Lighted Windows

Emilie Loring

Description

Lovely Janice Trent fled New York on the eve of her wedding to a millionaire. Yet, in the rugged Alaskan mining camp where she took refuge, Janice soon blundered into a marriage that was not a marriage...
A mysterious murder, a desperate rival, and above all, the danger and hardships of the untamed land, were to show Janice the strength within herself, and the man she was truly meant to love.

Sujets

• Fiction
• Mystery
• Detective

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 12 mai 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781773238449
• Langue: English

Extrait

Lighted Windows
byEmilie Loring

Firstpublished in 1930
Thisedition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria,BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
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Allrights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced ortransmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage orretrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, whomay quote brief passages in a review.

Dedication



TO THE READERS OF MY STORIES
WHO, BY SPOKEN OR WRITTEN WORD,
HAVE RECOGNIZED BENEATH THE
MAGIC GLAMOUR OF ROMANCE AND ADVENTURE
THE CLEAR FLAME OF MY BELIEF
THAT THE BEAUTIFUL THINGS OF LIFE
ARE AS REAL AS THE UGLY THINGS OF LIFE,
THAT GAY COURAGE MAY
TURN THREATENED DEFEAT INTO VICTORY,
THAT HITCHING ONE’S WAGON
TO THE STAR OF ACHIEVEMENT WILL LIFT ONE
HIGH ABOVE THE QUICKSANDS OF DISCOURAGEMENT
LIGHTED WINDOWS
by Emilie Loring
Chapter I
ifth Avenue. In that quiet hour before dawnwhen for a trifling interval the city dozes, it neversleeps. The gleaming asphalt, blanched to silverywhiteness by arc lights, stretched ahead inimitablybetween looming sky-scrapers, phantoms of concreteand steel, brick and glass, shadowy and unreal as theback drop in a pantomime. In the middle of its polishedsurface, like a dark isle in a glistening ribbon ofriver, rested a slipper. Black, satin, buckled withbrilliants which caught the light and threw it backtransmuted into a thousand colorful sparks. A slipperof parts, unquestionably.
Bruce Harcourt stopped short in his long stride toregard it incredulously. How had it come there? Helooked up and down the broad deserted avenue beforehe salvaged it. A spot of red light was dimmingeastward.
Back on the sidewalk he turned the bit of satin overand over in his hand. It was warm. The feel of itsent a curious glow through his veins. It must quiterecently have covered a slender foot. Dropped fromthe now distant automobile? He remembered the gayparty of men and girls who had been leaving the hotelas he came out. Why hadn’t the owner stopped topick it up? The hundred eyes of the rhinestone buckleblinked at him with a what’s-the-answer challenge intheir shallow depths.
He thrust the disturbing bit of foot-gear into histop-coat pocket, gravely regarded the glittering avenuebefore he entered the Club door. Twenty-fourhours more of this and he would be on his way to thewilderness. In his room he set the slipper upon thedresser. From the depths of an easy chair he contemplatedit as he smoked his pipe. Too late, tooearly in the day to go to bed. It seemed such a wasteof time to sleep in New York. Soon he would beseeing only forests, glaciers, fields of snow, rails,steam-shovels and the paraphernalia of engineering.
He was not sorry to go back. His college classmateswho had given the dinner for him tonightwouldn’t believe it, though. They had treated himwith the considerate attention due one about to beexiled. It was exile in a way yet—how the dickenscould that slipper have been dropped in the middle ofthe Avenue? The girl who had lost it—its slendernessproclaimed it a girl’s possession—would have knownhad she dropped it from her foot. What was she like?Dark? Fair? Hard? Tender?
Tender! Harcourt shrugged and refilled his pipe.From his observation they didn’t make them tenderany more. He was thirty-five. Since his sophomoredays he hadn’t seen a girl who had touched his heartwith flame. An intangible presence had seemed tostand between him and love. He was ashamed toacknowledge it even to himself, but it was there. Apsychoanalyst would doubtless diagnose it as thesubconscious guarding his profession, for he certainlycouldn’t take a wife into the wilds of Alaska railroadbuilding. He had been given a corking chance tomake a name for himself in his profession of engineering,but it meant cutting out romance. From what hehad heard of the marital experiences of some of themen who had dined him so royally, he wasn’t missingmuch.
He sat speculating about the slipper and its ownertill dawn stole over the roofs he could see from hiswindow. Rainbow colors, violet, indigo, lemon, meltedinto blue in the eastern sky. Outlines sharpened. Themists of the city fled. The lights in the room paledto ineffectual blurs. Creaking noises in the hall outside.Faint bells in the distance. From the streetsten stories below rose the murmur of a waking city.
Morning and his last day in New York. Hestretched his long, lean body. His last day in NewYork and a full one. Before he left on the midnighttrain he had to keep innumerable business appointments,confirm orders for materials, and hire asecretary. His brows, a shade darker than his hair,met over his clear gray eyes, the clean lines of hismouth tightened. Why couldn’t Tubby Grant havefound one for himself on the coast?
Returned from his shower he regarded the slipperon the dresser. What should he do with it? Heturned it over in his hand. The eyes of the bucklewinked at him, brilliantly but colorlessly now that thelights were out. It was a gem of a buckle. A buckleof value. He knew that, because he had boughtseveral pairs for his sister who had a buckle complex.Would the owner advertise? He’d take a look at theevening paper. Perhaps he would have a chance toreturn it before he left. The interview might put adecided kick into his last evening. The slippersuggested adventure. He had fought off all invitations.He hadn’t known at what time he would finish thebusiness of a full day.
The following eight hours proved more crowdedand the search for a secretary more futile than hehad imagined. The mere mention of the wordAlaska set the prospects he interviewed into shiveringrefusal.
“Tubby’ll have to get one for himself on thecoast,” he concluded as he opened the door of hisroom at the Club. As he snapped on the light the eyesof the buckle on the dresser flashed into prismaticglitter.
“Good Lord, I’d forgotten you!” he exclaimedaloud, in surprised response to its almost humanappeal. “Let’s see if we can find your owner.”
He shook out the evening paper, located the Lostand Found column and ran his finger down the list.“Here it is!” He read the advertisement throughtwice.

