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The Inn at the Red Oak

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"Yes, I remember him distinctly," said Dan. "He used to tell stories to
Tom and me of his adventures in the wars. Tom was speaking of him only
the other day."

"Well," continued Mrs. Frost, "this gentleman called himself General
Pointelle. I learned afterwards it was not his real name. Who he actually
was, I have not the slightest idea. He brought with him a little girl two
years old, a sweet little black-eyed girl, to whom I, having lost your
only sister at about that age, took a great fancy. The General also had
two servants with him, a valet, and a maid. The maid, a pretty young
thing, took care of the child. They arrived in mid-summer, on a
merchantman that plied between Marseilles and Monday Port. I do not know
why General Pointelle came to this part of the country, or why he chose
to stay at the Inn; at any rate he came, and he engaged for an indefinite
period the best suite of apartments in the old north wing. He had the Oak
Parlour--"

"The Oak Parlour!" exclaimed Dan.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Frost, "that was part of the suite reserved usually
for our most distinguished guests. The general used that for a
sitting-room and the adjoining chamber as a bed-room. The maid and child
occupied connecting rooms across the hall. The valet, I believe, was in
some other part of the house. General Pointelle proved himself a
fascinating guest, and his little daughter Eloise was a favourite with
all the household. The maid, pretty as she certainly was and apparently
above her station, I somehow never trusted. I have always believed that
the relations between the general and herself were not what they should
have been. But Frenchmen look at such things differently, I am told; and
it was not to our interests to be over-curious.

"They had been with us about two months when one fine morning we awoke to
find that General Pointelle, his valet, and the charming Marie had
disappeared, and little Eloise was crying alone in her big room. You have
probably guessed the child was Nancy."

"Yes," Dan agreed, "but do you mean that the father actually
abandoned her?"

"Practically. He left a note for me and a little bag of gold amounting to
two thousand dollars to be used for the child. If you will hand me that
old secretary there, I will show you the letter."

Dan placed the old-fashioned writing-desk on the table beside her, and
waited anxiously while she fumbled in her pocket for the key. She
unlocked the desk, and after searching a few moments amongst innumerable
papers, drew out an old letter. This she unfolded carefully and handed
to Dan. It was written in English, in a fine running hand. He read it
attentively.

"_The Inn at the Red Oak, Deal_:

"14 October, '814.

"Madame:

"Political circumstances over which I have no control, patriotic
considerations which I cannot withstand, demand my immediate return to
France. In the conditions into which I am about to be plunged the care of
my dear little daughter becomes an impossibility. Inhuman as it must seem
to you, lacking in all sense of Christian duty as it must appear to you,
I entrust, without the formality of consulting you, my beautiful little
Eloise to your humane and tender care. With this letter I deposit with
you the sum of two thousand dollars in gold, which will go a little way
at least to compensate you for the burden I thus unceremoniously, but of
necessity, thrust upon you. I appeal to and confide in the goodness of
your heart, of which already I have such abundant testimony, that will
take pity upon the misfortune of a helpless infant and an equally
helpless parent. May you be a mother to the motherless, and may the
Heavenly Father bless you for what you shall do.

"I embark, madame, upon a dangerous and uncertain mission. Should that
mission prove successful and restore the fortunes of my house, I will
return and claim my daughter. Should fate overwhelm me with disaster, I
must beg that you will continue to regard her and love her as your own.
The issue will have been decided within five years. Permit me to add but
one thing more,--in the event that I fall in the cause I have embraced, I
have made arrangements whereby communications shall be established with
you, madame, that will redound to your own good fortune and that of the
little Eloise.

"All effort to thwart my plans or to establish my identity in the
meantime, will, I must warn you, be fruitless.

"Adieu, madame: accept the assurance of my gratitude for all that you
have already done to sweeten exile and of my earnest prayer for the
blessing of God upon your great good heart.

"I remain, madame, for the present, but always, under whatever name,

"Your grateful and sincere servant,

"GASTON POINTELLE,"

As Dan, with gathering brows, concluded the reading of this
extraordinary letter, Mrs. Frost resumed her story.

