Edouard, Ashton-Kirk's cook, was astonished and somewhat grieved that day to receive orders that dinner was to be served an hour earlier than usual. And Stumph, grave and immobile, was betrayed into an expression of astonishment when his master and guest sat down to the same dinner in their work-a-day attire.
And at best Edouard's delicate art that day received but scant attention. Stumph could hardly conceive of a more important thing than the proper and gentlemanly eating of one's dinner. Nevertheless other things engaged the attention of the two young men; they talked earnestly and in incomprehensible terms; mysterious allusions were sprinkled thickly through it all.
"I do not think," Stumph told the mortified Edouard in the kitchen, "that Mr. Pendleton has tasted the flavor of a single thing he has eaten. He listens to Mr. Ashton-Kirk talk; he is surprised at everything that he is told; there is a trembling in his hands, he is so eager. No, I don't know what it's about. But then, I never know what Mr. Ashton-Kirk is about. He is a very remarkable gentleman."
And no sooner was the dinner completed than Ashton-Kirk's big French car was brought to the door and both young men got into it.
"You've looked up the road to Cordova?" inquired Ashton-Kirk of the chauffeur.
"Yes, sir," answered the man. "Very good road and almost parallel with the railroad. No trouble getting there by dark."
"All right. Get there as soon as you can."
They cut into a broad asphalted avenue, which eventually led them through the north suburbs into the country. The April dusk was settling upon the fields as they raced along; in the isolated houses, lights were beginning to twinkle; there was a swaying among the trees and roadside bush; the hum of the flying car must have been borne long distances; for far away people raised their heads from the finishing tasks of the day to look at it as it flashed by.
Pendleton lay back comfortably digesting his dinner, and ticking off in his mind the case which engrossed him so much.
"It all tapers down to this," he said to himself. "Hume was murdered by Locke and a confederate in order that they might gain possession of something, the nature of which is unknown. Kirk is confident of Locke; I think he'd even go so far as to give him into custody, if he had the tangible proofs that the police require.
"But he lacks enthusiasm in the matter of the confederate. To my mind, it's Spatola or Morris, or both. Both bore Hume no good will. Morris has been spending at least part of his time with Spatola under an assumed name; they are known to have been very much engaged in some secret matter. Both visited Hume's on the night of the murder. An Italian purchased the weapon with which the deed was done. A German sentence was written in shorthand by Locke for his confederate. Spatola admits he knows German; he grows suspicious when shorthand is mentioned. And to wind it up, Morris has not been seen at his apartments, his office, or by his friends, since the murder was committed."
At a little unpainted railroad station, the investigator broke in on Pendleton's thoughts by calling on the chauffeur to stop. There were the usual signboards on each side of the structure, announcing that the place was Cordova; and there was the usual knot of loungers that are always to be found about such places watching with interest the incoming trains.
Ashton-Kirk called to one of these. He was a lanky fellow in a wide-brimmed hat and with a sheep-like look of complacency.
"What's the best way to Dr. Mercer's place?" asked Ashton-Kirk.
The lanky man reflected.
"There's three or four ways of getting there," he stated. "You can go up the pike and turn at Harbison's store; or you can turn down the lane along there a piece and go along until you come to—"
"Which is the nearest?"
"I ain't never passed no judgment on that; but I think the clay road down toward Plattville would get you there the quickest—if you didn't get stuck in the ruts."
"I think we'd better stick to the pike," suggested Pendleton.
"The pike's the best road," said the lanky man. "All the people from Mercer's place use it when they drive here to the station."
Once more the big French car, now with its lamps lighted, sped along the road; about a mile further on they came to the store referred to by the man as Harbison's. Here they received instructions as to how to proceed, by the store-keeper; and after running about four miles along an indifferent wagon road, they caught the twinkle of many lights off in the middle of a wide clearing.
"That must be it," said the investigator. "We'll leave the car here; to flash up to the door in the quiet of the evening would attract more attention than would be good for us, perhaps."
It was now quite dark, but they found a gate a trifle farther on which opened readily; and so they proceeded along a walk toward a building which lay blinking at them with its yellow eyes. A deep-throated dog scented them from off in the distance and gave tongue. As they drew near to the institution they heard a man calling to the brute to be still. A little further on the man himself suddenly appeared from around the corner of a building with a lantern; he flashed this in their faces as he said:
"Well, sirs, this is against the rules. We have no visitors except on Saturdays; and then only within reasonable hours."
"We would like to speak to Dr. Mercer," said Ashton-Kirk.
"Dr. Mercer is at dinner," explained the man with the lantern. "He don't like it much if he's disturbed at such times."
"We will wait until he has finished; we are in no great hurry."
The man seemed puzzled as to how to act. With the light held aloft so that not a feature escaped him, he examined them closely. Apparently he could see nothing with which to find fault; and so he sighed in a perplexed fashion.
