# The Marathon Mystery/Part 3/Chapter 2
### CHAPTER II
#### The Gauntlet

EDGEMERE was a beautiful estate overlooking Great South Bay, just east of Babylon. Across the waters of the bay, the low dunes of Fire Island were visible, with the lighthouse pointing upward its white finger of warning. To east and west low, wooded islets closed in the horizon, while to the north, the tall trees of a broad stretch of woodland looked down upon the house. A pretty boathouse and pier adorned the beach and there was every other device of bowling-alley, gymnasium, tennis-court, and what not that could add to the amusement of summer sojourners. There were many pretty walks among the trees, many fragrant nooks where nature’s sway had not been disputed; but perhaps the most attractive corner of the place was the walk beyond the bowling-alley, beneath a graceful pergola, covered with vines in summer, leading to a shady bower commanding a wide view of the bay, from which a terraced walk descended to the water.
It was essentially a summer play-house, and yet John Drysdale, looking through the blurred glass of the carriage that had brought him from the station through the sudden April shower, saw in the light streaming redly from the windows a warmth of welcome that summer could not show. A pile of logs was blazing ​in the hall fire-place, but he paused only for a moment to get off the outdoor chill, and then ran up to his room to dress for dinner. He knew the customs of the house and he hoped for a reward if he dressed promptly.
Nor was he disappointed, for when he came down the stair some fifteen minutes later, he saw standing before the fire a regal figure. He paused a moment to contemplate it—the white shoulders rising from a gown of rich, dark red, the poise of the head with its black coiffure, the grace of the arm hanging idly by her side…
She was gazing intently into the fire, deep in thought, and for an instant she did not hear him. Then she turned with that rare smile which a woman of ardent temperament gives to only one man in the world.
“I heard you drive up,” she said; “I thought you might remember our old habit.”
“As if I could forget it! Do you know,” and he held her at arm’s length to look at her, “you take my breath away. But then, you always do. My luck seems too completely, supremely perfect to be true.”
Her colour deepened a little under his gaze, but her eyes did not waver.
“I don’t want you to live in a state of perpetual breathlessness,” she said.
“Oh, you don’t know what a delightful state it is. There’s nothing in my appearance to cause palpitation of the heart. Just a moment ago, when I came to the turn of the stair and looked down and saw you standing here, do you know I was appalled at the ​sheer wonder of the thing. ‘She is mine,’ I said to myself, ‘She is mine,’ and yet I couldn’t quite believe it—it seemed too stupendous, too utterly absurd. What have I done to deserve you?”
There was something very touching in the sincerity of the frank, boyish face. She answered with a pressure of the hand which said more than many words.
“I feel a good deal as that page felt,” he went on, after a moment, “who looked up at Kate the Queen. ‘She never could be wronged, be poor,’ he sighed, ‘need him to help her.’”
“And yet in the end she did need him, didn’t she? Perhaps,” and her face changed and she looked away into the fire again, “perhaps I may need you—may have to ask a great sacrifice of you——”
“Ask it,” he said eagerly. “Ask anything but that I give you up.”
“I have already asked one thing,” she said slowly, looking at him with a face very gentle. “No little thing—your trust—your confidence, your——”
“You had no need to ask it,” and he caught her hands again. “It was yours already.”
“And will be mine always?”
“Can you doubt it?”
“No—and I shall be glad to remember it.”
“Not long ago,” he said, looking at her, “a friend of mine gave me some good advice.”
“Which was?”
“That I be happy in having you, without conditions; that I try to live up to you and be worthy of you; that I try to do something worth while for your sake.”
​She had listened with raised brows.
“I didn’t know I was a subject of discussion——”
“You’re not—but you sent me to him——”
“Oh—Mr. Godfrey!” A little cloud came upon her face; she opened her lips to say something more, but a step sounded on the stair and Tremaine came slowly down. There was a look on his face not pleasant to see, but he had banished all trace of it as he came forward to greet them.
