THURSDAY, MAY 9, 1929
! The |j
I RED ■ I
| LAMP I
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$ By jj
MARY ROBERTS RINEHART
Copyright by Geo. H. Doran Company
W NU Service
Ju!y 9.
1 made an excuse this morning to
Annie Cochran, and she slipped me
up the kitchen staircase of the other
house and so to the attic. The lamp
was as 1 had left it and the closet
locked, and today I am asking myself
whether, with that curious lack of
perspective one finds at night, I did
not see instead of the lamp far away,
the lighted end of a cigar close at
hand.
Annie’s report on my tenants is sat
isfactory on the whole. She doesn’t
much care for the secretary, but the
old man’s “bark is worse than his
bite.” He comes down in the morn
ing, or is helped down, to his break
fash and she cuts his* food for him—
he seems to dislike the boy’s doing it
—reads the paper and then goes to
work.
“To work?” I asked. “What sort of
work?”
“He's writing a book.”
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But it appears that he Is writing ti
only in the nonliteral sense. He is
dictating a book. And it also appears
he has chosen this place because of
its isolation, and Annie’s orders are
that he receives no visitors.
But it also appears that young Gor
don is perhaps not as courageous as
he made out to me when he came to
look over the house, and that he has
been “hearing things.”
“What sort of things?”
“He didn’t say. But he asked me
this morning if I’d been in the house
last night ‘lf you find me here at
night, it’ll be because I’m paralyzed
and can’t move,’ I said, ‘and if you
take my advice, you’ll not go round
hunting if you hear anything.’ ”
“That must have cheered him con
siderably.”
“I don’t know about that. He just
looked at me and said, ‘What’s the
game, anyhow? I’ll bet a dollar you’re
in on it.’*’ 1
Edith has sprung a surprise on us
all. I have noticed for a day or two
that she has been taking a keen in
terest in the mail; yet Edith’s mail,
with Halliday here, is largely a matter
of delicate paper and the large square
handwriting of the modern young
woman, and has dealt this summer
largely with reports on house parties,
summer resorts, and various young
men who seem recognizable to her un
der such cognomens as Chick, Bud
and Curley.
This morning, however, her mail in
cluded a business-like envelope, and
she flung the white, rose and mauve
heap aside and pounced on it A mo
ment later she got up and coming
around the table to me, gravely kissed
that portion of my head which is
gradually emerging, like a shore on
an ebb tide, from my hair.
“As one literary artist to another,”
she said, “I salute you.” And placed
before me a check for twenty dollars.
She has written a feature article on
our sheep-killing and has sold it.
THE CHATHAM RECORD, PITTSBORO, N. C.
“And It took me only two hours,
she says triumphantly. After that she
was rather silent, computing, I dare
say, how much she can earn, giving
four hours a day to it for six days
a week. At the rate, then, of ten
thousand a year!
“Considerably more than 1 receive,
Edith,” I said gravely, and 1 saw I
had been right by the way she started.
►She set off at once for the boat
house. but came back later consider
ably crestfallen, and poured out her
i troubles to me.
“If he had anything he would give
it to me,” she wailed. “If I can write
and make money—”
“You can’t fight the masculine in
stinct, my dear, to support its woman;
not be kept by her. Besides, have you
considered this? You will not al
ways find subjects as salable as this
one has been.”
“Subjects I” she said scornfully.
“Why, this place is full of them.”
The result of which has been on my
part all day an uneasy apprehension
as to what she will choose next. Nor
am 1 made easier by a question she
asked me just before dinner. !
“What became of the Riggs wom
an?” she asked. “Do you suppose
she’s still around here?”
“I imagine not Why?”
“I just wondered,” she said, and
wandered to that particular corner of
the veranda from which she has a
distant but apparently satisfactory
view of the boat-house.
Perhaps Halliday is right. (Note:
In his suggestion that Jane and I take
the sloop and go down the coast for a
few days.) If any sheep are killed in
my absence or anything more serious
| should happen, it will serve to rout
Greenough’s absurd determination to
involve me, and provide a complete
alibi. At the same time, it will be
j rest and recreation for Jane, and it
; may put me in a better frame of mind.
Peter Geiss, he thinks, would go
with us as captain and bunk under a
pup tent, leaving the cabin to Jane
and myself.
(On board the sloop) July 10.
Amazing, the celerity with which
youth thinks and acts. Tonight Jane
and I —and Peter Geiss —are rolling
gently to our anchor in Bass cove,
close enough in to be quiet and far
enough out to escape the mosquitos.
And yet only yesterday the plan was
an amorphous thing, floating in the air
between Halliday and myself, a mere
ghost of an idea, without material
substance.
The sloop is tidy. Is even fairly
seaworthy. Her bottom has today
been scrubbed with a broom, and her
sails, slightly mildewed, still present
from a distance a certain impressive
ness.
“What," I shout at Peter Geiss, “Is
that small sail in front? Forward, I
mean.”
“How’s that?”
“The sail there, what’s its name?’*
I say, pointing. “Name?”
“I’ll say it’s a shame,” he says.
“Canvas od this boat cost the old gen
tleman a lot of money.”
By and by. however, I learn the jib
and the flying jib.
We have a small cabin, with four
hunks in it, and two of these are now
neatly and geometrically made up.
ready for the night. In Jane’s small
closet there is food of all sorts, neat
rows of tins and wax-paper packages.
If we are washed out to sea we can.
1 imagine, live indefinitely on deviled
ham, sardines and cheese. And I have
always my fishing line.
Ah! a tug at it!
July 11.
My worries are dropping from me.
Helena Lear is with Edith, and Uo|
doubt Halliday is camped on their
doorstep, as vigilant as a watch dog,
and certainly more dependable than
Jock. I can see, too, with better per
spective how absurd my anxiety has
been as to Greenough. It is his busi
ness to believe every man guilty until
he has proved himself innocent. And
am I not now in the act of proving my
Innocence?
But my problem remains. And try
ing to solve it is like playing solitaire
with a card missing. I have, we will
say, lost the knave of clubs out of my
pack, and without it the game cannot
go on.
Halliday, I know, believes that there
Is a possible connection between the
killer and Uncle Horace’s letter. He
believes, in other words, that some
curious and perhaps monstrous idea
lies behind the sheep-killing, and that
it may be the same idea to which the
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letter' refers.
“There is something behind it,” he
asserts. “Something so vital to the
man who believes it that he is ready
to kill—has killed certainly once
and possibly twice —to protect it.”
i But the nature of the idea, or con
viction, he nobly evades.
“And this monstrous idea was to kill
sheep, and build a stone altar?”
“How do we know that isn’t merely
* a propitiatory sacrifice, Skipper? A
sort of preliminary to the real thing?’ -
“And what is to be the real thing?’
“What is the wickedest crime you
can name, against society?”
“The taking of human life.”
“Exactly.”
But this, as he says, is as far as he
goes. He is, however, careful to say
that bis theory has got him some
where; that is, that there is a definite
idea behind what has been happening.
“An insane one, then.”
“Not necessarily,” be objects. “Your
Uncle Horace didn’t write that letter
to a man he considered insane.”
! Peter Geiss has his own theory
about poor Carroway’s death. Carro
way, he says, probably located the
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> Then, in black darkness, be steered
toward it, probably with the idea of
• driving the fellow back. But Peter
does not think that Carroway would
have closed in on the murderer, un
armed as he was.
(CONTINUED NEXT WEEK)
<§>
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PAGE FIVE