"We always imagined that the general and his companions had sailed in a
French vessel that lay at that time in the Passage and left that morning
at dawn. There was nothing to do but adopt little Eloise Pointelle for my
own. I changed her name, at your father's suggestion, to Nancy Frost;
knowing that Pointelle was not the general's real name. For five years we
looked to see our guest return; and afterwards for years, we hoped to
receive some communication that would prove, as he promised, of advantage
to Nancy and ourselves. But from the night General Pointelle left our
house to this day, I have not heard one word to show that he still
existed or, indeed, that he ever had existed. We brought Nancy up as our
own daughter, though, never concealing from her the fact that she was not
of our blood. Indeed, Dan, I have loved her dearly."

"Certainly, you have always treated her with the greatest kindness. But
this is quite extraordinary, Mother. I think it will throw light on
Nancy's present disappearance."

"Do you think the father is alive, Dan? that he has communicated
with her?"

"Not that, mother; I am really in the dark. But I believe that the
Marquis de Boisdhyver has some connection with your General Pointelle,
and that his stay with us this winter has something to do with Nancy."

In response to Mrs. Frost's questions, he told of the meetings of Nancy
and the marquis, but decided to say nothing about the paper that he had
found in the Oak Parlour.

"I want you to be careful, Mother, to give no hint to the Marquis that we
suspect him in any way. Tom and I are trying to solve the mystery, and
secrecy is of the greatest importance. It is a more complicated business
than we imagined. I must go now and find Tom. May I keep this letter?"

"Yes, but keep it under lock and key. I have guarded it for sixteen
years; and it is the only evidence I possess of Nancy's origin."

Dan returned to the bar, where he found the Marquis and Tom still reading
their papers.

"Ah!" exclaimed Monsieur de Boisdhyver, "I trust, Monsieur Frost, you
bring us the good news at last of the return of Mademoiselle."

"Unfortunately, I do not, monsieur," Dan replied. "Our efforts to find
out what has become of her have been entirely unsuccessful. I am very
anxious, as you may imagine."

"And to what mishap do you attribute Mademoiselle's so unceremonious
departure?"

"I do not attribute it to any mishap," replied Dan. "I think that my
sister has gone off on a visit to some friends, and that her messages to
us have been miscarried. I feel certain that to-morrow we will be
completely reassured."

"Ah! I hope so with all my heart," exclaimed the Marquis fervently. "It
is a matter of deep distress to me--monsieur. But if--to-morrow passes
and still you do not hear--?"

"God knows, sir. We must do everything to find her."

"We shall find her," cried Tom, as he sprang to his feet, unable longer
to repress his anxiety or his irritation. "And if we do not find her safe
and well, woe to the man who has harmed her."

"Bravo!" cried the Marquis. "Permit me to adopt those words to express
my own sentiments. I applaud this determination, monsieur, _de tout
mon coeur_."

Tom glared at the little old man with an expression of illconcealed rage.
He was about to blurt out some angry reply, when a warning gesture from
Dan checked him. Without speaking, he flung himself out of the room.

"Poor Tom!" said Dan quickly, to cover Pembroke's attitude toward the
Marquis, "this takes him especially hard. He is in love with Nancy."

"_Eh bien_! I sympathize with his good taste. It is that that accounts
for his vigour of his expressions, so much more _emphatique_ than our
good host."

"More emphatic, perhaps," said Dan, "though I do not feel less strongly."

The Marquis made a little bow, as he rose to retire. "If, chance,
monsieur could require my assistance--"

"Thank you," said Dan quickly. "In that case, sir, I shall be only too
happy to call upon you." He rose also, and courteously held the candle
till the Marquis had reached the top of the stairs.

Tom waited his friend impatiently in their common chamber. And when at
last, having closed the house for the night, Dan joined him, he told at
once of the signals which he supposed had been exchanged between the
Marquis at the Inn and someone at the House on the Dunes. In return Dan
repeated what he had learned about Nancy from Mrs. Frost.

"There is no doubt in my mind," said Dan, "that the Marquis knows all
about Nancy's disappearance and where she is, and further I believe that
Nancy's disappearance is part of a plot with the Marquis here, Madame de
la Fontaine at the House on the Dunes, and that schooner riding at anchor
in the Cove. I have a plan, Tom."

"Go ahead for heaven's sake. If we don't do something, I'll go in and
choke the truth out of that old reprobate. He applauds my sentiments, eh!
Good God! If he knew them!"

"Yes, yes," said Dan. "But the time for choking has not come. You nearly
gave yourself away to-night, you will ruin our plans, and involve Nancy
in some harm. She is probably in that old villain's power. Now listen to
me. The first thing to do is to discover Nancy's whereabouts. The second
is to get at the bottom of the Marquis's plot and the secret of the torn
scrap of paper. We will find the clew to both, I think, if we can
discover the meaning of the signals between the Marquis and the lady in
the House on the Dunes."

