CHAPTER VII.
The caretaker's face was a battle-ground for fear and curiosity and suspicion, with the odds about even. Quentin drew a little breath of relief as he saw recognition join in the conflict, and smiled.
"Any word from Mr. Mathews yet?"
"Not yet, sir. What's all this goings-on?"
Curiosity had won the battle, for the caretaker craned forward to stare at the white form of Enid, and looked up again in awe. Quentin watched the little old man with wild incoherence in his brain.
"She ain't—ain't dead, sir? Who's this here man?"
Of a sudden a desperate plan flashed on the surgeon. Thinking over his first meeting with the old caretaker, he could not remember having given the fellow his name; and, as coherence came to him, he swiftly weighed the chances. When Mathews came all would be well—if Enid's story was true!
"Get some water to revive this lady, and get it quick!" he ordered, making a plea for time. "I'll explain when you get back. Hurry up, man! She's fainted."
"Law!"
The little old man's face shot from wonder into sympathy, and he shuffled past Quentin, who stood motionless.
Should he take the risk? He was staking everything on the girl's story, even to his good name. When this thing came into court, as it seemed like to do, he would have to stand or fall by her; if she was not blind, but was the woman pickpocket using him as a screen
He recalled that revolver incident. Not even the sensitive ear of the blind could fully account for her swift seizure of the weapon in the moonlight. Quentin glanced down at her face, and its pure beauty, its womanly appeal, sundered all his doubts once more and drove him to quick decision.
"I'll do it," he thought grimly. "The lie will make me or break me. I've got to hold every one off until she gets into touch with Mathews, and if she's lied to me, then God help her!"
There came a glare as the old caretaker turned on the house lights, and Quentin plunged forward to his knees over Osgood's body. The whole scheme had come to him now; it would hold things off until the morning, at least; and, while it would eventually cause a worse muddle than ever, it promised to save Enid Elsmere—which was the main thing just at present.
Swiftly going through the detective's clothes, Quentin found a number of cheap printed cards and letters, which he transferred to his own pockets. The money in the man's pockets he left untouched, but unpinned the star from his vest and fastened it inside his own coat.
Satisfied at length that Osgood had no means of identification left, he started to rise; on second thought he completely emptied the man's pockets of money and all else, determining to make a thorough job of it. Osgood was breathing heavily, and Quentin rose at length to find the old caretaker shuffling excitedly from the open front door with a cup of water in his hand.
"All right; thanks," he said, and knelt beside Enid. "Hold up the lady's head and pour some of this on her face."
While the old man obeyed, Quentin swiftly opened the close-fitting neck of the girl's dress to give her air and loosen her throat. A little locket of gold fell out into his hand; as he replaced it, he noted instinctively that it bore the letter "M" inset with brilliants. His lips clenched grimly; it was not too late yet to
"For pity's sake, don't wash me away!"
Her hand caught at his, and with that his resolve clamped down hard.
"Wake up, it's raining!" he cried, forcing a laugh. She pulled herself up.
"You may think it's fun to be ar"
"Don't talk now," he exclaimed swiftly. "Here, lean back against the steps, and keep quiet."
With the words, he pressed her hand hard; whether she caught his meaning or not, she obeyed him, and a second later he rose and found the old caretaker watching him curiously.
"Well, I suppose you're wondering about all this, eh?" he smiled easily. "Here's my card."
With that he handed over one of the detective's cards, at the same time flinging back his coat to display the borrowed star. The old caretaker's jaw dropped, and he looked up from the card with a blank stare. Quentin gave him no chance to speak, but touched the still-unconscious Osgood with his foot.
"Miss Elsmere and I came up to see if Mr. Mathews was home, and we found this fellow trying to break in. In the ensuing discussion the lady fainted. Will your master be back in the morning?"
"Why—why, yes, sir," gasped the old man. "Gosh, a thief on the Catalinas! Who'd 'a' thought of such a thing! We ain't had no such thing happen for 's long 's I can bring to mind"
"Well, I want you to take care of him for me," and Quentin smiled at the quick alarm which the old man manifested. "He's handcuffed—don't worry. If you have a bit of rope, I'll tie his legs and leave him. Have you got a shed around here?"
"Yes, there's a shed in behind yonder, but—but—gosh! Let the constable"
"No, this is my affair." broke in Quentin quickly. "Also, Mr. Mathews will want to see the man himself."
The caretaker, visibly impressed by this argument, went shuffling off after his rope. Quentin turned to the girl, and, catching her hand, raised her to her feet.
