Charred Wood Part 3

"Well, _Father_, then. I like it better, anyway. I heard that poor man is dead. Can I do anything?"

"I think you can," said Father Murray. "Will you step in?"

"No, Father; let me sit here." She looked at Mark, who stood waiting to make his adieux. There was no mistaking the look, and the priest understood at once. Plainly astonished, he introduced Mark. The lady bowed and smiled. As she sat down, she raised her veil. Mark gazed timidly into her face. Though she was seemingly unconscious of the gaze, yet a flush crept up under the fair skin, and the low voice faltered for an instant as she addressed him.

"I am a stranger here, like yourself, I fancy, Mr. Griffin," she ventured, "but I have to thank you for a service."

Mark was scarcely listening. He was wondering if, underneath the drooping brim of her hat, amongst the curling tendrils of golden-brown hair, there might not be a hint of red to show under the sunlight. He was thinking, too, how pretty was the name, Ruth Atheson. It was English enough to make him think of her under certain trees in a certain old park of boyhood's days.

"Do you know each other?" Father Murray was evidently still more astonished.

"Not exactly," she said; "but Mr. Griffin has quick discernment, and is unhesitating in action. He saw someone about to--make himself, let us say, unpleasant--and he moved promptly. I am glad of this chance to thank him."

Mark hoped she would not try. The heavily lashed eyes of violet blue, under the graceful arches, were doing that splendidly. Mark was uneasy under the gaze of them, but strangely glad. He wanted to go and yet to stay; but he knew that it was proper to go.

Father Murray walked with him to the end of the lawn.

"There was nothing serious in the matter to which Miss Atheson referred, Mr. Griffin?" he said. "No one offered insult?" He was plainly anxious.

"Not at all," answered Mark. "I think the man only wanted to stare. I gave him a chance to stare at me--and at the water. That is all."

Father Murray looked relieved as he clasped Mark's hand.

"Good-bye," he said. "Come to see me again. I am usually alone. Come often. The latch-string is where you can reach it."

In the street Mark met Saunders, but this time it was the agent who wanted to talk.

"How did you like the Padre?" he began.

"Splendid. Thank you for the meeting."

"Did you see the lady who went in?"

"Yes; I was introduced."

"Introduced? Never!"

"Why not?"

"Well," the agent was confused, "I don't see why not after all. Did you see her face?"

"She had on a veil."

"Of course; she always has. She was the woman who pa.s.sed us on the bluff road."

"You saw her, then?"

"Yes, I saw her; but not close enough to know whether--"

"What?"

"I think she is someone I know. Are you coming back to the hotel?"

CHAPTER III

UNDER SUSPICION

That night, tossing in bed, Mark Griffin found the lady of the tree occupying the center of his thoughts. He had to acknowledge to himself the simple truth, that she interested him more than any other woman he had ever seen; and he had a vague idea that he had met her before--but where? He was wise enough to know where such interest would ultimately lead him. The more he worried about it, the more a cause for worry it became. The very idea was foolish. He had seen her twice, had spoken to her once. Yes, she was charming; but he had known others almost as charming and he had not even been interested. Now he might go deeper--and what of the risks?

Saunders was certainly shadowing the woman. The town constable was constantly with him, seemingly ready to make an arrest the moment the detective was sure of his ground. It was easy to figure that out.

Worse than all, the woman was afraid--or why the veil? Why the secret door through a tree? Why her embarra.s.sment when she faced the danger of having the detective see her face?

On the other hand, she was a friend of the priest, and Mark had formed a very favorable opinion of Father Murray. Then she had referred to the incident on the bluff road very openly and without embarra.s.sment These things were in her favor, but--well, the rest looked bad. Above all was the danger of falling in love with her.

Mark thought of his people in England and of his brother the Irish peer. He knew their prejudices. What would they say if the heir presumptive to the barony came home with an American wife? Yet why should he care?

The worry about Saunders came back. He was undoubtedly a detective, and surely detectives did not without cause shadow ladies of good social standing? Mark knew there was something wrong. He knew there was danger to himself, to his heart, and to his peace; so he decided that he had better go away at once. Then the face he had seen as she stepped past him out of the tree rose up, and he heard again the voice that had in it so much grat.i.tude when she thanked him for his little service.

"d.a.m.n it, man," he said to himself, "you can't be a coward! She needs help; stay to give it." That was Mark's first and last struggle over his long-delayed moving problem.

He met Saunders at breakfast the next morning. The detective must have been thinking, too, for his glance at Mark held a trifle of suspicion.

Mark was too old a student of human nature to miss the significance of the look, and Saunders was too young at his business entirely to conceal his own feelings. He tried--but too late--and was foolish enough to think he had not betrayed himself.

Mark made up his mind to profit by the suspicion.

"Good morning, Saunders. You are thinking of the lady in the veil?"

But Saunders was already back in his sh.e.l.l. He looked puzzled. "Veil?

Lady? Oh, yes. Sure I am. It would be very ungallant to forget her.

She's too pretty."

"How do you know? You didn't see her face."

"I was just guessing. We Yankees are good at guessing. Don't you English concede that?"

"Guessing and wooden nutmegs," said Mark, "both go with the Yankee character."

"Guessing, wooden nutmegs, and a little taste of Brandywine thrown in for flavor."

"Very unkind of you to throw our defeats in our teeth--and especially into mine; for you know that I am half Irish, and we Irish helped you."

Saunders laughed as they approached the desk together.

"Letter for you, Mr. Griffin," said the clerk, throwing a square envelope on the desk.

Saunders just glanced at it before Mark himself saw that the letter was without a stamp; it had come by messenger. The detective turned his back to hide a smile, then walked to the reading table and picked up a paper.