“Imagine,” she said slowly, “imagine seeking a mate when she goes along with him.”
“Perhaps that’s why she does it,” Paula said with a wry smile. “She’s a wise child.”
“What was she talking about?”
“Murderers and murders and her own peculiar talents in that field.”
“Oh.” Isobel turned away, frowning. “She seems rather mature along certain lines, doesn’t she? But perhaps she has to be to make up for Poppa’s immaturity.”
But Paula was no longer listening. Her thoughts had returned to Chad and the haunted unhappy look came back into her eyes. Perhaps the girl is right, she thought, and I’m afraid to take a chance, I’m too timid to live.
Mrs. Vista sailed into the room with a pile of plates and a virtuous look in her eye.
“Where is that snippet?” she demanded. “She was supposed to be setting this table.”
“I’ll do it,” Paula said listlessly.
“Well, I should think so,” Mrs. Vista said in a tone of indignant righteousness. “I cannot be everywhere at once, and Mr. Crawford must be fed adequately before he sets out to risk his life for us.”
It was apparent that Crawford had been working on Mrs. Vista with some success. It was also apparent, later on, that as Crawford’s stock went up Mr. Goodwin’s went down. There was a strange speculative expression in Mrs. Vista’s eye when she gazed at Mr. Goodwin across the table.
Mr. Goodwin, aware of the expression and conscious that he was slipping, chewed his beans and bread very mobilely, and let a glazed look come into his own eyes. It was Mr. Goodwin’s composing look, but far from having the desired effect, it caused Mrs. Vista to wince quite audibly, and turn her attention to Crawford, the hero of the day.
Crawford was doing his best to look like a hero, and except for the occasional wink he gave to Isobel, he was succeeding.
No one paid much attention to Dubois, and this fact Isobel found strange until she studied him more closely. He seemed to have changed, he looked smaller, almost inconspicuous, and he ate quietly and without interest. Whereas before his quietness had had an effective, almost a sinister, quality, now he appeared merely an ordinary man who didn’t want to talk.
Isobel was affected by the change in him. It forced her to doubt her own impressions of him or else to credit him with extraordinary acting talent.
Or perhaps he really has changed, she thought. Perhaps Crawford really scared him.
She turned her head to look at Dubois and caught his eyes on her. He was regarding her with a blank impassive gaze, as if he had never met her before or knew her so well he was bored by her.
Then he lowered his eyes again and resumed eating.
She said, “I hope you won’t find it too difficult taking Mr. Crawford with you.”
He shrugged, without looking up from his plate. “I am happy to help you,” he said.
“Is there any danger?”
“I think not. This part of the country is sparsely populated but not desolate. I will direct myself by the sun.”
Although he had replied politely enough to her questions, Isobel felt rebuffed and uncomfortable. He seemed to have drawn a curtain over his own personality and the curtain was as opaque and strong as steel.
Isobel thought, I’ve felt like this before — somewhere — the same impassivity.
She stopped eating suddenly and her knife clattered to the floor. I’ve seen him before, she thought. I’ve seen his picture somewhere.
Dubois leaned down to pick up the knife and when he handed it to her their eyes met again.
He put his hand over his heart suddenly and let out a small groan and began to sway in his chair.
“I’m... sick,” he said in a painful whisper. “Help me — help...”
He lurched to his feet, his hands clutching at Isobel’s shoulders for support. His fingers dug painfully into her flesh.
“... help me!”
He was deathly pale and there was stark fear in his eyes.
14
In an instant Crawford was on his feet and had reached out and grabbed Dubois’ arm. He hurried him out of the door, with Isobel supporting Dubois’ other arm. Crawford moved so quickly and quietly that the others, deep in conversation, barely noticed that Dubois was sick.
They put him on the chesterfield in the sitting room and Crawford opened the bottle of Seagram’s and forced some of the rye down Dubois’ throat. Dubois spluttered and groaned and tried to sit up.
“Lie down,” Crawford said. “Drink this.”
Isobel, frightened and puzzled, stood behind the chesterfield. “What’s the matter with him?” she asked Crawford.
“How should I know? Can you get some water or something?”
Dubois was moving his mouth but not a sound came from it.
Isobel fled from the room and came back in a minute with a glass of water.
There was no one there.
She stood, frozen, only her eyes moving around the room, frantic and wild. Then her hands began to shake and the water splashed out of the glass on her arm. But she did not feel its wetness or coldness, there was no feeling in her at all except a powerful fear which weighed her feet and chilled the back of her neck like cold wind.
“Mr. Dubois,” she said, and her voice came out of her mouth in a thin trickle. “Mr. Dubois, where are you?”
Turn and run, a voice screamed inside her, turn and run, run...
Isobel felt the slight movement behind her and half turned.
“Don’t move,” Dubois said.
She knew, without thinking, that he had been behind the door waiting for her to come back.
“So you know me,” Dubois said. “I saw you recognize me suddenly at the table.” Isobel felt her knees folding and a swift black curtain blowing over her eyes. She seemed to float to the floor, feather-light, and the floor was soft as a pillow. She closed her eyes gratefully.
She did not feel Dubois picking her up and carrying her out into the hall. He staggered under her weight, and cursed, and began mounting the steps. Someone came into the hall below, and Dubois stopped halfway up and saw that it was Chad Ross.
“She’s fainted,” he said to Chad. “I’m taking her to her room. The strain has been too much for her.”
Chad stared, but said nothing, and Dubois continued on his way. Isobel did not stir.
He put her down on the bed in the first room he came to. When he saw that she was still unconscious he left her for a moment to pour out a glass of water from the water pitcher.
He poured the water and came back to her and tried to force her mouth open. She moved slightly.
“Here,” he said. “Drink this up. You fainted.”
Her eyes fluttered and opened a little, and he saw by the fear in them that she was fully conscious.
“Drink it up,” he said. “You don’t have to be frightened of me.”
“No! No, I won’t drink it!” She wanted to scream but her throat seemed paralyzed and she spoke in a whisper. “No! No.”
“Don’t be childish,” he said gently. “You cannot harm me by knowing who I am, and I have no desire to harm you.”
She sat up and tried suddenly to push the water away so that it would spill. But he was prepared for this and drew his hand back quickly.
His other hand came around the back of her neck and she felt her strength leaving her. The water trickled down her throat and he didn’t ease the pressure until it was all gone. Then he set the glass down carefully, and with no emotion at all he put one hand over her mouth and with the other held her arms.
“You’re going to sleep now,” he said evenly.
He waited until her eyelids began to close and he no longer felt her muscles struggling against his hands. Then he rose from the bed and went calmly out into the hall and closed the door behind him.