So far the reader may wonder at the constituent elements of this story. African witchcraft, mysterious strangers, and barbaric women seem to be out of place when set in the sober framework of an English provincial town. But romance is not dependent upon landscape or on surroundings for its occurrence: it is to be found everywhere, and very often in the most unlikely places. Here, for instance, by some trick of Fate, certain people had come together, certain passions had been aroused, and now that the drama had been set in motion, it seemed likely that it would play itself out to a tragical conclusion. Tragical, certainly; for herein the elements of comedy seem to be wanting. But then Fate is so pessimistic.
For a whole week after the events already related, nothing new took place likely to alter the situation. Maurice and David remained coldly polite, and very watchful of one another; neither mentioned the name of Isabella, nor did the one or the other see the girl. Mrs. Dallas took care of that. Acting, no doubt, under the advice of Dido (for she had no will of her own), she kept Isabella within doors, and refused to allow her to communicate with Maurice. But, on the other hand, she did not force her to see David; and Isabella was thankful for the consideration.
But there was one visitor to The Wigwam whom Isabella would gladly have avoided--no less an individual than Dr. Etwald. After the violent scene with Maurice, the widow so overtaxed her strength that she became ill, and the doctor was sent for. His mere presence appeared to soothe Mrs. Dallas, and he came frequently. When she could, Isabella absented herself; but this she was not able to do on all occasions, and so she had to endure his complimentary speeches, and the mesmeric quality of his gaze. This last, especially, was a trial to one of her sensitive organization, and one day she felt so uncomfortable that she remonstrated with Etwald.
"You make me afraid, doctor," she said, impetuously. "Your gaze is disagreeable to me."
"My dear young lady," replied the man, blandly, "I must look at you when I address you."
"Then don't address me!"
"Isabella, do not be rude!" cried Mrs. Dallas, who had overheard this passage at arms; whereupon the girl, with a defiant glance at her tormentor, left the room.
"I'm sure I don't know what I'll do with Isabella," sighed Mrs. Dallas; "she is getting so disobedient."
"Perhaps I can assist you."
Mrs. Dallas looked uneasily at her medical attendant.
"No," she said, quietly "I may persuade her into doing what I want."
"Which is, to marry Mr. David Sarby," said Etwald coolly. "In that case I can only hope that the young lady will continue obstinate, as I wish to marry her myself."
"I know--I know! But I don't want her to marry you, doctor. Mr. Sarby is the man for my daughter. He is good-looking and clever and--"
"And poor!" finished Etwald.
"Well, yes," assented Mrs. Dallas, "there is that objection. But it is not much of an obstacle, as Isabella has money. The young couple can live on three thousand a year."
Dr. Etwald went home with this sum running in his head, and more than ever he resolved to marry Isabella. He was in love with her, and would have taken her without a penny; but all the same, if she was an heiress in a small way, it was all the better. The doctor was clever but poor, and with an income like that he could move to London and do great things. There were many schemes in Etwald's head, and certain of these he determined to put into execution at once, in order to secure Isabella to wife.
Some time previously Major Jen had asked Etwald about the devil-stick, but only to be informed that the doctor knew nothing of the missing article.
"I have not set eyes on it since that night you showed it to me," declared Etwald, coolly. "You refused to sell it to me, so of course I gave up all idea of possessing it. All the same," finished he, politely, "I am sorry that it is lost."
"Lost! Stolen, you mean," growled Jen, tartly. "That negress--"
"Dido! Well, I admit that such a barbaric treasure would tempt her, the more particularly as she knows about such wizard instruments. Ask her if she took it."
"I have done so, and I have asked Mrs. Dallas also," replied Jen; "but it seems that Dido wasn't out of the house on that night. She was ill--and, oddly enough, I hear, Etwald, that it was you who made her ill."
"Really!" said Etwald, quite self-possessed. "I suppose Mr. Alymer told you so. I thought as much," he continued, as Jen nodded. "He saw me calming Dido's agitation when I arrived to ask Mrs. Dallas for her daughter's hand. This negress is hysterical, and on that day she happened to be so. I quieted her, yet Mr. Alymer accuses me of having caused her illness."
"I don't know anything about it, Etwald; but truth to tell, Maurice does not like you!"
"Because I prophesied ill concerning him!"
"Oh, that was rubbish," said Jen, contemptuously. "You didn't mean it."
"Didn't I! Wait and see!"