"He does not care to have people wait for him," complained the man. "He gets very angry if he is worried by such things while dining."
"You need not announce us until he is through," said Ashton-Kirk, composedly.
The man hesitated; but finally resolved upon a course and led them up a flight of stone steps and into a wide hall. The night was raw and a brisk fire of pine knots burning in an old-fashioned hall fireplace, made the place very comfortable.
"If you will be seated, gentlemen," requested their guide, "I will tell Dr. Mercer of your presence as soon as he has finished."
They seated themselves obligingly in a couple of low, heavy chairs near the fire; and then the man left them. The hall was high and rather bare: the hardwood floor shone brilliantly under the lights; save for the faint murmur of voices from a near-by room, everything was still.
"I should imagine that a place of this sort wouldn't be at all noisy," observed Pendleton, in a heavy attempt at jocularity.
Except for a word now and then, they waited in silence for a half hour; then a door opened and steps were heard in the hall. Both turned and saw a remarkably small man, perhaps well under five feet, dressed with great care and walking with a quick nervous step. His head was very large and partly bald, rearing above his small frame like a great, bare dome; he carried a silk hat in his hand, and peered abstractedly through spectacles of remarkable thickness.
"Locke," breathed Pendleton, as his heart paused for a moment and then went on with a leap.
The little man apparently did not see them until he was almost beside them; then he paused with a start, and his eyes grew owlish behind the magnifying lenses as he strove to make them out. That he did not recognize them seemed to worry him; his thin, gray face seemed to grow grayer and thinner; with a diffident little bow he passed on and out at the front door.
"Not a very formidable looking criminal," commented Ashton-Kirk, quietly. "However, you can seldom judge by appearances. The most astonishing crime that ever came to my notice was perpetrated by the meekest and most conventional man I had ever seen."
They waited for still another space, and then the man who had shown them in presented himself. He was now without the lantern, but wore a melancholy look.
"Dr. Mercer will see you," said he in a low voice. "He is very much vexed at being disturbed. He'll remember it against me for weeks." He appeared very much disturbed.
Ashton-Kirk placed a coin in the speaker's hand; this seemed to have a bracing effect, for he led them into his employer's presence in a brighter frame of mind. Dr. Mercer was seated at the table in his dining-room. A napkin was tucked in his collar, his fat hands were folded across his stomach, and he was breathing heavily.
"Gentlemen," spoke he, rolling his eyes around to them, "I trust you will pardon my not rising. But to exert myself after dining has a most injurious result sometimes. My digestion is painfully impaired; the slightest excitement causes me the utmost suffering."
"I appreciate the fact that we are intruding at a most inconvenient time," said Ashton-Kirk. "And I beg of you to accept our apologies."
The eyes of Dr. Mercer, which had the appearance of swimming in fat, were removed from his visitors, and fixed themselves longingly upon a great dish filled with a steaming, heavy-looking pudding. His breath labored in his chest as he replied:
"The hourissomewhat unusual; but as it happens I have about finished my dinner, and if your errand is not of a stirring nature, I should be pleased to have you state it."
The man placed chairs in such a position that the doctor would not have to stir to fully observe his visitors. This done he was about to withdraw; but his employer stopped him at the door.
"Haines," complained he, "you have not taken my order for breakfast."
The man paused and seemed much abashed at his neglect.
"I really beg your pardon, sir," said he. And with that he produced a pencil and a small book and stood ready.
"I will have one of those trout that I purchased to-day," directed the doctor. "Let it be that large, fine one that I was so pleased with," his swimming eyes ready to float out of his head with anticipation. "Then I would like some new-laid eggs, some hot cakes, and perhaps a small piece of steak, if there is any that is tender and tasty. And mind you," in an nervous afterthought, "tell Mrs. Crane to have it but rarely done. I will not tolerate it dry and without flavor." He pondered awhile, apparently much moved by this painful possibility; then he added: "I may as well have a cereal to begin with, I suppose. And that will be all with the exception of a few slices from the cold roast and some white rolls."
Carefully Haines had taken this down; and after he had read it over at his employer's order and noted a few alterations and additions, he departed. For a few moments the doctor's eyes were closed in expectant rapture; his breathing grew so stertorous that his callers were becoming alarmed; but he spoke at last, reluctantly, resentfully.
"I am now ready to hear you, gentlemen, if you please. And kindly remember that I prohibit anything of an exciting nature at this time."
"We have heard your school highly spoken of," said Ashton-Kirk. "And have come to make some inquiries before making up our minds."
"Ah," breathed Dr. Mercer, solemnly, "you have an afflicted one. Too bad! Tut, tut, tut, too bad!"
"There are many institutions of the sort," proceeded the investigator. "But for the most part they stop at the threshold, so to speak, of knowledge."
