The Millionaire Baby | Page 6

when in full view of
the bungalow's open door, she stopped to point out to me the nearness
of the place to that opening in the hedge we had just been making for,
and when she even went so far as to indicate the tangled little path by
which that opening could be reached directly from the farther end of
the bungalow, I considered that my question had been answered,
though in another way than I anticipated, even before I noted the slight
flush which rose to her cheek under my earnest scrutiny.

As it is important for the exact location of the bungalow to be
understood, I subjoin a diagram of this part of the ground:
[Illustration: LAWN EXTENDING TO THE HIGHWAY.
A The Ocumpaugh mansion. B The Bungalow. C Mrs. Carew's house.
D Private path. E Gap in hedge leading to the Ocumpaugh grounds. F
Gap leading into Mrs. Carew's grounds. G Bench at end of bungalow.]
As I took this all in, I ventured to ask some particulars of the family
living so near the Ocumpaughs.
"Who occupies that house?" I asked, pointing to the sloping roofs and
ornamental chimneys arising just beyond us over the hedge-rows.
"Oh, that is Mrs. Carew's home. She is a widow and Mrs. Ocumpaugh's
dearest friend. How she loved Gwendolen! How we all loved her! And
now, that wretch--"
She burst into tears. They were genuine ones; so was her grief.
I waited till she was calm again, then I inquired very softly:
"What wretch?"
"You have not been inside," she suggested, pointing sharply to the
bungalow.
I took the implied rebuke and entered the door she indicated. A man
was sitting within, but he rose and went out when he saw us. He wore a
policeman's badge and evidently recognized her or possibly myself. I
noted, however, that he did not go far from the doorway.
"It is only a den," remarked Miss Graham.
I looked about me. She had described it perfectly: a place to lounge in
on an August day like the present. Walls of Georgia pine across one of
which hung a series of long dark rugs; a long, low window looking
toward the house, a few articles of bamboo furniture describe the place.

Among the latter was a couch. It was drawn up underneath the window,
on the other side of which ran the bench where my companion declared
she had been sitting while listening to the music.
"Wouldn't you think my attention would have been caught by the sound
of any one moving about here?" she cried, pointing to the couch and
then to the window. "But the window was closed and the door, as you
see, is round the corner from the bench."
"A person with a very stealthy step, apparently."
"Very," she admitted. "Oh, how can I ever forgive myself! how can I
ever, ever forgive myself!"
As she stood wringing her hands in sight of that empty couch, I cast a
scrutinizing glance about me, which led me to remark:
"This interior looks new; much newer than the outside. It has quite a
modern air."
"Yes, the bungalow is old, very old; but this room, or den, or whatever
you might call it, was all remodeled and fitted up as you see it now
when the new house went up. It had long been abandoned as a place of
retreat, and had fallen into such decay that it was a perfect eyesore to
all who saw it. Now it is likely to be abandoned again, and for what a
reason! Oh, the dreadful place! How I hate it, now Gwendolen is
gone!"
"One moment. I notice another thing. This room does not occupy the
whole of the bungalow."
Either she did not hear me or thought it unnecessary to reply; and
perceiving that her grief had now given way to an impatience to be
gone, I did not press the matter, but led the way myself to the door. As
we entered the little path which runs directly to that outlet in the hedge
marked E, I ventured to speak again:
"You have reasons, or so it appears, for believing that the child was

carried off through this very path?"
The reply was impetuous:
"How else could she have been spirited away so quickly? Besides,--"
here her eye stole back at me over her shoulder,--"I have since
remembered that as I ran out of the bungalow in my fright at finding
the child gone, I heard the sound of wheels on Mrs. Carew's driveway.
It did not mean much to me then, for I expected to find the child
somewhere about the grounds; but now, when I come to think, it means
everything, for a child's cry mingled with it (or I imagined that it