Chapter 2

“Just off the road to the left there, at the edge of the wood. Not very
far from the house of the mysterious stranger.” She glanced at me
mischievously as she made this reply, and chuckled with delight when I
rose at the bait.

“What house do you mean?” I inquired.

“Ha!” she exclaimed, “the investigator of mysteries is aroused. He
saith, ‘Ha! ha!’ amidst the trumpets; he smelleth the battle afar off.”

“Explain instantly,” I commanded, “or I drop your sketch-block into the
very next puddle.”

“You terrify me,” said she. “But I will explain, only there isn’t any
mystery except to the bucolic mind. The house is called Lavender
Cottage, and it stands alone in the fields behind the wood. A fortnight
ago it was let furnished to a stranger named Whitelock, who has taken it
for the purpose of studying the botany of the district; and the only
really mysterious thing about him is that no one has seen him. All
arrangements with the house-agent were made by letter, and, as far as I
can make out, none of the local tradespeople supply him, so he must get
his things from a distance—even his bread, which really is rather odd.
Now say I am an inquisitive, gossiping country bumpkin.”

“I was going to,” I answered, “but it is no use now.”

She relieved me of her sketching appliances with pretended indignation,
and crossed into the meadow, leaving me to pursue my way alone; and when
I presently looked back, she was setting up her easel and stool, gravely
assisted by Freddy.

My “round,” though not a long one, took up more time than I had
anticipated, and it was already past the luncheon hour when I passed the
place where I had left Miss Haldean. She was gone, as I had expected,
and I hurried homewards, anxious to be as nearly punctual as possible.
When I entered the dining-room, I found Mrs. Haldean and our hostess
seated at the table, and both looked up at me expectantly.

“Have you seen Lucy?” the former inquired.

“No,” I answered. “Hasn’t she come back? I expected to find her here.
She had left the wood when I passed just now.”

Mrs. Haldean knitted her brows anxiously. “It is very strange,” she
said, “and very thoughtless of her. Freddy will be famished.”

I hurried over my lunch, for two fresh messages had come in from
outlying hamlets, effectually dispelling my visions of a quiet
afternoon; and as the minutes passed without bringing any signs of the
absentees, Mrs. Haldean became more and more restless and anxious. At
length her suspense became unbearable; she rose suddenly, announcing her
intention of cycling up the road to look for the defaulters, but as she
was moving towards the door, it burst open, and Lucy Haldean staggered
into the room.

Her appearance filled us with alarm. She was deadly pale, breathless,
and wild-eyed; her dress was draggled and torn, and she trembled from
head to foot.

“Good God, Lucy!” gasped Mrs. Haldean. “What has happened? And where is
Freddy?” she added in a sterner tone.

“He is lost!” replied Miss Haldean in a faint voice, and with a catch in
her breath. “He strayed away while I was painting. I have searched the
wood through, and called to him, and looked in all the meadows. Oh!
where can he have gone?” Her sketching “kit,” with which she was loaded,
slipped from her grasp and rattled on to the floor, and she buried her
face in her hands and sobbed hysterically.

“And you have dared to come back without him?” exclaimed Mrs. Haldean.

“I was getting exhausted. I came back for help,” was the faint reply.

“Of course she was exhausted,” said Mrs. Hanshaw. “Come, Lucy: come,
Mabel; don’t make mountains out of molehills. The little man is safe
enough. We shall find him presently, or he will come home by himself.
Come and have some food, Lucy.”

Miss Haldean shook her head. “I can’t, Mrs. Hanshaw—really I can’t,”
she said; and seeing that she was in a state of utter exhaustion, I
poured out a glass of wine and made her drink it.

Mrs. Haldean darted from the room, and returned immediately, putting on
her hat. “You have got to come with me and show me where you lost him,”
she said.

“She can’t do that, you know,” I said rather brusquely. “She will have
to lie down for the present. But I know the place, and will cycle up
with you.”

“Very well,” replied Mrs. Haldean, “that will do. What time was it,” she
asked, turning to her niece, “when you lost the child? and which
way——”

She paused abruptly, and I looked at her in surprise. She had suddenly
turned ashen and ghastly; her face had set like a mask of stone, with
parted lips and staring eyes that were fixed in horror on her niece.

There was a deathly silence for a few seconds. Then, in a terrible
voice, she demanded: “What is that on your dress, Lucy?” And, after a
pause, her voice rose into a shriek. “What have you done to my boy?”

I glanced in astonishment at the dazed and terrified girl, and then I
saw what her aunt had seen—a good-sized blood-stain halfway down the
front of her skirt, and another smaller one on her right sleeve. The
girl herself looked down at the sinister patch of red and then up at her
aunt. “It looks like—like blood,” she stammered. “Yes, it is—I
think—of course it is. He struck his nose—and it bled——”

“Come,” interrupted Mrs. Haldean, “let us go,” and she rushed from the
room, leaving me to follow.

I lifted Miss Haldean, who was half fainting with fatigue and agitation,
on to the sofa, and, whispering a few words of encouragement into her
ear, turned to Mrs. Hanshaw.

“I can’t stay with Mrs. Haldean,” I said. “There are two visits to be
made at Rebworth. Will you send the dogcart up the road with somebody to
take my place?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I will send Giles, or come myself if Lucy is fit
to be left.”

I ran to the stables for my bicycle, and as I pedalled out into the road
I could see Mrs. Haldean already far ahead, driving her machine at
frantic speed. I followed at a rapid pace, but it was not until we
approached the commencement of the wood, when she slowed down somewhat,
that I overtook her.

“This is the place,” I said, as we reached the spot where I had parted
from Miss Haldean. We dismounted and wheeled our bicycles through the
gate, and, laying them down beside the hedge, crossed the meadow and
entered the wood.

It was a terrible experience, and one that I shall never forget—the
white-faced, distracted woman, tramping in her flimsy house-shoes over
the rough ground, bursting through the bushes, regardless of the thorny
branches that dragged at skin and hair and dainty clothing, and sending
forth from time to time a tremulous cry, so dreadfully pathetic in its
mingling of terror and coaxing softness, that a lump rose in my throat,
and I could barely keep my self-control.