"Don't say anything now," he spoke swiftly. "I've taken the only course possible, and I'll explain later."
She nodded. Remembering the note, and fearing that the caretaker would read it and discover the signature, Quentin darted up the steps, found the paper on the floor of the hall, and with his pencil quickly rendered the signature illegible. He stepped down to find the caretaker returning, and exchanged the folded paper for the rope the old man bore.
"Give this note to Mr. Mathews the moment he returns. I'll come up in the morning and take care of this fellow."
With that, he stooped over Osgood and bound the man's ankles firmly. The caretaker picked up the hapless detective's feet, Quentin lifted his shoulders, and with much labor they bore him around the corner of the cottage to a small shed. As they set him down, the thump fetched a groan out of him, and Quentin made all haste to be off. When they stood outside in the moonlight again, he laid his hand impressively on the old man's arm.
"You'll have to bring him some food and water in the morning, my friend, but don't believe any yarns he may try to tell you. He may make out he's a policeman himself, or any such thing, but you let me and Mr. Mathews deal with him."
"Sure I will!" retorted the old man fervently, and when they reached the side entrance again Quentin hurriedly bade him good night and led Enid down the path.
"Do you feel all right, Enid?"
"A little mussy—and very foolish," she laughed shakily. "I'm sorry I deserted you at the very worst moment!"
"Oh, tell me something!" he exclaimed, pausing as they reached the inclined railway. "You started to say that you were afraid of something that I was, when you went off. What did you mean?"
"I don't know," she replied, her head turned away. "If you don't mind, doctor, I wish you'd take me right back. I—I feel rather shaken."
Cursing himself for a brute, yet unable to forget her words and the sight of that locket, Quentin said no more as they returned. But that letter "M" reminded him of the bracelet; he wondered grimly if Mary Palmer had also given Enid the locket by which to remember her!
This thought grew on him, and when he recalled what he had just done for her sake, how he had staked his whole reputation on the truth of her story, doubt rose in him and gripped him. When they entered the hotel, he made up his mind; instead of seeking the elevator, he led her to a chair across the lobby, and quietly seated her.
"Now," he began, his eyes on her face, "I saw that locket about your neck, Miss Elsmere. I do not want to appear suspicious, but I robbed that detective of his credentials and locked him up. He suspects that you are a pickpocket who is known to play at being blind if detected. This afternoon some time my pocket was picked. Your name does not tally with the initials on your jewelry. All this means nothing to me, believe me. I have promised you my aid, and even if you have lied to me, even if you were a thief, I would be only too glad to lend you my assistance. All that I ask of you is to tell me the truth. If your story was the true one, I apologize, for I really want to aid you."
He saw the swift struggle that shot into her face, and as her eyes rested on his, it seemed that they must indeed be looking at him, for that fixed stare had vanished abruptly. But, despite the torture evident in her features, despite its reflection on his own heart, he said what he had meant to say, and waited.
Her hands twisted in her lap, and against all reason Quentin felt a mad impulse to cover them with his own. Then she calmed herself with a quiet effort, her face pale.
"I can only say that when we see Mr. Mathews you will be forced to believe me, Doctor Quentin," she said quietly. "I am sorry for all this dreadful affair that has come upon you; I do not want you drawn into my troubles"
"Say no more, please!" he cried, with a little laugh, rising. "I was a brute, and I am sorry myself. Now come to the elevator, and I'll say good night."
No more words passed between them, but at the door of her room their hands met in silent parting. Then Quentin returned to the office, obtained a large envelope, and sealed up the money and papers he had taken from the detective, writing the other's name across the flap.
"Kindly take care of this," he said to the night clerk. "Mr. Osgood will call for it to-morrow, unless I do myself."
This settled, he visited the telegraph desk and found a message awaiting him. Ten minutes later he sought his own room, supplied with money, a most undesirable alias, and a police star whose magnitude appalled him.
"This bit of nickel is going to get me into a bad fuss," he thought, gazing at the thing. "Well, I may be able to bribe Osgood to shut up, if the thing gets straightened out in time. If it doesn't, I know a rising young surgeon who is going to be in dutch! But I only wish Enid hadn't slipped me that Mary Palmer yarn. That gets my goat."
Think it over as he would, he could arrive at no conclusion. Finally he phoned a call for eight in the morning and went to bed, wondering if the awful muddle would leave him any chance to sleep. But, contrary to his own expectations, the memory of Bert Osgood trussed up in his shed merged into the lap of the waves under the hotel windows, and Allan Quentin ended his first day in Avalon in greater peace than he had passed it.