housekeeper's room and that he had heard her crying in there. He remembered her words, a wicked, terrible thing. And he remembered above everything else her face with that look upon it.

Damn it, he cried. I won't think at all, until I know something definite. I'll just carry on. He could and did refuse to think of his immediate problem, but his mind would not remain idle. It presented him with a very vivid picture of Phyllis Barron. And now, for the first time, he welcomed that gentle image. She was so immeasurably remote now, so far away, in an entirely different world, a friendly, honest world where she was living her daily life while he stood here, watching the sun rise upon a dreaded and unpredictable day.

Well, Shover, said Eddie's cheerful voice behind him. The big balsa want the car for the 8.40. All right, Ross agreed promptly. I want the bath and a shave first, and maybe you'll lend me a collar and a pair of socks. "'I'll do that for you,' said Eddie. "'And say, you could try Wheeler's uniform that he left behind. He was the chauver before you. He left in a hurry, not kicked out.

Most of our chauvers do. Why?' "'Well, I'll tell you, Eddie explains, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and watching Ross shave with cold water and very dull razor and a minute fragment of a shaving stick. Most of our chauvers get tempted and fall, hard.' Miss Samuel asked him to take her someplace where the boss don't want her to go, and not to mention it at home.

And they do. And then the next time she gets mad at the boss, she tells him the whole tail just to worry him. And the shover goes, see? I see, said Ross. She was talking to me just now, what he went on. I guess I was mistaken about you. She says you're going to stay.

Well, he grinned. I wish you luck. Thanks, said Ross. He understood that Eddie was warning him against the devices of Miss Amy, but it was a little too late. He took a bath and water colder than any he had yet encountered, and he tried on the uniform left behind by the unfortunate Wheeler. He was a bit tight across the shoulders, and the style was by no means in accordance with his austere taste,

but he could wear it. And I shan't keep up this silly farce much longer, he thought. We might as well go over to the house for breakfast, said Eddie. Ready? Ross did not relish the glimpse he had of his reflection in the mirror. That snug-fitting jacket with a belt in the back, those breeches, those putties, he did not like them. Worst of all, Eddie's collar would not meet round his neck, and he had fastened it with a safety pin. As he took up the peaked cap and followed the cheerful youth, he felt not like an accomplice in a tragedy,

but like a very complete fool, and that did not please him. They crossed the lawn to the house, went in at the back door and entered the kitchen. There he sat down to breakfast with the cook, the housemaid, the laundress, and eddy. The kitchen was warm and clean and neat as a new pin, very agreeable in the morning sunshine. The breakfast was good and he was very hungry and ate with a healthy appetite. But except for a civil good morning, he did not say one word. For he was listening, he was waiting, in an unpleasant state of tension, for something which would shatter this comfortable serenity.

It must come. It was not possible that the figure under the sofa should remain undiscovered. That life should progress as if nothing at all had happened. Amy had said this was the last day. Nothing interrupted the breakfast, though, and when he had finished he went back to the garage to look over the sedan he was to drive. It was a good car, in an imperfect condition. Nothing for him to do there.

He lit a cigarette and stood talking to Eddie for a time. Eddie's theme was Mr. Salway, Miss Amy's long-suffering stepfather. He's the best man God ever made, said Eddie, seriously. My father was coachman to him for 18 years, and when he passed out, Mr. Salway, he kept me here. He seemed that I got a good education and all. I wanted this here Shover's job, but he said nothing doing. He said I'd ought to get a job with a future. I'm down in the telephone company now, Repairman.

He lets me live here for nothing, just for doing a few odd jobs. He's a prince. He stamped out a cigarette with his heel. And he has a hell of a life, he added. Howe asked Ross, thirsting for any sort of information about this household. Her said Eddie, remember I'm not saying nothing against Miss Amy. I've known her all my life. But I've done things for that girl I wouldn't have done for my own,

mother. He paused. I had done things for her I wish to God I hadn't done, he said, and fell silent. Ross was silent, too. He remembered how Eddie had closed the door of the housekeeper's room. He remembered how very anxious Eddie had been to keep him shut up in the garage all night. And he remembered that Eddie carried a revolver. Why should he imagine that Amy Solway would do for herself any unpleasing task, when apparently she found it so easy to make others do things for her. This boy admitted he had done things for her which he wished to God he hadn't. You better start, said Eddie, and Ross got into the sedan and drove up to the house. He was undeniably nervous. He expected to see. He didn't know what, a pale face looking at him from one of the windows,

a handkerchief waved to him, a note slipped into his hand, some signal. But there were a little. But there was nothing. Mr. Salwick came bursting out of the front door, ran down the steps said, Good morning, good morning, to his new chauffeur, popped into the sedan and immediately began to read the newspaper. At the station he bounced out, said, four-fifty, and walked off. Ross stopped in the town and bought himself some callers. Even this delay worried him, he might be badly needed at the house. But in spite of his haste to get back, he was mighty careful in his driving, because he had no sort of license. He returned to the garage and put up the car and waited. Four hours did he wait. Eddie was nowhere about, no doubt he was repairing telephones. Nobody came near the garage.

Ross sketchily overhauled both cars, swept out the place, and waited, not patiently either. He had agreed to help that girl, and he was prepared to do so, but he was not going to be a chauffeur much longer. It was, he thought, a singularly dull life. What is more, he had his own affairs to look after. He wanted to get back to New York and to see Mr. Teagle. At one o'clock, the telephone in the garage rang, and the disagreeable housemaid informed him that lunch was ready. Very well, he was ready for lunch. He went over to the house and again sat down in the kitchen, and ate again in silence. He had nothing to say, and the three women said nothing to him. He was not a talkative young man.

He and his grandfather had often passed entire days with scarcely a word between them, and he took the silence as a matter of course, quite innocent of the fact that it was hostile. The new chauffeur was not liked in the kitchen. Then he went back to the garage and waited and waited and waited with grim resentment. A little after four o'clock he was prepared to take the sedan out again when Amy appeared in a doorway, in her fur coat and a little scarlet hat. Oh, good, she cried. You're all ready. I want you to take me. No, said Ross. Mr. Solway said 450 and I'm going to meet his train. But he meant the 450 friend New York, said she.

You'll have plenty of time. She came nearer to him. Please, please be quick, she said. It's my last chance. End of Chapter 7. Chapter 8 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sansa Holding. The box recording is in the public domain. To the left and straight ahead, said Amy, as they drove out of the gates. So to the left he turned, and drove straight ahead. And he looked straight ahead, too, although he knew very well that she was looking at him. This girl took entirely too much for granted. It was one thing to help her, but to obey her orders blindly was quite another, and it did not suit him.

Here he was, dressed up in a chauffeur's uniform somewhat too small for him, and behaving no doubt as those other chauffeurs had behaved, like a fool. He heard her stir restlessly, with little flutterings and jinglings of her silly feminine finery. She sighed deeply. I don't believe you've told me your right name, she said plaintively. James Ross, he announced. James Ross, she cried. Oh, but you said, but he's old!

Another James Ross, he remarked, coldly, but in his heart he was rather pleased with the sensation as were. it's caused. Another one? Then, are you my cousin? Are you? I believe so, Ross replied. She was silent for a moment, and she observed thoughtfully, I guess I'll call you Jimmy. I'd rather you didn't, said Ross. I don't like it. I do, said she. I think Jimmy's a darling name. Suddenly she flung one arm about his neck, and I think you're a darling she added with a sob. Look out, Ross cried sharply. You mustn't do that when I'm driving. He cast a glance along the straight, empty road, and then he turned to her.

Her dark eyes were soft and shining with tears, but she was trying to smile. Oh, Jimmy, she exclaimed. I'm so glad you've come. All right, said the Spartan, young man. Then suppose you tell me what's wrong. I can't, Jimmy, she answered. Her hand rested on his shoulder, but her head was turned away. I can't just now.

Only, oh, Jimmy, sometimes I wish I were dead, dead and buried with my darling mother. He could think of nothing adequate to say to that, and once more giving a careful glance at the road he patted her hand. I'm sorry, he declared gravely. I know it's not fair, not to tell you, she said, but can't you just help me, Jimmy, and not care? A curious emotion filled him a great compassion and a great dread. Why not, he thought?

I don't want to hear, I don't want to know. Better let well enough alone. But he knew it was not better and not possible. Not all the pity in the world should make him a blind and ignorant tool. He was an honour bound to ask his question. Just this, he said, that man in the housekeeper's room. Why, what man, she asked, I don't know what you mean. His heart sank. Disappointment and a sort of disgust for this childish lie filled him, he did not want to look at her again. He drove on down a road which seemed to him endless like a road in a dream. The sun was going down quietly, without pomp and glory, only slipping out of sight and drawing with it all the light and colour in the world. They passed houses, they passed other cars,

and it seemed to him that he and this girl passed through the everyday life about them, like ghosts, set apart from their fellows, under a chill shadow. Jimmy, she said abruptly. How can you be so horrid? Why don't you talk? Why can't you be like, like a real cousin? Perhaps I haven't had enough practice, Ross replied. She did not like this. All right then, don't help me. Just go away and leave me to suffer all alone, she cried. You're a heartless beast. Go away. Just as you please, said Ross. Can you drive the car? She began to cry, but he paid no attention to this. "'Jimmy,' she resumed at last.

"'My gale's coming tonight.' "'Your gale,' he repeated. "'What's that?' "'He's the man I love,' she said simply. "'And she was honest now, "'holy and earnest, "'the childish artfulness had gone "'and she spoke quietly.

"'He's coming to-night,' she went on. "'And if anything goes wrong, "'he'll go away and never come back. "'And something's very likely to go wrong, Jimmy. "'You'll have to remember "'that I don't know what you're talking of, about, said Ross. She did not resent his blunt manner now. In the house where we're going, she explained, to someone Gail must not see, no matter what happens. I'll talk to this person

first. I'll try to persuade him. But if I can't, that's what I want you to do for me. I want you to be sure to see that this person doesn't leave that house tonight. And how am I to do that? She was silent for a moment. I don't care, she said then. It doesn't matter how it's done. It does matter, to me. Listen to me, she said with a sort of sternness. This man, in the cottage, he's blackmailing me.

Because of something I did, something I'm sorry for, terribly, terribly sorry. What will he take to keep quiet? Nothing. All he wants is to hurt and ruin me. That's not blackmail, said Ross. If he can't be bribed, Oh, what does it matter what you call it? He's coming tonight to tell this thing, and Gale will go away.

Look here, said Ross. Let him tell. If this Gail of yours cares for you, he'll stand by you. If he doesn't, you're well rid of him. No, just wait a minute. Don't you see? You can't lie to a man you're fond of. You...

I'm not going to lie. I'll just say nothing. The thing is over, Jimmy, over and done with. Mustn't I even have a chance? Jimmy, I'm young. I'm sorry. God knows I'm sorry for what I did, but it's done. Nothing can undo it.

Won't you, won't you let me have just a chance? But look here. Even if the man didn't come tonight, he comes some other time. You don't expect me to... He stopped short, appalled by the words he had not spoken. He looked at her, and... and in the gathering dusk he saw upon her white face that terrible still look again. No, he cried.

Jimmy, she said, just keep him from coming tonight. Then tomorrow I'll tell you the whole thing. And perhaps you'll think of something to do. But just tonight, keep him from coming. Ross made no answer. Down here, Jimmy, to the left, she said presently, and he turned the car down a solitary lane, narrow, scored with ruts of half-frozen mud.

It had grown so dark now that he turned on the headlights. There, she said, that's the house. Let me out. He stopped the car. Look here, he began. But she had sprung out and was hurrying across the field of stubble. He could not let her go alone. He followed her, sick at heart, filled again with that sense of utter solitude, being cut off from all his fellows in a desolate and unreal world.

His soul revolted against this monster. adventure, and yet he could not abandon her. She went before him, light, surprisingly sure-footed upon those high heels of hers. For some reason of her own, she had chosen to approach the house from the side, instead of following the curve of the lane. She came to a fence and climbed it like a cat, and Ross climbed after her. They were in a forlorn garden, where the withered grass stood high, and before them was the sorrious little cottage, battered and discoloured by wind and rain,

all the shutters closed, not a light, not a curtain, not a sign of life about it. Look here, Ross began again. I've got to know. She ran up the steps to the porch, where a broken rocking chair began to rock as she brushed it in passing. She opened the door and entered, and was dark in there. But she ran up the stairs as if she knew them well. Before he was halfway up, he heard her hurrying footsteps on the floor above, heard doors open and shut. Then a light sprang out in the upper hall, and she stood there, looking down at him.

By the unshated gas jaddy could see her face clearly, and it shocked him. Such anguish there, such terror! Gone, she gasped. Gone! End of Chapter 8. Chapter 9 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sansae Holding. This Liebervox recording is in the public domain. To Ross, with his rigid self-contourable, control, it seemed impossible that a human creature could safely endure such violent emotion as hers.

She was so fragile, she looked ill, horribly ill, ghastly. He thought she would faint, would fall senseless at his feet. He sprang up the stairs to be with her. "'Amy!' he cried. Her dark brows met in a somber frown. She shook her head, waving her forefinger in front of her face, an odd foreign little gesture. Oh, she said. Keep quiet. Don't speak to me. Let me think. Think, said Ross to himself. I don't believe you're capable of it, my girl.