LOST. Monday evening on Fifth Avenue, blacksatin slipper with rhinestone buckle. Reward, if returnedat once to J. Trent, 0001 Madison Avenue.
J. Trent. J. Trent. He had heard that combinationbefore. He turned the name over and overin his mind. Click! It slipped into place. JaniceTrent! Billy Trent’s sister “Jan.” He rememberedher as a leggy child of twelve when he had spent hislast college vacation before the war at the Trents’country place. She had exasperated her brother andhimself by tagging after them on fishing expeditions.She had been particularly annoying when sitting onthe veranda steps personifying furious rebellion asthey shot off in the roadster to pay tribute to neighborhoodgirls. Funny little thing, naturally timid, alwaysforcing herself to be brave. She had inspired aprotective tenderness. His eyes shadowed with regret.Darn shame that he and Billy, who had meant so muchto one another, had drifted apart. He had gone toTrent’s office at once upon his arrival in New York,only to learn that he was out of town.
He stared unseeingly at the advertisement. Lastnight at the dinner when he had regretted Billy’sabsence, Silsbee, the class gossip, had confided:
“Trent’s a little gob of gloom these days. Can’tblame him. His father played the market, lostpractically everything he had and passed out. Hissister Janice is to be married in a week. Marryinga multi who’s got a way with the ladies. The two areat a prenuptial blow-out in this very hotel now.Confidentially, Billy heard that Paxton—that’s theprospective bridegroom’s name—had been makingwhoopee in an adjacent city and he has gone toinvestigate. Gosh, how do these sheiks get awaywith it!”
Harcourt looked at his watch. He would changefor the trip—no, he wouldn’t, he would dress fordinner; no knowing what adventure might be lurkinground the next corner. Doubtless, there were adozen J. Trents in the city, but if the owner of theslipper proved to be Janice he would persuade her toplay round with him until his train left. Silsbee hadsaid last night that she was being entertained in thesame hotel; he had seen a gay party leaving only afew moments before he picked up the slipper. Thoseparts of the puzzle fitted perfectly.
An hour later, in answer to his ring, a trim maidadmitted him to the Madison Avenue house, a slice ofold-time aristocracy sandwiched between new-timeshops. He gave his errand, not his name. As hewaited in the cheerless reception room, where picturesleaned dejectedly against the walls, where chairs wereshrouded in ghostly covers, and furniture was crated,he heard the murmur of voices in a room beyond, theimperative ring of a telephone. Someone answered,Harcourt looked at his watch impatiently. Would J.Trent keep him waiting while she gossiped? Hecouldn’t help hearing the frost-tinged voice.
“No. . . . It was unpardonable. . . . I shall notsee you. . . . Don’t come. . . . I have said my lastword. . . . You should have thought of that beforeGood-bye.”
The receiver clicked on the hook. Could that havebeen a prospective bride speaking, Harcourt wondered.Her voice had given him the creeps. Of course therecould be two J. Trents in the City of New York,but—
“You have my slipper?”
He curiously regarded the girl on the threshold.Little Janice Trent grown up. The same boyish croakin her voice that he remembered. Who would havethought that the angular child would develop intobeauty? Her glinting brown hair waved softly closeto her boyish head. The ardent curves of her lipsshowed vividly red against her pallor. He was vaguelyconscious of a beige frock, the yellow of topaz at herthroat.
“If this is yours.”
The long, gold-tipped lashes flew up. Her eyes werethe color of bronze pansies, slightly beaten by the rainof recen