The House of Mystery | Page 5

to think that middle age is
near--to dread it--especially when I half suspect I haven't spent the
interest on my youth." She stopped.
Dr. Blake held his very breath. His instincts warned him that she

faltered at one of those instincts when confidence lies close to the lips.
But she did not give it. Instead, she caught herself up with a
perfunctory, "I suppose everyone feels that way at times."
Although he wanted that confidence, he was clever enough not to reach
for it at this point. Instead, he took a wide detour, and returned slowly,
backing and filling to the point. But every time that he approached a
closer intimacy, she veered away with an adroitness which was
consummate art or consummate innocence. His first impression
grew--that she "did" something. She had mentioned "Peter Ibbertson."
He spoke, then, of books. She had read much, especially fiction; but
she treated books as one who does not write. He talked art. Though she
spoke with originality and understanding in response to his
second-hand studio chatter, he could see that she neither painted nor
associated much with those who did. Besides, her hands had none of
the craftswoman's muscle. Of music--beyond ragtime--she knew as
little as he. He invaded business--her ignorance was abysmal. The
stage--she could count on her fingers the late plays which she had seen.
When the trail had grown almost cold, there happened a little incident
which put him on the scent again. He had thought suddenly of his
patient in the compartment and made a visit, only to find her asleep.
Upon his return he said:
"You behaved like a soldier and a nurse toward her--a girl with such a
distinct flair for the game must have had longings to take up
nursing--or perhaps you never read 'Sister Dora'?"
"I did read 'Sister Dora,'" she answered, "and I was crazy about it."
"Most girls are--hence the high death rate in hospitals," he interrupted.
"But I gave that up--and a lot of other desires which all girls have--for
something else. I had to." Her sapphirine eyes searched the Berkshire
hills again, "Something bigger and nobler--something which meant the
entire sacrifice of self."
And here the brakeman called "Next station is Berkeley Center." Dr.

Blake came to the sudden realization that they had reached his
destination. She started, too.
"Why, I get off here!" she exclaimed.
"And so do I!" He almost laughed it out.
"That's a coincidence."
Dr. Blake refrained from calling her attention to the general flutter of
the parlor-car and the industry of two porters. This being the high-tide
time of the summer migration, and Berkeley Center being the popular
resort on that line, nearly everyone was getting off. However as he
delivered himself over to the porter, he nodded:
"The climax of a series!"
As they waited, bags in hand, "I am on my way to substitute for a
month at the Hill Sanatorium," he said. "The assistant physician is
going on a vacation--I suppose the ambulance will be waiting."
"And I am going to the Mountain House--it's a little place and more the
house of friends than an inn. If your work permits--"
He interrupted with a boyish laugh.
"Oh, it will!" But he said good-bye at the vestibule with a vague idea
that she might have trouble explaining him to any very particular
friends. He saw her mount an old-fashioned carry-all, saw her turn to
wave a farewell. The carry-all disappeared. He started toward the Hill
ambulance, but he was still thinking, "Now what is the thing which a
girl like that would consider more self-sacrificing than nursing?"

II
MR. NORCROSS WASTES TIME

Robert H. Norcross looked up from a sheet of figures, and turned his
vision upon the serrated spire of old Trinity Church, far below. Since
his eyes began to fail, he had cultivated the salutary habit of resting
them every half-hour or so. The action was merely mechanical; his
mind still lingered on the gross earnings of the reorganized L.D. and M.
railroad. It was a sultry afternoon in early fall. The roar of lower New
York came up to him muffled by the haze. The traffic seemed to move
more slowly than usual, as though that haze clogged its wheels and
congealed its oils. The very tugs and barges, on the river beyond,
partook of the season's languor. They crept over the oily waves at a
sluggard pace, their smoke-streamers dropping wearily toward the
water.
The eyes of Robert H. Norcross swept this vista for the allotted two
minutes of rest. Presently--and with the very slightest change of
expression--they fixed themselves on a point so far below that he needs
must lean forward and rest his arms on the window sill in order to look.
He wasted thus a minute; and such