and Morland Van Wyck were already at the table. The ladies, Morland informed me, breakfasted in their own rooms.
“And your father?” I asked, as I seated myself.
“Oh, Dad’s usually the earliest bird about. His interview with that precious committee last night must have worn him out, and he’s sleeping late.”
“Then, the committee succeeded in their fell design?” asked Archer.
“Yes, they succeeded, but you mustn’t say fell design. Dad was in no way coerced by those men. In fact, he—”
“He coerced them to take his money?” I asked, smiling.
“Not quite that,” returned Morland; “but they were very fair about it. They put it to him squarely that he was doing injustice to his family by such a gift. You know what Dad is. The more they objected, the more determined he was to have his way.”
“If they had seemed eager for the money,” observed Archer, “Mr. Van Wyck might have reconsidered.”
“Exactly that,” agreed Morland. “Father’s very perversity made him insist on carrying out his plan. So, he made out a deed of gift, and though the whole matter wasn’t entirely settled up, yet it is practically decided, and we Van Wycks are no longer rich people.”
“It’s an outrage!” I cried, thinking of Anne’s deprivation. “Is Mr. Van Wyck a Socialist?”
“Oh, no,” said Morland; “not a bit of that. Mrs. Carstairs is the only Socialist in this household. Father’s idea is philanthropy,—and he suddenly took a notion that the time to practise that, is during one’s lifetime, and not by a will.”
“Is Mrs. Carstairs a Socialist?” I inquired, my mind going back to her strange, almost weird personality.
“She’s everything that’s queer,” said Morland, with a grim smile. “I don’t profess to understand her. But I do know she has some peculiar influence over my father. I’m not sure she persuaded him to give this Library to the town, but I know she had a hand in it.”
“Why should she want him to do such a thing?” I asked in surprise.
Morland glanced about, and as there seemed to be no servant in hearing, he said, in a low voice:
“She hates Anne, and she wants Dad’s money to go anywhere, rather than to his family.”
“Does she hate the rest of you?” I asked, in a whisper.
“She’s indifferent to Barb and me. But she’s actively hostile to Anne. Of course the presumption is, that she hoped to catch Dad in her own net, and failing, resented his marriage to another woman.”
“She doesn’t seem to show any especial interest in your father,” commented Archer.
“You can’t judge,” Morland said. “She’s a deep one; I never saw such a woman. She must be over forty, and she looks like a girl. I steer clear of her always. She’s too many for me.”
“She certainly has a strange manner,” I began, and then paused, as I heard a step behind me.
“Morland,” said a low voice from the hall, and I looked up to see Anne standing in the doorway. She wore a rose-colored boudoir gown and a lacy cap. She was pale, and her small white hand grasped nervously at the portiere.
“What is it, Anne?” said Morland, as we all rose.
“Your father—he—he hasn’t been in his room all night. He’s locked in the study, and Carstairs can’t get in.”
Carstairs, the young English valet, was behind Anne, and, though his expression was the conventional blank, his face was white and his eyes showed a vague fear.
“Whew!” exclaimed Morland. “Stayed in there all night! Must have fallen asleep after his committee meeting.”
“But Carstairs has pounded on the door, and I’ve called and called,” said Anne, nervously. “Won’t you come?”
Morland went at once, and Archer and I hesitatingly followed.
We paused as we passed through the drawing-room, but then, hearing Morland’s loud calls, with apparently no response, we went on through the corridor that led to the study.
“Nothing doing,” said Morland, as we approached; and though his tone was light, I saw that he was seriously alarmed.
“Can’t we get in the other door?” I suggested; and Archer added, “Or a window?”
“Not through the windows, sir,” said Carstairs. “They’re all fastened inside.”
“The outside door, then,” said I, and Archer followed me as we went back through the corridor, out on the terrace, and tried to open the massive doors of the study. But we might as well have attempted to enter a locked cathedral. We tried to peer in at the windows, but the inner blinds were drawn, and we could see nothing. We returned to the house, where Anne and Morland were still endeavoring to get a response to their repeated calls.
“Looks queer,” said Morland, shaking his head. “I’m afraid old Dad has had a stroke or something.”
His tone seemed to me altogether too careless for the possibility he was suggesting, but my interest and attention were centred on Anne. She was trembling violently, her face was white and drawn, and her eyes had a haunted look, as of a terrible fear.
“We must get in,” she whispered. “Something must have happened.”
“Shall we break down the door?” I asked.
“Impossible,” said Archer. “I doubt if six men could break in that door.”
“That’s right,” said Morland. “These old doors are not the flimsy sort they make nowadays. We must pick the lock. Carstairs, go for Ranney, the garage mechanician. He can manage it. Tell him to bring tools.”
The valet made a queer, unintelligible sound in his throat, and trembling greatly, leaned against the wall.
“I—c-can’t, sir,” he said, and really, the man seemed on the verge of collapse.
“What!” cried Morland; “you must! No nonsense! Go at once for Ranney.”
“I’ll go,” I volunteered, for Carstairs was positively unable to move.
I ran to the garage and called Ranney, making as little fuss as possible, for I didn’t want a panic among the stablemen. I felt sure that David Van Wyck had suffered an apoplectic or paralytic stroke, and the immediate necessity was to get to him.
“What is it, sir?” said Ranney, touching his cap as he came forward.
“Bring some tools,” I said, “to force open a locked door. And then, come on to the study, with no questions.”
“Very good, sir.”
In a moment I had rejoined the group of people clustered at the study door.
“I wish you would go to your room, Anne,” Archer was saying, gently. “I’m sure it would be better.”
“Yes, do,” said Morland. “Where’s your maid? . . . Here, Jeannette!”
And as the frightened maid appeared, Morland said, “Take care of Mrs. Van Wyck. Take her to her room, stay with her, and don’t chatter to her.”
The suite of rooms occupied by Anne and her husband were close at hand, and as maid and mistress disappeared, Ranney came.
“Get to work and open that door,” ordered Morland. “Pick the lock or cut it out, whichever is necessary, but get us in.”
Ranney picked the lock skilfully and rapidly, but still the door refused to open. “It’s bolted,” he said.
“Cut out the bolt,” said Morland, on whom the suspense was beginning to tell.
Ranney