Arrow Pointing Nowhere by Elizabeth Daly Page A

snowballs at me when I was a child around the house. My father was coachman here, and my mother was cook. Long ago.”
    She went out of the room and down the hall. Harold, warming himself, looked about him at the Fenbrook drawing room. He said: “Not so bad. Not so bad. I like the little railings on the furniture. What’s the color of those curtains?”
    â€œPeachblow.”
    â€œThis place was fixed to last.”
    â€œIt has a permanent look.”
    â€œDressy for a country house.”
    â€œOh, no. They’d put the room into chintz for the summer.”
    â€œYou were right about it, Mr. Hendrix. It’s a good kind of house.”
    â€œWe had one once.”
    There was a rush of feet on the stairs, and then a girl came to the doorway. She stood looking at them and smiling. Slim, but strongly built; dark hair rolling back from a low forehead, eyes a shade lighter, the color of brown amber; a clear skin, red-flushed; features that gave the effect of having been carved too finely from delicate material. They gave her, in spite of her obvious health and high spirits, a plaintive look; Gamadge thought of drawings in red or brown chalk, under glass, in museums. Her green knitted dress was faded, her brown shoes had seen long service.
    â€œI’m Hilda Grove, Mr. Hendrix,” she said.
    Gamadge came forward. “May I introduce Sergeant Bantz, Miss Grove? I don’t know him at all, but I think you’ll like him.”
    Miss Grove shook hands with Gamadge and with Harold. She said: “I think it’s awful—your both climbing the hill and finding nobody but the Dobsons and me on top of it. Let’s all sit down.”
    They all sat down. Gamadge said: “We really mustn’t stay. I’d better be telephoning—I must get to New York. Utterly stupid of me to think the family would be here, transportation being what it is just now. I had some wandering thoughts about the weekend, I suppose, this being Sunday.”
    â€œMr. Fenway—both the Mr. Fenways—will be sick about it.”
    â€œI only know Mr. Mott.”
    â€œIsn’t he nice? But they’re all so nice. Mr. Hendrix—must you and the sergeant go away before supper? It’s frightfully early, but mine’s all ready, and Mrs. Dobson says there’s plenty of everything. She does so want you both to stay, if you don’t mind ham and eggs.”
    Gamadge said: “I had no notion it was so late.”
    â€œOh, it isn’t; it’s only six-twenty.”
    â€œAnd I must get a train that will reach New York before nine.”
    â€œThere’s one just after eight. You’ll have lots of time for supper.”
    â€œIf you and Mrs. Dobson actually mean it, Miss Grove—” Gamadge looked at Harold—“and the sergeant and I have the colossal nerve—”
    Harold said: “I have if you have.”
    She rose. “Then I’ll tell Mrs. Dobson, and Mr. Dobson will show you the downstairs dressing room. You might like to call your taxi now, there’s a telephone in the coatroom. The taxis are rather slow sometimes, and when it’s snowy everybody wants one.”
    She went out of the room with a backward glance of pure delight. The two stood silent. At last Harold asked: “Is she or isn’t she good-looking?”
    Gamadge threw him a glance of mingled pity and disgust.
    â€œAnyway,” continued Harold, “she’s O.K. So is Mrs. Dobson.”
    â€œYes, and that fixes you, Sergeant. You’ll spend the night at the Oaktree Inn.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œI don’t know. I must get further instructions. But if I go back to New York you’ll have to stay within walking distance of Fenbrook.”
    â€œWhat’s this Oaktree Inn, and do they sell toothbrushes?”
    â€œIt’s a place on the Albany Road, very expensive. I’ve often passed it in the car. We’ll call up and get you a room.