"Right!" cried Tom. "But how?"

"One of us must stay at the Inn and watch the Marquis to-night, and the
other investigate the House on the Dunes. I have already been there and
made the acquaintance of the lady, so I had better do that, and you stay
here. Do you agree?"

"Yes, of course; though I envy you the chance to be out and doing."

"You will be doing something here. I want you to hide yourself in the
hallway near the Marquis's door and watch all night--till dawn anyway.
He cannot get out of his room without coming into the hall, and we must
know what he does to-night. If the Marquis can spend a sleepless night,
we can afford to do so. I don't know what I can do at the House on the
Dunes but I shall take the pistol, and you can keep my gun. To-morrow I
will get more arms, for I shouldn't be surprised if we needed them. Is
everything clear?"

"Perfectly," said Tom. "I'll watch as soon as you are off."

"Good-night, old boy, good luck."

"Good-night," and Dan slipped out of the room and down the dark stairs.



CHAPTER X

MIDNIGHT VIGILS


As soon as Dan had gone Tom blew out his light and slipped into
the hallway.

This portion of the Inn was simple in design. A long corridor ran through
the middle of the house to meet a similar passage at the southern end
extending at right angles to the main hall. The South Chamber, occupied
by the Marquis de Boisdhyver, opened into the southwest passage, but the
door was well beyond the juncture of the two corridors. It was Pembroke's
intention to conceal himself in the bedroom next the Marquis's chamber,
from the door of which he could look down the entire length of the main
hall, and by stepping outside get a view of the branch hallway into which
the door of this room and that of the Marquis actually opened. A further
advantage was that the windows of this room, like those of the South
Chamber, looked out upon the Dunes and the Cove.

As Tom stepped from his chamber, the house seemed utterly deserted; save
for the roaring of the wind without and an occasional creak or crack in
the time-worn boards, there were no sounds.

The night was not a dark one, although the wind was rising and rain was
threatening; for a full moon lurked behind the thick veil of cloud and
something of its weird weak light relieved the darkness even of the great
corridor of the Inn.

Tom stole softly down the hallway and gained the room next the Marquis's.
He took his position in a great chair, which he drew near the open door,
and laid his gun on the floor near at hand. No one could enter the hall
without his seeing him. Every few moments he would tiptoe to the doorway,
thrust his head into the corridor, and listen intently for any sound in
the South Chamber.

It was a lonely and unpleasant vigil. The night was wild, the storm was
rising, the old Inn was moaning as though in distress; and, despite his
natural courage, fantastic terrors and dangers thrust themselves upon his
excited imagination. He would much have preferred, he felt, to be out in
the open as Dan was, even facing real dangers and greater difficulties.
Deeper than by these imaginary fears of the night, he was racked with
anxiety to know what had become of the girl he loved. Had she been
decoyed away by the evil genius of the place; was she in danger? Had she
disappeared of her own free will; and didn't she really love him?

He was not in the least sleepy; but after a while the vigil began to tell
upon his nerves. He found it almost impossible to sit still and wait,
perhaps in vain. He made innumerable trips across the room to the windows
to look out into the bleak night. The landscape was blotted out. Not a
light showed from the House on the Dunes; only the two lamps on the
schooner at anchor in the Cove gleamed across the night. Eleven o'clock,
twelve o'clock struck solemnly from the old clock on the stairs.

Once as he was looking out of the window, it seemed to him that the green
light on the _Southern Cross_ was moving. But it was impossible that she
should weigh anchor in the teeth of the rising storm. He was mistaken.
Nay, he was sure. But it was rising, slowly, steadily, as though drawn by
an invisible hand, to about the height of the masthead. There at last it
stopped, and swung to the wind, to and fro, to and fro; high above its
red companion, high above the deck.

And then, suddenly, as if to answer this mysterious manoeuvre, the green
light, that earlier in the evening had glowed from a north window of the
House on the Dunes, now flashed from an east window of the old farmhouse;
flashed, then gleamed steadily. The light on the _Southern Cross_ was
lowered slowly, then raised again. The light in the House on the Dunes
vanished; soon flashed again and then vanished once more. Slowly the
light in the schooner descended to its normal position. A moment later
the green light appeared on the north side of the House on the Dunes,
where it had been earlier, and shone there steadily.