But certainly you're even less capable of listening to anyone. Very well, go ahead with your thinking, then, and I'll wait for the next development. He lit a cigarette and lit against the wall smoking, not sorry for an interval of peace. Look at the time, Amy commanded sharply. You'll be late getting to the station unless you hurry. Why didn't you remind me? Inexcusable of me, said Ross. I hope I shan't lose my job. She apparently did not choose to notice this flippancy.

Come, she ordered, and went past him, down the stairs and out of that sorry little cottage. She ran all the way to the car, and two or three times she said, Hurry to Ross, who kept easily at her side with his usual stride. Now, she said, drive as fast as you possibly can. Sorry, said Ross, but my only license is one I had in Manila, and even that's expired.

I can't afford to take chances. She shrugged her shoulders with an unpleasant little laugh. She was in a very evil temper. The light was on inside of the car, and now in any glance at her, saw her sitting there, her black eyes staring straight before her, her mouth set in a mutinous and scornful line. She was in torment, he felt sure of that, but he felt equally sure that she was would not hesitate to inflict torment upon others. She was cruel, reckless, blind, and deaf in her folly. He wondered why it was that he pitied her so. Then he too shrugged his shoulders mentally,

that is, for he was incapable of so theatrical a gesture in the flesh. He himself was in an odd humor, a sort of resigned indifference. He had for the moment lost interest in the whole affair. It was too fantastic, too confusing. He didn't care very much what happened. He didn't care very much what happened just now. Let me out here, she said. There's not time for you to take me up to the house. I'll walk. Now hurry. He stopped the car at the corner of Wygat Road. She got out and he went on alone. And he was surprised by the difference which are going made. It was as if a monstrous oppression were lifted from his spirit and he could once more draw free breath and once more see the open sky. One clear star was out. No, it was not a mad word.

that was awful a majestic order in the universe, inexorable law. And she was truly pitiable, hurrying home beneath that one star, a poor, helpless futile young thing, defying the whole world for her own desire. She wanted him to help her. He would not help her in her desperate folly, but he would not leave her now, not now. These admirable ideas were entirely put out of his head by a new dilemma. He arrived at the station, he heard the train coming. in and he could find no advantageous place for his car. All the good places were taken.

He had to stop where he was certain Mr. Solway would never find him until as the train came in, a taxi was seized by an alert woman and Ross got his car into that vacant place. Mr. Salway was not in the vanguard of the commuters. He came leisurely and with dignity, talking with another man. Ross stood beside the open door of the car, with an odd Mr. Salway got in and the other man too. They paid no attention whatever to Ross. They settled themselves and went on talking as if he were a ghost. They closed at five and an eighth, said the other man.

I can't help thinking that... Now see here, Mr. Sawway interrupted. You hold on to them, my boy. I told you it was a good thing. It would be, said the other. A very good thing, sir, if I could unload at five and an eighth, or even a bit less, when I bought it three and three-fourths. Now see here, said Mr. Sawyer.

I'll tell you something which you needn't mention anywhere. I'm buying at five and an eighth, up to six and a half. Buying, mind you, my boy. This was almost more than Ross could bearer. This was just the sort of talk he had thirsted for. This is what he had come to New York for, to buy stocks at three and three-fourths and to sell at six and one-half or more.

There he sat with his peaked cat pulled down over his lean impassive face, listening with a sort of rage. If he could only ask Mr. Salway questions, only tell him that he had a few thousand of his own all ready and waiting for a little venture like this. And you need all you can get, my boy, Mr. Salway went on, if you're going to marry Amy. Then this was Gail? Ross turned his head for one hasty glance, and then encountering the astonish frown of Mr. Salway, realized what an improper thing he had done. Chofers must not look. He had had this look, though, and had gained a

pretty accurate impression of the stranger. A tall young fellow, fair-haired and gray-eyed, he was stalwart and broad-shouldered and altogether manly, but there was in his face something singularly gentle and engaging. And that's the fellow, thought Ross, that's the fellow who's going to be fooled and lie to. He liked him, and he liked the vigorous and blustering Mr. Salway, and he liked this rational masculine conversation.

It reassured him. He reflected that, after he was a very much of him. After all, he was not alone in this miserable affair, not hopelessly cornered with this preposterous girl. No, Salway was her stepfather, and the other man was her gale. They were in it too. They were his natural allies. She's got to tell them, that's all, he said to himself. They'll both stand by her, I'll make her tell them.

I can't handle this infernal mystery alone, and too much in the dark. He drove in at the gates up the driveway and stopped the car before the house, with a smartness that pleased him. Mr. Salway bounced out. Here now we said, you, Moss, Moss, that's it. Moss just lend a hand with this bag. That's right up the stairs, first door in the left. That's it, that's it. There you are, Gail, my boy. He turned to Ross. Moss, he said, everything going along all right? That's it, that's it. You let me know if there's anything wrong. Ross was hard put to it to suppress a smile. He imagined how it would be if he should say, Well, sir, there was one little thing, a dead man under the housekeeper's sofa,

but perhaps I shouldn't mention it. He looked for a moment into the bluff's scowling kindly face of the man Eddie had called a prince. Thank you, sir, he said, and turned away down the hall toward the back stairs. And as he came round the corner into the corridor, where the housekeeper's room was, his quick ear caught some words of such remarkable personal interest to him that he stood still. Another James Ross, Mrs. Jones, was saying, That's a likely story I must say. Amy, that man's a fraud and a spy.

No, nana darling, he's not, answered Amy with sweet obstinacy. I tell you he is, child. He's got to go. No, dear, said Amy. He's going to help me. Amy, cried Mrs. Jones. Can't you trust me? I tell you it's all right. He won't come tonight. I promise you he won't. Oh, you mean well, Amy remarked, but you've made plenty of mistakes before this. Amy, I promise you. No, said Amy.

You told me before that I needn't worry that you'd settled everything. And what happened? No, I'm afraid you're getting old, Nana, old and stupid. I'm going to manage for myself now, and Jimmy's going to help me. Child, Mrs. Jones, protested. That man will ferret out. I don't care if he does, said Amy. he won't tell anyhow. Now don't bother me any more, Nana. I've simply got to go.

Ross stepped quickly backward along the hall for a few yards, then he went forward again, with a somewhat heavier tread, and just round the corner of the corridor he came face to face with Amy. Her beauty almost took his breath away. She wore a dress of white and silver, and round her slender throat a short string of pearls. And against all this gleaming white the However her skin was rich and warm, with a tint almost golden, and her misty hair was like a cloud about her face, and her black eyes so soft, so limpid. Jimmy, she whispered, do I look nice?

Or, yes, very nice, Ross answered stiffly. She came close to him, put her hand on his shoulder. Please, Jimmy, she said earnestly, I do so awfully want to be happy, just for a little while. Ross had a moment of weakness. She was so young, so lovely, it seemed important, even necessary that she should be happy, but he valiantly resisted the spell. Who doesn't he inquired?

Jimmy, dear, she said. I'm coming to the garage after dinner to ask you something, to beg you to do something. Will you do it, my dear little Jimmy? I'll have to hear what it is first, said Ross. But she seemed satisfied. End of Chapter 9. Chapter 10 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sandsay Holding. This Liebervaux's recording is in the public domain.

Ross went up to the room over the garage and sat down there. He was hungry and tired and in no pleasant humor. It's entirely too damn much, he said to himself, I am, comparatively speaking, a rich man. There's money waiting for me. There's a nice, comfortable room in a hotel, waiting for me and decent clothes. I could have gone to a play tonight. There was one I wanted to see. And here I am, in a garage, dressed up like a monkey. No, it's too much. I'm going back to this city

tomorrow. I'm going to see Teagle and settle my affairs. If Amy wants me to help her, I suppose I shall, but I won't stay here, and I won't be a chauffeur. The more he thought of all this, the more exasperated he became, and it was nearly nine o'clock before he was summoned to dinner. which did not tend to placate him. In spite of his hunger, he took his time in going over to the house. He had no objection to being late, and he would have no objection to hearing someone complain about it. Indeed, he wished that someone would complain. Just one word. Looking for trouble, Ross was, when he entered the house. He pushed open the swing door of the kitchen. What marvellous aromas were there. What a festive air! That grave woman,

and the cook was reed and smiles, for had she not this night accomplished a dinner which even Mrs. Jones had praised? And the disagreeable housemaid was in softened mood, too, for she had waited upon romance. She had already described more than once the splendor of Miss Amy's costume, and the way him and her had looked at each other. The laundress was elated, because she was fond of romance, and still more because she was a greedy young creature and sent it an especially good dinner, and they all welcomed Ross with cordiality. It's too bad you had to be waiting the long time it was, said the cook. You have a right to be famished entirely, Mr. Moss.

Much mollified, the young man admitted he was hungry. You'd ought to come over for a cup or tea this afternoon, said the housemaid, and a piece of cake. You water her tolun, Gracie, the laundress added, poor feller, you don't know the ways here yet. Sit down a lot of you, said the cook. They did in that unparalleled dinner began. It must be borne in mind that Ross was wholly unaccustomed to this sort of thing, to home cooking at its best, to the maternal kindness of women toward a hungry man.

He liked it. He was in no hurry to go back to the solitude of the garage and his own thoughts. Being invited to smoke, he lit a cigarette and made himself very comfortable, while the cook washed the dishes, and Gracie and the laundress dried them. He was still taciturned because he couldn't be anything else, else, but he answered questions. He admitted that he had traveled a bit, and when the laundress, who was disposed to be arch, asked him to be told about them queer places, he gave a few facts about the exports and imports of Manila. Anyhow, they all listened to him and said,

Did you ever? And it was altogether the pleasantest hour he had yet spent in his native land. And then, the swing door banged open, and there stood Amy, with a fur coat over her shimmering dress and an ominous look in her black eyes. Moss, she said, what are you doing here? Get up and come with me at once. I want to speak to you. Without a word, he arose and followed her into the passage. I told you I was coming to the garage, she pointed out, in a low, furious voice. Why didn't you wait there?

Look here, said Ross. I don't like this sort of thing. Before his tone, her wrath vanished at once. I'm sorry, Jimmy, she said. I didn't mean to be horrid. Only it was so hard for me to slip away, and I went all the way out to the garage in the cold and the dark, and you weren't there,

and I'm so terribly worried. Well, you will hurry, won't you? Hurry? Well, what do you want me to do? They may be too late even now. Any instant he may come. He'll ring the bell, and Gracie will open the door. I can't tell her not to.

He'll come in. Oh, Jimmy, you won't let that happen, will you? Oh, do, do. please hurry. But just what? Go out and hide some place where you can watch the front door. And if you see him coming, stop him. A thin, dark man with a mustache. Oh, hurry, Jimmy, all evening long I've been waiting and waiting in torment for the sound of the bell. Go, Jimmy, dear. How long do you expect me to wait for him? Oh, not so awfully long, dear, just, she paused, just till lady comes home. I'm sure he won't be

late. Now hurry. I don't want to do this, said Ross. I can't stop. Oh, shut up, she cried, and then tried to atone by patting his cheek. Jimmy, I'm desperate. Just help me this once. Tomorrow I'll explain it all, and you'll see. Only go now. I'll have to get my overcoat from the garage, he explained. All right, dear, she said, gently and turned away, and as he went toward the back door, he heard her sob. All the way to the garage that sob echoed in his ears. Her tears had not affected him. They were too facile, too convenient. But that half-stifled sob in the dark. He went quickly, taking the key from his pocket as he went. He too was in a hurry now to spare her this thing she dreaded. He unlocked the door, turned on the

switch, ran up the stairs, through the sitting room and into the bedroom where his coat hung. He stopped short in the doorway, for sitting on the bed was a tiny girl. seriously engaged in tying a ribbon about the waist of a white flannel rabbit. She looked up at the young man, but apparently was not interested, and went on with her job. Who were you, demanded Ross. Lily said she. Yes, but I mean, how did you get here? I come in a balloon, she assured him.

Ross was completely ignorant about young children, but he realized that they were not to be held strictly accountable for the statements. And this child was such a very small one, such a funny little doll. She had a great main affair hair hanging about her shoulders, and on one temple a wilted bit of pink ribbon. She had serene blue eyes, a plump and serious face, by no means clean. She wore a white dress, still less clean, a coral necklace, white, or greyish white, socks all down about her ankles and the most dreadful little white shoes.

He observed all this because it was his way to observe, and because he was so amazed that he could do nothing but stare at her. But who brought you, he asked. Minu, she replied. Who's Minu? The child held up the rabbit. Oh, Lord, cried Ross. Won't you please try to be sensible?

I don't know. Are you all alone here? I think I are. The door was locked, he said aloud. I can't see, but what shall I do with you? Give me my dindin, said she. Ross wished to treat so small and manifestly incompetent a creature with all possible courtesy, but he was handicapped by his inexperience.

Look here, Lily, he said earnestly. I'm in the deuce of a hurry just now. If you'll wait here, I'll come back as soon as I can. I will be a good baby, said she, but I want my dindin. He could have torn his hair. He could not veyole me now. and he could not leave a good baby alone and hungry, for he did not know how long. Shall I take it to the house, he thought, the cook would feed it.

