Authors: Grace Livingston Hill
“I’ll teach ya ta know me!” said the man, low menace in his voice now, and whipped out an ugly gun, pointing it up at her. “You scram down here right quick! Make it snappy. I ain’t waitin’ round any longer, see? Come on or I’ll shoot the pretty feet out from under ya! Keep yer trap shut an’ come on or ya’ll be a dead un!”
Diana stood there powerless to move, and when she tried to scream no sound came from her frightened lips.
Then suddenly from the dim recesses of the unlit parlor, without warning, the legs of one of Mrs. Lundy’s parlor chairs crashed down upon the man’s wrist, his hand fell limp at his side, and his gun dropped to the floor and went off with a loud reverberation.
Simultaneously the kitchen door at the end of the hall swung open and a big burly policeman, Mrs. Lundy’s brother who had dropped in for a bite to eat, came stalking out from the kitchen, a big wedge of apple pie in one hand and an ugly gun in the other.
Now the best thing the creature in the hall could do was to run, and he had taken care that the door was unlatched before he began his performance, so he proceeded to put himself into action. Like a rat he turned and would have been gone into the shadows of the street but the policeman, even while he stuffed the last gigantic mouthful of pie inside his enormous mouth, brought his gun into action with a tiny motion no more than a turn of a wrist, and a bullet went neatly into the foot of the intruder. With a howl he dropped at the foot of the stairs as the policeman came forward with a mighty stride and grasped the little human rat by the back of his ragged collar.
Then turning around to the young man who stood in between the flowered chenille curtains of the parlor doorway, the man of the law said, “Good work, buddy! I don’t know who you are, but you certainly did lam him one just in the nick of time, and if you should ever want ta get on the police force I’ll write ya a recommend.”
“Thank you, brother,” said Gordon MacCarroll, coming out into the brightness of the hall and looking down sternly at the cringing, whining creature on the floor. “I’m not applying just now, but I’ll take it as a favor if you’ll see that this man is fingerprinted. I think he’s connected with a kidnapping, and if I’m not mistaken it was about to take place. Please don’t let him get away till you hear from me.”
“I’ll not let him get away,” swaggered the policeman. “We got him fingerprinted already. We got plenty on him without no kidnappin’ as far as that goes, but we’ll hold him alrighty. I been layin’ fer this bird fer three weeks, an’ he slipped me every time. Now I’m goin’ ta keep him.”
He snapped the handcuffs around the man’s wrists, swung the door open easily, put his piercing whistle to his lips, and an instant later a car rolled up to the door. Strong hands lifted the crippled prisoner into it.
The door closed on this scene, leaving a huddled audience of open-mouthed Lundy relatives in the kitchen door, commenting with satisfaction on how “Uncle Bill gave the bum his medicine.” Then they suddenly melted away and there were only Diana, sitting white and shaken on the stairs with her big sheaf of carnations at her feet, and Gordon MacCarroll, standing stern and relieved between the chenille curtains.
“I ask your pardon,” he said, looking toward the drooping girl. “There didn’t seem to be any other way.”
“Oh, thank you!” said Diana, struggling with the silly tears which, now that the danger was over, seemed to insist upon raining down her cheeks. “I—was—so frightened!”
“Well, you needn’t be frightened anymore,” said Gordon with a lilt in his voice. “I’ve come for you! But—I’m forgetting—you don’t know me any better than you did the other fellow.”
“Oh yes I do!” cried Diana, her eyes shining through the tears. “You are the man from the stone cottage. You prayed for me once—at least I hope the prayer was meant for me. I’ve carried it with me ever since the night I went away. And I saw you again when we drove up to ask the way somewhere—”
“That’s nice!” said Gordon, suddenly smiling, a light coming into his eyes. “That makes it a lot easier. Because I’ve come for you, and I’d like you to come as quickly as possible. I don’t want to frighten you, but your father is sick and is calling for you. I promised him I would bring you at once. Can you trust me to take you home?”
Diana’s eyes were wide with consternation. “My father is sick? Oh, what is the matter?”