Dr. Mercer roused himself so far as to unclasp his hands and point with one finger at the speaker.
"Sir," said he, in a voice full of grave significance, "they seldom reach the threshold. A large majority of them are conducted by dishonest persons. Afflicted youth left in their charge are rarely properly directed—they rarely acquire that digital dexterity so necessary to success in their limited lives. The isolated brain, so to call it, is seldom more than half awakened. Unless it is intelligently approached, the shadows are never thoroughly dispelled."
Here he paused, panting distressedly; his eyes were filled with reproach as he relapsed into his first attitude; and his manner was that of one who mutely begged that no further tasks be thrust upon him.
"The difference in institutions of this type lies mainly in the methods employed, I believe," said Ashton-Kirk.
"In the methods—and in the persons who apply them," replied Dr. Mercer in a smothered tone.
"To be sure. I have heard something of your teaching staff. It is a very excellent one, is it not?"
"The best in the world." The soft, fat, white hands of the doctor again unclasped themselves; and this time both of them were employed in a faintly traced gesture. "We employ scientists. We do not stop at what you have correctly called the threshold. We explore the entire structure of the intellect. Our Professor Locke, himself an afflicted one, is a man of vast erudition—a scholar of an advanced type, a philosopher whose adventures into the field of psychology and natural science is widely known. He has charge of the practical work of the Mercer Institute, and under him its results are positive and unique."
"We have heard of Professor Locke," and, drily, "have seen some of his work."
"If you had stated your business before—ah—coming in to me," spoke the doctor, "you might have had an opportunity of consulting him. He left for his cottage immediately after dining."
"He does not live here, then?"
"Not in this building—no. There is a detached cottage at the far end of the grounds which he occupies. If you'd like to see him," and the heavy jowls of the speaker trembled with eagerness, "Haines will show you there at once."
"If it is no trouble," said Ashton-Kirk, smoothly.
"Not in the least." The doctor rang for his man, and when he entered, said: "These gentlemen would like to speak to Professor Locke. Show them the way to his house. And, gentlemen," to the callers, with anxiety, "the professor can arrange everything with you. It is my habit to nod for a half hour after dinner. My system has grown to expect it, and if I am deprived of it, I suffer considerably in consequence."
"We will not trouble you again, doctor," Ashton-Kirk assured him. "Thank you, and good-night."
Once more outside, the man led them along a foot-path that seemed to cut the institution grounds in two. The rays of his lantern danced along the carefully kept lawn; the shadowy trees seemed to move backward and forward, as the thin beams wavered among them.
"The professor lives a good piece away," the man informed them. "Away over on the county road."
"Prefers to be alone, eh?"
"I suppose so, sir. And then he has his laboratory and work-shop there, well away from interruption. He don't like to be much disturbed while he is engaged in his studies."
"Few of us do," said Pendleton.
"Quite right, sir."
They walked along in silence for a time; then they caught a clear humming noise from some distance ahead.
"A motor car," said Pendleton.
"It's on the county road," said the man with the light. "We always hear them when the wind blows from that direction."
After some fifteen minutes' steady walking they saw a long twinkling shaft of light coming from among the trees.
"That's the house," said Haines. "I hope the professor ain't busy; you wouldn't believe what a blowing up he can give a body with his fingers when he's vexed. I'd almost rather have the doctor himself; though, as a rule, the professor is a very nice gentleman."
The house was a brick structure of two stories and dimly lighted on the lower floor. Near by was a long, shed-like building, the windows of which were brilliantly lighted.
"He's at work," said Haines, in a troubled tone. "And in the shop too! If it was even the laboratory, it wouldn't be so bad. But hedoesget so interested in the shop. That machine means more to him, whatever it is, than anything else about the place."
There came a harsh burring sound from within both the shop and the house. Haines seemed surprised.
"Visitors," he said. "He seldom has one; and I never knew any to come at night before."
They saw the figure of Locke cross one of the shed windows toward a door. And just then Ashton-Kirk stumbled rather heavily against Haines; the lantern dropped to the ground and was extinguished.
"I beg your pardon," said the investigator in a rueful tone; then he began to rub his shins. "That was rather hard, whatever it was."
The door of the building opened and Locke appeared; his great bald head shone in the light that streamed after him; and it was thrust forward as he strove to penetrate the darkness ahead.
"He feels the vibrations of those buzzers," Haines told them, "and knows right away when anyone wants to get in."
He began fumbling with the lantern as Locke disappeared; but Ashton-Kirk said to him:
"You need not light that. We can see very well. And, on second thought, you need not wait, either. We can introduce ourselves to Professor Locke without troubling you further."
"Thank you, sir," said the man, vastly relieved. "They all have queer dispositions, you see, and I don't like to trouble them."