But perhaps it's another of these damn mysteries. I haven't time to think it out now. I'd better keep it here until I've thought of it. See here, Lily, what do you eat? Dindin, Lily answered. Yes, I know, but I've got bread, will that do? I like bread and thugger, she agreed. He hurried into the kitchen, cut four good sturdy slices of bread,

covered them well with butter and sugar, and brought them back on a plate. Then with a vague memory of a puppy he once had, he thought of water and brought a glassful. Now I've got to go, Lily, he explained, but I'll come back as soon as I can. You just wait, see? I will, she said pleasantly, and held out her arms. He hesitated for a moment, half-rightened, then he caught up the funny little doll and kissed its cheek. It was not a doll. was warm and alive and solider than it looked. It clung to him and kissed him back again.

End of Chapter 10. Chapter 11 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sansae Holding. This Libervox's recording is in the public domain. You won't feel the cold the first winter in the States. That was what people in Manila and Puerto Rico had told Ross. He thought of those people now. You didn't feel it, did you? Yes, you did. He had found some place where he could hide and watch the front door, plantation of firs halfway between the house and the gates. He had been there more than an hour, prowling up and down behind the screen of branches.

He had at first tried to smoke, but darkness and cold annihilated any sort of zest in the tobacco. He had attempted the army setting up exercises, considerably hampered by his overcoat, but nothing produced in him either bodily warmth or a patient serenity of mind. He was worried about that child. Not once did he say to himself that it was none of his business, he admitted willingly that a creature of that size had acclaim upon all full-grown persons. He admitted that, whoever it was, and wherever it came from, it was entitled to his protection. She's too little to be left there alone, he thought, much too little.

They always have nurses, or someone. She might fall down the stairs, or turn on the gas stove. I've been gone more than an hour. Lord, this is too much. What the devil's the matter with that fellow anyhow. He was disgusted with this thin dark man with a mustache who was so outrageously late in coming. Very likely the funny little doll was sitting up there crying. The raw cold pierced to the marrow of his bones.

And this he reflected was his second night in his native land. The first had been spent imprisoned in the garage at the point of a revolver, but it had been a thousand times better than this. He had been warm and comfortable, and he had been innocent, the victim. Now he was taking an act of part in a thoroughly discreditable affair. He was committed to wait for a thin, dark man with a mustache, and to prevent his entering the house. And how was he to do this?

Walk up to him and begin to expostulate? Try to bribe him? The thought of bribery aroused in the young man in anger which almost made him warm. No Ross would ever pay blackmail. Indeed, no Ross of his branch was fond of parting with money for any purpose at all. They were very prompt in paying their just bills and debts, but they took care that these should be moderate. No, thought Ross.

If I was fool enough to give this fellow money, he'd only come back for more later on. I'm not going to start that. No. But how am I going to stop him? Knock him out? That's all very well, but suppose he knocked me out. Or he may carry a gun.

Of course, I suppose I could come up behind him and crack him over the head with a rock. That's what my cousin Amy would appreciate. But somehow it doesn't appeal to me. After all, when have I got against this fellow? What do I know about him? Only what she's told me. And she's not what you'd call over particular with her words. His thoughts were off then upon the track of that problem which obsessed him.

What had happened to the man under the sofa? He couldn't still be there. But who had taken him away, and where was he now? He looked toward the house, so solid and dignified, with its façade of lighted windows. He remembered his cosy dinner in the kitchen. He thought of the orderly life going on there. It was impossible. Yet it was true.

He had seen that dead man with his own eyes, he had touched him. Who else knew? Surely Amy, but it was obvious that she had someone to help her in all emergencies. Jones? Ross believed that Mrs. Jones had been well aware of the man's presence in her room. Eddie? Eddie's behavior had been highly suspicious. He refused to go on with this profitless and exasperating train of thought. He was sick of the whole thing. Amy had said that she would explain everything to him the next day. Not for a moment did he believe that she would do anything of the sort, but he did hope that at least she would tell him a little. And anyhow, whatever

she told him, whatever happened or did not happen, he was going away, back to normal, honest, decent life. I said I'd help her, and by heaven I am, he thought. After tonight work quits, I'll hold my tongue about all this, but I'm going. He whacked his stiff arms across his chest. Hotel Benderley, West 77th Street, he said to himself, I'm going there tomorrow. for he no longer saw Phyllis Barron as a danger. He was considerably less infatuated with liberty after these two days. It occurred to him now that to be entirely free meant to be entirely alone, and that to be without a friend was not good.

He wanted someone to trust, and he trusted Phyllis. No matter that he had known her only five days, he had seen that she was honest, that she was steadfast, and the loveliest virtue of all, she was self-control. He knew that from her one need never dread tears, fury, despairs, selfishness and cajoleries. Out there in the cold and dark of his unhappy vigil, he thought of Phyllis and longed for her smile.

She'd never in her life get a fellow into a mess like this, he thought, but Amy. His distrust for his cousin Amy was without limits. There was nothing he thought that she might not do. She was perfectly capable of forgetting all about him, and then in the morning, if he were found, frozen to death at his post, she would pretend to wonder what on earth the new chauffeur had been doing out there. After 11, he thought. And Eddie hasn't come yet. Very likely she knew he wouldn't come.

Perhaps he's never coming back. All right, I'll wait till 12, and then I'm going to take a look at that little kid. I've got to. It's too little. So he walked up and down, up and down, over the rough frozen patch of ground behind the fir trees. His coat-collar, turned up, his soft hat pulled low over his eyes, his face grim and dour, a sinister figure he would have been to meet on a lonely road. Up and down, and then something happened. At first he could not grasp what it was, only that in some way his world had changed. He stopped short, every nerve alert. Then he realized that it was a sudden increase in the darkness. And turning toward the house, he saw the lights

going out, one by one. George, he thought. They're all going to bed. And I suppose I can stay here all night, eh? While they're warm and snug, the faithful cousin James will be on guard. All right, I said I'd do it. But I'm going to get a glass of milk for that baby. He set off as fast as his numb feet and stiff legs would carry him toward the back door. He would tell the cook that he was hungry, and she would give him what he wanted. A kind, sensible woman, that cook. He pushed open the back door and went in. It was dark in the passage but warm, and the entrancing perfumes of the great dinner still lingered there.

He went on toward the kitchen, but before he got there, the swing door opened and Mrs. Jones appeared. She stopped and he thought that she whispered, its eye. He was a little disconcerted because he knew that Mrs. Jones was not fond of him, and he was extremely suspicious of her. But she looked so sedate, almost venerable, standing there in the lighted doorway in her best black dress with a gray hair or spectacles. He took off his hat and spoke to her civilly. I came to ask for a glass of milk, he said. Then she repeated what she had said before,

and it was not its eye, but the word spy, uttered with a suppressed scorn that startled him. Spy, she said, I know you. He looked at her in stern amazement. Leave this house, she said. You can deceive a poor, innocent young girl, but you can't deceive me. You and your glass of milk. I know you. And I told you straight to your face that you're not coming one step farther. I'm going to stay here all night, and I'm going to see to it that neither you nor anybody else comes to worry and torment that poor girl. Go. All right, said Ross briefly, and turning on his heel went out of the house.

If she's going to take over the job of watchdog, she's welcome to it, he thought. I guess she'd be pretty good at that sort of thing. but spy? His face grew hot. I don't feel inclined to swallow that, he said to himself deliberately. Someday we'll have a reckoning, Mrs. Jones. End of Chapter 11. Chapter 12 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sansae Holding.

This sleeper valk's recording is in the public domain. The funny little doll lay asleep, very neat and straight, just in the center of the bed. The covers drawn up like. Like a shawl, one cheek pressed against the pillow, its fair remain streaming up behind, as if it were advancing doggedly against a high wind. There was no creature in the world more helpless, yet it was not alert, not timid, as defenceless little animals are.

It slept in utter confidence and security. And that confidence seemed to Ross almost terrible. The tiny creature, breathing so tranquilly, took for granted all possible kindness and protection from him. It had asked him for food. It had offered a kiss. He stood looking down at it with considerable anxiety, yet with the hint of a smile on his lips. Made yourself at home, didn't you, he thought. As he looked, the child gave an impatient flounce and threw an arm over her head.

Ross drew nearer, frowning a little, bent over to examine that arm and that ruffled sleeve. I don't believe, he muttered and very carefully pulled out the covers from the foot of the bed. his suspicions were confirmed. She was fully dressed, even to her shoes. Must be darned uncomfortable, he thought. He hesitated a moment, not afraid to touch her, but at last he cautiously unbuttoned one slipper. She did not stir. He drew off the slipper, then the other one, then the socks, and tucked in the covers again. Poor little devil, he said to himself. Poor little devil! I wonder! A great yawn interrupted him.

I'll think about this in the morning, he thought, but I'm going to get some sleep now, before anything else happens. For coming from the cold of his vigil into this warmth was making him intolerably drowsy. He took off his collar and sat down to remove those objectionable putties. As this unprincipled intruder had so coolly taken possession of the bed, he would have to sleep on the couch in the sitting room, but that didn't trouble him. He felt that he could sleep anywhere, and that nothing, absolutely nothing, could keep him awake ten minutes longer.

A sound from below startled him. Someone was unlocking the door. In his blind fatigue, he was ready to ignore even that. He didn't care who came. He wanted to go to sleep. But he remembered the tiny creature in the bed, the creature who expected his protection, and that roused him. Closing the bedroom door, he went to the head of the stairs, and in a little bit of the stairs,

and in a voice Husky would sleep, but distinctly threatening, called out, Who's that? Me, answered Eddie's voice. Even before he saw the boy, Ross was aware that there was something amiss with Eddie tonight. His voice was different. He climbed the stairs so slowly. He came into the sitting room and flung down the bag he was carrying. I am all in, he said.

He looked it. His face was haggard and white. His glossy hair was no longer combed, back, but flopped untidily over his forehead. There was nothing jaunty about Eddie now. He was weary, grimy, and dispirited. Been doing overtime, he explained. Lots of wires down in that storm last night. Look here, said Ross. There's a child here, a baby. I don't know whose it is or how it got here, but it's asleep in there. Better not disturb it. What? cried Eddie. He looked amazed. He spoke in a tone of amazement, but there was something. By heaven, thought Ross, you've got the other

key to the garage, my lad, and the child didn't come through a locked door. A kid, Eddie repeated. Queer, isn't it, Ross inquired sarcastically, if not peculiar. Eddie glanced at him and then sat down and lit a cigarette. I'll say it's queer, he observed. Especially as I left the door locked when I went out. Again, Eddie glanced at him. Did you, what did they say over at the house, he asked? Oh, nothing much. He observed with satisfaction that this answer alarmed Eddie. Well, listen here, he said. Who did you tell? Old Jones? I don't remember, Russ, declared. But Eddie began and stuck. I'm going to turn in now, said Ross. Afraid you'll have to put up with a chair again tonight. He crossed the room to the couch and lay down there. He was only partly

undressed, and he put his shoes beside him and his overcoat across his feet, because in this nightmare existence he had to be prepared for every impossible emergency. But I'll get some sleep anyhow, he thought defiantly. He stretched out with a sigh of relief and closed his eyes, when an almost inaudible sound, like the faintest echo of his own sigh, made him glance up again. saw that Eddie had buried his face in his hands and sat there, his slight shoulders hunched, his young head bent, in an attitude of misery and dejection. And Ross was sorry for him. All through his confused and heavy dreams that night ran a little threat of pity, a regret and pain, which he could not understand. Only he felt that in this adventure there was more than the

tragedy of death. When he opened his eyes again, the room was filled with a strange pale light, unfamiliar to him. Dawn? It was more like twilight. He raised himself on one elbow and looked out of the window, and for the first time in his life, he saw the snow. Thick and fast the flakes went spinning by, tapping lightly against the glass,

and out beyond, he saw that all the world was white, white and unimaginably still. He had seen plenty of pictures of snow-covered landscapes, but he had never known the feel of a snowstorm, the awe tingle in the air, the sense of hushed expectancy. He was amazed and delighted with it, old and forgotten fancies of his childhood stirred in him now, clear little memories of glittering Christmas cards, of fairy tales. He remembered a story his mother had read to him so very long ago about a snow queen.

And it was good for him to remember these things, after so many ungracious years, just as it was good to see the snow, after so long a time of tropic sea. sun and rain. He knew that it was good, and for a little time he was content, watching the snowfall. But his destiny was not inclined to allow him many peaceful moments just then. Before he had even begun to think of his complicated anxieties, a sound from the next room brought the whole burden upon him like an avalanche. It was a child's voice. He jumped up from the couch, and then he noticed that Eddie had gone. He frowned, not knowing whether this was a disaster or a thing of no importance, and without stopping to put on his shoes, went across to the bedroom door

and turned the knob. He had come so quietly that no one had heard him, and he was able to observe a curious scene. Eddie was on his knees, his head bowed before the little girl, who sat on the bed, lifting strands of his glossy hair and pulling them out to their fullest extent, with a grave and thoughtful air. "'Look at here,' whispered Eddie. "'I wish you quit that baby.' "'You dot funny, flippity floppity, ha' hair, said she. Well, anyway, hold your foot still, won't you? He entreated. Ross saw then that Eddie was trying to put the child's socks on and getting no intelligent

cooperation from her. What are you doing that for, he asked. Eddie sprang to his feet like a cat. He looked at Ross, and Ross looked at him, and the little girl lay back on the bed and began jouncing up and down. Well, Eddie replied slowly, if you really want to know, it was me, her here, and now I'm going to take her away again. That's all." Once more Ross was conscious of a disarming pity for the boy. He thought he had never seen a human creature who looked so unhappy. Look here, Eddie, he remarked. Who is she, anyhow? Her, said Eddie? Why, what does it matter? Ross was silent for a moment.