“Suppose I tell you on the way. We haven’t any time to waste. Your father is in great anxiety about you. Every added minute is torture for him.”
Diana turned and fairly flew up the stairs.
She was back in a couple of minutes. She had grabbed her suitcase, which was all packed for going somewhere, taken her hat and her purse in hand, and come. Gordon had gathered up the flowers, and she took them from him as one takes something very precious.
“My father is sick!” she explained breathlessly to Mrs. Lundy, who stood in the kitchen door staring. “I’ll be back!”
The big policeman was at the door when they went outside, and Gordon paused to say a few words in a low tone and hand him a telephone number he had written on a card. Then he put Diana into the car and they started away.
Diana sat there tense, the flowers clasped in her arms, her face white with anxiety like a little ghost above the blossoms.
“Now, please, tell me about Father,” she implored.
“Your father had some sort of a collapse this evening following a shock. He fell and cut his head. I do not know just how serious it is. I understand there is a heart complication. But the doctor felt it was important I should bring you as soon as possible.”
His voice was tender and sympathetic.
“Shock!” said Diana, with trembling lips. “What kind of a shock?”
“He found a note tied to his doorknob this afternoon saying that you were being held for ransom and would be murdered if a large sum of money was not forthcoming tonight.”
“Oh, how dreadful!”
“He seems to have fainted and fallen. He was unconscious when I got there.”
“Oh, you saw him fall?”
“No, but Mother had watched him go up the drive. She felt so sorry for him. It was just after the radio announcement that you were missing.”
“Radio?”
said Diana in bewilderment.
“Didn’t you know your father had you paged on the radio?”
“Oh
no
!” said the girl, shrinking back in horror. “Oh, poor Father!” There was the breath of a sob in her voice.
“He had been under a terrible strain, of course, had employed a private detective with no results, and was desperate about you, you know.”
“Oh! And did your mother see him fall?”
“No, it was growing dusk, but she saw him standing at the door, and then he seemed to disappear. And she watched for a light to appear in the house, but none came, so when I got home a few minutes later she sent me up to see if all was well. I found him lying on the steps with a cut in his head. Mother came up and an old servant of yours named Maggie who had heard the radio call, and we got him into the house. Your Maggie called your doctor. The doctor got a nurse.”
“And—was Father—?”
“Yes, he was conscious. He tried to get up. Said he must do something about the ransom, but I persuaded him to put it into the hands of the police and told him I would go and get you.”
“But how did you know where I was?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how did you think that you could find me?”
“God knew where you were.” He said it reverently and added, after an instant, “And my flowers knew!”
“Oh!” said Diana with awe in her voice. Then after a moment of silence: “But how could you send the flowers in the first place if you didn’t know my address?”
“I called up the florist on the telephone and told him you were away and I hadn’t your present address but would like to send you some flowers occasionally, incognito, if he could get them through the mail to you, special delivery. Of course, the post office isn’t allowed to give out addresses, but they themselves will put on the address. He said he could get the flowers to you. He had a brother-in-law in the post office who would fix it up and rush the flowers through. Of course, your receipted special delivery cards came back to the florist in due time, but he couldn’t send them to me because he didn’t know who I was, though he always told me when I telephoned again that they had come. But that didn’t do me any good tonight, of course, so I just prayed all the way to the florist’s, and when I walked in I said, ‘Have my flowers gone yet?’
“He knew my voice, and he looked up apologetically and said, ‘No, I’m sorry, but I’m just getting ready to drive into the city and take them. I was off to a funeral, and my son forgot to take them to the mail. But here they are, already done up and addressed.’ He shoved the box over to me, and there was the address written plainly; the way was made plain for me. So I told him that was all right and that I was calling on you tonight and would take them in this time myself. That was easy, you see.”
“Do you always get answered like that when you pray?” asked Diana in wonder.
“The answers are not always alike,” said the young man thoughtfully. “I always know there’ll be an answer if I pray in the right way, with faith, with a yielded will, with a desire to be led.”
Diana was still for a long moment after that. Then she said earnestly, “You’ve taken a great deal of trouble for me.” And then after a pause, with her lips down among the flowers, quite irrelevantly, “I should have brought the box for these. They will get all crushed. But I was so excited I didn’t think of it.”