At once Haines made his way back along the path by which they had approached; some distance away they saw him kindle his lantern, and then watched the yellow spark as it glanced fitfully away across the grounds.
The cottage and work-shop of Professor Locke appeared to be set back some little distance from what Haines had called the county road; a grove of tall trees thickened the shadows all about, and it was into these trees that the professor had gone.
"The buzzer must have the button that sounds it attached to a gate opening upon the road," said Pendleton.
They stood for a short time in silence; then Pendleton nudged his friend with an elbow.
"Look," he whispered. "There at the door of the shed."
Ashton-Kirk did so. And he was just in time to see a large, iron-gray head, a craggy, powerful face, and a pair of thick shoulders; the expression and attitude were those of a man listening intently. Almost instantly, as Ashton-Kirk's gaze fell upon him, the man withdrew.
"Humph," exclaimed Pendleton under his breath. "Who's that, I wonder?"
They waited for some time longer in silence. But the little man did not return, nor did the head appear again at the shop door. Ashton-Kirk appeared puzzled.
"Locke intended returning at once," he said to Pendleton. "Otherwise he would have closed his work-shop door." Then his eyes wandered toward the house, and his grip closed tightly upon his companion's arm. "Look," whispered he, in his turn.
Pendleton's gaze flew toward the house. The lower windows had been dimly lighted when they approached; but now the glow from them was high and brilliant. In one of the rooms they saw Locke; he was striding up and down, his hands clinched and gesturing, his face upturned, writhing hideously. Seated at a table, calmly engaged in examining something traced upon a sheet of paper, and apparently not paying the slightest attention to the gesticulating man, was a young woman. And Pendleton felt himself grow suddenly faint and sick as he recognized Edyth Vale.
For a moment there was a silence between the two men; then Ashton-Kirk said, dryly:
"Miss Vale has, apparently, not been altogether frank with us in this matter."
"You think then—" began Pendleton in a voice of terror. But Ashton-Kirk stopped him.
"I think many things," said he. "But they are neither here nor there. Facts are what count. Put the circumstances together for yourself and see where they lead you. Miss Vale has been from the first mixed up more or less in this crime. She explained. As far as I knew the explanation was made in good faith. Now we find her here in this lonely place, quietly engaged with a man whom I have convinced myself is one of Hume's murderers."
There was another pause; this time it was Pendleton who broke the silence.
"As you say," spoke he, in a strange, throaty sort of tone, "she has not been quite frank. Take all the circumstances together and they seem to point—"
He paused as though quite unable to finish. Ashton-Kirk laid a hand upon his shoulder.
"Imagination is a thing that is vitally necessary in this sort of work," said he. "But it must be held in check by reason. The great trouble with an amateur is that he reasons up to a certain point; then he allows his imagination to take a long leap toward a result. The upshot is that his results have seldom anything to support them. The correct method, I think, is to allow the imagination to scurry ahead in the way that is natural to it; but reason must follow close behind, proving each step of the way. To be sure, you may have theories, hypotheses, ideas without end, but you must never take them for granted. Select each in its turn, place it in a tube as the chemist does, add a few drops of reason, and you may produce a fact. It is the only way to go about it. Once a man becomes fixed in a belief, be there ever so little foundation for it, his mind stops revolving the subject; further procedure is hopeless."
"I understand all that well enough," said Pendleton. "But," and he waved his hand toward the house, "what doesthismean?"
"I don't know," said Ashton-Kirk. "And neither do you. So—that being the case—there is but one thing to do—find out."
They gazed toward the window once more, Miss Vale had apparently mastered the contents of the paper, and was now engaged in writing rapidly. As the young men watched, she stopped, read carefully what she had written, and then handed it to Locke. The mute carried the paper to the light, and holding it very near to his eyes read it with much attention; then he tore it into strips, placed it upon the red coals of a stove which stood near him and watched it burn. Facing Miss Vale, his fingers began to fly rapidly in intricate signs. This only lasted a moment, however; for he stopped, gestured passionately, seized a pad of paper and began to write.
While he was thus engaged, Ashton-Kirk said to Pendleton in a low tone:
"Remain here for a moment."
Then slowly, carefully, the investigator made his way toward the window through which Miss Vale and Locke were to be seen.
Heavy beams of light shot across the ground from the windows; but here and there were trails of shadow. He clung to these until he had reached the shelter of the walls; then to Pendleton's amazement he stepped directly in front of the window through which the two were to be seen, rapped smartly upon the glass, and remained standing in full view, of the two in the room.
He Rapped Smartly on the Window
He Rapped Smartly on the Window
Pendleton saw the pad drop from Locke's hands; he saw the mute wheel as he felt the vibrations and stare at the window, his eyes puckered and straining. He also saw Miss Vale rise, saw her hands thrown out in a gesture much like despair; and also he heard the cry that she uttered, muffled by the confines of the room, but full of fear. Then the room was plunged into darkness; an instant later a door was heard to open; the sound of quick-moving feet came to him; there followed the pulsations of a motor and the racing of a car away into the night.