I- I'm interested in the little girl, he said, half ashamed of this weakness. I like to know where she's going. God knows, said Eddie briefly. What do you mean? She can't stay here, said Eddie. That's one sure thing. Again he looked at Ross with a strange intensity, as if he were trying desperately to read that quite unreadable face. If you're really interested in the kid, he began. I am, said Ross. Eddie sat down on the bed. I don't believe you told him, over at the house, he continued, as if they knew, they'd have, No, I didn't, said Ross. Then nobody knows she's here, but me and you?

That's all. Well, said Eddie. Again Ross had a distinct warning of danger, and again he defied it, standing there stubbornly resistant to all the ill winds that might blow. This kid, Eddie pointed out, she hasn't got anybody in the world. As if by common consent, they both turned to look at the child. She was holding the rabbit aloft and trying to touch it with one little barefoot. She was quite happy, with superb unconcerned she left her fate in the hands of these two young men.

I'd explain it to you if I could, Eddie went on, but I can't just now. Later on, maybe, only she can't stay here. I got to take her away before anybody sees her. He paused. I know somewhere as I could leave her today. and bring her back here tonight all right, only after that. A dim and monstrous suspicion stirred in Ross, but he would not examine it.

He did not want to understand. After that, he said, I look after her. End of Chapter 12. Chapter 13 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sansae Holding. This Lieberwark's recording is in the public domain. They had breakfast together, Ross and Eddie and the Child. And the rabbit was there too, propped up against the coffee pot. He was fed with spoonfuls of water, and he got pretty wet in the process.

It was an amazing meal. It seemed to Ross sometimes that he was still asleep, and this a dream. The little kitchen filled with that strange pale light, the snow falling steadily outside, and the child beside him. Why did I say I'd look after her, he thought, with a sort of wonder. What's the matter with me anyhow? He didn't know and could not understand. He was hopelessly involved now in this sorry muddle, and he saw very clearly that every step

had been taken deliberately, of his own free will. He could have got out long ago, but here he was, and he was committed now to an undertaking almost too fantastic, too preposterous to contemplate. Yet he did not regret it. Just as in a shipwreck he would have given his life for a tiny creature like this, So was he obliged now to offer it his protection. Eddie said she had nobody in the world. Very well then, he had to stop,

to turn aside from his own affairs and lend a hand to this forlorn little fellow-traveller. He had to do it. Moore said the child briskly. More what, asked Ross. More everything, she cried, bouncing up and down perilously upon the telephone directories he had piled on her chair.

more everything. Give her some coffee, suggested Eddie. No, said Ross, too young. They only have milk, things like that. And with these words, the fantasy became real. He had actually assumed the responsibility now. He was taking care of the child. He looked down in her, frowning a little,

and she looked up into his face with cheerful expectancy. She knew very well. He was the one appointed to serve her, and she knew it. He was to supply her with more everything. "'Look care, Eddie,' he said. "'There must be someone who'll turn up later to take care of the child. "'There's bound to be someone.' Eddie glanced up as if he were about to speak,

but his face grew scarlet and he turned away. "'Well,' he said after a time, "'I don't know. It's kind of hard to say. "'Only I thought you—I thought you'd be a good one to take her.' Ross was surprised and curiously touched by this, and somewhat embarrassed. A good one was he for this charge? He looked at the child again. Her face is dirty, he observed sternly.

She ought to be washed. Any warm water in that kettle, Eddie? Yep, but I got to hurry before the rest of him get up. Go on and eat, kid! He turned to Ross. Tell you what I thought. I know a place where I can take her and keep her till you come and get her after dark. It's a cottage where there's nobody living just now. You go up the post road about

eight miles till you come to a church that's being built on the left side of the road. Then you turn, yes, said Ross. I... He stopped and Eddie sat staring blankly at him. What, he cried. Do you know? Go on, said Ross. Go on. Tell me how to get there. What made you say yes like that? I meant I was listening to you. Go on. Go on. man. And because of his distaste for this lie, Ross spoke with a brusque impatience which impressed Eddie. All right, he said, but listen here. I, well, you're a funny sort of guy. I never seen anyone so close-mouthed in my life. I can't make out yet who you are and what you come here for. But, he sighed and stroked his glossy hair. I got to trust you, that's all. Last night I

thought I'd go crazy, trying to think what I could do about the kid. I couldn't, I'll tell you where this place is, and I hope to God you'll keep still about it. Because if we get anyone else mongying around there, well, there'll be trouble, that's all, big trouble. Go on, said Ross. So what he did go on, giving him careful directions for reaching the cottage, Ross had visited the day before with Amy. And for Pete's sake, come as early as you can, he ended. Come before it gets dark, will you? I, he arose. Come on, baby. She jumped down from her chair, with a piece of bread and butter in one hand and the rabbit in the other. She was quite ready to go anywhere, with anyone. Ross washed her sticky hands and tried to wash her face, but this

annoyed her so much that he was not successful. Eddie brought out her coat and bonnet from a cupboard, put on his own very modest overcoat, and a cap, picked up the child, and off they went. From an At her window, Ross watched them go across the great white waist that was so strange and yet somehow so familiar to him. Eddie stumbled now and then over some hidden unevenness in the ground, but the child in his arms sat up straight and triumphant, her head in the knitted hood, turning briskly from side to side. Then they were lost to sight in the falling snow and the grey morning light, and Ross turned

back to the empty rooms. It was only half past seven. He had nearly an hour before Mr. Solway expected him, and he thought he would use that time for investigating the engine of the limousine. Both cars were in deplorably good condition. There was little he could justifiably do to them, and he was, moreover, a mechanic of more enterprise than experience. But he was devoted to engines, and pretty well up in the theory of the internal combustion type. He put on a suit of overalls he found in the garage, He started the engine and opened the hood.

He was so pleased with that fine roar, that powerful vibration which was like the beat of a great faithful heart, they began to whistle. A superb motor. He would enjoy driving that car. She's a beauty all right, said a voice, so very close to his ear that he jumped. Standing in his elbow was a burly fellow with 35 or so, with a bulldog jaw, his voice and a smile were friendly,

but his blue eyes Ross thought were not. Yes, sir, he went on. You got a mighty fine car there. Ross said nothing. He did not care to continue his amateur explorations under those cold blue eyes. He shut off the engine, close the hood,

and turned toward the stranger with a challenging glance. But the stranger was not at all abashed. Have a smoke, he asked, preferring a packet of cigarettes. No thanks. said Ross, and stood there facing the other, and obviously waiting for an explanation. Dirty weather, said the stranger. All right, said Ross sullenly. What about it?

His tone was very nearly savage, for to tell the truth, his position was having a bad effect upon his temper. Having so much to conceal, so many unwelcome secrets entrusted to him, he had begun to suspect everyone. He didn't like this fellow. Well, I'll tell you, said the stranger. in an easy and confidential manner. I came up this way looking for a man, and I thought I dropped in here and see if you could give me any information. He stopped to light a cigarette, and his blue eyes were fixed upon Ross.

Fellow by the name of Ives, he said. Ever hear of him, may? No, said Ross. Ives, said the other slowly. Martin Ives. Fellow about your rage, about your build. dark complexioned like you. Do you think I am your Martin Ives demanded Ross angrily.

I wish you were, said the stranger, and his tone was so grave that Ross had a sudden feeling of profound uneasiness. Well, I'm not, he said, and I never heard of him. I'm new here, just came two days ago. Two days, eh? said the stranger. That was Wednesday, eh? I shouldn't have told him that thought Ross dismayed. But good Lord, I can't remember.

remember to lie all the time. And anyhow, what difference could it make when I came here? But he could see from the stranger's face that it had made a difference. You came here on Wednesday, he continued. I wonder now, did you happen to see anyone? No, shouted Ross. I didn't see anyone. I didn't see anything. I never heard of your ives. Go and ask someone else. I'm busy. I don't want to bother you, sir, the stranger, grown very mild. I can see you're busy, but it's a pretty serious thing. You see, Ives came to Stanford on Tuesday. I've traced him that far, and after that, he's disappeared.

Well, do you think I've got him hidden here? My name's Donnelly, the stranger, went on, and I've come out here to find Ives. All right, I wish you luck. I don't know, said Donnelly thoughtfully. Maybe it won't be so lucky, for some people. He was not looking at Ross now, his cold blue eyes were staring straight before him. But I think I'll find him, all the same he declared gently. Eyes was the man under the sofa, thought Ross.

End of Chapter 13. Chapter 14 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sansa Holding. This Lieberfox recording is in the public domain. Ross could not understand why that notion came as a shock to him. Naturally, the man under the sofa had a name. Everyone had. Yet directly he thought of that figure as Martin Nives instead of the man, the whole affair grew ten times more tragic and horrible,

and ten times more dangerous. A man might disappear, but not Martin Nives. Martin Nives was real. He had friends. He must have lived somewhere. He would be sought for and found. This donnelly thought, Ross, he's got this far already, and he'll keep on.

In his mind he envisaged the inexorable progress of this search. Step by step hour by hour. If this man went away, another would come. The awful march of retribution had begun. Nothing could stop it. Murder will out. His anger, his impatience, had quite vanished now. He could not resent Donnelly's presence, because he was inevitable.

He seemed to wroth the very personification of destiny not to be. be eluded, not to be mollified. He looked at him, and, as he had expected, found the cold blue eyes regarding him. Do you think you can help me? asked Donnelly. I don't see how, said Ross. I don't know the fellow you're looking for. I'll have to get along now, about to drive down to the station. Well, said Donnelly, blandly. I can wait. Not here, said Ross with energy. They wouldn't like, Oh no, not here, said the other. See you later. So long. And off you went.

Ross watched his burly figure tramping along the driveway until he was out of sight. Then he made haste to get himself ready, took out the car, locked the garage, and drove up to the house. He was much too early. There he sat, shut up in the snug little sedan, with the snow falling outside, as if he were some unfortunate victim of an enchantment, shut up in a glass cage. And he began to think now of what lay immediately before him. I'll have to make some sort of excuse to Mr. Sawway

for going away, he thought. A lie, of course. I wish to heaven I didn't have to lie to him. Then I'll get the child and clear out. I'll find some sort of home for her. Phyllis Barron will help me. The idea dazzled him, the magnificent simplicity of it,

the unspeakable relief of just picking up the child and walking off. No explanations, no more lies. He contemplated it in detail, how he would walk into the hotel Mistin, into his comfortable room and unpack his bags. How he would take the child to Phyllis Barron and tell her that here was a poor little kid who had nobody in the world. She would know what to do. She would help him. The nightmare would end. As for Amy, I'll have it out with her today, he thought, I'm not called upon to give up my entire life for that girl. I've done enough and more than enough. The door opened and out came Mr. Salway.

Ross jumped out and opened the door of the car. Ha, said Mr. Salway. Very sensible. Very sensible. You came early so that you'd have time to drive carefully. Very important, weather like this. Very sensible. But wait a bit. Mr. Dexter's coming along. Standing out in the snow, we shouted, Gail, come now, come! to the unresponsive house. then he got into the car.

I like to speak to you for a minute, sir, said Ross. Mr. Sawway observed how white and strained the young man's face was, and he spoke to him very kindly. Well, he said, what is it, Moss? I'm afraid I'll have to leave tomorrow, sir. Leave, eh? Yes, sir. I, it's family troubles, sir. Married man, a Solway, in a low voice.

No, sir, said Ross. The honest sympathy in the other man's tone made him sick with shame. It's a younger sister of mine. Well, my boys, said Mr. Solway. I'm sorry, very sorry. You're the sort of young fellow I like. Family troubles. Too bad.

I'm sorry. Come back here any time you like. Thank you, sir, said Ross. Nonsense, nonsense. You're the type of young... Ha, Gail! Step in, step in. Start her up, Moss.

Ross did so. He had never been more unhappy in his life than he was now, with his lie successfully accomplished. This finishes it, he thought, as he drove back from the station. I'm going to see Amy and have it out with her. I'll tell her about this Donnelly. I'll warn her. And then go off and leave her to face the consequences alone?

But hang it all. She's not alone, he cried to himself. She's got Solway, and she's got her gale. Why doesn't she go to him? He's the natural one to share her troubles. Unfortunately, however, he could not help understanding a little why Amy did not want to tell Gail. He had had another good look at Gail when he got out of the car at the station, and he was obliged to admit that there was something very uncompromising in that handsome face.

Nobody he thought would want to tell Gail Dexter a guilty secret. I suppose she doesn't particularly mind by knowing anything he reflected, it because as far as she's concerned, I don't count. This idea pleased him as much as it would please any other young fellow of 26. And, combined with his many anxieties, and his hatred and impatience toward his present position, it produced in him a very uncivilrous mood. He brought the car into the garage and sat down on its step with his watch in his hand. He gave Amy thirty minutes in which to send him a message.

Of course she didn't send any. Then he went to the telephone which connected with the house. Gracie's voice answered him. I want to speak to Miss Solway, he said. I'll see, said Gracie. He waited and waited, feeling pretty sure that Amy would not come, and she would indeed never speak to him or think of him unless she wanted him to do something for her.

