The Hollow of Her Hand

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Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team.

[Illustration: "The black pile is mine, the gay pile is yours,"
she went on, turning toward the sleeping girl]

THE HOLLOW OF HER HAND

By GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON

CONTENTS

I MARCH COMES IN LIKE THE LION

II THE PASSING OF A NIGHT

III HETTY CASTLETON

IV WHILE THE MOB WAITED

V DISCUSSING A SISTER-IN-LAW

VI SOUTHLOOK

VII A FAITHFUL CRAYON-POINT

VIII IN WHICH HETTY IS WEIGHED

IX HAWKRIGHT'S MODEL

X THE GHOST AT THE FEAST

XI MAN PROPOSES

XII THE APPROACH OF A MAN NAMED SMITH

XIII MR. WRANDALL PERJURES HIMSELF

XIV IN THE SHADOW OF THE MILL

XV SARA WRANDALL FINDS THE TRUTH

XVI THE SECOND ENCOUNTER

XVII CROSSING THE CHANNEL

XVIII RATTLING OLD BONES

XIX VIVIAN AIRS HER OPINIONS

XX ONCE MORE AT BURTON'S INN

XXI DISTURBING NEWS

XXII THE HOLLOW OF HER HAND

XXIII SARA WRANDALL'S DECISION

XXIV THE JURY OF FOUR

XXV RENUNCIATION

CHAPTER I

MARCH COMES IN LIKE THE LION

The train, which had roared through a withering gale of sleet
all the way up from New York, came to a standstill, with many an
ear-splitting sigh, alongside the little station, and a reluctant
porter opened his vestibule door to descend to the snow-swept
platform: a solitary passenger had reached the journey's end. The
swirl of snow and sleet screaming out of the blackness at the end
of the station-building enveloped the porter in an instant, and
cut his ears and neck with stinging force as he turned his back
against the gale. A pair of lonely, half-obscured platform lights
gleamed fatuously at the top of their icy posts at each end of the
station; two or three frost-encrusted windows glowed dully in the
side of the building, while one shone brightly where the operator
sat waiting for the passing of No. 33.

The train itself was dark. Frosty windows, pelted for miles by the
furious gale, white outside but black within, protected the snug
travellers who slept the sleep of the hurried and thought not of
the storm that beat about their ears nor wondered at the stopping
of the fast express at a place where it had never stopped before.
Far ahead the panting engine shed from its open fire-box an aureole
of glaring red as the stoker fed coal into its rapacious maw. The
unblinking head-light threw its rays into the thick of the blinding
snow storm, fruitlessly searching for the rails through drifts
denser than fog and filled with strange, half-visible shapes.

An order had been issued for the stopping of the fast express at
B--, a noteworthy concession in these days of premeditated haste.
Not in the previous career of flying 33 had it even so much as
slowed down for the insignificant little station, through which it
swooped at midnight the whole year round. Just before pulling out
of New York on this eventful night the conductor received a command
to stop 33 at B---- and let down a single passenger, a circumstance
which meant trouble for every despatcher along the line.

The woman who got down at B---- in the wake of the shivering
but deferential porter, and who passed by the conductors without
lifting her face, was without hand luggage of any description.
She was heavily veiled, and warmly clad in furs. At eleven o'clock
that night she had entered the compartment in New York. Throughout
the thirty miles or more, she had sat alone and inert beside the
snow-clogged window, peering through veil and frost into the night
that whizzed past the pane, seeing nothing yet apparently intent
on all that stretched beyond. As still, as immobile as death itself
she had held herself from the moment of departure to the instant
that brought the porter with the word that they were whistling for
B---. Without a word she arose and followed him to the vestibule,
where she watched him as he unfastened the outer door and lifted
the trap. A single word escaped her lips and he held out his hand
to receive the crumpled bill she clutched in her gloved fingers.
He did not look at it. He knew that it would amply reward him for
the brief exposure he endured on the lonely, wind-swept platform
of a station, the name of which he did not know.

She took several uncertain steps in the direction of the station
windows and stopped, as if bewildered. Already the engine was
pounding the air with quick, vicious snorts in the effort to get
under way; the vestibule trap and door closed with a bang; the
wheels were creaking. A bitter wind smote her in the face; the wet,
hurtling sleet crashed against the thin veil, blinding her.

The door of the waiting-room across the platform opened and a man
rushed toward her.

"Mrs. Wrandall?" he called above the roar of the wind.

She advanced quickly.

"Yes."