When the men joined the women after dinner, they found Miss Croydon sitting at the piano idly touching the keys. Tremaine went to her with a directness that argued purpose. She looked up, expecting perhaps to see Drysdale; her eyes narrowed and hardened as they met Tremaine’s.
“I’ve been wanting to ask you to sing,” he said, apparently not noticing her change of expression, “but feared you might think me bold. You see, I am taking the bull by the horns. Some instinct told me””
“The instinct is wrong,” she interrupted, dropping her eyes to the keyboard. “I do not sing.”
“No? Then I shall miss a great pleasure which I had promised myself. You have a singing voice.”
There was a penetrating fascination about the man which compelled her to lift her eyes to his. He was smiling, radiant, triumphant, as a general, confident of victory, just swinging into battle. She shivered slightly, as he bent closer and added something in a tone of voice too low to be heard by the others in the room.
​She flushed and her fingers crashed out an indignant chord of protest. Drysdale, drawn by some compelling uneasiness, approached them. Tremaine had been turning over the music as he talked; his ears, sensitive as a cat’s, caught the sound of Drysdale’s footsteps.
“Shall we try this one?” he asked aloud, and placed a sheet on the rack before her.
Without answering, she swept into the prelude.
“‘You’ll love me yet!—and I can tarry Your love’s protracted growing; June reared that bunch of flowers you carry From seeds of April’s sowing.’”…
His voice was an admirable tenor, and he sang the lines with a meaning and expression that brought the warm blood to her cheek. When it was done, he acknowledged the applause with a little bow, casting at Drysdale a glance at once triumphant and ironic. And in that instant, Drysdale knew that the song had not been chosen by chance—that Tremaine had paused to listen at the stair-head. A sudden abyss yawned before him—here was a rival who would pause at nothing; who already had about him a certain air of victory. Drysdale clenched his teeth with a quick breath; well, he would make the fight of his life to keep what he had won!
“More, more!” clamoured Delroy. “You could make your fortune as a stage lover, Tremaine.”
“Ah, there is a difference between the sham and the true!” said Tremaine, in a tone full of meaning. “You are an excellent accompanist, Miss Croydon; ​you know how to humour the singer, and I need a lot of humouring.”
“Will you give them an encore?” she asked, disregarding the compliment.
“Let me see.” He was looking at her with eyes wonderfully bright. “There is a simple little melody they sing at St. Pierre at the time of the Carnival. I think you could accompany it,” and he hummed the air. “Splendid! That is it. You will think the words pretty. I’ll sing them as they were written, not as the Creoles have changed them.
“‘Petits amoureux aux plumes, Enfants d’un brillant séjour, Vous ignorez l’amertume, Vous parlez souvent d’amour: Vous méprisez la dorure, Les salons, et les bijoux; Vous chérissez la Nature, "Petits oiseaux, becquetez-vous!’”
“Go on, go on; don’t stop!” cried Delroy. “There must be another verse. It wouldn’t be a French song if there wasn’t.”
“There is,” and Tremaine laughed; “as usual, one that points a moral. I hadn’t intended to sing it—but-with your permission, Miss Croydon.”
She nodded, as she ran lightly through a little improvised interlude. Drysdale, from the other end of the piano, wondered how Delroy could suddenly develop such poor taste. Tremaine glanced at him, as he began the second verse; then he turned his eyes upon Miss Croydon, smiling.
“‘Voyez là bas, dans cette église, Aupres d’un confessional, Le prétre, qui veut faire croire à Lise, Qu’un baiser est un grand mal; Pour prouver à la mignonne Qu’un baiser bien fait, bien doux, N’a jamais damné personne, Petits oiseaux, becquetez-vous!’”
“Capital!” cried Delroy. “What next? Come—the third verse!”
But Miss Croydon rose abruptly from the piano.
“No,” she said; “I protest. I’ve no doubt it goes from bad to worse! I’m afraid to listen!”
“You are wrong, Miss Croydon,” said Tremaine, smiling full into her eyes. “You do me an injustice. I assure you there is no third verse,” and he joined the Delroys where they sat before the fire.