But presently, to his surprise, he heard her voice, so very gentle and sweet that he could scarcely recognize it. Moss, she said, as if he could scarcely recognize it. in wonder. Yes, he said, look here. I'd like to—I don't think I'll want the car all day, said she, not in this weather. Look here, he began again. I want to speak to you. Now. I shan't need you all day today, Moss, said she graciously, and he heard the receiver go up on the hook. He stood for a moment looking at the telephone. His dark face had grown quite pale, and there was upon it a peculiar and unpleasant smile. But he was, he was,

in his way a just man and not disposed to let his temper master him. He looked at the telephone, and he thought his thoughts for a few moments. Then he resolutely put this exasperation out of his mind and proceeded with his business. He decided to go and get the child without any further delay. There was no reason for delay. To tell the truth, he was vaguely uneasy with her away. You could easily keep her hidden in the garage until the morning, and then get away early. And he wanted her here. He took off the hated uniform, dressed himself in his customary need and sober fashion, put his papers and what money he had into his pockets, and set off toward the station, where he knew he could get a taxi. The beauty which had so enchanted him early in the morning was perishing

fast now. The field still showed an unbroken expanse of white, but the trees were bare again. The flakes melted as they fell, the roads were a morass of slush, and all the tingle had gone, out of the air. It was a desolate, depressing day now, with a leaden sky. The slush came over the tops of his shoes, his hat brim dripped, his spirit sank, in this melancholy world. But at least he was alone and able to go his own way, in his own good time, and that was a relief. He stopped in the town and bought himself a pipe and a tin of tobacco. He stopped whenever he felt like it to look at things, and passing a fruit stand, went in and bought two hours apples for the little girl.

Good for children, he thought, with curious satisfaction. He reached the station and saw three or four vacant taxi standing there, he selected one and went up to it, and was just about to give his directions when a hand fell on his shoulder. Well, said a voice, the most unwelcome one he could have heard. It was Donnelly, grinning broadly. Well, said Ross in a noncommittal tone. His brain was working fast. He couldn't go to the cottage now.

He must somehow get rid of this fellow, and he must invent a plausible reason for being here. I walked down to get a few things, he said. But I guess I won't try walking back. The roads are too bad. You're right, said Donnelly heartily. Why got road, Ross told the taxi driver, and got into the cab. Hold on a minute, said Donnelly. I'm going that way, too.

I'll share the cab with you. Look here, cried Ross. Well, said Donnelly, I'm looking. The unhappy young man did not know what to say. He felt that it would be extremely imprudent to antagonize the man. All right, he said at last, and Donnelly got in beside him. The cab set off, splashing through the melted snow, going back again to that infernal garage. Suppose Donnelly hung about all day.

Where do you want to get out, he demanded. To tell you the truth, said Donnelly, I was with you. waiting for you. Waiting. But... I sort of thought you might be coming to the station sometime today, said the other tranquilly, and I waited.

Wanted a little talk with you. What about? Well, it's this. I told you where I was looking for a man called Ives. And I told you I didn't... Now, hold on a minute. He told me you've never heard of him. All right.

Now I told you I knew Ives came out to Stanford on Tuesday. That was about all I didn't. know this morning. But I found out a little more since then. What's that got to do with me? asked Ross with a surly air and a sinking heart. That's just what I don't know. On Wednesday you came to Mr. Salway's house. You didn't bring anything with you and you haven't sent for any bag or trunk or anything like that. Now hold on. Just wait a minute. You said you'd come from Crenz agency, I'm told. The Crenz agency told me on the telephone that, now hold on. Don't lose your temper.

You can clear this up easy enough. Just show me your license. Having got it with you, I suppose. No, said Ross. All right. You left it in the garage very well. That's where you're going now, isn't it? Unless...

He paused. Unless you'd like to come along with me. Come where? asked Ross. Why, there's a little cottage off the post road, said Donnelly. I'd like to pay a little visit there this morning. and it came into my head that maybe you'd like to come along with me, eh? End of Chapter 14. Chapter 15 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sancey Holden. This Liebervox recording is in the public domain.

Ross was by nature incapable of despair, but he felt something akin to it now. He was so hopelessly in the dark, he did not know what to guard against, what was most dangerous. He remembered Eddie's warning not to let anyone come monkey. around that cottage, but he did not know the reason for that warning. Nor could he think of any way to prevent Donnelly's going there. Should he lock the fellow up in the garage until he had warned, Eddie? No, that was a plan lacking in subtlety. Certainly it would confirm whatever suspicions Donnelly might have,

and might do a great deal more harm than good. Should he tell Amy on the chance that she might suggest something? No, that chance of her suggesting anything helpful was very small, and the chance that she would do something reckless and disastrous very great. Better keep Amy out of it. Then what could he do? The idea came into his head that he might keep Donnelly quiet for a time by boldly asserting that he himself was Ives.

But perhaps Donnelly knew that he wasn't. By heaven, why shouldn't I tell him the truth, he thought, in a sort of rage? Why not tell him I'm James Ross? There's nothing against me. I've done nothing criminal. I don't even know what's happening here. I'll just tell him. And then Donnelly would ask him why he had come

and why he was here masquerading as a chauffeur. How could he explain? For it never occurred to him as a possibility that he could ignore Donnelly's questions. There was an air of unmistakable authority about the man. Ross had not asked him who he was, and he had no wish in the world to find out either. Simply he knew that Donnelly was justified

in his very inconvenient curiosity. that he had a right to know, and he probably would know, before long. Perhaps I can manage to get away from him, thought Ross. That was the thing. Somehow we must sidetrack Donnelly, get him off upon a false scent, while he himself hastened to Eddie. Such a simple and easy thing to do, wasn't it? Well, said Donnelly, do we go back and have a look at that license of yours? Or do we go and pay a little visit to that cottage, eh? I'm going back, said Ross curtly.

Of course, Donnelly went on, in a mild and reasonable tone. I know, and you know, that you're not going to show me any license. What you want is a little time to make up your mind. You're saying to yourself, I don't know this fellow. I don't know what he's up to. I don't see any reason why I should trust him with any of my private affairs. You're right.

Why should you? You talk to certain other people, and you've heard good reasons why you ought to keep quiet, about one or two little things. That's sensible enough. Why, naturally, he went on, growing almost indignant in defense of Ross, naturally an intelligent young man like you isn't going to tell all he knows to a stranger. Why should you? Ross found it difficult to reply to this.

No, said Donnelly. Naturally not. What you say to me is, Put your cars on the table, Donnelly. Let's hear who you are and what you know and what you're after. Then we can talk. That's what you say. All right, now I'll tell you.

I'll be frank. I'll admit that when I saw you this morning, I thought you were Ives. You see, I'm frank, not pretending to know at all. I made a mistake. You're not Ives. Thanks, said Ross. When Ives came out here on Tuesday, Donnelly proceeded, he took a taxi. I'll tell you frankly that I just found.

found out this morning by a lucky fluke. No credit to me. He went out to this cottage and there he met somebody. Oh, that was me, I suppose, said Ross. No, said Donnelly. It was a woman. Oh, Lord, thought Ross. This is, I can't stand much more of this. Now I'm not going to pretend I know who that woman was, Donnelly went on. I don't. I haven't found that out yet. Not yet. But you will, thought Ross. He felt sure of that. He believed that there was no hope now for the guilty ones, and he felt that he was one of the guilty ones.

He did not know what had happened at days in, but the burden of that guilt lay upon his heart. This man was the agent of destiny, inexorable, in no way to be alluded. He had come to find out, and find out he surely would. Ross was a young man of remarkable hardihood, though. No one had ever been able to bully him, or to intimidate or fluster him. He had precious little hope of success, but he meant to do what he could. If you could only gain a little time, perhaps he might think of a plan,

and in the meanwhile, he would say nothing and admit nothing. Now before we talk, said Donnelly, you want to know who I am and how I came to be mixed up in this business. As soon as you saw me, you said to yourself, Police! Ross winced at the word. That was natural, but you made a mistake. I'll tell you frankly that I was a police.

police detective once, but have left the force. I'm a private citizen now, same as you are. Got a little business of my own, which you might call a private investigator. Collecting information, jobs like that. Nothing to do with criminal cases. He was silent for a moment. Nothing to do with criminal cases, he repeated. I don't like him. Now this. Again he felt silent. We'll hope this isn't one, he said. I'll tell you about it. My sister, she's a widow, and she keeps a rooming house down on West 12th Street.

Well, yesterday she came to me with a story that sort of interested me. She told me that about a month ago a young fellow took a room in her house. Quiet, young fellow, didn't give any trouble, but she'd taken a good deal of notice of him in what you might call a sort of motherly way. Yes, I know, Ross nodded. A good-looking young fellow, very polite and nice in his ways, and she thought from the start that he was pretty badly worried about something. She'd hear him walking up and down at night,

and she said there was a look on his face. You know how women are. Yes, Ross agreed. So, when he didn't show up for a couple of nights, she came to me. I told her to go to the police, but she had some sort of notion that he wouldn't like that, and I dare say she didn't like it herself. Bad for business.

Thing like that in the newspapers, you know. So just to please her I got his door. door unlocked and had a look at his room. You found... Well, the first thing I saw there was a pile of money on the table, about $75 in bills under a paperweight and a half-finished letter. No name, just began right off, I won't wait any longer.

But here's the letter you can see for yourself. Unbuttoning his coat, he took a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and handed it to Ross. It read, I won't wait any longer. I'm coming out to Stanford tomorrow, and if you refuse to see me this time, it will be the end. You've been putting me off with one lie after the other for all this time, and now it's finished. I don't know how you can be so damned cruel. Don't you even want to see your own child?

As for your husband, I have no more illusions about that. You're sick of me. All you want is to get rid of me, and you don't care how either. Well, I don't care. I'd be better off with a bullet through the the head. It's only the baby." Here there were several words scratched out and it began again. Darling, my own girl, perhaps I'm wrong. I hope to God I am. Perhaps you really are doing your best and thinking of what's best for the child. Only it's been so long, I want you back so. I've got a little money save. I can keep you both. I can work. I can make you happy, even if we are a bit poor. Darling, just let me see you. you end. That was the end. Ross touched his tongue to his dry lips and folded up the letter again.

He dared not look at Donnelly, but he knew Donnelly was looking at him. Ives wrote that letter, said Donnelly. The way I figure it out is this. He began to write, and then he decided that instead of sending a letter, he'd go. He must have been in a pretty bad state to leave all that money behind. But of course he meant to come back. Well, he didn't. Aha, here we are. The taxi stopped before the gates of Days Inn, and Donnelly, getting out, told the driver to wait for him. Then he set off with Ross, not along the drive, but across the lawn, behind the fir trees.

I won't bother you by telling you how I know he came to Stanford on Tuesday he proceeded. It's my business to find out things like that. He came, and he took a taxi out to this cottage I've mentioned, and a woman met him there. He sent the taxi away, and that's the last time. I've heard of him. The snow was wholly turned to rain now, and blew against Ross's face, cold and bitter, the tree stood dripping and shivering under the gray sky. He was wet, chilled to the bone, filled with a terrible foreboding. That cottage belongs to an old lady in the neighborhood, said Donnelly. But she doesn't know anything about this. She said the place had been vacant two years,

and she didn't expect to rent it till she made some repairs. She said anybody could get into it easily enough if they should want to. Well. They stood before the garage now, and Ross took the key from his pocket. So you see, said Donnelly, that's how it is. We've traced him that far. I know that there's some woman in Stamford who has a good reason for wanting to get rid of him. And now, he looks steadily at Ross, and now I've about finished. Finished, said Ross. You, you mean? But Donnelly did not answer. And of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sancey Holding. This Liebervox recording is in the public domain. Ross went upstairs to the sitting room over the garage. It did not occur to him

to extend an invitation to his companion. He knew well enough that he would hear those deliberate footsteps mounting after him. He knew that Donnelly would follow. He took off his hat and overcoat and flung himself into a chair, and Donnelly did the same, in a more leisure. fashion. Certainly he was not a very troublesome shadow. He did not speak or disturb Ross in any way. He just waited. And Ross sat there, his legs stretched out before him, hands in his pockets, his head sunk, lost in a reverie of wonder, pity, and great dread. Her child, he thought, Amy's child? Eyes was her husband, and that baby is her child? He recalled with singular vividness the phrases of that pitiful and reasonable letter.

Just let me see you. It's been so long. You're sick of me. All you want is to get rid of me. He could imagine Ives, that fellow who was about his age, about his build, alone in his furnished room writing that letter. How can you be so damn cruel? And darling. In a pretty bad state, Donnelly had said,

and he had come, with all this hope and fear and his pain, the day's end and... But if that was Ives I saw in Mrs. Jones' room, thought Ross, then who was it Amy wanted me to watch for last night? This idea gave him immeasurable relief. That man had not been Ives. Ives hadn't come yet. The whole tragedy was an invention of his own.

No reason to take it for granted that that letter was meant for Amy, he thought. Plenty of other women in Stamford. No, I've simply been making a fool of my... self-imagining. But there was one thing he had not imagined. There was among all these doubts and surmises one immutable fact, the man under the sofa. He could, if he please, explain away everything else, but not that. It seemed to him incredible that he had in the beginning accepted that fact so coolly, yet thought it was none of his business. And now it was the chief business of his life. It was as if that silent figure had cried out to him

for justice, as if he had come here only in order to see that man and to avenge him. No, he protested in his soul. I've got nothing to do with justice and vengeance. The thing's done. It can never be undone. I don't want to see anyone punished for it. It's not my business. I'm nobody's judge, thank God. Well, said Donnelly gently. Ross looked up, met his glance squarely. I can't help you, he said. Donnelly arose. I'm sorry for that, he said.

