Read Online The Breaking Point by Mary Roberts Rinehart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Roberts Rinehart
Tags: Mystery
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mountains, where men wore quaint clothing and the women
rode wild horses and had the dash she knew she lacked. She was stirred
by vague jealousy.
"You may never come back," she said, casually. "After all, you were born
there, and we must seem very quiet to you."
"Quiet!" he exclaimed. "You are heavenly restful and comforting. You—"
he checked himself and got up. "Then I'm to write, and you are to make
out as much of my scrawl as you can and answer. Is that right?"
"I'll write you all the town gossip."
"If you do—!" he threatened her. "You're to write me what you're doing,
and all about yourself. Remember, I'll be counting on you."
And, if their voices were light, there was in both of them the sense
of a pact made, of a bond that was to hold them, like clasped hands,
against their coming separation. It was rather anti-climacteric after
that to have him acknowledge that he didn't know exactly when he could
get away!
She went with him to the door and stood there, her soft hair blowing, as
he got into the car. When he looked back, as he turned the corner, she
was still there. He felt very happy affable, and he picked up an elderly
village woman with her and went considerably out of his way to take her
home.
He got back to the office at half past six to find a red-eyed Minnie in
the hall.
X
*
AT half past five that afternoon David had let himself into the house
with his latch key, hung up his overcoat on the old walnut hat rack, and
went into his office. The strain of the days before had told on him, and
he felt weary and not entirely well. He had fallen asleep in his buggy,
and had wakened to find old Nettie drawing him slowly down the main
street of the town, pursuing an erratic but homeward course, while the
people on the pavements watched and smiled.
He went into his office, closed the door, and then, on the old leather
couch with its sagging springs he stretched himself out to finish his
nap.
Almost immediately, however, the doorbell rang, and a moment later
Minnie opened his door.
"Gentleman to see you, Doctor David."
He got up clumsily and settled his collar. Then he opened the door into
his waiting-room.
"Come in," he said resignedly.
A small, dapper man, in precisely the type of clothes David most
abominated, and wearing light-colored spats, rose from his chair and
looked at him with evident surprise.
"I'm afraid I've made a mistake. A Doctor Livingstone left his seat
number for calls at the box office of the Annex Theater last night—the
Happy Valley company—but he was a younger man. I—"
David stiffened, but he surveyed his visitor impassively from under his
shaggy white eyebrows.
"I haven't been in a theater for a dozen years, sir."
Gregory was convinced that he had made a mistake. Like Louis Bassett,
the very unlikeliness of Jud Clark being connected with the domestic
atmosphere and quiet respectability of the old house made him feel
intrusive and absurd. He was about to apologize and turn away, when he
thought of something.
"There are two names on your sign. The other one, was he by any chance
at the theater last night?"
"I think I shall have to have a reason for these inquiries," David said
slowly.
He was trying to place Gregory, to fit him into the situation; straining
back over ten years of security, racking his memory, without result.
"Just what have you come to find out?" he asked, as Gregory turned and
looked around the room.
"The other Doctor Livingstone is your brother?"
"My nephew."
Gregory shot a sharp glance at him, but all he saw was an elderly man,
with heavy white hair and fierce shaggy eyebrows, a portly and dignified
elderly gentleman, rather resentfully courteous.
"Sorry to trouble you," he said. "I suppose I've made a mistake. I—is
your nephew at home?"
"No."
"May I see a picture of him, if you have one?"
David's wild impulse was to smash Gregory to the earth, to annihilate
him. His collar felt tight, and he pulled it away from his throat.
"Not unless I know
rode wild horses and had the dash she knew she lacked. She was stirred
by vague jealousy.
"You may never come back," she said, casually. "After all, you were born
there, and we must seem very quiet to you."
"Quiet!" he exclaimed. "You are heavenly restful and comforting. You—"
he checked himself and got up. "Then I'm to write, and you are to make
out as much of my scrawl as you can and answer. Is that right?"
"I'll write you all the town gossip."
"If you do—!" he threatened her. "You're to write me what you're doing,
and all about yourself. Remember, I'll be counting on you."
And, if their voices were light, there was in both of them the sense
of a pact made, of a bond that was to hold them, like clasped hands,
against their coming separation. It was rather anti-climacteric after
that to have him acknowledge that he didn't know exactly when he could
get away!
She went with him to the door and stood there, her soft hair blowing, as
he got into the car. When he looked back, as he turned the corner, she
was still there. He felt very happy affable, and he picked up an elderly
village woman with her and went considerably out of his way to take her
home.
He got back to the office at half past six to find a red-eyed Minnie in
the hall.
X
*
AT half past five that afternoon David had let himself into the house
with his latch key, hung up his overcoat on the old walnut hat rack, and
went into his office. The strain of the days before had told on him, and
he felt weary and not entirely well. He had fallen asleep in his buggy,
and had wakened to find old Nettie drawing him slowly down the main
street of the town, pursuing an erratic but homeward course, while the
people on the pavements watched and smiled.
He went into his office, closed the door, and then, on the old leather
couch with its sagging springs he stretched himself out to finish his
nap.
Almost immediately, however, the doorbell rang, and a moment later
Minnie opened his door.
"Gentleman to see you, Doctor David."
He got up clumsily and settled his collar. Then he opened the door into
his waiting-room.
"Come in," he said resignedly.
A small, dapper man, in precisely the type of clothes David most
abominated, and wearing light-colored spats, rose from his chair and
looked at him with evident surprise.
"I'm afraid I've made a mistake. A Doctor Livingstone left his seat
number for calls at the box office of the Annex Theater last night—the
Happy Valley company—but he was a younger man. I—"
David stiffened, but he surveyed his visitor impassively from under his
shaggy white eyebrows.
"I haven't been in a theater for a dozen years, sir."
Gregory was convinced that he had made a mistake. Like Louis Bassett,
the very unlikeliness of Jud Clark being connected with the domestic
atmosphere and quiet respectability of the old house made him feel
intrusive and absurd. He was about to apologize and turn away, when he
thought of something.
"There are two names on your sign. The other one, was he by any chance
at the theater last night?"
"I think I shall have to have a reason for these inquiries," David said
slowly.
He was trying to place Gregory, to fit him into the situation; straining
back over ten years of security, racking his memory, without result.
"Just what have you come to find out?" he asked, as Gregory turned and
looked around the room.
"The other Doctor Livingstone is your brother?"
"My nephew."
Gregory shot a sharp glance at him, but all he saw was an elderly man,
with heavy white hair and fierce shaggy eyebrows, a portly and dignified
elderly gentleman, rather resentfully courteous.
"Sorry to trouble you," he said. "I suppose I've made a mistake. I—is
your nephew at home?"
"No."
"May I see a picture of him, if you have one?"
David's wild impulse was to smash Gregory to the earth, to annihilate
him. His collar felt tight, and he pulled it away from his throat.
"Not unless I know
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