After which Etwald bowed his visitor politely to the door of the gloomy old house which he occupied in Deanminster, and Jen returned home, quite baffled as to what could have become of the devil-stick. All his inquiries proved futile, and he was unable even to conjecture how it had disappeared; yet knowing its fatal qualities, he was in constant dread lest it should reappear in connection with a tragedy. Maurice still held to his idea that Dido had taken the wand, but Jen's inquiries proved that the negress had not been out of the house the night in question.
"Then it must have been Battersea!" said Maurice, decidedly. "He is a friend of Dido's, and a pensioner of Isabella's. I'll find out if he stole the stick for the negress or for Dr. Etwald."
This was easier said than done, as Mrs. Dallas would not allow Maurice to set foot in the house. Still Maurice hoped to learn the truth from the tramp himself, a hope that proved futile also, Battersea had gone on one of his begging excursions, and for quite a week was not seen in the neighborhood of "Ashantee." Then he suddenly made his appearance at the house, and asked to see Maurice. On being led into the hall, Alymer came out to speak with him, and after a few words he took the old man into the library. Jen, who was rather curious to know what Maurice might learn from the disreputable old scamp, waited patiently for the termination of the interview. As Alymer did not reappear, he sought the library, and found the young man alone.
"Where is Battersea?" asked Jen, glancing round.
"Oh, he has gone away!"
"What did he wish to see you about?"
"He had heard that I accused him of taking the devil-stick," explained Maurice, "and came here to exculpate himself."
"Well! And did he do so?"
"Yes, he is quite innocent. He did not take the devil-stick."
"Then who did?"
Maurice paused, reflected, and looked anxiously at Jen.
"I'll tell you that to-morrow," he said, after a pause.
"Why not to-night?" asked Jen, sharply.
"Because I have a suspicion, which I can not prove at present. Battersea gave me a hint, upon which I am determined to work. To-night I may learn the truth."
"From whom?"
"Don't ask me. Uncle Jen; I can't answer you yet."
Jen frowned, then laughed.
"Well, just as you please," he said, raising his eyebrows, "but you are as mysterious as David."
"Why, what about David?"
"Only this, that he has gone up to town without bidding me good-by, save in this short note. I can't understand such conduct."
"Nor I," said Maurice, stretching out his hand. "Please let me read the note. Uncle Jen. I wish to see precisely how it is worded."
The note which the major handed over was curt to the verge of rudeness. It merely stated that the writer had gone to London for a couple of days on business, and would be back as soon as possible. No explanation of what the business might be was given. Maurice did not wonder than Jen was annoyed at receiving such a missive from one whom he regarded in the light of a son; but in handing it back to the major he excused the writer.
"The fact is David has not been quite himself since this trouble about Isabella," he said, gravely, "and he thinks it best to go away for a time. You know how he tortures himself over trifles."
"Egad, this love business of you two young men is getting to be anything but a trifle," said Jen, testily. "What between the lot of you and Etwald, there seems to be nothing but trouble. I wish you'd marry the girl, Maurice, and have done with it."
"Perhaps I may settle affairs sooner than you think," said Alymer, rising. "Uncle Jen, I won't be back to dinner to-night, as I have to go into Deanminster."
"What about?"
"Business connected with the devil-stick and Isabella."
"H'm! You are pleased to be mysterious. Why not tell me your business?"
"Because I may fail," said Maurice. "Here, Uncle Jen, don't be cross; I'll tell you all about it to-morrow, and then you will see and approve of my silence to-night."
"Well," said Jen, with a shrug, "you are old enough to guide your own actions. But I must say that I don't like to be shut out of the confidence of my two boys in this way."
"You'll know everything to-morrow.'
"About David also?"
"Perhaps I can even promise you that!" said Maurice, with a smile.
"What!" cried Jen, "do you know why David has gone to town?"
"Not for certain; but I can guess. Now, Uncle Jen, I shan't answer another question just now, as I must go into Deanminster."
"Will you take the dogcart?"
"No; I'll walk."
"Walk--in evening dress?"
"I'm not going to put on evening dress," said Maurice, impatiently. "I'll get some dinner in Deanminster, and then go about my business."
It was useless to ask further questions, as Jen saw that the young man was getting irritated; so, in no very pleasant temper himself, the major went up to his dressing-room. He was of a peace-loving and easy-going nature, fond of quietness, so it annoyed him not a little that all this disturbance should take place on account of a woman. "The sex is at the bottom of everything," said the major, uttering the old truth with conviction.
