“I’m afraid I don’t know any other people to ask,” Linda said slowly.
“Well, after all,” Rob replied, “we were a little cramped, and we had quite a bit of baggage on the roof.”
Her steady hazel eyes regarded him with a slight twinkle. “Are you suggesting,” she began, “that we...”
“Definitely,” Rob Trenton concluded.
She mulled the situation thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t look good. The Garden Club in Falthaven wouldn’t approve — if it knew.”
“But it would be fun,” Rob insisted, hopefully. “We could pretend Frank and Marion were here with us, and, as you pointed out, the Falthaven Garden Club wouldn’t need to know a thing about it.”
“I didn’t point out anything of the sort.”
“Well, you pointed out the way for me to point it out.”
Linda considered the matter for several seconds. “No funny business,” she said at length.
Rob pretended to debate the matter with himself. “No funny business,” he promised at length and with such exaggerated reluctance that Linda burst out laughing.
And so they had embarked upon the second stage of an idyllic holiday, stopping at little taverns where the showing of two passports and the request for two rooms at the time of registration invariably provoked voluble protest and shrugs of despair.
Linda made sketches, which only she ever saw, and planned an itinerary which gave Rob the chance he wanted to find out about methods used in the training of dogs for military purposes — as much as was permitted for a civilian to learn.
Shortly after they left Interlaken, Linda told Rob that there was a little inn which she wanted to visit. Some relative of hers had been there the year before and had asked Linda to look in and say hello and present a letter to the owner. “Do you mind?” she asked.
Rob Trenton shook his head. He would cheerfully have stayed days, weeks, or months at any place. In the back of his mind he was serenely aware that, despite the barrier of mystery concerning Linda’s personal background, their companionship was daily growing and maturing with time, just as fruit hanging on a tree sweetens and ripens.
The inn turned out to be a neat little place and the proprietor, René Charteux, sad-eyed, quiet and courteous, took the letter Linda presented to him, seemed greatly moved by it and extended to Linda the hospitality of the place.
The little car, which had done so bravely during the journey, developed a leak in the radiator while standing in front of the inn, and René Charteux agreed to have a mechanic come and repair the car, while Rob and Linda looked around and enjoyed the beautiful scenery.
There had, he explained as he unloaded their baggage, been a tragedy in the family very recently. His good wife, who had been so friendly with Linda’s aunt when she had been at the inn for several days during the preceding year, had passed away.
René Charteux paused in carrying the baggage. He looked as though he might be ready to cry, but after a moment picked up the baggage again and carried it to their rooms. Then he was back to see that his guests were made comfortable and to see about getting the mechanic.
There was one other American guest, the proprietor told them. He showed the name scrawled on the register in forceful, masculine handwriting, Merton Ostrander, Los Angeles, California, U.S.A. There was no street address.
Rob Trenton made friends with the dachshund that waddled about the inn with droll indignity, while Linda Carrol looked around at the pictures, at the old dishes, then finally suggested a stroll.
M. Charteux, in his sad-eyed way, became enthusiastic over a very fine vista which he said was to be viewed by taking a trail which wound along the plateau, then ascended in zigzags to a wooded peak. It was, he explained in his perfect English, an easy climb and well worth it. Merton Ostrander frequently walked up this trail and made sketches.
So Rob and Linda started up the trail, and some half mile from the inn came on a tall blond, clad in serviceable tweeds. As Rob saw the sketch-book under the man’s arm, he said to Linda, “No chance of muffing this one, is there?”
Ostrander showed surprise suddenly faced by the two Americans.
Trenton extended his hand. “Mr. Livingstone, I presume.”
“Stanley!” Ostrander exclaimed, grabbing the outstretched hand and pumping it up and down. “How the devil did you ever locate me?”
“Looked on the register of the inn,” Linda Carroll said, laughing. “Despite the fact that you had registered under the alias of Merton Ostrander, we knew you, Mr. Livingstone.”
“And do I have to look at the register to find out your aliases, Mr. and Mr.s Stanley?” he asked
“Not Mr. and Mr.s,” she said. “I’m Linda Carroll, and this is Rob Trenton.”
She noted the swift questioning glance as Ostrander shifted his gaze to Rob, and she went on hurriedly, “We’re the sole survivors of a foursome which was shattered on the rocks of business. My friends, Mr. and Mr.s Essex, were suddenly called back to the States.”
She flushed as she realized she had emphasized the Mr. and Mr.s, and that Merton Ostrander had been quick enough to understand and to smile a little at that emphasis.
“You’re an artist?” she asked abruptly.
“Not an artist,” Ostrander told her, “but I find I can capture what I want with a sketchbook better than with a camera. I like to be able to recall things that I’ve seen and I’m a very indifferent photographer. I always have a tendency to move the camera, or forget to turn the film. Even when I watch myself and take a really perfect picture, it always turns out I’ve missed the exposure and the thing is drab and grey. Now with my sketchbook I can pick out the things I want and put them on paper.”
He gestured to the sketchbook under his arm but made no offer to show them any of the sketches.
“If you’re interested in scenery,” Ostrander went on affably, “I’ll be only too glad to turn around, act as guide, and show you one of the most beautiful little glades in the world.”
“We’d love to be guided,” Linda said.
Merton Ostrander, turning back up the trail, swinging along with the easy stride of a man who is accustomed to hiking, commented on the tragedy at the inn. “The proprietor lost his wife just a few days ago. A most tragic occurrence. The woman had been picking native mushrooms all her life; but of late her eyes had been getting bad, and you know how these people are; they wouldn’t pay out the money for glasses. Madame Charteux considered them an extravagance — that’s the only way we can explain it.”
“A toadstool?” Linda asked.
“Apparently a toadstool, and apparently only one, because she was the only one who felt any ill effects.”
Ostrander was silent for a few seconds, then made an uneasy motion with his shoulders. “I ate with them; had some of the same food. There weren’t many mushrooms, you understand, just a few, but I keep thinking of what would have happened — or what might have happened.”
“Just the two of them in the family?” Linda asked.
“No, there’s a daughter, Marie. I’m surprised you didn’t meet her. She’s a beautiful little thing, and, of course, she’s in something of a daze. She’s only sixteen, but you’d think she was twenty... dark, well-developed, smoldering eyes that seem to reflect an inner fire. How long are you intending to stay?”
“Just overnight.”
“Oh.” Ostrander’s face showed a faint flicker of disappointment.
“You’ve been here long?” Trenton asked.
“Several weeks,” Ostrander said, laughing. “I can’t remember whether it’s six or eight. Up here, time passes as smoothly as the running of a jeweled watch — but the inn is different now, of course. Living in that atmosphere of grief is... well, in a way I’m one of the family and I’ve hesitated to leave because I know how they’d feel. They’ve come to depend on me. However... well, let’s go on up to the plateau and look at the scenery from there. Are you by any chance an artist?” he asked Linda Carroll.