"I recallhimfirst as a man whom I felt to be astranger, but whom I was told to call father," said young Burton. "He did not live with us, only appealing now and then and making my mother very unhappy. Even then, small boy as I was, I hated him; and I know he detested me."
The young man was in that queerly relaxing state which causes men to tell their private griefs to even casual acquaintances.
"Very often," he went on, "we were rather happy, but that was always when my father was away. I remember a little white house on the outskirts where we lived unmolested for several years. My sister was at school; I was employed by an old wood engraver, one of the last of his kind; my mother earned a good living and we were quite comfortable and happy. My father had been away for so long that I had almost forgotten him; when a thought of him did come into my mind, it was as of an old trouble—and one that would never come again.
"But one evening when I reached home I found him there. My mother's face was white and she was trembling. But he was smiling! I would rather," and young Burton raised a shaking hand, "have heard another man curse than see him smile."
"I know the feeling," said Bat Scanlon. "I've felt something like it myself."
"He wanted money," proceeded the youngartist. "I knew my mother had a little store somewhere, which she had put away, for the winter was coming on. He was cunning and must have divined this—it was the kind of thing she would do. When she refused, he smiled and insisted. And finally—the smile still on his mouth, remember—he struck her! I had been silent until that; but when I saw the blow fall, I became a maddened young animal. I flew at him blindly, and he beat me like a dog. A half hour later he went away, and with him went what money my mother had saved."
"Bad!" said Bat Scanlon. "Very bad!"
"And now," said the young man, "he's dead. But the evil which his life brought into the world still lives!" Oddly, his mind seemed to cling to this thought; his eyes, looking straight ahead, were filled with apprehension; his fingers picked nervously at the edge of a blanket.
"Evil is fear, and fear can be conquered," said Ashton-Kirk, quietly; "if a man wills it, he can stamp it out."
"Evil is fear!" The prisoner looked at Ashton-Kirk in sudden inquiry. "In what way?"
"In every way," replied the investigator. "No matter what its form, evil has its base in fear. And it is one of the plain offices of man to destroy this monster which has ridden him from the beginning. For when the race was young, the worldwas filled with unnamed dread—the darkness was peopled with unseen things. From this fear sprang superstition. The future held the first men cowed; the past had left the marks of trials and the memory of pain. And the fear of life has since made more criminals than perhaps any other thing; while dread of repeating the past has broken countless lives."
Ashton-Kirk paused for a moment, his eyes still fixed upon the young man; then he went on:
"This evil which oppresses you so has its roots in a fear, has it not?"
Again there was a pause; the prisoner's eyes met those of the investigator, fixedly.
"Don't allow it to crush you. You are in deadly danger; you need your mind to save yourself."
He arose and stood before the other; one hand went out and touched the prisoner's shoulder.
"I have brought you news. New clues have been found. Before this, the police have worked only along lines which led to you. Now they've gone off on another track. There is a woman in the case," and he patted the drooping shoulder, "and they hope to fasten the crime upon her."
Young Burton came to his feet with a jerk.
"A woman!" he cried. "They are crazy! A woman!" Once more he uttered the high pitched laugh which had affected Bat so disagreeably."What can they be thinking of!" He stared with excited eyes at the investigator, then at Scanlon, then back again to Ashton-Kirk. "I will not allow it," he cried. "Do you hear? I'll not allow it. No woman did this thing. Tell them I said so. I will not permit an innocent person to be blamed. I did it! I did it—alone!"
The vast machinery used in gathering the news makes it possible for an event, only an hour or two old, to gain a place in the types and proclaim itself to the public. And only a short time after Frank Burton made his confession of guilt in his cell in the county prison, the newsboys were crying the fact in the street.
Ashton-Kirk and Scanlon had finished with their lunch at Claghorn's; at the cigar counter in the lobby they paused while they selected their favorite brands.
"How are you?" said a familiar voice, and looking up they saw Osborne, big, smiling and serene. "Nasty day," he proceeded, shaking some raindrops from the rim of his hat. "I suppose you've heard the news."
Ashton-Kirk carefully lighted the tip of a blunt cigar.
"What news?" he asked.
The heavy shoulders of the headquarters man twitched with pleasure; he saw, in this answer, the evasion of a defeated man.
"Why," said he, with an effort to keep the triumphout of his voice, "the confession of Frank Burton."
"Oh, that!" The investigator elevated his brows. "Yes, we heard it. As a matter of fact the confession was made in the first place to Scanlon and me."
The elation died slowly in the broad face of Osborne; however, that he still felt his sagacity to be of a superior quality was plain. So he said, with a carelessness calculated to discount the point gained by the other:
"Oh, that so? Hadn't heard of it. Well," and he laughed good-humoredly, "that makes it all the better. You know it's true!"
"It's so, all right," said Scanlon. "He told it to us, and afterward to the warden and a half dozen of the prison people."
"I said the other night we had a good case against him," smiled Osborne, as he looked at Ashton-Kirk with nodding head. "Didn't I? Didn't I tell you I'd seen men sent to the chair on less?"
"Yes, I remember some such expression," replied the investigator.
"But you kind of pooh-poohed it," said the headquarters man, smiling even more broadly than before. "You spoke of other indications, don't you remember? It was your idea a woman was in it." He looked at Scanlon, and laughed."Recollect that?" he asked. "He said a woman had been hanging around outside—with a revolver—an old flame of the Bounder's, maybe."