"What a night!" he said, as much to himself as to her. "I'm sorry
you would insist on coming to-night. To-morrow morning would have
satisfied the--"

"Is this Mr. Drake?"

They were being blown through the door into the waiting-room as
she put the question. Her voice was muffled. The man in the great
fur coat put his weight against the door to close it.

"Yes, Mrs. Wrandall. I have done all that could be done under the
circumstances. I am sorry to tell you that we still have two miles
to go by motor before we reach the inn. My car is open,--I don't
possess a limousine,--but if you will lie down in the tonneau you
will find some protection from--"

She broke in sharply, impatiently. "Pray do not consider me, Mr.
Drake. I am not afraid of the blizzard."

"Then we'd better be off," said he, a note of anxiety in his
voice,--a certain touch of nervousness. "I drive my own car. The
road is good, but I shall drive cautiously. Ten minutes, perhaps.
I--I am sorry you thought best to brave this wretched--"

"I am not sorry for myself, Mr. Drake, but for you. You have been
most kind. I did not expect you to meet me."

"I took the liberty of telephoning to you. It was well that I
did it early in the evening. The wires are down now, I fear." He
hesitated for a moment, staring at her as if trying to penetrate
the thick, wet veil. "I may have brought you on a fool's errand.
You see, I--I have seen Mr. Wrandall but once, in town somewhere,
and I may be wrong. Still, the coroner,--and the sheriff,--seemed
to think you should be notified,--I might say questioned. That is
why I called you up. I trust, madam, that I am mistaken."

"Yes," she said shrilly, betraying the intensity of her emotion.
It was as if she lacked the power to utter more than a single word,
which signified neither acquiescence nor approval.

He was ill-at-ease, distressed. "I have engaged a room for you at
the inn, Mrs. Wrandall. You did not bring a maid, I see. My wife
will come over from our place to stay with you if you--"

She shook her head. "Thank you, Mr. Drake. It will not be necessary.
I came alone by choice. I shall return to New York to-night."

"But you--why, you can't do that," he cried, holding back as they
started toward the door. "No trains stop here after ten o'clock.
The locals begin running at seven in the morning. Besides--"

She interrupted him. "May we not start now, Mr. Drake? I am--well,
you must see that I am suffering. I must see, I must know. The
suspense--" She did not complete the sentence, but hurried past
him to the door, throwing it open and bending her body to the gust
that burst in upon them.

He sprang after her, grasping her arm to lead her across the icy
platform to the automobile that stood in the lee of the building.

Disdaining his command to enter the tonneau, she stood beside the
car and waited until he cranked it and took his place at the wheel.
Then she took her seat beside him and permitted him to tuck the
great buffalo robe about her. No word was spoken. The man was a
stranger to her. She forgot his presence in the car.

Into the thick of the storm the motor chugged. Grim and silent,
the man at the wheel, ungoggled and tense, sent the whirring thing
swiftly over the trackless village street and out upon the open
country road. The woman closed her eyes and waited.

You would know the month was March. He said: "It comes in like a
lion," but apparently the storm swallowed the words for she made
no response to them.

They crossed the valley and crept up the tree-covered hill, where
the force of the gale was broken. If she heard him say: "Fierce,
wasn't it?" she gave no sign, but sat hunched forward, peering ahead
through the snow at the blurred lights that seemed so far away and
yet were close at hand.

"Is that the inn?" she asked as he swerved from the road a few
moments later.

"Yes, Mrs. Wrandall. We're here."

"Is--is he in there?"

"Where you see that lighted window upstairs." He tooted the horn
vigorously as he drew up to the long, low porch. Two men dashed
out from the doorway and clumsily assisted her from the car.

"Go right in, Mrs. Wrandall," said Drake. "I join you in a jiffy."

She walked between the two men into the feebly lighted office
of the inn. The keeper of the place, a dreary looking person with
dread in his eyes, hurried forward. She stopped stock-still. Some
one was brushing the stubborn, thickly caked snow from her long
chinchilla coat.

"You must let me get you something hot to drink, madam," the landlord
was saying dolorously.

She struggled with her veil, finally tearing it away from her face.
Then she took in the rather bare, cheerless room with a slow,
puzzled sweep of her eyes.

"No, thank you," she replied.

