"He's single and very attractive, my dear. The entire village is trying to marry him. There is talk of the doctor's daughter, a common little thing."
When she had gone, Elinor, a little faint and dizzy, went out on the terrace. She realised that the barrier between Ward and herself was not only of his faith against her unbelief. There was the insurmountable gulf between his world and her world. She did not fit into hie life. Into his arms, perhaps; into his life—never.
Walter would try to get the money. She must get word to him somehow, for if the Bryant pearl was recovered and Boroday given his freedom, money would not be an immediate necessity.
She paced the terrace and tried to think it out. For Talbot to get back to the city, an hour; for the delivery of the special delivery, another hour. Then the police would have to come out by train or motor. With the best of luck, it would be four o'clock before the pearl could be recovered.
There were a dozen possibilities; the chief might be out of town; the pearl might be recovered from the box without his assistance. In that case he would not hold to his agreement with Boroday.
She tried to head Walter off, but she could not locate him. At none of his various haunts could she find him by telephone; he was not at the Dago's; at the taxicab office he was said to be laid off for the day. As the white clouds of the afternoon turned to flames in the basement, Elinor's face grew set and hard.
"I'm not blind. I'll get him for this!"
That was what he had said. He would go after the money that night, and there was murder in his heart.
Old Henriette, watching Elinor's set face, grew fretful. She squealed if a door slammed; brought food that Elinor could not eat, and finally, divining a crisis, tried stealthily by telephone to locate Talbot or Lethbridge and failed.
"You'd better eat s bite or two," she entreated.
Elinor's nerves, too, were on edge.
"I don't want it," she said.
"Just a little soup!"
"If you bring that tray here again I shall throw it out of the window."
Henriette was cheered. Elinor, and speechless, was alarming. Elinor In one of her rare rages was reassuring.
By seven o'clock Elinor knew what she must do; go to Ward, tell him what »he feared, and how she knew. She was not craven, but her very soul was sick. She »ought about for some way to evade the issue or to postpone it. Finally »he »truck on one. On plain note paper she scrawled a little note in a feigned hand:
"An attempt will be made tonight to secure the fund raised at the morning service. Be advised and give it to someone else to keep overnight."
But she realized before she had finished it the uselessness of such an attempt. Ward would not transfer a danger.
The night had fallen. A line of cars from the country club was carrying town people and villagers home to the late dinners of the golf season. Groups of girls and men in summer garments, chatting gayly, passed under the wall of her garden. Down in the valley straggling lines of evening churchgoers moved decorously toward the church. A ragged child stood in the road below her garden and wept. Elinor ran down to him, and took him up in her arms. When she had soothed him she felt quieter. She went into the house and put on her hat. There was no message from Talbot, no word of Huff.
Evening service was over when she reached Saint Jude's. The la»t straggler had gone, and Ward was not in sight. She avoided the street lights. She felt quite sure that Walter was in the vicinity, his keen eyes missing nothing.
He had put his put his hand on her before she knew he was near.
"Worshiping again," he jeered.
"I have not been in the church." Her quick mind was scheming desperately ahead. "I have been alone this evening. When you did not come, I—"
He swung her around.
"You were looking for me?"
"I thought you might be here. You said last night—"
The memory of the night before stung him. He released her wrist.
"Walter, I am afraid! I tried to make you understand last night, but you wouldn't listen. If he were roused, he might be dangerous. Don't take chances: don't think, because he is a churchman—"
She was talking against time. She had her plan now.
"I can take care of myself," said Huff suddenly. But he kept his place beside her as she started back. Her solicitude was for him, then. She cared, after all. But it wouldn't do to unbend too much. Elinor had treated him with a high hand. His very pulse ached with her nearness, but he did not touch her.
He left her without even a hand-clasp.
"You might wish me luck."