Scanlon also laughed—and in the sound was an indication of vast relief. Women had disappeared out of the orbit in which the crime swung, for Mr. Scanlon. He had gone for days with a fear in his mind, with his spirit sagging under a weight of expectation. But now he was free of that. No woman figured in the case—the murderer had said so in his confession. Woman had vanished utterly from all things having to do with the affair. And so Scanlon laughed—a laugh of relief; and as he looked at the big, good-natured face of Osborne, he realized that while he had always liked him, he had never appreciated him so much as now.
"Yes," said he, "I remember. He rather figured on the lady. But, then, I've heard it said that you never can count on ladies. You don't know just when you've got 'em."
There was a flavor to this old saying of men that had a recent tang—and flavors, like scents, are most reminiscent. Yes, he had heard it—only a very short time before, and under unpleasant circumstances. A cloud came over the big athlete's face; he tried to put the feeling aside, and in the effort to do so, memory flared up and showed him the facts. It had been in Duke Sheehan'splace during his first talk with the burglar, Big Slim. It was the cracksman who had spoken of the undependability of women. Then with a rush came other things which he had said; chief among these was the story of how Nora had followed her husband on the night of the murder. And then, also, there was the thing he had seen himself through the windows at Bohlmier's hotel. But as these thoughts pressed forward in his mind he crushed them back.
"They happened," said he. "I don't question those I heard about, and I know what I've seen. But," and he sighed profoundly, "she ain't had anything to do with that man's death. There's no doubt about that. The party who did it has given it all up. It's as clear as sunshine on that point; and the other thing can wait; explanations for them can come at any time."
During the progress of these things through the mind of Mr. Scanlon, the talk had proceeded between Ashton-Kirk and the headquarters man.
"All right," said Osborne; "I know you seldom agree with the police about things, but this is one in which there is nothing more to be said. Burton himself says he did it—and his word is the last one."
Ashton-Kirk looked at his cigar with a favoring eye; the aroma was rich, and through the smoke he detected that thin spiral, of a denser texture,which spoke of the presence, in a proper proportion, of the leaf he prized.
"The thing which makes me quarrel with the police in most instances," said he, quietly, "is not want of foresight, but almost a complete lack of that vastly commoner gift—hindsight. Take this present case, for an example. You have just claimed that there is nothing more to be said—that young Burton in his confession has spoken the final word. How often," and he knocked the spear of ash from the cigar, "have confessions proven false, in your own experience? Look back over the last few years, and you'll find at least six clear cases of confessions which were untrue. On the records of the district attorney's office is written a case, years ago, of a man who confessed to a murder and was hanged. Afterward it was proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was innocent."
Osborne laughed once more; nevertheless a shade of doubt darkened the brightness of his humor.
"You're right there," admitted he. "Things like that have happened, but they are so few that we can't figure on them. This case," and his jaw set, "is sewed up. Young Burton is the man, and I think, when all is done and settled, you'll admit it yourself."
Ashton-Kirk nodded, and a glint of humor appeared in the keen eyes.
"You can always be depended upon to run close to form, Osborne," said he. "However, when all is done and settled, we shall see what we shall see." Then as he and Scanlon started through the lobby, he said over his shoulder: "In the meantime it would be well for you not to lose sight of those two clues I gave you last night. They may prove very useful."
Osborne grinned and waved a hand.
"All right," said he. "I'll put them away in camphor. They'll be good and safe there."
As Ashton-Kirk and Bat emerged from the hotel, the big athlete turned to his friend with serious eyes.
"How much of what you've just been saying to him is right, and how much is just bluff to cover a place where you miscued?" asked he.
"What I gave him are the facts," replied Ashton-Kirk. "A confession is not always conclusive, as I have just shown. There are circumstances under which a man may confess, because he fears to have the real truth come out. And there are indications in this case which rather hold that guilt lies in another direction than young Burton."
"Do you believe, in spite of his confession, that he is innocent?"
"I believe nothing—as yet I am merely searching for the truth."
They were standing beside the investigator'scar as they talked; and now Ashton-Kirk gestured his friend to get in. But Bat shook his head.
"No," said he. "There is plenty of motion in a motor car, but it's not the kind of motion I want. I'm for a walk. And I'll like as not see you in the morning."
He strode away down the street, and for a moment the investigator stood gazing after him; then he opened the door, got in, and the car drove away.
Bat Scanlon walked for hours, thinking, thinking; and out of it all he got only what the first few moments told him. If young Burton had confessed to a thing of which he was not guilty, it must be as Ashton-Kirk said: fear that the real truth might come out. But fear of what? There could only be one thing: the fear of the charge being placed at the door of some one else.
"And who could that some one else be but the one," kept repeating in the big athlete's brain. "Who could it be but"—here he'd feel a sudden snapping in the nerves of his head, and the blood cells would gorge and thunder—"who but she who went to see him to-day—after the news came out that a woman was suspected."
Leg-weary and with an exhausted mind, Bat reached his gymnasium. Danny, the red-haired office boy, was there, and looked at his employer almost incredulously.
"Gee, boss, you look all in," he told him. "You ought to get Sebastian to give you a going over."
Sebastian was a huge Bohemian rubber, and Scanlon agreed to accept his ministrations. After a bath and a shower, the Bohemian kneaded and punched some suppleness into him; an hour's sleep followed this, and he was pleased to find himself in a mood for dinner.
"Good!" said he. "That's the right spirit. Being down in the mouth never helped any one yet. There still seem to be a few things to do in this case, and it's up to me to do them. So I'd better be fit if I'm going to get away with them."