"It won't be any trouble, madam," urged the other. "It's right here.
The sheriff says it's all right to serve it, although it is after
hours. I run a respectable, law-abiding house. I wouldn't think of
offering it to anyone if it was in violation--"

"Never mind, Burton," interposed a big man, approaching. "Let the
lady choose for herself. If she wants it, she'll say so. I am the
sheriff, madam. This gentleman is the coroner, Dr. Sheef. We waited
up for you after Mr. Drake said you'd got the fast train to stop
for you. To-morrow morning would have done quite as well. I'm sorry
you came to-night in all this blizzard."

He was staring as if fascinated at the white, colourless face of
the woman who with nervous fingers unfastened the heavy coat that
enveloped her slender figure. She was young and strikingly beautiful,
despite the intense pallor that overspread her face. Her dark,
questioning, dreading eyes looked up into his with an expression
he was never to forget. It combined dread, horror, doubt and a
smouldering anger that seemed to overcast all other emotions that
lay revealed to him.

"This is a--what is commonly called a 'road-house'?" she asked
dully, her eyes narrowing suddenly as if in pain.

The inn-keeper made haste to resent the implied criticism.

"My place is a respectable, law-abiding--"

The sheriff waved him aside.

"It is an inn during the winter, Mrs. Wrandall, and a road-house
in the summer, if that makes it plain to you. I will say, however,
that Burton has always kept well within the law. This is the
first--er--real bit of trouble he's had, and I won't say it's his
fault. Keep quiet, Burton. No one is accusing you of anything wrong.
Don't whine about it."

"But my place is ruined," groaned the doleful one. "It's got a
black eye now. Not that I blame you, madam, but you can see how--"

He quailed before the steady look in her eyes, and turned away
mumbling.

There were half a dozen men in the room, besides the speakers,
sober-faced fellows who conversed in undertones and studiously kept
their backs to the woman who had just come among them. They were
grouped about the roaring fireplace in the lower end of the room.
Steam arose from their heavy winters garments. Their caps were
still drawn far down over their ears. These were men who had been
out in the night.

"There is a fire in the reception-room, madam," said the coroner;
"and the proprietor's wife to look out for you if you should require
anything. Will you go in there and compose yourself before going
upstairs? Or, if you would prefer waiting until morning, I shall
not insist on the--er--ordeal to-night."

"I prefer going up there to-night," said she steadily.

The men looked at each other, and the sheriff spoke. "Mr. Drake is
quite confident the--the man is your husband. It's an ugly affair,
Mrs. Wrandall. We had no means of identifying him until Drake came
in this evening, out of curiosity you might say. For your sake, I
hope he is mistaken."

"Would you mind telling me something about it before I go upstairs?
I am quite calm. I am prepared for anything. You need not hesitate."

"As you wish, madam. You will go into the reception-room, if you
please. Burton, is Mrs. Wrandall's room quite ready for her?"

"I shall not stay here to-night," interposed Mrs. Wrandall. "You
need not keep the room for me."

"But, my dear Mrs. Wrandall--"

"I shall wait in the railway station until morning if necessary.
But not here."

The coroner led the way to the cosy little room off the office.
She followed with the sheriff. The men looked worn and haggard in
the bright light that met them, as if they had not known sleep or
rest for many hours.

"The assistant district attorney was here until eleven, but went
home to get a little rest. It's been a hard case for all of us--a
nasty one," explained the sheriff, as he placed a chair in front
of the fire for her. She sank into it limply.

"Go on, please," she murmured, and shook her head at the nervous
little woman who bustled up and inquired if she could do anything
to make her more comfortable.

The sheriff cleared his throat. "Well, it happened last night. All
day long we've been trying to find out who he is, and ever since
eight o'clock this morning we've been searching for the woman who
came here with him. She has disappeared as completely as if swallowed
by the earth. Not a sign of a clew---not a shred. There's nothing
to show when she left the inn or by what means. All we know is that
the door to that room up there was standing half open when Burton
passed by it at seven o'clock this morning---that is to say, yesterday
morning, for this is now Wednesday. It is quite clear, from this,
that she neglected to close the door tightly when she came out,
probably through haste or fear, and the draft in the hall blew it
wider open during the night. Burton says the inn was closed for
the night at half-past ten. He went to bed. She must have slipped
out after every one was sound asleep. There were no other guests
on that floor. Burton and his wife sleep on this floor, and the
servants are at the top of the house and in a wing. No one heard
a sound. We have not the remotest idea when the thing happened, or
when she left the place. Dr. Sheef says the man had been dead for
six or eight hours when he first saw him, and that was very soon
after Burton's discovery. Burton, on finding the door open, naturally
suspected that his guests had skipped out during the night to avoid
paying the bill, and lost no time in entering the room.