Mighty sorry. I've been very frank with you. Showed you the letter, laid my cards on the table. Because I had a notion that you'd heard one side of the case, and that if you heard the other, you might change your mind. You might think that eyes hadn't had a fair deal. I can't help that, muttered Ross. No, said Donnelly.

Of course you can't. And I can't help it now either. He sighed. Well, he said, I'll be off now. Goodbye. What are you going to do? asked Ross, sitting up straight. Why, I'm going to that cottage I mentioned, said Donnelly.

If I don't find Ives there or something that'll help me to find him, then I'll have to turn the case over to the police. Ross got up and began to put on his damp overcoat. I'll go with you, he said. Whether this was the best thing for him to do, he could not tell, but he could see no way of preventing Donnelly, from going, and he would not let him go alone. He meant to be there with Eddie and the little girl. Donnelly had already gone to the head of the stairs, and Ross followed him, impatient to be gone.

But the others barely for him blocked the way. He was listening. Someone was opening the door of the garage. Ross made an attempt to get by, but Donnelly laid a hand on his arm. Wait, he whispered. Light quick footsteps sounded on the cement floor below, and then a voice so clear, so sweet. Jimmy! Miss Salway, he cried. Jimmy's not here, only me, Moss, and a friend of mine.

This was his warning to her, and he hoped with all his heart that she would understand and would go. Donnelly had begun to descend the stairs if she would only go before that man saw her. But she had not gone. When he reached the foot of the stairs and looked over Donnelly's shoulder,

he saw her there. She was wearing her fur coat. with a collar turned up and a black velvet tam, the cold air had brought a beautiful color into her cheeks. Her hair was clinging in little damp curls to her forehead. He had never seen her so lovely, so radiant. And for all that he knew against her, and all that he suspected,

he saw in her now a pitiful and terrible innocence. She doesn't know, he thought. She doesn't realize, she can't realize ever what she's done. She doesn't even know when she hurts anyone. And there was Donnelly, standing before her, hat in hand, his eyes modestly downcast, a most in offensive figure. She was not interested in him. She thought he didn't matter.

She was looking past him at Ross, with that cajoling childish smile of hers. Oh, Moss, she said. Will you bring the sedan round to the house, please? I want to go out. I'm sorry, Miss Salway, he said, and it seemed to him that anyone could hear the significance in his voice. Mr. Solway told me not to take you out in this weather. Oh, she said inside, all right, with gentle resignation, I'll just have to wait then.

I'm sorry, Miss Salway, said Ross again. Didn't she see how that fellow was watching her? It was torment to Ross. There was not a shadow on her bright face. She stood there, gay, careless, perfectly indifferent to the silent Donnelly. All right, she said, and turned away, then to open the door. But it was heavy for her small fingers, and Donnelly hastened forward. "'Excuse me, miss,' he said, and pushed back the door for her.

"'Oh, thanks,' she said, smiling into his face, and off she went, running through the rain across the sodden lawn. Ross looked after her, so little, so young. "'And that's Miss Sawway,' said Donnelly, speculively." Ross glanced at him, and his heart gave a great leap, for on the other's face was an unmistakable look of perplexity. Yes, he said, that's Miss Solway. She's pretty young, isn't she, Donnelly pursued, still following with his eyes the hurrying little figure. I suppose so, said Ross casually.

It was difficult for him to conceal his delight. Donnelly was evidently at a loss. He couldn't believe ill of that girl with her careless smile. He thought she was too young, too light-hearted. The very fact of her ignoring Ross's warning had done this for her. If she had understood, if it crossed her smiling face had come that look Ross had seen, that look of terror and dismay, Donnelly would not have thought her too young. He's not sure now, thought Ross. He's not sure. She has a chance now,

if I can only think of something. He could not think of anything useful now, but he felt sure that he would later on. There was a chance now. Donnelly was only human. He, like other men, could be deluded. They left the garage and walked back to the waiting taxi. What about a little lunch first, suggested Donnelly. All right, said Ross. So they stopped at a restaurant in the town and sent away the cab. They sat down facing each other across a small table.

Ross was hungry, and Donnelly too ate with hearty appetite, but he did not talk. He was thoughtful, and Ross believed, somewhat downcast. Getting up a new theory, said the young man to himself. perhaps I can help him. The vague outline of a plan was assembling in his mind, but he could not quite discern it yet. It seemed to him plain that Donnelly had nothing but suspicions, that he had no definite facts as to any connection between Ives and Amy Solway.

He had thought she was the woman to whom that letter was addressed, but since he had seen her, he doubted. Very well, he must be kept in doubt. When they had finished lunch, they went round the corner to a garage and took another taxi. Ross settled himself back comfortably and filled and lighted his new pipe, a good time to break it in, he thought. Donnelly brought out a big cigar, which he kept in the corner of his mouth while he talked a little upon the subject of tobacco. The cab grew thick with smoke,

and Ross opened the window beside him. The rain blew in, but he did not mind that. They came to the cottage along the lane which took them directly to its front gate. There it stood, forlorn and shabby, the shutters closed, then the neglected garden a dripping tangle. They went up the steps. Donnelly knocked but there was no answer. He pushed open the door and they went in. He called out, Is there anybody here?

But Ross knew then that the house was empty. The very air proclaimed it. My luck's in, he thought elated. End of Chapter 16. Chapter 17 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sansae Holding. This Liebervox recording is in the public domain. Nice cheerful little place observed Donnelly, looking about him. Ross said nothing.

He had not even dared hope for such a stroke of luck as that Eddie and the little girl should be gone, yet the silence in this dim, damp little house troubled him. Where and why had they gone? We'll just take a look around, said Donnelly. He opened a door beside him, revealing a dark and empty room. He flashed an electric torch across it, Nothing there but the bare floor in the four walls. He closed the door and went along the passage and opened the door of the next room.

The shutter was broken here in one of the window panes, and the rain was blowing in, making a pool on the floor that gleamed darkly when the flashlight touched it. That door too he closed with a sort of polite caution as if he didn't want to disturb anyone. Then he looked into the room at the end of the passage. This was evidently the kitchen, for there was a little bit of the kitchen, for there was a little bit of a little bit of a room, a sink there, and a built-in dresser. He turned on the taps, no water. Now we'll just take a look upstairs, he said, in a subdued tone. He mounted the stairs with remarkable lightness for so heavy a man, but Ross took no

such precaution. Indeed, he wanted to make a noise. He did not like the silence in this house. Donnelly opened the door facing the stairs. One shutter had been thrown back, and the room was filled with the grey light of the rainy afternoon. And lying on the floor, Ross saw a white flannel rabbit. It lay there, quite alone, its one pink glass eye steering up at the ceiling, and round its middle was a bedraggled bit of blue ribbon which Ross remembered very well. Now, what's this said, Donnelly? He picked up the rabbit, frowning a little. He turned it this way and that, he fingered it sash. And to Ross there was something grotesque and almost horrible in the sight of the burly-fellee.

fellow with a cigar in one corner of his mouth and an intent frown on his red face holding that rabbit. It's a clue, isn't it, he inquired, with mock respect. Donnelly glanced at him quickly. Then he put the rabbit into the pocket of his overcoat, from which its long ears protruded ludicrously. Come on, he said. The next door was locked, and here Donnelly displayed his professional talents.

Before Ross could quite see what he was at, he had taken the door. something from his pocket, he bent forward, and almost at once the lock clicked, and he opened the door. It seemed to Ross that nothing could have been more eloquent of crime, of shameful secrecy and misery than that room. There was a wretched little makeshift bed against one wall, made up of burlap bags and a ragged portier. There was a box on which stood a lantern, an empty corn-beef tin, and a crushed-in-sockon packet of cigarettes. There was nothing else. With a leaden heart, he looked at Donnelly and saw him very grave. Come on, he said again.

And they went on, into every corner of that house that was so empty and yet so filled with questions. They found nothing more. Someone had been here, and someone had gone. That was all. Donnelly led the way back to the room where that someone had been. Now we'll see if we can find some more clues here, he said, like the fellows in the storybooks. He took up the packet of cigarettes and went over to the window with it.

But instead of examining the object in his hand, his glance was arrested by something outside, and he stood staring straight before him so long that Ross came up beside him to see for himself. From this upper window there was an unexpectedly wide vista of empty fields still white with snow, and houses tiny in the distance, and a belt of woodland, dark against the grey sky, all deserted and desolate and the steady fall of sleet. What else? Directly before the house was the road, where the taxi waited, the driver inside. Across the road the land ran downhill in a steep slope, washed bare of any trace of snow, and at its foot was a pond, a somber little sheet of water shivering under the downpour. But there was nobody in sight, nothing stirred. What else? What was

Donnelly looking at? "'I think,' said Donnelly. I guess I'll just go out and mooch around a little before it gets dark. Just to get the lay of the land. You don't want to come in this weather. You just wait here. I won't keep you long. Ross did want to go with him everywhere, and to see everything that he saw,

but he judged it unwise to say so. He stood where he was, listening to the other's footsteps quietly descending. He heard the front door closed softly, and a moment later he saw Donnelly come out into the road and cross it, with a wave of his hand toward the taxi driver, and begin to descend the steep slope toward the pond. What's he going there for, thought Ross? What does he think?

Before he had finished the question, the answer sprang up in his mind. Donnelly had not found Ives in the cottage, so he was going to look for him down there. Suppose he found him. No, thought Ross, it's impossible. I'm losing my nerve. To tell the truth he was badly shaken. He was ready to credit Donnelly with superhuman powers,

to believe that he could see things invisible to other persons that he could simply by looking out of the window trace the whole course of a crime. I've got to do something, he thought. Now is my chance. I can give him the slip now. But he was a good seven or eight miles from day's end. Well, why couldn't he hurry down, jump into the taxi, and order the driver to set off at once? long before Donnelly could find any way of escape from this desolate region, he could get back to the house and warn Amy.

And in doing so, he would certainly antagonize Donnelly and confirm any suspicions he might already have. No, he thought. He's not sure about Amy now. I don't believe he's got anything against me. I can't afford to run away. He hasn't found anything yet that definitely connects Amy with the case. But when he did? Donnelly had reached the bottom of the slope now, and was sauntering along the edge of the pond, hands in his pockets.

He had in no wise the air of a sleuth hot upon assent, but to Ross's leisurely progress suggested an alarming confidence. He knew. What didn't he know? And Ross, the guilty one, knew nothing at all. In angry desperation he turned away from the window. All right, he said aloud. I'll have a look for clues myself.

and without the slightest difficulty he found all the clues he wanted. The makeshift bed was the only place in the room where anything could be hidden. He lifted up the portiere that lay over the bags, and there he found a shabby pocketbook in which were the papers of the missing Martin Ives. Everything was there, everything one could want. There was a savings bank book, there were two or three letters, and there was a little snapshot of Amy, on the back of which was written, to Marty said that he won't forget.

Ross looked at that photograph for a long time. He was not expert enough to recognize that the costume was somewhat outmoded, but he did know that this picture had been taken some time ago because Amy was so different. It showed her standing on a beach with the wind blowing her hair and her skirts, her head a little thrown back, and on her face the jolliest smile, a regular schoolgirl grin. It heard him, the sight of that laughing,

dimpled little ghost from the past. He remembered her as he had seen her today, still smiling, still lovely but so changed. She was reckless now, haunted now, even in her most careless moments. He opened the top letter, it bore the date of last Monday, but no address. It read, Dear Mr. Eyes, Amy has asked me to reply to your letter of a month ago. I scarcely need to tell you how greatly it distressed her. If you should come to the house, publicly now, everything she is trying to do would be ruined. She had hoped that you would wait patiently, but as you refused to do so, she is consented to see you. She wants to see Lily as well, and although there is a great deal of risk in this, if you will follow my directions,

I think we can manage. Telephone to the nurse with whom the child is boarding, to bring her to the station at Greenwich by the train leaving New York at 7.20 a.m. on Tuesday, and Eddie will meet her there. You can take an early afternoon train to Stamford. Take a taxi there and go up the post road to Bonifer Lane a little past the Raven Inn. There is a new church being built on the corner. Turn down here and stop at the first house, about half a mile from the main road. You will find the little girl there, and I shall be there waiting for you, between three and five, and we can make arrangements for you to see Amy. Remember, Mr. Ives, that Amy trusts you to do nothing until you have seen her. Respectfully yours, Amanda Jones. Ross folded up the letter. Yes,

nobody could ask for a much better clue. He took out another letter, but before opening it, he glanced out of the window, and he saw Donnelly coming back. He put the wallet into his pocket and went to the head of the stairs. A great lassitude had come upon him. He felt physically exhausted. his doubt and his hope were ended now. Donnelly came in quietly and advanced to the foot of the stairs. It was not possible to read his face by that dim light, but his voice was very grave. Come on, he said.

Find anything asked Ross? Donnelly was silent for a moment. I finished, he said at last. What began, Ross? I finished, Donnelly repeated almost gently. It's up to the police now. We'll have that pond dragged. Ross too was silent for a moment.