Was it a signal to the Marquis de Boisdhyver? Tom tiptoed to the
partition between his room and the South Chamber, and put his ear to the
wall to listen. Not a sound reached him. He turned to the door to go into
the corridor, and stood suddenly motionless. For there, advancing ever so
cautiously down the hall, carrying a lighted candle in his hand, was the
old Marquis. He was clad in night dress and cap, with a gayly-coloured
dressing-gown worn over the white shirt. Slowly, silently, pausing every
instant to listen; he stole on, gun in hand, and Tom followed him as
cautiously and as quietly. Instead of turning to the right at the
partition that divides the north and south wings of the Inn and going
down stairs, the Marquis turned to the left, into the short hall that led
directly to the great chamber occupied by Tom and Dan.

By the time Pembroke in pursuit had reached the turn and dared to peep
around the corner of the wall, the Marquis was at the door of Dan's room.
He stood there, ear bent close to the panel, intently listening.

Tom waited breathless. Not satisfied, Monsieur de Boisdhyver turned about
and went into an adjoining chamber, the door of which stood open.
Pembroke was about to advance, when the Marquis emerged again into the
corridor, having left his lighted candle in the empty room. This
manoeuvre, whatever advantage it had for the Marquis, was fortunate for
Pembroke, for it left the end of the little hall, where he stood
watching, in deep shadow. He could now step boldly from behind the
concealing wall without fear of immediate detection.

Again the Marquis stood and listened at the door of Dan's room, then
cautiously turned the knob. The door yielded and opened an inch or so.
Monsieur de Boisdhyver put his ear to the crack. Dissatisfied with the
absolute silence that must have met him, he pushed open the door a little
further and thrust his head inside. In a moment he disappeared within.

Tom realized that the Marquis would soon discover the fact that the
room was empty. He looked about quickly for a place of concealment that
would command a view of all the halls. Fortunately the partition that
divided the long corridor between the north and south wings was hung
with heavy curtains. Deciding instantly, Pembroke slipped behind them,
and ruthlessly slit an opening in the thick green stuff, through which
he could peek out. He was just in time, as the Marquis came out of
their bedroom and softly closed the door. He stood irresolute; then,
with even greater caution, re-entered the room in which he had left his
candle. To Tom's chagrin, the candle was suddenly extinguished and the
Inn left in darkness.

For some moments, there was absolute silence. Then Tom could hear
faintly,--or feel rather than hear--the Marquis cautiously finding his
way back. Luckily, the old Frenchman was groping his way next the other
wall. Pembroke slipped from behind the curtains and stole softly in
pursuit. As he reached the south end of the corridor, he heard the latch
of the Marquis's door click softly. Alarmed by discovering that they were
not in bed, thought Tom, he had abandoned whatever purpose he had in mind
for his midnight prowl.

After waiting a little and hearing no more, Tom went again to the window.
The rain had begun now and the wind was blowing a gale. Suddenly Pembroke
discerned a light shining from the window next the very one from which he
was peering into the darkness,--the steady glow of a deep red light.

"Another signal!" he murmured; then waited to see if it would be answered
by the House on the Dunes. Perhaps fifteen minutes passed, and then,
suddenly, there gleamed through the rain and dark, a tiny bit of red
flame, just where the House on the Dunes must be. A little later the red
lamp on the _Southern Cross_ performed a fantastic ascension to what
Pembroke took to be the masthead.

The red light in the neighbouring window was extinguished. Almost
instantly the red spark on the Dunes disappeared, and in a few moments
the schooner's lamp began its descent. Simultaneously they glowed again
and the ship's light danced upward; then the two red lights on shore
vanished and the lamp on the _Southern Cross_ sank to its proper place
and stayed there.

Of one thing Tom was sure: The Marquis, the lady at the House on the
Dunes, and the skipper of the schooner in the Cove, were in collusion. Of
another thing he felt almost equally certain: the red light was a signal
of danger, and the message of danger flashed across the night was the
fact that he and Dan were not safe asleep in bed.

For a long time he watched, keen with excitement; listened patiently;
started at every sound. But nothing more unusual did he hear that night
than the roar of the wind, the dash of the brawling southeaster against
the panes, and the groans of the old house, shaken by the storm. Toward
morning he crept back to bed and fell instantly into a deep and
dreamless sleep.