It was while at dinner that an idea came to him like an electric shock. He would go see Nora; he would talk to her; if quite necessary he'd tell her all the things he knew and all those he suspected. And what she said in reply he'd believe; every word would be held to by him, absolutely. No matter what came or went, after that, he'd believe nothing else.
"Why didn't I think of that before?" he asked himself, elated. "It's just the thing to settle it all. The great trouble with this affair is that there hasn't been enough plain talk. A little bit more might have cleared things up completely."
He smoked contentedly for a space after dinner; then he proceeded to Nora's house. The trim maid answered his ring.
"Yes; Miss Cavanaugh is at home."
Scanlon waited in the large old-fashioned reception-room while his name was taken up. Then the maid reappeared and led him to Nora's private sitting-room. Here he found her in a robe of silk and lace reclining upon a sofa, propped up with gay pillows, a book beside her. She held out one hand to him; the loose sleeve fell back, showing a beautiful arm, white and firm, and rounded magnificently.
"Oh, I'm glad to see you, Bat!" she said, and her tone and eyes confirmed the truth of her words. "It's been days and days since you were here, I think. I've called you on the telephone I don't know how many times, but never could find you in."
"I'm sorry," he said. "But this is kind of a busy time with me."
She pointed to a low chair, very deep and comfortable looking, which was near the sofa.
"Get a pillow for your back," she said, "and sit there." He did as commanded, and she looked at him with something like wistfulness in her great eyes. "Oh, it's so nice to have you there, Bat; you can be so still and wonderful when you want to."
"Still, yes," agreed Scanlon, "but I'm not so sure about the wonderful."
She smiled at him.
"If you were quite sure of that," she said, "you wouldn't be nearly so nice." Her great mass of bronze hair was loosely arranged about her head, and against the delicate blue of a pillow it shone like red gold in the light of the reading lamp. "I'm so glad it is Sunday," she went on, "and that I am not to play to-night. For I'm tired, Bat, more tired than you'd believe."
"I'd believe it, no matter how strong you made it," said he. "What you've gone through has been enough to tire any one."
She reached out and patted his hand gently as it rested upon the arm of his chair.
"Bat, you are so big and strong that you seem to give out sympathy naturally. And that is a quality which all women like." She paused a moment; her white, strong, beautifully-modeled fingers trifled with the bracelet of raw gold; her eyes were bright as though with tears, and there was a sad little smile about the corners of her mouth. "And it is so easy for a woman to be mistaken in men," she proceeded. "In the end she always selects and holds to one, and she is apt to judge all the others by him.—If he is weak, she feels that all men are weak; if he is strong, they are all strong. And if he is cruel and mean and selfish, she feels a desire to hate them all—and sometimes she does!"
Bat nodded his head slowly and wisely.
"Sure," he said. "That's to be expected. But in the end," hopefully, "her mind often clears up on that point. She finds, if she gives herself the chance, that there is really a big difference between them."
"You have some idea what my experience has been in the last five years or so," she said. "It has not been beautiful, Bat; it has, at times, been hideously ugly; and the tears I have wept and the things I have borne and the vows I have made have been very many. There have been times when I could think only of death, so completely humbled have I felt, so without spirit, so utterly in Tom Burton's power. I have told you something of his slimy plots, of his detestable innuendoes. He knew of my loathing of the divorce courts, and my fear of scandal, no matter how unfounded, and played upon them constantly, feeling sure that in the end I would meet his demands."
"But that's all over, Nora," said Bat. "It all belongs to the past. Try to forget it."
"I am going to forget it," she said. "Never doubt that I'm going to put it away from me and never think of it again. I speak of it only because I have something in my mind which recalls it strongly—as altogether dissimilar things sometimes do. All men are not evil, Bat; I suppose I have really known that always; but nowthe fact comes forward in my mind and takes the place of the fear I have had for so long. Some men are really very good, very kind and gentle. Some of them—perhaps only a few—would sacrifice themselves to assure the security of one who was unhappy and in trouble."
Bat Scanlon coughed and stirred in his chair.
"When did that idea come to you?" he asked.
"To-day," she replied; "just to-day, and——" But here she suddenly stopped, and the man saw a startled look flash over her face. "But of course," she resumed, hastily, "these things never come to us at the time we first realize their presence. They are a growth, it is said, and it takes time for them to make themselves known."
In spirit, Bat Scanlon felt himself sinking to the level of the afternoon. "Sacrifice ... to assure the security of one who was unhappy and in trouble." What did that mean? Nora had been in that position; young Burton, according to the theory of Ashton-Kirk, had made just such a sacrifice. Nora had been in a state of great agitation; she had visited the prisoner just before his confession of guilt; and now she was quieted, she was smiling and grateful!
The big man got up and walked the floor. She followed him with her great, brown eyes.
"Bat," she said, "you are nervous. And, now that I look at you, you are pinched and not of agood color." She lifted herself up upon one elbow, and continued, accusingly: "You have been worrying! Confess!"
"I have," said he. "This matter of Burton's death has fastened itself upon me tight; I can't shake it off."
"But," she said, "why should that be, unless"—and she paused while she looked at him searchingly—"it is because of me?"
"Itisbecause of you," replied Scanlon, "for Burton was no kind of a fellow for me to worry about; things will go much better without him."
"But," and she looked at him, steadfastly, "if that is the case, then I should be much happier as it is. So why should you worry and grow pale and not be able to sit quietly and talk to me?"
