Arrow Pointing Nowhere by Elizabeth Daly Page B

You can taxi down to the village with me and buy yourself what you need.”
    Harold muttered that he would probably need flannel pyjamas.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Not Lonely
    A N APPLE-CHEEKED MAN in a high pair of rubber boots came shyly to the door. He introduced himself as Dobson, and conducted the guests to the coatroom under the stairs where the telephone was. A well-appointed dressing room opened from it. While Harold washed, Gamadge looked up the 8:01 train to New York, and then ordered a taxi to meet it. He next engaged a room at the Oaktree Inn for Sergeant Bantz; the Oaktree seemed pleasantly surprised.
    Harold came out of the dressing room drying his hands. He said it was a crime.
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œEating here under a false name, and telling all these whoppers to that girl. You’ll feel pretty small when she and the Dobsons find out that we were here under false pretenses.”
    â€œIf they ever do find out, they’ll have reason to forgive me.”
    â€œI’m beginning to think you got your signals wrong. There’s nothing for me to do up here.”
    â€œYou hang on till further notice. I’ll keep in touch with you.”
    When they went out into the hall again Mrs. Dobson met them, beaming. She said: “I’m glad you’re going to stay, sir and Sergeant. It’s company for the young lady.”
    â€œLonely for her, is it, with the family away?”
    â€œShe don’t say so, and in good weather it ain’t so bad. She keeps out of doors a good deal, she works in the garden. But we’ve been snowed in.”
    Gamadge had a suspicion that this was being said in the hope that it would reach Fenway ears. He told Mrs. Dobson that he agreed with her that it must be a dull life for a young person.
    â€œAnd all that bother about the picture being lost out of the book. We don’t know anything about the picture, or the book either.”
    â€œA picture has been lost?”
    â€œTwenty years ago, perhaps, and Miss Grove has only been sorting the books and papers for a couple of weeks. But Mr. Fenway don’t blame us, of course. It’s hard for her to have all the responsibility, though, and nobody to help her. It isn’t as if she had friends here; she was brought up in foreign cities, with winter sports on the Alps and I don’t know what all. She has no young friends at all in this country. There’s no kinder, nicer lady than Miss Caroline, but she don’t understand, she has so many friends of her own.”
    Gamadge smiled at Mrs. Dobson. “I’ll drop a word to Mr. Mott Fenway when I see him. I won’t quote you, you know.”
    â€œWell, sir, I’d be obliged if you wouldn’t; it’s none of my business. Miss Grove would like to learn how to be a real secretary somewhere, or do war work; but Mrs. Grove won’t let anything interfere with Mr. Blake Fenway’s plans, and I don’t wonder. Still, this isn’t like a real job, sir, where you’re independent and meet other young people.”
    Gamadge was quite sure that Mrs. Dobson was no idle gossip, and that it had cost her something to risk her standing with the Fenways in order to put Hilda Grove’s case before him. That he had been chosen as intermediary did not surprise him; he was used to the role.
    â€œI see the point,” he said.
    â€œShe’s in the dining room, sir; you go through the parlor.”
    The dining room was beamed and wainscoted in oak; two corner cupboards rose to the ceiling, whence descended a bronze chandelier. Hilda stood in front of an oak buffet, her hands behind her, contemplating a bottle. She had changed into a lavender dress; it was a summer dress, and it was old. Its thin draperies of skirt and bodice made her look taller, younger and more fragile. Gamadge said from the doorway: “Rossetti never came within a thousand miles of them but once.”
    â€œOf whom?” she asked, looking at him in