While Tom was thus watching and sleeping a somewhat different experience
had fallen to the lot of Dan Frost. He had no definite plan in making a
midnight visit to the vicinity of the House on the Dunes, but he hoped to
discover some clue to the surrounding mysteries. From time to time during
the day he had taken his field glasses to one of the upper rooms of the
Inn, and scanned the countryside but nothing unusual seemed astir in the
white world without. The _Southern Cross_ had lain on the surface of the
little cove all day, swaying with wind and tide, no sign of activity upon
her decks. It was after ten when he started forth. The night was not
quite dark, for the full moon was shining somewhere behind the thick veil
of clouds. Earlier in the evening Dan had intended to go boldly to the
House itself and demand an interview with old Mrs. Meath; but he
reflected that he would probably be met with the excuse that Mrs. Meath
was ill, and he did not know how he could force himself in, particularly
past the barrier of Madame de la Fontaine's charming manner.

It was an unpleasant walk with the wind in his face, and it was nearly
eleven before he turned into the long dune road, which branched from the
Port Road near the Rocking Stone and led directly to the old farmhouse on
Strathsey Neck. To his chagrin it appeared that all lights had been
extinguished as if the inmates of the house had gone to bed.

The old farmhouse loomed before him, dark and forbidding. On either side
there were outhouses, and in the rear quite near the house a barn. There
was not a tree on the place; indeed, there was little vegetation upon the
entire Neck, save the grass of the middle meadows which in summer
furnished scant nourishment for the cattle and a flock of sheep. Now all
was bleak and covered with snow, and a freshening gale swept out of the
great maw of the Atlantic.

Keeping close to the fence, Frost began to make a complete circuit of
the farmhouse. As he turned a corner of the south end, or rear of the
house, he was relieved to see a light burning in the kitchen. He stole
cautiously to a position within the shadow of the barn from which he
could get a glimpse of the interior. In the kitchen standing before a
deal table, he saw a young woman--not Jane, Mrs. Heath's
maid-of-all-work, but a stranger,--with her hands deep in a bowl of
dough. Her back was toward him, but he guessed that she was Madame de la
Fontaine's maid, whom he had seen in the morning. The door into the
dining-room beyond stood open, and by craning his neck, Dan could see
that the room was lighter, but he could not discover whether or not it
were occupied. The shutters of the dining-room were so closely barred
and the curtains so tightly drawn that not a ray of light penetrated to
the outside.

The girl in the kitchen proceeded busily about her work. She was
evidently engaged, despite the lateness of the hour, in mixing bread.

Once while he waited patiently, to what end he hardly knew, Madame de la
Fontaine entered the kitchen. She was clad in black and held in her hands
what Dan took to be a ship's lamp. She stood for a moment in the doorway
and spoke to the servant maid. The girl stopped her work, and taking a
strip of paper, ignited it at a candle and lighted the lamp, which Madame
de la Fontaine held up for her. It glowed instantly with a deep green
flame, such as Tom had described as shining from a window of the House on
the Dunes in the early evening.

As soon as her lamp was lighted Madame de la Fontaine left the room.
Supposing that she was about to give a signal, Dan's heart leaped at the
prospect of some result to his eavesdropping, and he stole carefully
around to the front of the house. Presently from an upper window in the
east side of the house, not the north as he had expected, he saw the
green light sending forth its message across the Dunes--to whom? Probably
the signal could be seen from the Inn, but it more likely was intended
for the schooner in the Cove. Sure enough, as he watched, Dan saw the
phenomenon of the ascending lamp on the _Southern Cross_, which at that
identical moment Tom Pembroke was watching from his post of vantage in
one of the south windows of the Inn.

A little later the signal was removed from the east window of the
farmhouse and placed in a north window. Dan looked to see the answering
gleam from the Inn at the Red Oak. But none came. Crouched in a corner of
the fence, he waited perhaps for half-an-hour.

Suddenly a signal gleamed from the Inn, but this time it was not green as
he expected, but red. In a few moments a form appeared in the window of
the farmhouse, and a white hand, which he supposed was that of Madame de
la Fontaine, took hold of the lamp and reversed it, so that now it showed
red. The light in the Inn vanished, reappeared, vanished again. The same
thing happened to the light in the House on the Dunes. And looking
eastward, Dan saw the ship's red lamp perform its fantastic ascent and
descent. Soon all was left in darkness. Frost slipped back to his post
near the barn and looked again into the kitchen.

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