He was about to begin some sort of an answer to this; at the moment he was standing in a position which gave him a view of the street through one of the windows. His glance wandered in that direction, his mind occupied in forming a set of phrases which would be sufficiently evasive. But suddenly the gaze became fixed. A man stood upon the opposite side of the street looking toward Nora's house; the street lights were in his face and gleamed upon a pair of large metal-rimmed spectacles; one hand was furtively gesturing as though in signals to some one down below. The man was the Swiss, Bohlmier.
Through the upheaving in his mind, Bat Scanlon managed to squeeze a reply to Nora's question which held some traces of plausibility.
"A fellow always feels upset by things like this," said he. "Most of the time there is no reason for it, but that seems to make no difference. He feels that way just the same."
He left the window and returned to his chair. There had been many things in his mind when he resolved to pay this visit, things which were direct and the answers to which must be illuminating. But they were all gone now. Her attitude, her words, had made them impossible. They talked of many things during the next half hour—that is, Nora talked. What Scanlon said he could never afterward remember. But there was one thing which always brought the fact of the conversation sharply to his mind—and that was his conjectures as to the man in the street below. Why was he there? and to whom was he signaling?
These thoughts finally became so insistent that Bat arose.
"I must be going," he said, rather lamely. "There are a few things I must do to-night."
"Oh, and I thought you'd come for a nice long visit," she said. Her tone was reproachful; but at the same time Scanlon could not help but notice that the glance which she gave the briskly ticking clock was one of relief.
He stood looking down at her; finally her eyes lifted to his and the expression she met was very grave and very honest.
"Nora," said he, "I've always been for you. You know that, don't you? And I always will be for you. So if there is ever trouble—any at all—you know where to come."
She arose. Nora was a tall woman, but she had to lift her face so that her eyes might meet his. She laid both hands upon his breast and when she spoke there was just the least tremble in her voice.
"I know," she said. "Dear old Bat, I know. Haven't I always called on you when I needed help, and you were near enough to hear? You are the most loyal friend a woman could have; I have been grateful for you, Bat, and I have prayed for you, many times."
"No!" said Scanlon. "No; have you though, Nora? Well, what do you know about that?"
When he went down the stairs he had a lump in his throat, and there was a tendency to blinkdrops from his lashes—Bat would have denied indignantly that they were tears—which amazed him. In the lower hall he met the maid.
"Isn't there a way out beside the front door?" he asked.
"Oh, yes; there is a door which opens onto a yard beside the old carriage house," said the girl.
"I'll go out that way," said Bat.
Surprised, but making no comment, the maid led the way. Scanlon passed through a door into the yard and then through a gate which opened upon a small, quiet street.
"Thank you!" said he. And when the gate had been closed and the maid vanished, he started down the street; in a few moments he had rounded the corner; then a dozen yards brought him to the thoroughfare on which Nora's house stood. Cautiously, he peered from a sheltering doorway. Yes, there was the figure of the Swiss in the same position as before; and as Scanlon looked he saw a tall, stoop-shouldered man cross the street and stop at Bohlmier's side.
"Big Slim," said Bat. "That's who the sign was being passed to a while ago."
He watched the two men while they engaged in earnest conversation; then they started off, and he followed them. However, they did not go far; at the intersection of a small street they pausedand then disappeared. Something in their manner of doing this told Bat their intention.
"They are going to lie low just around the corner," he said. "Waiting for something, I think."
He was but a dozen yards from Nora's house at this moment; and at an ornamental iron gate, of the period just after the Civil War, stood an aged colored man, very black, very highly collared and with much of the dignity of a servant of the old time. Bat paused and said with the carelessness of a casual stroller:
"Nice old street you have here, uncle."
There was the proper amount of confidence in the big athlete's manner, and his voice had that subtle shade of authority which carried the remark in its proper groove. For these ancient servitors are to be approached in only one way if results are to be had.
"Yas, suh," replied the black man at the gate, "yas, suh! It is a nice ol' street, suh. Not whut it was yeahs ago when I fust come here, no suh. But nice and quiet. And 'spectable."
"Of course," said Bat "Sure enough, entirely respectable!" He watched and saw that the two did not reappear at the street corner; a feeling of doubt was in his mind; he had no means of knowing if his conjectures as to their movements were true. However, if they hadgone, very well! If they had not—well, he would be there and would know. "Yes," he went on, "a fine old block. Not many like it left."
"No, suh. Dey's mos' all gone. Lots o' po' folks f'om fur-off places crowdin' in, suh. An' dey jes' natch'ly push into de ol' streets. Ol' houses am like ol' families, suh. Dey's mighty scarce. Indeed dey is!"
Apparently Bat had chanced upon a favorite topic; like many of the old families, of whom he spoke so regretfully, the ancient man-servant cherished the days of the past. This Bat felt to be rather fortunate; it would provide a subject for conversation while he stood waiting in the shadow of the trees which ran along in front of the houses.
"A new section will grow up," he suggested. "And new families will proceed to grow old in them, and make them, also, respectable."
But the old darkey refused to consider this.
"No, suh, 'tain't possible. Dey'll never be like de ol' folks—not jes' like 'em. Yo' can't make quality, boss, no, suh."
Bat was still engaged in talk with the ancient darkey a quarter of an hour later when he saw the door of Nora Cavanaugh's house open, and a woman emerge. Though she was enveloped in a long coat and furs, there was no mistaking the air, the free, splendid carriage. It was Nora.
With a glance up and down the street, she descended the steps and made her way north. As she passed the corner, Scanlon's eyes were fixed upon the one opposite her; with a tingling of the blood he saw the two men bob out with furtive eagerness; and, in a few moments, they were following her. He at once said good-night to the old servant and fell in their wake.
Nora walked rapidly; within ten minutes, from the fixedness of her direction, Bat guessed her destination.