“That’s all right,” said Gordon, a jubilant note in his voice, “they have accomplished their purpose, haven’t they?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Why, they served to introduce us. I was half afraid I might have trouble getting you to go with me after I got there. I brought these along hoping you would understand and not be afraid of me.”
“Oh!” she said thoughtfully. “I suppose they did. I suppose I would have been afraid of you after what happened with that awful creature. You know, I couldn’t see you very well, down in the shadow of those curtains. And I’d only seen you once or twice in the dark.”
He gave her a quick, startled look.
“But do you know?” she went on gravely. “It’s just come to me who that man was. It must have been Bill Sharpe. His mother did plain sewing. He was a bad boy and ran away several times. That’s all that I know about him. But I am sure his mother is dead. She died two years ago. I remember the charitable organization that gathered money to bury her. I never heard what became of the son. But now I am sure that was him!” She drew a deep breath of horror like a shudder and closed her eyes.
“Oh! If it hadn’t been for you I might have been killed!” she went on. “How can I ever thank you for what you have done for me!”
“Don’t try, please!” He smiled.
They were getting near to home now, and Diana, glancing out, shrank back into the car again. Presently she asked in a small, scared voice.
“Was my father’s wife—there?”
“Oh!” he said. “Why, no, I don’t think she was. I didn’t see her anywhere. At least—she hadn’t come when I left. And—I don’t think anybody remembered her! We should have sent word to her, shouldn’t we? But, of course, we didn’t know where to send it, and your father said nothing about her. He was only concerned about you.”
“Oh!” said Diana gratefully. It soothed her soul to know her father cared for her.
“Would you know where she is?” asked MacCarroll.
“No!” said Diana quickly, a little sharply. “I went away because—that is, I thought it would be best— She is— We don’t—!”
“I understand,” said the young man, deep sympathy in his voice. “It must have been very hard for you.”
Diana tried to answer, but she choked over the words, and all she succeeded in saying was, “It was.”
“But perhaps—I was wrong—” she added a moment afterward. “I didn’t think my father—would feel it so! I should have written him, anyway!”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry over that now,” he said gently.
They were turning in at the big gateway, and Diana sat very still as they swept up the drive among the trees. They were passing the spot where Diana had found her flowers, over there between the pine trees.
“I wish—” she said softly, hesitantly, her eyes dropped to the flowers in her lap, “that you would tell me why you did it! Why you put—those flowers—there—in the first place!”
It was Gordon’s turn to be silent now, and they were just coming around the last curve to the house as he answered gravely, tenderly, “Because I love you!”
He stopped the car then and went around to open the door for Diana, and as he took her hand to help her out he said earnestly, “May I tell you about it sometime?”
“Oh—
yes
—!” The answer was almost a whisper, but then suddenly they were aware that the front door of the mansion had swung open and a silent, dark figure was standing there looking at them.
Gordon lifted her suitcase out and took her in. There was only a dim light in the hallway, and the door closed almost at once and silently.
“Better get that car away safe somewhere, brother,” advised the policeman. “We don’t want any means for our man to make a getaway in case he turns up.”
“Nothing yet?” asked Gordon.
“Not yet, though it’s still early. We’ve got our men pretty well planted where they won’t be discovered, I think.”
“Well, I’ve a notion perhaps he’s been hindered,” said Gordon, “though, of course, there may be two of them, or even more. I’ll run my car back and lock it, and then I’ll tell you about it.”
But just then the nurse called down from the dimness of the upper hall. “Is that Mr. MacCarroll? Mr. Disston wants to see him
right
away
!”
“That’s all right,” said the officer, “I’ll guard your car till you come. He’s been asking all the evening if you were back yet.”
Diana stood helplessly in her own home looking around her in the dimness. It seemed to her that years had intervened since she was here. The dim light, the presence of the quiet officers, the strange voice of the nurse, the possibility of Helen’s presence, all made her feel as if she must turn and flee. Then Gordon MacCarroll smiled down upon her and took her hand.