"He found the man lying on the bed, sprawled out, face upward and
as dead as a mack--I should say, quite dead. He was partly dressed.
His coat and vest hung over the back of a chair. A small service
carving knife, belonging to the inn, had been driven squarely into
his heart and was found sticking there. Burton says that the man,
on their arrival at the inn, about nine o'clock at night, ordered
supper sent up to the room. The tray of dishes, with most of the food
untouched, and an empty champagne bottle, was found on the service
table near the hed. One of the chairs was overturned. The servant
who took the meal to the room says that the woman was sitting at
the window with her wraps on, motor veil and all, just as she was
when she came into the place. The man gave all the directions,
the woman apparently paying no attention to what was going on. The
waitress left the room without seeing her face. She had instructions
not to come for the tray until morning.

"That was the last time the man was seen alive. No one has seen
the woman since the door closed after the servant, who distinctly
remembers hearing the key turn in the lock as she went down the
hall. It seems pretty clear that the man ate and drank but not the
woman. Her food remained untouched on the plate and her glass was
full. 'Gad, it must have been a merry feast! I beg your pardon,
Mrs. Wrandall!"

"Go on, please," said she levelly.

"That's all there is to say so far as the actual crime is concerned.
There were signs of a struggle,--but it isn't necessary to go into
that. Now, as to their arrival at the inn. The blizzard had not
set in. Last night was dark, of course, as there is no moon, but
it was clear and rather warm for the time of year. The couple came
here about nine o'clock in a high power runabout machine, which
the man drove. They had no hand-baggage and apparently had run out
from New York. Burton says he was on the point of refusing them
accommodations when the man handed him a hundred dollar bill.
It was more than Burton's cupidity could withstand. They did not
register. The state license numbers had been removed from the
automobile, which was of foreign make. Of course, it was only a
question of time until we could have found out who the car belonged
to. It is perfectly obvious why he removed the numbers."

At this juncture Drake entered the room. Mrs. Wrandall did not at
first recognise him.

"It has stopped snowing," announced the new-comer.

"Oh, it is Mr. Drake," she murmured. "We have a little French car,
painted red," she announced to the sheriff without giving Drake
another thought.

"And this one is red, madam," said the sheriff, with a glance at
the coroner. Drake nodded his head. Mrs. Wrandall's body stiffened
perceptibly, as if deflecting a blow. "It is still standing in the
garage, where he left it on his arrival."

"Did no one see the face of--of the woman?" asked Mrs. Wrandall,
rather querulously. "It seems odd that no one should have seen her
face," she went on without waiting for an answer.

"It's not strange, madam, when you consider ALL the circumstances.
She was very careful not to remove her veil or her coat until the
door was locked. That proves that she was not the sort of woman
we usually find gallavanting around with men regardless of--ahem,
I beg your pardon. This must be very distressing to you."

"I am not sure, Mr. Sheriff, that it IS my husband who lies up
there. Please remember that," she said steadily. "It is easier to
hear the details now, before I KNOW, than it will be afterward if
it should turn out to be as Mr. Drake declares."

"I see," said the sheriff, marvelling.

"Besides, Mr. Drake is not POSITIVE," put in the coroner hopefully.

"I am reasonably certain," said Drake.

"Then all the more reason why I should have the story first," said
she, with a shiver that no one failed to observe.

The sheriff resumed his conclusions. "Women of the kind I referred
to a moment ago don't care whether they're seen or not. In fact,
they're rather brazen about it. But this one was different. She
was as far from that as it was possible for her to be. We haven't
been able to find any one who saw her face or who can give the least
idea as to what she looks like, excepting a general description of
her figure, her carriage, and the out-door garments she wore. We
have reason to believe she was young. She was modestly dressed. Her
coat was one of those heavy ulster affairs, such as a woman uses
in motoring or on a sea-voyage. There was a small sable stole about
her neck. The skirt was short, and she wore high black shoes of
the thick walking type. Judging from Burton's description she must
have been about your size and figure, Mrs. Wrandall. Isn't that
so, Mrs. Burton?"

The inn-keeper's wife spoke. "Yes, Mr. Harben, I'd say so myself.
About five feet six, I'd judge; rather slim and graceful-like, in
spite of the big coat."

Mrs. Wrandall was watching the woman's face. "I am five feet six,"
she said, as if answering a question.

The sheriff cleared his throat somewhat needlessly.