"The railroad station," he said. "The railroad station, as sure as you live."
This guess proved a good one; the huge pile of the station soon loomed into view, the lights about its top dimming in the mists of the evening, the great round clock looking solemnly out across the city. Bat saw the two men follow into the building; he at once stationed himself at a door, through the glass of which he had a view of the ticket window. Nora went, without hesitation, to a certain window far down the room; in a few moments she turned away, a ticket in her hand and her eyes going to the clock. And as she disappeared up the stairs which led to the train shed, Bohlmier and Big Slim slipped up to the window, purchased tickets and followed her. When they were out of sight, Bat entered and walked down the huge room. Over the window to which theothers had gone he saw a sign which told him the tickets for sale there were for the branch road upon which lay the suburb of Stanwick. Bat also bought a ticket.
In the train shed a light over a gate called his attention to the three cars which usually made up the local for the western suburbs. Nora was not in sight; the Swiss and Big Slim were climbing into a dingy combination baggage and smoking car which was directly behind the engine.
"I don't want to get into the car Nora's in," mused Bat. "And as she's an experienced traveler, I'd say that was the middle one."
He entered the last car by the rear door; a glance showed him that Nora was not there; and he settled himself in a corner seat opening a newspaper and holding it before him so as to avoid even the small chances of detection. In a few minutes the train started and in half an hour it brought up at Stanwick. From his window he saw Nora on the platform. His first impulse was to get out on the other side of the train, but instantly he realized that he must not do this.
"It's the very thing those other two gentlemen will do; and they'd spot me sure," he thought.
So he waited until the last possible moment; he dropped from the car as the train was pulling out, and a heaped up baggage truck hid him from view. He saw Bohlmier and Big Slim pass cautiouslyalong the length of the platform, and out of sight; and then pursuers and pursued made away in the direction of Duncan Street.
"It's getting to be familiar ground," said the big athlete; "I think I could find my way there with my eyes shut."
The streets of Stanwick were lighted here and there by incandescent lights which shone yellowly through the heavy darkness. Bat could not be sure as to what was going on ahead of him, as the two men were careful to keep out of the rays of the lamps as they passed them. So he proceeded slowly with only occasional glimpses of the moving figures. Finally, as he neared the Burton home, he lost them entirely.
"They've taken cover," said he, between his teeth. "And now I'll have to trust to chance."
Keeping in the darkness as much as possible, he advanced; and in a little while he saw a muffled figure standing before a gate as though hesitating. It was Nora, and the house before which she had halted was No. 620. However, the hesitancy did not last long; for as he watched, she pushed open the gate and made her way toward the house.
Scanlon waited, his eyes going about in expectation of a movement of some sort from the shadows around him. But none came, and he gave his attention once more to Nora. He saw hermove along the path as though to the door, over which burned a light; however, when within a half dozen yards of it, she veered to one side, and, to Bat's surprise, stole with quiet tread around the house.
As Bat Scanlon saw Nora disappear around the Burton house he once more awaited some developments from the shadows; but again there was no sign of the presence of either the Swiss or the lank burglar. So after a little he moved on until he reached the gate of the adjoining house and quietly lifted the latch.
A dog, from somewhere in the darkness, barked; Bat halted and listened, but there were no further sounds, and so he went on. Placing his hands upon the low division fence he bounded over upon the Burton lawn. Almost directly before him was the rose arbor behind which Ashton-Kirk had discovered the woman's footprints; and the big athlete took his place in the deep shadow of this and looked about. The window of the Burton sitting-room was lighted; inside was Mary Burton in her reclining chair, propped up by pillows, and reading. The shaded lamp cast a soft glow upon her; the white face wore an expression of suffering, and with this was a meekness, a submission which made it nun-like.
A woman's form flitted between Scanlon andthe window; it stopped, and then the watcher saw Nora Cavanaugh peering in at the sick girl.
"Her notions of a social call seem to have picked up a twist somewhere," said Bat, to himself. "What's the idea?"
However, Nora only remained at the window for a few moments; then she disappeared in the direction from which she had come. In Bat's mind was a picture of two lurking men, the lank desperado, and the mild looking, yet murderous, Swiss; and he felt a chill of fear as he gazed into the darkness which had swallowed the girl up. A moment or two passed, then he heard the quick br-r-r-r! of an electric bell from the house.
"The door-bell," said Bat. "Through the sound of a hundred others I'd match myself to pick the one attached to the door of any house. They are all of the same family."
Another little pause; then he saw Nora in the sitting-room, the nurse behind her, and the sick girl reaching out her hand gladly. Bat breathed a sigh of relief.
"All right," said he. "Inside, she's not so likely to meet those gentlemen."
The nurse disappeared from the sitting-room; Nora sat down and began to talk with the invalid, earnestly. Outside all was still; after a little, Bat searched the surrounding shadows intently for anything that might indicate the whereabouts ofBig Slim and Bohlmier; but the darkness was silent and complete. The windows of the houses opposite and adjoining were lighted; from one some little distance away came the faint tinkling of a mandolin, and the deeper sounding strings of a guitar; from still another came fresh young voices singing an evening hymn. Figures could be seen through the windows or silhouetted upon the shades; at one Bat saw a tiny girl and a very large dog who seemed her especial chum; they romped gaily; Bat heard the child laugh and the dog bark.
"Nice," he mused. "Nice and homey. Regular Sunday night stuff in the bosom of the family. But no sign of the two gentlemen who did the shadowing. They are lying low, I guess, same as I am."
