Coming Through the Rye (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill

you inflicted. I beg you will inform me at once what all this means! It isn’t necessary to use any oratory or false friendliness. I want the facts. I’ll bear the pain!"

      Her face was haughtiness itself. Her tone stung the young man and brought a flush of indignation to his cheek, but he kept his quiet voice.

      "Very well, then. I will tell you. This house is under suspicion, and we have been ordered to investigate. I am sorry our duty brought us here while you were at home, but if you will consent to be seated quietly in that chair where the guard can watch every movement, I give you my word you shall not be personally disturbed."

      Romayne stared wide-eyed.

      "This house! Under suspicion? But for what?" she demanded angrily.

      "For illicit dealing in intoxicating liquor."

      "Oh!" unexpectedly laughed out the girl with a relieved hysterical giggle. "Is that all? Isn’t that funny!"

      She dropped into a chair still laughing, her eyes dancing merrily.

      "But," she said, looking into the young man’s face, "you surely didn’t mean that seriously?"

      "I surely do," said the young man sadly. "I’m sorry, but we have all evidence——"

      Romayne turned toward the boy.

      "Chris, why in the world don’t you tell him we’re not that kind of people? What do you get out of this farce that you can let it go on? You surely know how absurd this charge is!"

      Chris turned earnestly toward the girl.

      "I did, Romayne; I told them all about you. I said you were a peach of a girl! I wanted to put this off when I found you were home—"

      "Put it off!" said Romayne, scornfully turning back to Sherwood. "If you would allow me to call up my father’s friend, Judge Freeman," she said with an edge of haughtiness in her voice again, "he will be able to explain how impossible this all is," she said loftily.

      A quick meaningful look passed from one man to another around the group.

      "I have no doubt he would," said Sherwood meaningfully, "but we will not call the judge at present."

      "Or if you will call my brother," she went on more soberly, trying to realize that it was not going to be as easy to convince these determined men as she had expected. "He is probably still in the office—I can give you his number. He never gets out till a quarter past six."

      Another lightning glance went around the circle. She could not tell what it was about, that quick motionless look. It seemed to be more of a light coming out of the eye, like a signal flash in the night, than anything tangible, but it gave her a chill of foreboding.

      She suddenly turned to Sherwood quite gravely, as one would speak to a naughty child in a tantrum who needed quieting, speaking slowly and distinctly as if to bring him to reason.

      "I should think it would be easy enough to prove that your suspicions are absurd," she said. "Why don’t you look around and see that this is nothing but a plain everyday home?"

      "Are you willing to take me over the house, Miss Ransom?"

      "Certainly, if you insist on being so absurd," she said freezingly.

      "Very well. We will begin in this room."

      "In this room?" She lifted her eyebrows amusedly. "I should say everything was perfectly obvious here."

      "What is behind those doors, for instance? Can you open them for me?"

      Romayne laughed.

      "Some old dusty papers. Files of sales of Father’s business. It’s nothing but a shallow cupboard. Father had to have a carpenter come here and make it deeper to get his papers in. Did you think it was a wine closet?"

      Another of those quick lightning glances went round the circle of men, though when she looked again, no one seemed to have paid the least attention to her words. Their eyes were thoughtfully on space.

      The steady eyes of Sherwood did not waver nor show special interest. His voice was just as quiet as he said, "Yes? Well, can you open them for me?"

      "Why certainly!" said Romayne, walking briskly over to the fireplace and touching the little spring knob.

      But the door did not open as she expected.

      She looked at it puzzled.

      "Oh, I remember! Father had a lock put on. He said there were valuable papers here and he did not want them disturbed. Perhaps I can find the key. Of course Father wouldn’t object to my opening it for you to see."

      She searched in the drawers of the desk, the men meanwhile noting every movement, and taking in at a glance the contents of every drawer, without seeming at all to be looking.

      Romayne came upon a bunch of keys and tried several but without success. She lifted somewhat mortified eyes to the young man at last.

      "Well, we’ll have to wait till Father comes, I suppose. But there really is nothing in there but papers."

      "I see," said Sherwood gravely, as if the matter were dismissed. "Now, this house, it’s a double house, is it not? Do you happen to know what is on the other side of this mantel? Have you ever been in the other house?"

      "I have not," said Romayne haughtily. "The house is vacant, of course, you know."

      "Yes?" Sherwood lifted his eyebrows in that maddening way he had done before, as if he doubted her word. "Is the house for rent?"

      "I believe it is," said Romayne, vexed. She felt somehow that he was making game of her, yet his tone and manner were entirely respectful. There was about him an air of knowing more than she did about the things she told him. If he knew things, why did he ask? Was he trying to get her tangled up? Oh, if Father or Lawrence would only come home. It was outrageous! But perhaps she ought to play the game and keep them here till one of them did walk in, so that these intruders might be brought to justice.

      "Do many people come to look at the house?"

      "I really don’t know," haughtily again. "I’ve noticed an agent once or twice. It may be rented now for all I know."

      "Yes?" And then quite irrelevantly, it seemed to her, "And your father’s business is?"

      "He is a manager of a corporation. It has to do with ore and oil products." She waved her hand toward the bits of rock and oil tubes on the desk. She had the air of endeavoring to graciously satisfy an insatiable curiosity on his part, endeavoring to show him how contemptible he was. But his quiet, grave manner did not alter.

      "Miss Ransom, have you ever been down to the cellar in your own house?"

      "Really!" she shrugged. "How absurd! Of course."

      "Can you tell me what it contains?"

      "Why certainly. A furnace, and a coal bin, and a woodpile."

      "Where is the furnace located?"

      What possible interest could that be to these strangers? "Why, almost directly under this room, I think."

      "Yes? And the coal bin? Is it located on the right wall or the left?"

      Romayne stopped to think. This was rather interesting, like a game. What could the man possibly be driving at? Or was he merely trying to kill time and asking any question that came into his head?

      "It is on the right wall, just in front of the fireplace, I believe. Yes, I know it is. They fill it from the basement window on the sidewalk, just under that window over there, I think. We haven’t been here long, and haven’t needed to get coal yet."

      "Did you ever examine the coal bin?"

      "Well no. I couldn’t possibly take any interest in a coal bin. Father always looks after those things."

      "Then you have no knowledge of a door or passageway leading from that coal bin into the cellar of the next house?"

      Romayne