The Flyers Part 12

The little village church stood at the extreme end of the street,--dark, dismal, quite awe-inspiring on a night like this. A narrow lane stretched from the hotel to the sanctuary and beyond. There is nothing at hand to show whether it is a Methodist, a Presbyterian, or a Baptist church. As the two young women most vitally concerned in this tale were professedly high church, it is therefore no more than right that, in the darkness, it should be looked upon as an Episcopalian church.

Two stumbling figures, pressing close to each other in the shelter of a single wobbly umbrella, forged their uncertain way through the muddy lane. Except for the brief instants when the dull flicker of lightning came to their relief, they were in pitch darkness.

"Beastly dark, isn't it?" said one of the figures.

"And beastly muddy too," said the other, in a high, disconsolate treble. "Oh, dear, where are we?"

"I don't know, but I feel as though we were about to step off of something every moment. Do you know, Anne, it's extraordinary that I shouldn't know how to light one of these confounded lanterns."

"Try it again, Harry dear. I'll hold the umbrella."

"Oh, I see! By Jove, one has to open the thing, don't you know. Ah, there we are! That's better," he said, after he had succeeded in finally lighting the wick. He held the lantern up close to her face and they looked at each other for a moment. "Anne, I do love you!" he exclaimed. Then he kissed her. "That's the first time I've had a chance to kiss you in thirty-six hours."

They plodded onward, closer together than ever, coming at last to the little gate which opened into the churchyard. Before them stood the black little building with its steeple, but the windows were as dark as Erebus. They stopped in consternation. He looked at his watch.

"Confound him, he's not here!" growled Windomshire.

"Perhaps we are early," suggested Anne, feebly.

"It's a quarter to nine," he said. "I suppose there is nothing left for us to do but to wait. I'll look around a bit, dear. Perhaps the witnesses are here somewhere."

"Oo-oo-ooh! Don't leave me!" she almost shrieked. "Look! There is a graveyard! I won't stay here alone!" They were standing at the foot of the rough wooden steps leading up to the church door.

"Pooh! Don't be afraid of tombstones," he scoffed; but he was conscious of a little shiver in his back. "They can't bite, you know. Besides, all churches have graveyards and crypts and--"

"This one has no crypt," she announced positively. "Goodness, I'm mud up to my knees and rain down to them. Why doesn't he come?"

"I'll give the signal; we had to arrange one, you know, for the sake of ident.i.ty." He gave three loud, guttural coughs. A dog in the distance howled mournfully, as if in response. Anne crept closer to his side.

"It sounded as if some one were dying," she whispered. "Look, isn't that a light?--over there among the gravestones!" A light flickered for an instant in the wretched little graveyard and then disappeared as mysteriously as it came. "It's gone! How ghostly!"

"Extraordinary! I don't understand. By Jove, it's beginning to rain again. I'm sure to have tonsilitis. I feel it when I cough." He coughed again, louder than before.

Suddenly the steady beam of a dark lantern struck their faces squarely; a moment later the cadaverous Mr. Hooker was climbing over the graveyard fence.

"Am I late?" he asked, as he came forward.

"I say, turn that beastly light the other way," complained Windomshire, half blinded. "I thought no one but robbers carried dark lanterns."

"The darker the deed, the darker the lantern," said Mr. Hooker, genially. "Good-evening, madam. Are we the only ones here?" He was very matter-of-fact and business-like; Anne loathed him on the instant.

"We're all here but the minister and the other witness. I'll cough again--although it hurts me to do it."

He coughed thrice, but instead of a response in kind, three sharp whistles came from the trees at the left.

"What's that?" he gasped. "Has he forgotten the signal?"

"Maybe he is trying to cough," said Hooker, "and can't do any better than wheeze. It's this rotten weather."

"No, it was a whistle. Good Heavens, Anne--it may be detectives."

"Detectives!" exclaimed Mr. Hooker, hoa.r.s.ely. "Then this is no place for me. Excuse me, I'll just step around the corner." As he scurried off, he might have been heard to mutter to himself: "They've been hounding me ever since that job in the Cosgrove cemetery. d.a.m.n 'em, I wonder if they think I'm up here to rob the grave of one of these jays." From which it may be suspected that Mr. Hooker had been employed in the nefarious at one time or another.

"Detectives, Harry?" gasped Anne. "Why should there be detectives?

We're not criminals."

"You can't tell what Mrs. Thursdale may have done when she discovered--h.e.l.lo! There's a light down the road! 'Gad, I'll hide this lantern until we're sure." He promptly stuck the lantern inside his big raincoat and they were in darkness again. A hundred yards to the left a light bobbed about, reminding them of childhood's will-o'-the-wisp.

Without a word Windomshire drew her around the church, stumbling over a discarded pew seat that stood against the wall. Groaning with pain, he urged her to crouch down with him behind the seat. All the while he held the umbrella manfully over her devoted head.

Voices were heard, drawing nearer and nearer--one deep and cheery, the other high and querulous.

"It--it--oh, Harry, it's that Mr. Derby!" she whispered. "I'd know his voice in a thousand."

"The devil!" he whispered intensely, gripping her hand.

Mr. Derby was saying encouragingly: "There is the church, Mr. Van Trader. Brace up. We seem to be the first to arrive."

"It's much farther away than you think," growled Mr. Van Truder. "I can't see the lights in the window."

"There are no lights yet. We are ahead of them. I'll try the door."

The young minister kicked the mud from his shoes as he went up the steps with the lantern. He tried the door vigorously, and then, holding the lantern high, surveyed the surroundings. Mr. Van Truder, bundled up like a motorman, stood below shivering--but with joy.

"This is a great night for an affair of this kind," he quaked. "By George, I feel twenty years younger. I believe I could turn handsprings."

"I wouldn't if I were you. Don't forget your somersault over that log back there, and your splendid headspin in the mud puddle. It's past nine o'clock. Joe's cousin was to be here at 8.45. Wonder what keeps him. Joe will be here himself in a jiffy. Dear me, what a dreadful night they have chosen for a wedding!"

Windomshire whispered in horror to the girl beside him: "Good Lord, Anne, they're following us."

"Please, Harry," she whispered petulantly, "hold the umbrella still.

The water from the rainspout is dripping down my back."

"By George, I wish Mrs. Van Truder could see me now," came valiantly from the old gentleman around the corner. "Say, whistle again." Derby gave three sharp, shrill whistles. In silence they waited a full minute for the response. There was not a sound except the dripping of the rain.

"I'm afraid something is wrong," said Derby. Just at that instant Windomshire, despite most heroic efforts to prevent the catastrophe, sneezed with a violence that shook his entire frame. "Sh! don't speak,"

hissed the startled minister. "We are being watched. That was unmistakably a sneeze."

"I can't see any one," whispered Mr. Van Trader, excitedly. "I see just as well in the dark as I do in the light, too."

"Some one is coming. See! There's a light down the road. Let's step out of sight just for a moment."

Windomshire sneezed again, as if to accelerate the movements of the two men.

"Hang it all!" he gurgled in despair. Mr. Derby had blinded his lantern and was hurrying off into the grove with his companion.

"I can't help laughing, Harry," whispered Anne, giggling softly. "You sneeze like an elephant."

"But an elephant has more sense than to sneeze as I do. I knew I'd take cold. Anne, they're after us. It's old Mrs. Van Truder's work. What are they up to?"