Voice Out of Darkness by Ursula Curtiss Page A

later.
    Cassie grimaced becomingly. She said, “Another lost driver?” and half-rose from the slipper chair by the fire. The iron knocker fell once. Then the front door opened and closed again, a voice shouted blithely, “Hi! Francesca? Cassie?” and the living room door was flung wide and Arnold Poole stood there, snowy and swaying.
    “Arnold.” Francesca, on her feet, her back to the fire, her face, in the instant before she composed it, blind with shock. Then she took a step forward and, incredibly, set the pace for all of them. “We’re—just having coffee. You’ll have some, won’t you?”
    Drawing-room drama at its most uncomfortable. Somehow, they rallied from the stiff, appalled silence. Harvey Pickering rose. He looked from Arnold Poole to Francesca and back again, and contrived to remain pink and jovial. He said, “Er—nasty night. Better dry off, Arnold,” and waved at the fire. Cassie gave her father one trapped and terrified glance and went rapidly off in the direction of the kitchen. Jeremy smiled his aloof and amiable smile and continued to lean against the mantel, smoking. Katy, her own face guarded, watched them all in mute fascination.
    “Hell of a night,” Arnold Poole said, striding to the fireplace. “Man needs a drink on a night like this, but I suppose I have t’have one of those damn nonsensical little cups of coffee first to satisfy the neighbors.”
    He was, amazingly, complacent. The man of the house straddling his own hearth, looking placidly at guests in his home. He seemed completely unaware of the fact that he had left little splashes of melted snow on the rug, that he had lost his hat en route, that he had plunged a roomful of people into prickling embarrassment. His eye lighted on Michael. Katy said, “This is Michael Blythe, Arnold, my fiancé.”
    Arnold repeated, “Blythe.” He drew himself up. He looked at Michael with the thoughtful dignity of the very drunk. He said, “Well, well, Mr. Blythe, what are you doing back in Fenwick?”
    Pause. Faces turned alertly toward Michael. Katy looked with the rest, trying to keep her blank astonishment to herself, and saw Michael go very red and then dead white, muscles locking his face into a kind of polite fury. He said in a hard voice, “I think, Mr. Poole, that you mean my brother. Gerald Blythe.”
    Cassie came back with an extra cup. Francesca poured coffee. Mr. Pickering, in what was obviously a dim fumble at tactfulness, said, “Er—blond fellow.”
    “No,” said Michael savagely. “Dark fellow. But there, I think, the resemblance between us ends.”
    Katy could see, they could all see, that he was trying for control behind the bleak stillness with which he held himself. She pushed back wonder and lifted her voice and said clearly, “He used to come here summers, didn’t he, darling?” and Michael’s eyes swerved to hers and he said, “Yes. Years ago.” The little break was bridged.
    It was a little after ten-thirty when Jeremy stirred abruptly and looked at his watch. “My God. The cars—we’ll have our work cut out for us.” He got reluctantly to his feet.
    Michael said, “I’ll give you a hand,” but Jeremy shook his head. “We may be okay. I’ll give a yell,” he said, and opened the living room door and was gone.
    “Drinks,” Francesca murmured absently. “You’ll need nourishment if you’re going to dig yourselves out. I’ve some Scotch, somewhere in the depths of the house, saved for just such an occasion.” She rose. Cassie made a quick motion and Francesca said, “Stay where you are, darling, nobody but me knows my mad hiding-places.”
    She was triumphant when she reappeared. “There. It’s always touch and go when I file anything away, I’m just as apt never to see it again.”
    Arnold Poole had scarcely moved from his station on the hearth. The sobering-up process had evidently begun; his gay amiability had been replaced by a brooding quietness. He had, Katy noticed, watched and