He gave his attention once more to the sitting-room; Nora and the sick girl were still engaged in conversation. As Bat looked, Nora took a crumpled newspaper page from her hand-bag, as though it were a part of what she was telling. The girl in the chair lifted herself up, eagerly, took the paper in her hand and read the staring head-lines. Then Bat saw it flutter to the floor, he saw her sit upright for a moment, gazing at Nora with wide-opened eyes; she sank back suddenly and heavily upon the cushions.
"Fainted!" said Bat, excitedly, leaning forward.He saw Nora arise quickly and bend over the girl, then he saw her open the door. "Calling the nurse," said he.
In a moment the nurse was in the room; and under the care of the two the invalid was soon restored to consciousness. Then followed a period of comforting, of patting pillows into shape, of cheerful assurance. Nora then kissed the invalid and bid her good-bye. She left the room with the nurse following her.
"Just came, evidently, to give her the news," said Bat to himself. "But I wonder why the haste. It wasn't the kind of news that would give joy or anything like that."
In a few moments he heard the front door close, and steps upon the walk. These ceased after a moment; there was silence; and then, to his amazement, Nora once more flitted through the darkness and came between himself and the window.
"There is a reason for it," said Bat. "She's not doing all this out of just idle curiosity. But what it leads to is a thing I don't——"
The thought was halted, unfinished, in his mind; for through the darkness, quite close at hand, came a cautiously moving shape; and from its direction, it was also seeking the shelter of the rose arbor. There was a door in the far side of the latter, as Bat had noticed on the day of Ashton-Kirk'sinvestigation; he slipped quietly around and in at this; and through the trellis work he watched what was proceeding outside. The first glance showed him that Nora was now, also, moving toward the arbor, and the thought of what might occur upon her meeting with the prowler in the dark caused Scanlon's hand to go inquiringly to the big revolver which he carried in the breast pocket of his coat, and to shift it to a place where it would be more convenient.
But, though he strained his eyes to catch some indications of the shadowy figure he had seen only a moment or two before, he could not do so; it had vanished. This did not add anything to the big athlete's quietude of mind; for the footsteps of Nora, dulled by springy sod, were now close at hand.
The girl reached the arbor and took up the position which Bat had lately occupied; and he knew that she had settled herself for a vigil—to watch all that passed in the sitting-room of the Burton house. Naturally, the eyes of the big man also went in that direction once more.
The nurse had returned to the room and was bending over the invalid, a glass in her hand. The girl lay motionless, her face turned upward and her thin hands pathetically folded. The nurse, after she had succeeded in inducing the patient to take a few drops of what she held to her lips,busied herself with some things upon a small table near the chair; then she left the room.
There was a pause; no movement came from the room whatsoever. Bat fancied that the sick girl had gone to sleep; but this thought had no sooner taken shape in his mind than he saw her stir. Then she arose slowly in the chair, and sat, apparently listening, her manner surprisingly alert. Only a few moments ago she had shown every sign of exhaustion; now her strength was unquestioned, for her body was firmly held and her grip upon the arms of the chair was sure.
There came a little gasp from Nora crouching behind the rose arbor.
"Surprised!" thought Bat. "And no wonder! I'm just a little bit that way myself."
Mary Burton threw back the blanket in which she was swathed, and stood up. She wore a long dressing gown, tied about the waist; from a pocket of this she took something, and then after a moment of listening approached an old mahogany high-boy, unlocked and opened a drawer and looked into it. Almost at once it was slid back into place and relocked; the girl stood poised for an instant, as though not sure as to what her next movement would be; then she went tiptoeing to the door, opened it, and disappeared.
Nora drew a long breath; and Scanlon, as hestood, amazed, felt like echoing it. But the next instant all that which had happened in the sitting-room, surprising as it had been, was wiped from his mind. From outside there came a low-pitched voice, that of old Bohlmier:
"Do not make some noise!" it said. A gasp came from Nora, a gasp which would have been a scream if fear had not suppressed it. "I will talk a little with you, if you blease."
There was an instant's silence; Bat pressed hard against the trellis work of the arbor—only a few inches separated him from the girl outside, and he could hear her breath catching sharply in her throat as she spoke.
"Who are you?"
"We will nod speak of that," said the Swiss. "Only we will talk of things that interesting are."
This seemed to have a tonic effect upon Nora; when she answered her breathing had become almost normal; her voice was strong and held some confidence.
"I know you now," she said. "I saw you the other night."
Old Bohlmier chuckled.
"Ach! yes, the other night. You saw me, yes, but you spoke to me not! Now it will the other way be. Eh?"
"What do you want?" asked Nora, sharply.
"Do you so ask?" Bohlmier's tone was oneof astonishment. "Is it possible? There is one supject only which we can talk about Is it not so? One supject. Yes?"
"I thought I told your friend all I had to say about that," said the girl.
"Ach! no! It is not true." If he had been able to see the old rascal, Scanlon was sure his head would be wagging and a mild smile would be upon his face. "You told him so—yes. But it is not true. Much more have you to say. Blenty more. And you will say it to me, eh? Now!"
The vision Bat had in his mind became more and more clear; not only would the bald head be moving from side to side, but it would be thrust forward in the deadly snake-like motion which the big athlete had seen once before. And the smile? He had never seen one like that which his ear told him Bohlmier's would be—a mild, quizzical smile which was a habit of the muscles only, and through which a pair of eyes gleamed with devilish purpose.
"Has he got me nervous, or something?" Bat asked himself. "Or do I call the turn on him right?"