"She's off," breathed the young man, and there was undoubted relief in the knowledge. "She's off, and I really believe that's what Kirk was after."
He walked toward the house and found his friend standing in the shadows.
"Well," chuckled the investigator, "it did not take her long to make up her mind, eh?"
"You had some motive in doing that," accused Pendleton. "What was it?"
Ashton-Kirk was about to reply; but just then the small figure of Locke made its appearance. He carried a lantern and was approaching with stumbling steps, his eyes peering and blinking in their efforts to pierce the gloom. Not until he was well upon the two did he make them out; then he halted, lifted the light above his head and surveyed them intently.
In the rays of the lantern Ashton-Kirk smiled urbanely, and bowed. The supple fingers of the mute writhed inquiringly.
"Each of them forms itself into a wild note of interrogation," said Pendleton. "They are fairly screaming questions at you."
Ashton-Kirk smiled even more agreeably at Locke and shook his head. Then he went through the pantomime of one writing, and finished by pointing to the house.
Carefully, eagerly, fearfully, the mute examined them; his near-sighted eyes and the wavering light must have made it all but impossible for him to make them out. However, he at length motioned for them to follow him, and started back by the way which he had come. But after a few steps he halted. He indicated that they were to remain where they were; then he went to the shed-like building, closed the door and locked it, placing the key in his pocket.
"It would seem," observed Ashton-Kirk, "that we are not to be trusted implicitly."
"Also," replied Pendleton, "that there is something of value in the shed."
Returning, Locke led the way to a door upon the other side of the house. Showing them into a small room furnished with books and scientific apparatus and evidently a study, he set down the lantern and with a sign bade them be seated. Upon their doing so he produced a small pad of paper and a pencil; handing these to Ashton-Kirk he stood peering at them expectantly. With the swift, accurate touch of an expert, the investigator wrote in the Pitman shorthand:
"We ask pardon if we have startled you."
Then he tore off the sheet and handed it to Professor Locke. The man seemed surprised at the medium selected by his visitor; nevertheless he quickly traced the following in the same characters.
"Who are you? What is your errand?"
"We were sent to you by Dr. Mercer," replied Ashton-Kirk with flying pencil. "Our business is to secure the admission of a new pupil."
Locke read this and regarded them for a moment, doubtfully.
"Why did you not press the button at the door?" he demanded in writing.
"I hardly expected you to have such a thing as a bell," answered Ashton-Kirk, on the pad. "And so, seeing you, I attracted your attention as best I could."
Professor Locke read this and stood with his pencil poised, when the buzzer sounded harshly; he went at once into the hall; they heard him open the door; and in a few moments he returned, followed by Haines.
The fingers of the two flashed their signals back and forth; then a look of relief came into Locke's face; he even smiled, and nodded understandingly at the two young men.
"I beg pardon, gentlemen," said Haines. "But when I got back to the hall, Dr. Mercer made me return and make sure that you had got to see the Professor."
"Thanks," replied the investigator. "We had not the slightest difficulty."
"I'm glad to hear it, sir," said the man. "Good-night to you."
He flashed the same wish to the mute, who answered readily; then he went out and through the window they saw his light again go bobbing away in the darkness. Then the professor began to write once more.
"I beg your pardon," was his message in long-hand. "The man tells me that it was quite as you say. But I must confess I was a trifle startled."
"The lady," wrote Ashton-Kirk, "seemed startled, too."
For the fraction of a moment the mute halted in his reply. Then the pencil with much assurance formed the following:
"It was my niece. She was about to go just as you came; so do not reproach yourself for having driven her away."
For some time the penciled conversation continued between the two; but as it was all based upon the fanciful pupil whom the investigator stated he desired to place in Dr. Mercer's care, Pendleton paid little heed to it. At last, however, they bid the Professor good-by, and left him upon the threshold, his massive head nodding his adieus, his frail little body sharply outlined by the glow from the hall.
The two had reached their own car around on the other road before Pendleton spoke. Then he inquired:
"Well, have you learned anything from him?"
"I think I can say 'yes' to that," answered the other. "But I'm not yet sure. I'll have to put it to the proof first, according to the formula which I gave you a half hour ago. If it succeeds, I'll tell you what it is; if it does not, I'll say nothing, and it will go upon the scrap heap devoted to broken fancies. And now, Dixon," to the chauffeur, "we'll go home."
Shortly before noon next day, Ashton-Kirk, in an immaculate morning suit, was ushered into the presence of Miss Edyth Vale. If he expected confusion, embarrassment or anything of that sort, he was disappointed; for she greeted him eagerly and with outstretched hand.
"This is a surprise," she said.