All right, he said. I'll just get my hat. He turned back into the room. Donnelly waited for him below. In a few minutes Ross joined him, and they got into the cab. End of Chapter 17. Chapter 18 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sainseh Holding.

This Liebervox recording is in the public domain. Mr. Salway descended from the train and walked briskly toward his car. The new chauffeur was standing there, stiff as a poker. "'Well, Moss,' he said. "'Everything all right, eh?' "'Yes, thank you, sir,' said Ross. "'That's it,' said Mr. Salway, with his vague kindliness. He got into the car, and Ross started off through the sleet and the dark.

Mr. Salway made two or three observations about the weather, but his chauffeur answered, yes, sir, that's so, sir, rather absent-mindedly. He was to tell the truth, very much preoccupied with his own thoughts. He was wondering how a pond was dragged and how long such a thing might take. He had seen no one, spoken to no one, since he had left Donnelly at the police station and gone back to the garage alone. So he had plenty of time to think. He stopped the car before the house, Mr. Solway got out and Ross drove on to the garage.

There would be a little more time for thinking before he was summoned to dinner. He went upstairs and sat down, stretched out in a chair, staring before him. He was still wearing the peaked cap which had belonged to Wheeler. Perhaps it was not a becoming cap, for his face looked grim and harsh beneath it. He was not impatient now, as that James Ross had been who had landed in New York three days ago. Indeed, he seemed almost inhumanly patient, as if he were willing to sit there forever. And that was how he felt. He had done his utmost, no, he could only wait.

The slate was rattling against the windows and a great wind blew. It must be a wild night out in the fields where a lonely little pond lay. A bad night to be in that little cottage. A bad night anywhere in the world for a child who had nobody. From his pocket he brought out a snapshot and looked at it for a long time. Then he tore it into fragments and let them flutter to the floor. He closed his eyes then, but he was not asleep. The knuckles of his hand grasping the arm of the chair were white. No, he wasn't asleep. When the telephone rang in the garage, he got up at

once and went downstairs to answer it. "'Din'er's ready,' said Gracie's voice. "'Eddy come in yet?' "'Not yet,' answered Ross. But wait a minute.' For he thought he heard someone at the door. He was standing with the receiver in his hand when the door slid open and Eddie came in. He's just, he began turning back to the telephone, when Eddie sprang forward and caught his arm and whispered, Shut up!

Just about do, said Ross de Gracie. Then he hung up the receiver and faced Eddie. Don't tell him I'm here, said Eddie. I, I don't want, I can't stand any, jabbering. I... Oh, God. At the end of his tether, Eddie was. His lips twitched, his face was distorted with his valiant effort after self-control,

and it occurred to Ross that for all his shrewdness in his worldly air, Eddie was not very old or very wise. What's up, old man, he asked. Tell me, you'd better get your dinner now. Nope, said Eddie. I can't eat. I don't want to talk. Ross waited for some time.

Listen here, said Eddie at last. You, you seem to like that kid. You'll look after her, won't you? Yes, Ross answered. He would have been surprised and a little incredulous if anyone had called him tactful, yet few people could have handled Eddie better. He knew what the boy wanted,

knew that he needed just this cool and steady tone this incurious patience. Go and get her, Eddie pleaded. She's down at the barbers, near the movie theatre. Go and get her. All right, I'll have my dinner first, though. Want me to bring you something? Nope, said Eddie. Listen, I guess the cops are after me already. You mean they've found him?

Yep, said Eddie. They've found him. How did you know? Ross did not answer the question. Can't you get away? he asked. Not going to try, said Eddie. I'm too darn tired. I don't care. There was a hysterical rise in his voice, but he mastered it. Let him come. What have they got against you? They've found him, in the pond where I put him. Who's going to know that?

Oh, they'll know, all right, said Eddie. They got ways of finding out things. They'll know, and they'll think it was me that... All right, let him. Then you're not going to tell? Eddie looked at him. Do you think it wasn't me? Yes, Ross replied.

I think it wasn't you, Eddie. There was a long silence between them. What do you think I ought to do? asked Eddie almost in a whisper. Suppose we talk it over, said Ross. Yes, but I don't know who you are. Well, let's say I'm Ives. Eddie sprang back as if he had been struck. Ives!

Look here, said Roy. Russ. I'm going to tell you what I did. And very bluntly he told. Eddie listened to him in silence. It was a strange enough thing, but he showed no surprise. Do you think it'll work, he asked, when Ross had finished. I hope so. Anyhow, there's a chance. Now you better tell me the whole thing. There's a lot that I don't know, and I might make a bad mistake. The telephone rang again. It was Gracie, annoyed by this delay. I'll come as soon as as I can, said Ross severely, but I'm working on the car and I can't leave off for a few minutes. He turned again to Eddie. Go ahead, he said. Eddie sat down on the step of the sedan, and

Ross leaned back against the wall, his arms folded, his saturnine face shadowed by the peaked cap. Tuesday I went and got her, a kid, you know, and took her to the cottage. Did you know about her before? Sure I did. I knew when they got married, her and Ives. four years ago. She told me herself. You know the way she tells you things, crying and all. Ross did know. Well, I used to see Ives hanging around. He was a nice fella, but he didn't have a scent. He was an actor. She was too young anyway, 18, same age as me. I told her I'd tell Mr. Solway, and then she told me they got married. I felt pretty bad, a Mr. Salway's account. But she, well, you know how she acts.

Her mother left her some money she's going to get when she's 25, if she don't get married without her stepfather's consent. Mrs. Solway had the right idea. She knew Amy all right, only it didn't work. Amy wanted to get married and have the money, too. That's how she is. So she told me she was going to tell Mr. Salway when she was 25. I know I'd ought to have told him then, but I didn't.

Ross understood that. Mr. Salway went over to Europe that summer, and she and Mrs. Jones went somewhere's out west, and Lily was born out there. In Ives, he took the kid, and she came back here. She used to see Ives pretty often for a while, go into the city and meet him. Then she began talking about what a risk it was.

That was because she'd met this Gail Dexter. That made me sick. I said I'd tell Mr. Solway, but she said her and I's, was going to get divorced and nobody'd ever know, and that I'd ruin her life and all. And I gave in, like a fool. Only you see I, I have known Amy all my life. I see, said Ross.

Well, it seems I's was beginning to get suspicious when she didn't see him no more. He kept writing. I used to get the letters for her, general delivery, and she kept stalling, and at last she said he was coming here to see her. Well, her and Mrs. Jones must have told him, to come along. And Tuesday I met the kid and took her to that cottage. My idea that was. I told Mrs. Jones about the place. I wish to God I hadn't. He was silent for a moment. Only I thought it might, I was glad to do it, because I thought maybe if Amy sees Ives and the

kid, she'd kind of change her mind. He'd come that afternoon and see Mrs. Jones. Well, I went there after work, and he told me Amy was coming to see him next morning. He was real pleased. He was a nice feller. Eddie's mouth twitched again. I wish I'd known. Anyway, she wouldn't go to see him. Jones tried to make her, said she got to have a talk with him.

But Amy, she took on something fierce. She said she'd never see him again. Well, I guess he must have waited and waited, and in the afternoon he came here to the garage. I tried to argue with him at all, but it wouldn't work. He started off of the house and I telephoned over to Jones, and he went, he went out of that door.

Eddie turned and stared at the door with an odd blank look. It was as if he saw something, which was not there. This very door, he muttered. My God. Yes, said Ross quietly. He went to the house. And then? Eddie turned back with a shudder.

I didn't never think, he said. Weathered left then, so I drove the big car down to the station to meet Mr. Salway, and when I brought him home, you was there. Old Lady Jones tried to tip me off. I saw her trying to tell me something behind your back. I couldn't make out what it was, but I knew there was something queer. I thought you was a detective, I had sent to see what was going on, because he'd been saying he'd do that.

I didn't know then, but next day Jones told me that I's had died. said he'd fell down dead from a heart attack, and she said we got to get rid of him on the QT for Amy's sake. I thought I couldn't, but I did. The fellow I know lent me his Ford. I said I wanted to take a girl out, and while you were out there on the lawn, I got him out of Jones' room. Do you mean he'd been there all that time? I guess so. She told me she'd been sitting up all night trying to see if she could do anything for him.

But he... Anyway, Jones told me what to do and I did it. I... You don't know what it was like going all that way, alone, with him. And I had to put stones in his pockets. He looked at Ross with a sort of wonder. I can't believe it now, he cried. It don't seem true.

I don't know why. Only Jones told me that if I didn't, there'd be an inquest and all. And she said to everyone to think that Amy... It would all come out, she said, and Amy and Mr. Saw would be in the newspapers and all. And she said he was dead anyway. The pawn couldn't hurt him. I...

He came closer to Ross and laid a hand on his sleeve. Listen here, he said. Do you think that's true, that he just died? There's no use thinking about that, now, said Ross. End of Chapter 18. Chapter 19 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sansai Holding. This Librevard The Fox recording is in the public domain.

Ross could feel sorry enough for Eddie, for his ghastly trip to the pond, for all the dread and misery that lay upon his soul. He was sorry for Ives, although his sufferings were at an end. He pitied Mr. Solway in his ignorance of all this. He was sorry in his own way for Amy. But, above all creatures in this world, he pitied that little child. Eddie told him about her. When I had gone to day's end, he had left the child with the obliging barber in town, and she had been there all that night and the next day,

until Mrs. Jones had sent Eddie after her. She said it would start people talking, if the kid stayed there, and she told me to take her back to the cottage and leave her till she made some plans. But I couldn't do that. The way I felt last night, I didn't care. I'd rather have seen the whole thing go to smash than leave the kid alone there all night. That's why I brung her here. and this morning I couldn't stay there in that house.

It kind of gave me the creeps. So I took her back to the barbers. He paused. Jones don't care about the kid, he added. She don't care about anything on earth but Amy. Listen here. I know she's old and all, but I think maybe she, I just wonder if the old girl had the nerve.

Ross had that thought too. But it seemed to him that no matter who had actually done this thing, even if it were an accident, which he did not believe. The guilt still lay upon the woman who had betrayed and abandoned the child. Amy was guilty and no one else. He straightened up with a sigh. Come along, he said. We'll get our dinner. No, don't be a fool, my lad. It's what you need.

Eddie was considerably relieved by his confession. He went upstairs, washed, changed his coat, and brushed his glossy hair. and when he set off toward the house, there was a trace of his old swagger about him. Only a trace, though, for he walked beneath the shadow. As for Ross, there was precious little change to be discerned in his dower face and impassive bearing. And it was his very good fortune to be so constituted that he did not show what he felt, for he was to receive an unexpected shock.

Sit down, said Gracie sharply. I put something aside for you. Now hurry up. it puts me back with the dishes and all. And them extra people, said the cook, who was also a little out of temper. There'll not be enough butter for breakfast the way they'd be eaten,

and me without a word of warning at all. It's that Mr. Teagle, said Gracie. Them small men is always heavy eaters. Teagle, who's he? asked Eddie. Haven't you heard, cried Gracie, almost unable to believe that she was to have the bliss of imparting this amazing news, why there was a body found in a lake somewhere's.

Oh, I heard about that down at the company, said Eddie, scornfully. But listen, Eddie. It turns out it was a cousin of Miss Amy's. It seems they found some papers and letters and all near where they found him, and he turns out to be her cousin. This Mr. Teagle, he's a lawyer. They sent for him, and he came out here to look at the poor feller, and then he came to the house because Miss Amy's going to get all his money. She took on something terrible.

Mr. Solway, he telephoned to Mr. Dexter, and he'd come out too. I guess it was kinder to comfort her. What would she be needing all the comfort in for? demanded the cook. She'd never set eyes on the cousin at all, and her to be getting all that money. She's kinder sensitive, said Gracie. Sensitive as it, said the cook with significance.

Ross went on eating his dinner. He did not appear to be interested. When he had finished, he made them all a civil good night and got up and went out. He's a cold-blooded fish, said Gracie. Yet something seemed to keep him warm. Something kept him steadfast and untroubled as he walked, head down against the storm of wind and sleet,

along the lonely roads to the town. He found the barber shop to which Eddie had directed him, and when he entered, the lively little Italian barber did not think his face forbidding. A comfort of the little girl, said Ross. Oh, she's all right. All right, cried the barber. She's okay. She eat us some nice a dinner. Very okay. She's so much kid. He was a happy little man, pleased with his thriving business, with his family,

with his own easy fluency in the use of the American tongue. He took roster the brilliantly lighted white-tiled shop, a sanitary barber he was, into a back room, where were his wife and his own small children. And among them was the little fair-haired lily. content and quite at home as she seemed always to be. You might have thought that she knew she had nobody, and no place of her own in this world, and that she had philosophically made up her mind to be happy wherever fate might place her.

She was sitting on the floor, much in the way of the barber's wife, who pursued her household duties among the four little children in the room with the deft unconcern of a highly skilled dancer among eggshells. The woman could speak no English, but she smiled at Ross with placid amiability. She could not understand why three different men should have brought this child here at different times, but after all, she didn't particularly care.