"My friend," proceeded the old Swiss, "is a chentleman much ezberienced in certain things. In others he has not so much exberience as that," and the listener heard him snap his fingers, sharply. "Not so much as that! And so he let you go without some understandings."
Bat heard Nora laugh. It was not a pleasant laugh; nevertheless it caused a thrill of pleasure to shoot through him.
"Good!" he thought. "She has her nerve with her. He hasn't scared her even a little bit."
"Perhaps," said Nora, to Bohlmier, "you have the experience he lacked?"
"I haf the handling of many affairs had," came the voice of the Swiss, smoothly. "And from the first I asked for this one; for I knew, dear lady, I could the resulds get."
"You mean you thought you could frighten me where he failed." Again Nora laughed. "You have confidence." Then with a note of curiosity in her voice: "What would you have done?"
A sudden sharp movement came from outside the rose arbor; Bat heard the hissing of Bohlmier's breath and a sharp cry from Nora. A diminished light ray, unseen in any other way, was caught upon the uplifted blade of a knife; then Bat drove his arms through the frail trellis work; with the left hand he gripped the arm of the Swiss and twisted it wickedly. The knife was heard to strike against the side of the arbor as it fell. Bat's right hand, at the same instant, slipped along the man's body and gripped his throat like iron; and as he held him, he heard the muffled sound of Nora's steps as she fled away.
The grip of Bat Scanlon upon the throat of Bohlmier did not relax; both hands of the Swiss clutched at the arm thrust through the trellis work of the rose arbor, but their puny strength was as nothing against the brawn of the big athlete. After a little the hands lost their power and slid helplessly away. Scanlon no longer heard the wheezing breath in the man's chest; and, so, he let go his grip. Bohlmier crumpled up and fell to the ground.
Bat drew his arms through the frail woodwork; there were many abrasions upon his knuckles and he was nursing these solicitously when he heard the stumbling approach of some one through the darkness. Instantly he was all attention; for a moment he fancied it was Nora returning; but the steps were not like hers—they were those of a man. Within a few yards of the rose arbor they stopped; there was a silence and then a voice said whisperingly:
"Hello! Bohlmier, are you there?"
"Big Slim!" was Bat's mental exclamation. "Hunting up his pal."
As no reply came to the lank burglar's low call, that gentleman moved nearer; there was an awkward scrambling, a heavy body struck the side of the rose arbor and set it creaking; then the voice of Big Slim was heard uttering guarded but profane remarks.
"He's fallen over the Swiss," Bat told himself, grimly.
That this was true was proven in another moment. There came a long-drawn breath from the man outside as though he'd made a startling discovery; then Bat saw the glimmer of a light, faint and guarded, but enough to show the figure of the Swiss huddled on the ground, and with another stooping over it. The light suddenly snapped off; silence and darkness followed.
The silence was so long continued that Bat grew uneasy. He was anxious to once more get on the track of Nora; also he was not quite sure as to his own position.
"It was easy to see through this place just then," he thought. "That light must have shone in a little. My friend outside is a person of observation; so how do I know he hasn't spotted the fact that some one is here."
That the burglar could have recognized him, even if this were so, was impossible; for the light was too brief and too dim. But that he had caught sight of some one inside the arbor waswithin probability; so Bat stepped with great caution toward the doorway. As he reached it he saw, or perhaps felt, that there was a bulk directly before him, much denser than the darkness; and as he studied this it occurred to him that it was about the size of a man. But he was not at all sure; so he stood very still, all his thews flexed, and waited for it to move. In a few moments there came a slow stirring; the bulk seemed to push forward. This was all Scanlon required; he lashed out with his right fist; it crashed into a living something with frightful force; there was a low outcry and a fall; and then Bat stepped out into the night and was away.
A score of paces from the rose arbor he stopped. He had not the least idea as to the direction Nora had taken, and so was puzzled about the next thing to do. But after the fright she had gotten he felt sure that she'd not linger about the little patch of ground surrounding No. 620 Duncan Street.
"She's away to the station," he said. "And that's my play."
So in a few moments he was on the street and hurrying toward the station. When within two score yards of it he heard a bell clang and caught the hiss of released steam. Then a train pulled out and rolled away down the dark line of track. The station lights were out, the platform was desertedand the waiting room, when he tried the door, was locked.
"Like as not she caught that train," mused Bat as he stood upon the platform. "And if so, all right."
He looked at a train schedule with the aid of a match, and then at his watch.
"Ten forty-eight," said he. "That's an hour yet. Some wait."
And a dismal, unproductive hour, too. The deserted platform, the chill winds and the drizzle of rain, made it most uncomfortable.
"I ought to be doing something," said he. "I ought to be——"
Of course! He ought to be at the Burton house; he ought to be trying to learn what was behind the marvel of the invalid girl who so suddenly became well; he ought to be eager and anxious to discover the objective of her cautious movements! At once, without any hesitancy, he hurried back along the way he had just come. Lights still burned brightly in comfortable little houses, set back from the street; they glowed with cheer and family life; but on the way he did not encounter a single pedestrian.
"Stanwick is strictly an indoor place on a rainy Sunday night," he mused, as he hurried along. "And I don't know that it hasn't the best of it."
He was inside the iron fence at No. 620 whenhe detected the first signs of a stir; these were the low sounds of careful steps on the walk and the murmur of conversation. He crouched in the shadow thrown by the house; the steps grew nearer and he recognized the voices as those of Big Slim and Bohlmier.
"I haf not much strength," wheezed the Swiss. "Holt me up! Ach! what a grip! It was like a gorilla's!"