He held her hand and looked meaningly at her.
"My appearancesaresometimes surprising," he said. "But I usually select the night for them; the effect is better then, you see."
She smiled into his eyes.
"I have no doubt but that you are dreadfully mysterious," she said. "But please sit down."
She seated herself near the window; holding a book in her hand, she fluttered the leaves to and fro.
"The composure," thought the investigator, as he sat down, "is somewhat overdone."
"I wonder," said Miss Vale, looking at the book, "if you are an admirer of Ibsen." And as he nodded, she proceeded with a slight smile. "I know that he is scarcely the usual thing for a spring morning. But there are times when I simply can't resist him."
"He's a strong draught at any time," said Ashton-Kirk. "But his tonic quality is undoubted."
"His disciples claim that for him, at any rate," she answered. "But sometimes I question its truth. Where is the tonic effect of 'Rosmersholm?' I think it full of terrors." She shuddered and added: "The White Horses will haunt me for weeks."
"It's the atmosphere of crime," said he. "That quiet home on the western fiords reeks with it."
She made a gesture of repulsion.
"It's ghastly!" she exclaimed. "And, somehow, one feels it from the very first—before a word is spoken. Imagine Rebecca at the window, watching through the plants to see if Rosmer uses the footbridge from which his wife once leaped to her death." She paused a moment, her eyes upon the open pages; then lifting her head, she asked: "What do you think of Rebecca?"
"A tremendous character—of wonderful strength. It was just such proud, dark, purposeful souls that Byron delighted to draw; but the only one in literature to whom I can fully liken her is the wife of Macbeth. There was the same ambition—the same ruthless will—the same disregard of everything that stood in her way. And, like Cawdor's wife, she weakened in the end."
She regarded him fixedly.
"Would you call it weakness?" she asked.
"She fell in love with Johannes, did she not? That was weakness—for her. She herself recognized it as such."
The girl looked at him thoughtfully for a moment.
"That is true," she said.
"Some of the world's most daring and accomplished criminals have been women," he went on. "But Nature never intended woman to be the bearer of burdens; there is a weakness in her soul structure somewhere; she usually sinks under the consciousness of guilt."
"More so than men, do you think?"
"As a rule—yes."
She put down the book and clasped her hands in her lap.
"There is no need to sympathize with Rebecca," she said. "She was brave and strong, even in her love for Johannes. But he," and there was a note in her voice that recalled the night he had listened to it over the telephone, "he was different. There is no more dreadful thing in the play, to me, than the character of Rosmer. To think of him sitting quietly in that charnel house, prospering in soul, growing sleek in thought, becoming stored with high ideas. Perfect peace came to him in spite of the stern-faced portraits which shrieked murder from the walls. He dreamed of freeing and ennobling mankind, and all the time Fate was weaving a net about him that was to drag him from the mill bridge after his dead wife."
"Kroll knew him," said the investigator. "And he said Rosmer was easily influenced. It is usually men of that type who are drawn into the vortex which swirls at every door."
Her face was a little pale; but she now arose with a laugh and began rubbing her finger-tips with a handkerchief.
"I think we'd better remove the dust of the Norwegian," she said; "and I make a vow never to read him again—in the morning." She stood looking down at her caller, good-humoredly and continued: "I suppose it is my fault, but you have a dreadfully gloomy expression. Or maybe," as an afterthought, "you ate an unwholesome dinner last night. Were you at the Perrings, by any chance?"
He shook his head, his keen eyes searching her face.
"No," said he, "I had much more important matters on hand."
She held up her hand.
"It was something about this Hume affair," she said.
"Yes," he replied.
The smile was now gone; she leaned back against a heavy table, her fingers tightly clasping its edge.
"I have been trying to forget that dreadful thing," she said. "I've stopped looking at the papers, because I would be sure to see it mentioned. And," with never a faltering in her eyes, "because I might be reminded of it in some other way, I now remain indoors."
"Last night was an exception, perhaps," suggested he, smoothly.
"Last night?" There was a questioning look in her beautiful eyes; the finely posed head with its crown of bright hair bent toward him inquiringly.
An expression of chagrin crept into his face.
"You were not out last night, then?" said he.
"What makes you think so?" smilingly. "It was dreadfully dull here, too. But then," with a shrug, "anything is better than a constant reminder of that Christie Place affair."
He nodded understandingly.
"I suppose itisvery distressing." He frowned gloomily at the tips of his shoes and she could see that he bit his lip with vexation. After a moment or two, he said: "It's very strange; but I was quite sure I saw you last night."
"Yes?" Her tone was one of careless interest.
"However," he went on, "I had but a glimpse of the lady; and could easily have been mistaken." He wore a baffled look, but smiled as he got up. "And," said he, "my visit of this morning was based upon the sight I fancied I had of you last night."
She laughed amusedly.