"Burton says she acted as if she were a lady," he went on. "Not the
kind that usually comes out here on such expeditions, he admits.
She did not speak to any one, except once in very low tones to the
man she was with, and then she was standing by the fireplace out in
the main office, quite a distance from the desk. She went upstairs
alone, and he gave some orders to Burton before following her.
That was the last time Burton saw her. The waitress went up with
a specially prepared supper about half an hour later."

"It seems quite clear, Mrs. Wrandall, that she robbed the man after
stabbing him," said the coroner.

Mrs. Wrandall started. "Then she was NOT a lady, after all," she
said quickly. There was a note of relief in her voice. It was as
if she had put aside a half-formed conclusion.

"His pockets were empty. Not a penny had been left. Watch, cuff-links,
scarf pin, cigarette case, purse and bill folder,--all gone. Burton
had seen most of these articles in the office."

"Isn't it--but no! Why should I be the one to offer a suggestion
that might be construed as a defence for this woman?"

"You were about to suggest, madam, that some one else might have
taken the valuables--is that it?" cried the sheriff.

"Had you thought of it, Mr. Sheriff?"

"I had not. It isn't reasonable. No one about this place is suspected.
We have thought of this, however: the murderess may have taken
all of these things away with her in order to prevent immediate
identification of her victim. She may have been clever enough for
that. It would give her a start."

"Not an unreasonable conclusion, when you stop to consider, Mr.
Sheriff, that the man took the initiative in that very particular,"
said Mrs. Wrandall in such a self-contained way that the three men
looked at her in wonder. Then she came abruptly to her feet. "It
is very late, gentlemen. I am ready to go upstairs, Mr. Sheriff."

"I must warn you, madam, that Mr. Drake is reasonably certain that
it is your husband," said the coroner uncomfortably. "You may not
be prepared for the shock that--"

"I shall not faint, Dr. Sheef. If it IS my husband I shall ask you
to leave me alone in the room with him for a little while." The
final word trailed out into a long, tremulous wail, showing how near
she was to the breaking point in her wonderful effort at self-control.
The men looked away hastily. They heard her draw two or three deep,
quavering breaths; they could almost feel the tension that she was
exercising over herself.

The doctor turned after a moment and spoke very gently, but with
professional firmness. "You must not think of venturing out in this
wretched night, madam. It would be the worst kind of folly. Surely
you will be guided by me--by your own common sense. Mrs. Burton
will be with you--"

"Thank you, Dr. Sheef," she interposed calmly. "If what we all fear
should turn out to be the truth, I could not stay here. I could
not breathe. I could not live. If, on the other hand, Mr. Drake is
mistaken, I shall stay. But if it is my husband, I cannot remain
under the same roof with him, even though he be dead. I do not
expect you to understand my feelings. It would be asking too much
of men,--too much."

"I think I understand," murmured Drake.

"Come," said the sheriff, arousing himself with an effort.

She moved swiftly after him. Drake and the coroner, following
close behind with Mrs. Burton, could not take their eyes from the
slender, graceful figure. She was a revelation to them. Feeling as
they did that she was about to be confronted by the most appalling
crisis imaginable, they could not but marvel at her composure.
Drake's mind dwelt on the stories of the guillotine and the heroines
who went up to it in those bloody days without so much as a quiver
of dread. Somehow, to him, this woman was a heroine.

They passed into the hall and mounted the stairs. At the far end
of the corridor, a man was seated in front of a closed door. He
arose as the party approached. The sheriff signed for him to open
the door he guarded. As he did so, a chilly blast of air blew upon
the faces of those in the hall. The curtains in the window of the
room were flapping and whipping in the wind. Mrs. Wrandall caught
her breath. For the briefest instant, it seemed as though she was
on the point of faltering. She dropped farther behind the sheriff,
her limbs suddenly stiff, her hand going out to the wall as if for
support. The next moment she was moving forward resolutely into
the icy, dimly lighted room.

A single electric light gleamed in the corner beside the bureau.
Near the window stood the bed. She went swiftly toward it, her
eyes fastened upon the ridge that ran through the centre of it: a
still, white ridge that seemed without beginning or end.

With nervous fingers, the attendant lifted the sheet at the head
of the bed and turned it back. As he let it fall across the chest
of the dead man, he drew back and turned his face away.

She bent forward and then straightened her figure to its full
height, without for an instant removing her gaze from the face of
the man who lay before her: a dark-haired man grey in death, who
must have been beautiful to look upon in the flush of life.

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