As they drew opposite to Bat, he saw in an uncertain sort of way that the burglar was supporting his friend.
"Grip!" said Big Slim. "Well, the wallop he carried had some heft, too. Once I thought I had him; he stood right in front of me; but as I was reaching for my 'gat' he drove one at me that a bull couldn't have stood up under."
"That woman!" gasped Bohlmier, "she is full of tricks, yet. Who would haf thought she had somebodies here with her."
What the burglar replied Bat could not catch, for by this time they had reached the sidewalk. Under the light he saw the Swiss was holding to the other feebly, and that his steps were tottering and weak.
"I must have shut down on him even harder than I thought," said Bat to himself. "It was the knife that did it, and him whipping it out on Nora."
He waited until the two had disappeared; then he made his way softly around the house on the side he had not examined before. Here the windows were all blank and dark except one at the extreme rear. There he could see the colored maid washing some glassware; this window was partly open and he heard the woman's voice singing:
"Swing low, sweet chariot,Come fo' to carry me home."
Bat stood for a while in silent inspection of the place.
"Nothing doing, evidently," he said. "Just as quiet as you please."
He turned his eyes for a few moments upon the surrounding houses; and when they wandered back he noted with a start that one of the upper windows was now illuminated. He stared steadfastly at it, and as he was doing so the light grew brighter; he stood wondering at this, then he saw Mary Burton, a candle in her hand, appear at the window. But this was only for a moment; she moved away and the light dimmed, finally disappearing completely.
"She's left the room and closed the door," said Bat.
A few moments passed, and then a second window, this time on the floor below, flashed up withlight. It remained so for some little time, now growing dimmer, and now stronger, showing that the girl was moving about the room. Then, like the other, the window suddenly became blank. One after another the windows were lighted up in the same fashion; sometimes Bat saw the girl, her dressing gown held about her with one hand, while with the other she held the candlestick. Then both she and the light disappeared altogether.
"Quite an active little excursion," said Bat. "Quite active and extraordinary. What is it about, I wonder? Why this sudden parade through the house on the quiet?"
He remained where he was for a short space of time. But all was silent save for the maid crooning the hymn, and the occasional inquiring bark of the dog on the next place, who probably got a strange scent coming down the wind. As there was nothing more to be hoped for there, he shifted his position to the other side. And as he came in range of the sitting-room window he saw the invalid reclining once more in her chair, supported by pillows, and with the nurse bending over her.
"Well," said Bat, after he had pondered over this scene for some time, "that seems to be taps for the evening."
He lingered a half hour, however, thinking there might be a possibility of something more;but as nothing happened, he made his way to the street, and crossed to the opposite side. Standing in the sheltering shadows of a building, while he contemplated the Burton house once more, he was given a start by a voice saying:
"Taking a look at it, eh? Well, it's worth it. I've been here ever since the place was Stanwick village, and I ain't never seen goings on in any home like I've seen in that one."
The speaker stood almost at Bat's side; he leaned upon a cane, and from the shaky quality of his voice, Scanlon felt that he must be of advanced age.
"That's where the murder was done, isn't it?" asked the big athlete. For there was a gossipy suggestion in the tone of the old man which made a show of non-certainty of possible value.
"Yes, sir; that's it. That's where Thomas Burton was found dead of a crushed skull," replied the old resident. "That's the house of his son and daughter. I see the father taken away to be buried, and I see the son taken away to be put in jail. And I see the daughter's doctor coming to see her every day."
Here the old gentleman broke into a cackle of laughter.
"Every day," he repeated. "In a carriage with a little medicine case."
"An old party who seems to have his wits abouthim," said Bat to himself. "And not at all backward about making a show of them."
"I have a son," continued the old man, "and my son has a wife. We live a little piece down the street. My son's wife is fussy; she doesn't like any kind of public notice. And so, when I wanted to go to the police with what I've seen, she wouldn't hear of it. She said we might even have our names in the papers."
"Women are that way sometimes," said Scanlon. "I've noticed it more than once."
"Fools, I call them," declared the old resident. "But when they have control of things, you've got to let them have their way." He stood with his face turned toward No. 620 for a few moments and then continued: "Yes, sir, queer things go on in that house. People that's sick don't act the way she does."
"Who does?" asked Bat.
"Why, that girl over there! Every day stealing away out at the back door with a veil over her face and some one's else clothes on, and taking a taxicab for I don't know where."
"You saw that, did you?" asked Bat, eagerly.
"Yes, sir, I saw it; and I've seen it every day since the police were taken off guard. Sick!" again came the cackling old laugh. "Sick! Why, she ain't no more sick than I am."
What the old resident of Stanwick said to Bat Scanlon aroused that gentleman to a high pitch, and he began asking eager questions.
"I don't know where she goes," said the man. "I wish I did. But I've seen her two or three times, and she was just as spry as you'd want anybody to be. Sick! Sick nothing!"
Bat's questions continued for some time, but this was the only fact the old man had; and so the big athlete bade him good-night.
Scanlon thought it best not to go to the railroad station, for there he would be almost certain to encounter the Swiss and Big Slim. There was an electric road which cut through the far end of the suburb, and he concluded it were safer to use this into the city, even though it did take much more time.
"But everything's done for the night," said he. "I've got a few more things to think about, too. So what difference does a half hour or so make?"
Bat got to bed at his hotel at about midnight; but it was several hours later before he got to sleep, for the events of the night tossed and mingledin his mind in a most distracting fashion. Consequently, next day, he arose late, and when he reached the gymnasium it was almost noon. A note lay upon his desk in the office written in a well-known hand.