"It was something interesting," she said. "Please tell me about—but, no, no," hastily. "If it has anything to do with the Hume case, I'd rather not hear it."
She had pressed the bell call for the footman, when he said:
"Mr. Morris still keeps himself well concealed, I note."
Like a tigress leaping to defend her young, she met the accusation.
"Mr. Morris has done no wrong," she declared, spiritedly. "And there is no need of his concealing himself."
"Of course I will not say as to that." His voice was soothing and low. "But he makes a mistake in not coming forward. His name, you have noticed, has already appeared in the papers in direct connection with the murder."
He glanced at her keenly once more.
"It may be that he has gone away upon some urgent business," she said. "And the chances are that he has not heard anything of the matter."
"If he had gone away on business, don't you think he would have mentioned it to someone?"
"Perhaps he did not think it necessary. And again, maybe he did not expect to be gone so long. Such things frequently happen, you know."
"They do," admitted Ashton-Kirk. "But in the case of Allan Morris, they somehow fail to fit. I am convinced that he is in hiding."
She regarded him steadily for a moment; then she said:
"You are convinced, you say?"
"I am."
"May I ask upon what your conviction is based?"
"Not now—no."
There was another pause; the man was at the door, ready to show the investigator out.
"Perhaps," and her tone was very low, "you even fancy that you know his hiding-place."
"Not just yet," said he, "but in a few hours at most, I will."
Her lips formed the good-by as he stood in the doorway; but she made no sound. And Ashton-Kirk as he walked down the hall, smiled quietly to himself.
About half an hour after Ashton-Kirk had left the Vale mansion, a Maillard car drew up before the door. As it did so, an Italian laborer arose from the curb not far away where he had been comfortably seated with his back against a tree; then throwing his arms wide in a luxurious yawn, he started leisurely down the street.
Five minutes later, a veiled, dust-coated female figure descended the step; the driver of the Maillard was dismissed, and Miss Vale composedly took his place at the wheel. As the car started forward, the gauntleted hands guided it firmly; the steady eyes were set straight ahead as the lever was pushed first to one speed and then another.
And as the rapid pulse of the motor was borne along the quiet avenue, the Italian laborer calmly appeared from around a corner, pushing a powerful-looking motor cycle before him. Another moment and the machine was sounding its wild fusillade; the Italian sped away in the same direction as the Maillard, his battered soft hat set jauntily upon the back of his head, his gay-colored neckkerchief streaming in the wind.
The car kept to the avenue for a long time; but finally in the far suburbs it made a sharp turn to the left and a few miles further on shot into a broad highway that ran parallel with the railroad.
Bending forward so as to offer the least resistance to the wind, the Italian's swarthy face relaxed at this; his fine white teeth showed in a smile.
"Cordova, I think," muttered he, in very good English. "If not, then somewhere very near to it."
Once upon the highway, which was hard, level and practically deserted, the Maillard increased its speed. Eddies of dust curled in its wake; its hum resembled that of a gigantic top; its shining brass and smooth gloss made it look like a streak of light. But the motor cycle was of the best; its compact, powerful mechanism answered bravely to each call that was made upon it by the dark-faced man in the saddle; its explosions had merged into one long volley.
At a small and not very firm-looking bridge the Maillard slowed down; apparently for the first time Miss Vale heard the cycle in the rear, for she turned and gave it a quick look. But the dust of her own progress hung thickly in the air and she could not see very clearly. Passing the bridge at a low rate of speed, she turned again. The dark face of the rider, his battered hat and flying 'kerchief seemed to satisfy her; for once more she gave attention to her course, and again the car increased its speed. A mile or two further on there was a rather broken stretch of road and she was forced to slow down. As the sound of her own vehicle diminished, she, as before, caught the volleying of the motor cycle; and as she turned the eyes that looked through the veil were intent and searching.
This time she appeared not so well satisfied, for upon reaching the end of the broken stretch, she drew her car to one side and stopped. As the hammering explosions of the motor cycle grew plainer and plainer she sat rigidly erect upon her seat, her face turned directly ahead. But a close observer would have noted a slow movement of her right hand among the folds of the dust coat; and if he was also an experienced observer he would have immediately understood that Miss Vale did not venture alone and unarmed upon the road.
However, the Italian never even gave her a glance as he came up; his machine flew by with a swirl, amid a crashing crescendo; then it disappeared in the dust of the distance.
But Miss Vale, when she once more resumed her journey, had not gone much more than a mile when she came upon the same swarthy son of the south and his vociferous machine. But the latter was now silent enough; it leaned against a fence, and its rider knelt beside it, a wrench in his hand, testing its parts carefully and intently.
