The Abandoned Room | Page 9

trying to control his
sensations of physical evil. Subtle curiosity forced its way into his sick
brain and stung him wide awake. This time his eyes remained open,
staring about him, dilating with a wilder fright than he had experienced
in the dark mazes of his nightmare adventure.
He had never seen this place before. He lay on the floor of an empty
room. The shaft of sunlight that had aroused him entered through a
crack in one of the tightly drawn blinds. There were dust and grime on
the wails, and cobwebs clustered in the corners.
In the silent, deserted room the beating of his heart became audible. He
struggled to a sitting posture. He gasped for breath. He knew it was
very cold in here, but perspiration moistened his face. He could recall
no such suffering as this since, when a boy, he had slipped from the
crisis of a destructive fever.
Had he been drugged? But he had been with friends. There was no
motive.
What house was this? Was it, like this room, empty and deserted? How
had he come here? For the first time he went through that dreadful
process of trying to draw from the black pit useful memories.
He started, recalling the strange voice and its warning, for his shoes lay
near by as though he might have dropped them carelessly when he had
entered the room and stretched himself on the floor. Damp earth
adhered to the soles. The leather above was scratched.

"Then," he thought, "that much is right. I was in the woods. What was I
doing there? That dim figure! My imagination."
He suffered the agony of a man who realizes that he has wandered
unawares in strange places, and retains no recollection of his actions, of
his intentions. He went back to that last unclouded moment in the cafe
with Maria, Paredes, and the stranger. Where had he gone after he had
left them? He had looked at his watch. He had told himself he must
catch the twelve-fifteen train. He must have gone from the restaurant,
proceeding automatically, and caught the train. That would account for
the sensation of motion in a swift vehicle, and perhaps there had been a
taxicab to the station. Doubtless in the woods near the Cedars he had
decided it was too late to go in, or that it was wiser not to. He had
answered to the necessity of sleeping somewhere. But why had he
come here? Where, indeed, was he?
At least he could answer that. He drew on his shoes--a pair of patent
leather pumps. He fumbled for his handkerchief, thinking he would
brush the earth from them. He searched each of his pockets. His
handkerchief was gone. No matter. He got to his feet, lurching for a
moment dizzily. He glanced with distaste at his rumpled evening
clothing. To hide it as far as possible he buttoned his overcoat collar
about his neck. On tip-toe he approached the door, and, with the
emotions of a thief, opened it quietly. He sighed. The rest of the house
was as empty as this room. The hall was thick with dust. The rear door
by which he must have entered stood half open. The lock was broken
and rusty.
He commenced to understand. There was a deserted farmhouse less
than two miles from the Cedars. Since he had always known about it, it
wasn't unusual he should have taken shelter there after deciding not to
go in to his grandfather.
He stepped through the doorway to the unkempt yard about whose
tumbled fences the woods advanced thickly. He recognized the place.
For some time he stood ashamed, yet fair enough to seek the cause of
his experience in some mental unhealth deeper than any reaction from
last night's folly.

He glanced at his watch. It was after two o'clock. The mournful
neighbourhood, the growing chill in the air, the sullen sky, urged him
away. He walked down the road. Of course he couldn't go to the Cedars
in this condition. He would return to his apartment in New York where
he could bathe, change his clothes, recover from this feeling of physical
ill, and remember, perhaps, something more.
It wasn't far to the little village on the railroad, and at this hour there
were plenty of trains. He hoped no one he knew would see him at the
station. He smiled wearily. What difference did that make? He might as
well face old Blackburn, himself, as he was. By this time the thing was
done. The new will had been made. He was penniless and an outcast.
But his furtive manner clung. He didn't want Katherine to see him like
this.
From the entrance of the village it was only a few steps