The passing incident this was in her busy life. As for the barber himself, he had his own ideas. He saw something suspicious in the affair, kidnapping perhaps, but he preferred to know nothing. It was his tradition to be wary of troubling the police. He took the money Ross gave him. him and he smiled. Nobody had told him anything. He knew nothing. The barber's wife got the little girl ready and Ross picked her up in his arms. She turned her head to look back at the children

and her little woolen cap brushed across his eyes. He had to stop on the doorway of the shop to shift her on to one arm so that he could see. And then what he did see was Donnelly. Well, well, said Donnelly, in a tone of hearty welcome. Well, said Ross, I'm in a hurry to get back now. Tomorrow. Of course you are, said Donnelly. I'm not going to keep you a minute. I've got something here I'd like the little girl to identify.

Ross's arm tightened about the child. No, he protested. No, she's got nothing to do with this. Shah, said Donnelly with a laugh. It's only this. And from his pocket he brought out the rabbit. Oh, my wabbit, cried the little girl with a sort of solemn ecstasy. Hi, taxi called Donnelly suddenly, and a cab going by slowed down, turned, skidding a little on the wet street, and drew up to the curb.

Without delay, Ross put the child inside and got in after her, but Donnelly remained standing on the curb, holding open the door. Light streamed from the shop windows, but his back was turned toward it. His face was in darkness. he stood like a statue in the downpour. There are some funny things about this case, he observed. Ross said nothing. Mighty funny, Donnelly pursued. And by the way, he leaned into the cab. I've seen a good deal of you today,

but I don't believe you've told me your name. It seemed to Ross for a moment that he could not speak, but at last with a great effort he said, Ives. Ah, said Donnelly. Ross waited and waited. If you'd like to see my bank book and papers, he finally suggested. No, said Donnelly soothingly, no, never mind.

And this James Ross, he never heard of him, I suppose. No. He landed in New York on Wednesday, went to a hotel in the city, left his bags and came right out to Stanford, and fell into a pawn. Now, that's a queer stunt, isn't it? Ross put his arm round the child's tiny shoulders and drew her close to him. Very, he agreed. I thought so myself.

Queer. I found the man's pocketbook in that cottage, in that very room where you waited for me. What do you think of that? There was a letter from a lawyer in New York, name of Teagle. I telephoned to him and he came out. He could identify the man's handwriting and so on, but he'd never seen him.

He said he didn't think there was anyone in this country, who had. He has a theory, though. Like to hear it? Or are you in a hurry? No, go ahead. Well, Teagle's theory is that this Mr. James Ross knew he had a cousin out this way. Miss Salway, you know. It seems her mother made a match the family didn't approve of, and they dropped her years ago. Now, Teagle thinks this Mr. James Ross wanted to see for himself what this cousin was like, and that he came out to that cottage to stay while he sort of mooched around, getting information about her. Family feeling, see? Only he met with an accident. That sounds plausible, said Ross. You're right. Now, of course, there'll be a coroner's inquest

tomorrow, but, he paused. I happened to be around when the doctor made his examination, and he says the man was dead before he fell in the pond. Oh, God! cried Ross in his torment. Don't go on. Hold on a minute. Hold on. Of course that startles you, eh? You think it's a case of murder, eh?

Well, I'll tell you now that the verdict will be death from natural causes. No marks of violence. And Mr. James Ross had a very bad heart. I dare say he didn't know it. He died of heart failure, and then he rolled down that slope. I saw that for myself, saw bushes broken and saw bushes broken and saw, so on, where something had rolled or been dragged down there. Then?

Then, said Donnelly, as far as I'm concerned, there's no case. And I'll say goodbye to you. Maybe you wouldn't mind shaking hands, Mr. Ives. Their hands met in a firm clasp. On Miss Salway's account, said Donnelly, I might have glad you're Mr. Ives. Goodbye. End of Chapter 19. Chapter 20 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth

Sanseye Holding. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Ross was going away at last. He was going as he had come, with no luggage, with no ceremony. Only he was going to take with him a small child, and he left behind him his name, his money, and a good many illusions, and a friend. Eddie was not likely to forget him. You're a white man, he said, in a very unsteady voice. "'You're a prince.' "'No,' Ross objected. "'I'm a fool, the biggest damn fool that ever lived.'

"'Have it your own way,' said Eddie. "'I can think different if I like. "'I—' "'He paused a moment. "'It makes me sick. "'You're going away like this. "'It—it—' "'Ross laid his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"'Drop it,' he said. "'Now then. "'It's about time for us to be off.' "'He turned toward the bedroom. I'll wake her up while you start the car. I'll take one of the blankets to wrap her in. It was a little early for the train he wanted to catch, but he was in a hurry to be gone.

He might have known, though, that it was his fate never to leave this place when or how he wished. He might have known that there was one inevitable thing still to be faced. He heard the throb of the sturdy little engine downstairs, he thought, he hoped, that the last moment had come, and instead he was called upon to endure a moment almost beyond endurance. For Amy came. The sound of the engine prevented his hearing her entrance.

He had just gone into the bedroom when he heard her footsteps on the stairs. In a wild storm of tears, desperate, white as a ghost, she ran into him. Jimmy, she gasped. Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy! He did not speak. What had he to say to her now? She was panting for breath, and her soft, were horrible, as if they choked her. He wanted to close the bedroom door, but she had seized him by the shoulder.

I didn't know, she cried, not till tonight. Oh, Jimmy, I didn't know he was dead. He came to see me, and he died. Oh, Jimmy, just when Nana told him that I didn't want to see him ever again. It killed him, Jimmy. I killed him. Oh, do keep quiet, said Ross in a sort of despair. I can't, I can't, I can't, if I'd only seen him, just once more. Nana begged me to, but I wouldn't. And when Nana told him, he died. How can I bear that? Oh, Jimmy!

I didn't think he'd care so much, just as I care for Gail. Jimmy, listen to me. I'll tell Gail. I'll go to him now. I can't let you do this for me, Jimmy. For a moment his heartbeat with a great hope. Do you mean that? he asked. I never meant it to be like this.

Never, never. I thought Martin would let me go. Let me get a divorce. And if he hadn't, I'd have given up Gail. I'll give him up now if you tell me to. Even if I'd die, too. The hope was faint now. You think he'd give you up if he knew, he asked? Think, I know, he'd loathe me. and you'd be willing to marry him with, You don't understand, she interrupted violently.

You never could. You're too good, and I'm not good in your way. I was just a child when I met Martin. I'm not a child now. Gales my whole life to me. I love him so that, For God's sake, stop, cried Ross. It's infamous.

Have you forgotten? All the light and passion fled from her face at his tone. She looked up at him in terrified inquiry. Ross stood aside from the doorway so that she could see the child lying asleep on the bed. She went in very softly and stood looking down at the little creature. You see, she whispered,

I've given up my soul for Gail. He took her by the arm and led her out of the room, closing the door behind them. Very well, he said. On her account it's better like this. I'll take her. And you'll have to forget her. Do you understand? There's to be no repentance and so on. Make up your mind now.

No, she said faintly, I can't. I won't. I'll just do what you tell me. You've got to decide. What? He cried appalled. You try to make me? The child gave a little chuckle in her sleep. He thought what the child's life would be with Amy if Amy were denied her gale. He thought of eyes. He had taken I's name, and with it the burden that eyes could no longer carry. All right, he said, it's finished. I only hope to heaven that Mr. Solway can end his days without knowing. As for Dexter, he'll have to take his chance, like the rest of us. Goodbye, Amy. She caught one of his hands in both of hers, and pressed it against her wet cheek. Can you ever, ever forgive me, Jimmy, she asked with a sob. I dare say, said Ross grimly.

End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sancey Holding This Liebervox recording is in the public domain Left hand, please Obediently Mrs. Barron took her left hand out of the bowl of warm water and laid it on the towel carefully, as if it might melt, and the manicure spent over it with her nice air of earnest attention. All this was agreeable to Mrs. Barron,

She was rather proud of her hands. She was altogether comfortable and tranquil. She had a pleasant, restful day before her. In the afternoon, she and her daughter were going to look at fur coats, which was really better than the actual buying, and in the evening they were all going to a play. The sun was shining too, and the formal sitting-room of her hotel suite was cheerful and warm,

and filled with the perfume of the roses that stood all about. It's good to be home again, she remarked. At my time of life, traveling is not, the telephone bell rang. Answer that, my dear. It's dangerous to touch a telephone with damp hands. Oh, a gentleman to see Miss Baron? What a strange time to call. Ten o'clock in the morning. Ask his name, my dear. He was on the farragut with us, but how very strange. Why doesn't he give his name? But ask him to come up. She She dried her hands and arose, majestic even in her frivolous negligee. Very strange, she murmured.

There was a knock at the door. Come in, she said. The door opened, and it was Mr. Ross. She took a step forward and with a welcoming smile, then she stopped short. Mr. Ross, she cried, but Mr. Ross! He did not fail to notice the change in her tone, the vanishing of her smile. It did not surprise him. He stood in the doorway, had in one hand,

the little girl clinging to the other, and he felt that, to her piercing glance, he was a sorry enough figure. He felt shabby, as if he had been long battered by wind and rain. He felt that somehow the emptiness of his pockets was obvious to anyone. I'm sorry, he said stiffly.

I'm afraid I've disturbed you. I thought perhaps I could see Miss Baron, just for a moment. Come in, said Miss. Mrs. Baron, and turning to the manicurist, later, my dear, she said. Ross came in, and the manicurist, gathering her things together on her tray, made haste to escape. She went out, closing the door behind her. Mr. Ross said Mrs. Baron, in the same tone of stern wonder.

I'm sorry, he said again. I'm afraid I've dis... But, my dear boy, what has happened? she cried. He was absolutely astounded by her voice. by the kindly anxiety in her face. I just thought, he began. Sit down, said she, here, on the sofa. You do look so tired.

I am, he admitted. And such a dear little girl, said Mrs. Baron. Such a dear little mite. She had sat down on the sofa beside the child and was stroking her fair mane, while her eyes were fixed upon Ross with genuine solicitude. She looked so kind, so honest, so sensible. He marveled that he had ever thought her formidable.

You wanted to see Phyllis, she went on. She's out, just now. But you must wait. By George, cried Ross. For he had an inspiration. With all his stubborn soul he had been dreading to meet Phyllis in his present condition. He was penniless, and what was worse, he could not rid himself of an unreasonable conviction of guilt.

and now that he found Mrs. Barron so kind. Mrs. Barron, he said, it's really you I ought to speak to. It's about this child. She's a sort of cousin of mine, and she's, he paused a moment, alone. Mrs. Barron was looking down at the child very thoughtfully. I don't know anyone in this country he went on,

so I thought if you'd advise me. I want to find a home for her, a real home, you know, with people who'll be fond of her. Just for a few months, later on I'll take her myself. But just now, his dark face flushed. I'm a bit hard up just now, he said, but I'll find a job right away, and I'll be able to pay for her board and so on. Mrs. Baron continued to look thoughtful,

and it occurred to him that his request must seem odd to her, very odd. The flush on his face deepened. I'm sorry, he said coldly, but there are a good many things I can't explain. Yes, you can, Mrs. Baron declared, in her old manner, and that's just what you're going to do. As soon as I set eyes on you on board that ship, I knew what you were, and I am never deceived about character, never, Mr. Ross. I knew it once that you were to be trusted. I said to Phyllis, that young man has force of character. I knew it. Now you've gone and got yourself into trouble of some sort, and you've come to me

very properly, and you're going to tell me the whole thing. I can't, Ross protested. Oh, yes, you can. Here you come and tell me you haven't a penny, and don't know a soul in this country, and here's this poor little child who's been foisted upon you. Don't look surprised. I know it very well. She's been foisted upon you by selfish, heartless, unscrupulous people and you can't deny it. Now tell me what's happened. He did, and what is more, he was glad to tell her.

There were a good many details that he left out, and he mentioned no names at all, but the main facts of his amazing story he gave to her. Especially was he emphatic in pointing out that he had now no name and no money, and he thought that would be enough for her. But when he carefully pointed this out, she said,

your own name, and you can go right on using it. As for money, you're never going to let that horrible, wicked woman rob you like that. Look here, Mrs. Barron, said Ross. I am. I give you my word. I'll never reopen that case again. It's finished. I'm going to make a fresh start in the world and forget all about it. I shan't argue with you now, said Mrs. Barron firmly. You're too tired, and if you want a position, for a while, Mr. Barron will find you one. The little girl will stay here with us, of course. Now take off your coat and make yourself comfortable until lunchtime. No, said Ross.

No, I, don't you see for yourself? I don't want to see anybody. Mr. Ross said Mrs. Baron. I'm not young any longer. I've lived a good many years in the world and I've learned a few things. And one of them is the character is the one thing that counts. Not money, Mr. Ross. not intellect or appearance or manners but character.

What you've done is very, very foolish, but she leaned across the child and laid her hand on his shoulder. But it was very splendid, my dear boy. Ross were redder than ever. Just the same, I'd rather go, he muttered obstinately. Here's Phyllis now, cried Mrs. Baron in triumph. So he had to get up and face her, the girl he had run away from when he had had so much to offer her.

He had to face her, empty-handed now, heart-sick and weary after his bitter adventure. And she seemed to him so wonderful with that dear friendly smile. Mr. Ross, she said. She held out her hand and he had to take it. He had to look at her, and then he could not stop. They forgot for a moment. They stood there, hands clasped, looking at each other.

Didn't I know he'd come, cried Mrs. Barron. End of Blotted Out by Elizabeth Sansaeigh Holding