The Maillard was less than a quarter of a mile away when Miss Vale caught the rapid series of explosions once more. With a quick glance ahead, she threw the lever forward and the car tore along at a breathless rate. Fences ran by in a giddy staggering line; trees seemed merged into one tangle of branches; the dust arose in solid towers behind her. However, she held to this but a scant five minutes; her breath was short when she decreased the power; the hands upon the wheel shook a little, but her head was held erect, her face was still purposefully set forward.
Above the decreasing hum of her car, came the swift, brave shocks of the motor cycle. But, if there was a dread that fell to tightening at her heart, she showed it little. The Maillard still bore swiftly on; she did not once turn her head.
A little further on there came into view a post with a series of white, pointing sign-boards, that indicated a cross-roads. When still a hundred yards from this the car stopped once more; again the Italian flew by; again he vanished, this time around a bend beyond the cross-roads. But once hidden by the bend, he stopped and got down; the smile again appeared upon his face, the brilliant teeth shone good-naturedly.
"A simple little ruse," he said to himself. "And one that I've seen used with effect more than once. Evidently Miss Vale has her wits about her."
Leaning against his machine he waited and listened. From around the bend came the low sound of the Maillard; nearer and nearer it came for a time; then it began to recede. At this the Italian remounted; the explosions of his motor were muffled as he went swiftly along upon the way by which he had come. At the cross-roads he slowed up and examined the ground. Deep in the dust was the broad impress of the tires, showing the car to have taken the turn to the left. Then swiftly the cycle turned into the same road and took up the trail once more.
Some three miles further on, the track veered back toward the highway along a badly cut dirt road.
"Slow going for a heavy car," said the pursuer calmly. "It will not be long before I sight it again."
There was a hard, beaten footpath at one side of the road; taking to this, the man on the motor cycle found it easy traveling enough. Shortly after, he caught the laborings of the Maillard as it made its way through the binding ruts; then he slowed down and ran easily along the path, content, apparently, to keep in sound of the chase.
But upon finally reaching the highway, he increased his speed until he sighted the dust of the car; this he hung to like a beagle, but never once allowed the car itself to come into view.
At last the sounds of the Maillard ceased and the pall of dust thinned and dissolved itself in the air. The motor cycle ran swiftly on until the car, now at a standstill, became visible; then the Italian got down, took out a pair of field-glasses and swept the highway before him.
What he saw must have satisfied him that there would be no more use for his machine for a time, at least; for he pushed it to a place where there was a break in a fence and concealed it behind a musty-looking corn shock, left from the fall before. Then placing the glass under his arm he walked guardedly along the road in the direction of Miss Vale's car.
Some distance further on there was a tall swamp maple growing by the roadside; it was an easy task to mount into its branches from the top fence-rail; then resting snugly in a high fork, he leveled his glass and proceeded to scan the scene before him.
Miss Vale had descended from her car; her veil was raised, and she was gingerly picking at the mechanism with hands sheathed in canvas gloves. With apparent intentness she took out tools; small parts were inspected minutely. And yet, for all that, there was something unusual in her manner; every now and then she would lift her head, casually, so it seemed, and glance away across the fields.
"And always to the right," murmured the man in the tree-top, after a little.
At once the big glass swept around in that direction.
"A house," added the watcher, with great satisfaction.
The building was almost buried in a thick growth of trees; its white sides and red roof shone in the sun through branches abud with April.
Suddenly, in the midst of her labor, Miss Vale paused; her manner changed, the tools were dropped, the parts lost interest. Facing the house, she yawned, with arms thrown wide after the manner of one much wearied with a task; then she took off the gloves, unpinned her hat and smoothed her hair. This was gone through with careful elaboration and afterwards there was a pause; the girl then gathered up the things, got into the machine, placed the hat upon the seat beside her, went careening away with never a backward glance.
But the man in the tree seemed in no haste to follow; instead he covered the distant house with his glass and waited patiently. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, then half an hour and finally an hour. At the end of that time, however, a figure emerged from the trees about the house and walked hastily toward the road; the eyes of the watcher glistened, his fine teeth shone in an appreciative smile.
Reaching the road where the car had stopped, the newcomer, who was young, well-dressed and rather good-looking, suddenly paused, stooped and lifted something from the ground. He held in his hands the work gloves of Miss Vale, which she had dropped after taking them off. For a moment the young man stood looking at them as though hesitating what to do; then he turned, went to the roadside and placed them carefully upon the top rail of the fence. Then trudging along on his way, he unsuspectingly passed beneath the maple which concealed the man with the glass.
When he was out of sight, the Italian slipped down the tree and ran lightly along the road to the place where the gloves lay. He took up one and looked within; but it was empty. However, in the thumb of the next was a slip of paper which bore a single line of writing:
"Tobin Rangnow."
Studying this for a moment, the Italian made a copy of it. Then he slipped it back into the thumb of the glove and replaced both exactly as they were; after which he made his way back to the motor cycle, and mounting, went flying toward the city.