LITMIR.BIZ

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Chicago on the lake. These Aspens are too black for us!”

      “Now, Uncle, I don’t want to go,” and Vernie pouted prettily. “And sumpum tells me I won’t go,” she added with a roguish glance at her uncle, whom she usually twisted round her rosy little finger.

      But he gave her a grave smile in return, and the subject was dropped for the moment.

      Soon after noon, Braye came up from the city, and listened, frowning, to the tales that were told him.

      “You promised me, Vernie,” he said, reproachfully.

      “I know it, Cousin Rudolph, but you see, I’ve never kept a promise in my whole life,—and I didn’t want to break my record!”

      “Naughty Flapper! I won’t give you the present I brought for you.”

      “Oh, yes you will,” and so wheedlesome was the lovely face, and so persuasive the soft voice, that Vernie, after a short argument, seized upon a small jeweller’s packet and unwrapped a pretty little ring.

      “Angel Cousin,” she observed, “you’re just about the nicest cousin I possess,—beside being the only one!”

      “Doubtful compliment!” laughed Braye. “Any way, you’re the prettiest and naughtiest cousin I own! As a punishment for your disobedience I challenge you to a round with old Ouija to-night! I’ll bet I can make it say something more cheerful than you wormed out of it last evening.”

      “All right, we’ll try it,” and Vernie danced gaily away to tease her uncle not to take her home.

      A little later, Milly, as housekeeper, discovered some serious shortage in the commissariat department, and Braye offered to drive her over to East Dryden, marketing.

      They started off, Milly calling back to Eve to preside at the tea-table, if she didn’t return in time.

      “All right,” agreed Eve, though Vernie vociferously announced her intention of playing hostess in Milly’s absence.

      The shoppers had not returned when old Thorpe brought in the tea-tray.

      “You can pour, Eve, and I’ll pass the cakies,” said Vernie, who was in high spirits, for she had partially persuaded her uncle to remain longer at Black Aspens. He was just phrasing certain strong stipulations on which his permission was to be based, when the tea things arrived.

      They were, as usual, in the hall, for though they sometimes suggested the plan of having tea out of doors, there was no cheerful terrace, or pleasant porch. The hall, though sombre and vast, had become more or less homelike by virtue of usage, so there they took their tea.

      Mr. Tracy, always graceful in social matters, helped pass the cups and plates, for no one liked to have the old Thorpes about unnecessarily.

      “No tea for me, please,” declared Norma; “I think it upsets my nerves,——”

      “And that is not the thing to do in this house,” laughed Landon. “This is mighty good tea, though,—didn’t know anybody could brew it as well as Milly. Congratulations, Eve.”

      “Thank you,” and Eve’s long lashes swept upward as she gave him a coquettish glance.

      “Referring to that matter of which we were talking, Hardwick,” Gifford Bruce began, “I——”

      Even as he spoke, the clock chimed four, and, as always, they paused to count the long, slow strokes.

      Then Bruce began again: “I think, myself——”

      A strange change passed over his face. His jaw fell, his eyes stared, and then, his teacup fell from his hand, and he slumped down in an awful—a terrifying heap!

      Landon sprang to his assistance, Norma ran to him, while Tracy, with a quick glance at Vernie, flew to the child’s side.

      “What is it?” he cried to her, “what’s the matter, Vernie?” He slipped an arm round her, just as, with a wild look and a ringing shriek, the girl’s head fell back and her eyes closed.

      “Oh,” cried Eve, “what has happened?”

      “I don’t know,” and Tracy’s voice shook. “Help me, Miss Carnforth—let us lay her on this sofa.”

      Between them they carried the girl, for she was past muscular effort, and as they placed her gently on the sofa her eyes fluttered, she gave a gasping sigh, and fell back, inert.

      “Oh,” cried Eve, “she isn’t—she isn’t—oh, it’s just four o’clock!”

      Landon ran to Vernie’s side and felt of her heart.

      “She is dead,” he said, solemnly, his face white, his voice shaking; “and Gifford Bruce is dead, too. It is four o’clock!”

      Chapter VII.

       The Mystery

       Table of Contents

      In the panic-stricken moments that followed the realization of the double tragedy, the natural characteristics of all those present showed themselves. Eve Carnforth, strong and calm, suddenly became self-appointed dictator.

      “Lay Mr. Bruce flat on his back,” she called out, as she darted upstairs for her room, and returned with smelling salts, ammonia and such things.

      Tracy, also capable and self-possessed, took a vial from her and held it before the face of the stricken child, while others strove to bring back to consciousness the motionless figure of Gifford Bruce, now stretched on the floor.

      “It’s no use,” declared Landon, flinging the beads of sweat from his forehead, “they are dead,—both of them. Oh, what does it mean?”

      Norma sat in a big chair, her hands clutching its carved arms, and her face stony white. She was using all her will power to keep from utter collapse, and she couldn’t understand how Eve could be so natural and self-possessed.

      “Brace up, Norma,” Eve admonished her; “here, take this salts-bottle. Now is no time to make more trouble!”

      The brusque words had the effect of rousing Norma, and she forced herself to rise.

      “What can I do?” she whispered.

      “Do!” cried Eve, “there’s everything to do! Some one telephone for a doctor!”

      “I—can’t,” Norma moaned. “You do that, Professor,—won’t you?”

      “Oh, I can’t!” and Hardwick fell limply into a chair. “I—I’m all upset——”

      “Of course you are, Professor,” said Tracy, kindly. “I’ll telephone, Miss Carnforth. Do you know the village doctor’s name? Of course,—it’s too late——” he glanced at the two still forms, “but a physician must be summoned.”

      “No, I don’t know any name,—call Thorpe, or Hester.”

      Tracy rang a bell and Thorpe came shuffling in.

      At sight of the tragedy, he turned and ran, screaming. Hester came, and proved the more useful of the two. Her stolidity was helpful, and she told the doctor’s name and number.

      “Dead, ain’t they?” she said, with a grieved intonation that robbed her words of curtness. “What happened to ’em?”

      The simple question roused them all. What had happened? What had killed two strong, well, able-bodied people at the same moment, and that the very moment said to be fatal in that dread house?

      “I believe,” said the Professor, dropping his face in his hands, “I believe now in the supernatural. Nothing else can explain

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