David and Maurice both being absent, the one in London, and the other at Deanminster, Major Jen was compelled to dine alone. This he disliked doing, so hurrying over his dinner with all speed, he betook himself to the smoking-room, with a book. Here he lighted a cigar, chose a comfortable chair near the open window, and attempted to read; but the somnolent influence of the evening was upon him, and before his cigar was half done the good major was sound asleep.
Outside a warm wind was blowing, and the air was filled with the perfume of flowers. In the dark blue sky hardly a cloud could be seen, and the moon, just showing her orb above the tree-tops, flooded the still loveliness of the night with wave after wave of cold light. All was full of charm, spellbound, as it were, by the magic of moonlight, when suddenly a long, wild cry struck shuddering through the silence.
Accustomed as an old campaigner to sleep lightly. Major Jen was on his feet in an instant, and again heard that terrible shriek. It seemed to come from the direction of the high-road, and thinking that some evil was being done, Jen, without loss of time, raced across the lawn and into the avenue. In a few minutes he arrived at the gate, and stepped out into the white and dusty road: a black mass was lying some distance down, and toward this ran Jen with an indefinable sense of evil clutching at his heartstrings. The black mass proved to be the body of a man, cold and still. Jen turned the corpse over and recoiled. The dead man was Maurice Alymer.
While the major, hardly able to credit his own eyes, was staring at the dead body of his dear lad, Jaggard, attracted also by the strange cry, came running up.
"What is it, sir?" he asked, saluting Jen even in that moment of anxiety. "I heard an awful cry, sir, and came arter you."
Jen pointed to the corpse but said nothing. Jaggard, ignorant of the truth, bent down to place a hand upon the dead man's heart. Then he saw and recognized the face.
"Mr. Maurice! God, sir, what does this mean?" he cried, aghast with sudden horror.
"It means murder, Jaggard!" replied Jen in a hollow voice which he hardly recognized as his own. "Mr. Maurice went to Deanminster before dinner, and now--" the major pointed again to the remains.
"Murder!" echoed Jaggard, his ruddy face growing pale. "And who, sir--"
"I don't know--I can't say!" interrupted his master, impatiently. "Go and get the men to bring down a stretcher for the body, and send the groom for Dr. Etwald."
"Ain't it too late, sir?"
"Do as I tell you," said Jen, so fiercely that Jaggard did not dare to disobey, but ran off, leaving the major alone with his dead.
The road which ran past "Ashantee" toward The Wigwam was lonely even in the daytime, and at this hour of the night--for it was close upon nine o'clock--it was quite deserted. Not a person was in sight, although the major could see up and down the road for a considerable distance, owing to the bright moonlight. He raised Maurice--or rather all that remained of Maurice--in his arms, and placed the body on the soft grass by the wayside. Then he sat down and began to think out the reason for the committal of this cowardly crime.
That it was a crime he was certain, for there was no reasonable idea to suppose that Maurice had committed suicide. He had left for Deanminster hardly three hours before, full of health and spirits; and now he was dead. A dead body, a lonely road--all the evidence of an atrocious assassination having been committed, and not one trace of the assassin. Undoubtedly the twice-uttered cry had come from Maurice, and as Jen had raced out of the house after the first time he heard it, he must have reached his boy almost immediately after he died; before, so to speak, the body had time to grow cold. Yet the strange part of the affair was that the body was cold, and that there did not seem to be any wound whereby the murder could have been achieved.
"I am taking too much for granted," muttered Major Jen, passing his hand across his brow, "Maurice may not have been killed after all. It is Etwald and his horrible prophecies which have put the idea into my head. Let me have a look at the poor lad's body."
In the bright moonlight he carefully examined the body, but could find no trace of any wound, until he came to the right hand. Here, in the palm, he saw a ragged rent clotted with blood, but it was a mere scratch not likely to have caused death, unless poison were--. Here Major Jen uttered an oath, and rose to his feet with a new and terrible idea in his brain.
"The devil-stick, by heaven!" he said aloud.
Again he bent down and examined the face and hands. Both were swollen and discolored; he tore open the shirt at the neck, and saw that the young man's breast was all distended and bloated. Undoubtedly the cause of death was blood-poisoning, and the devil-stick had been the instrument used to effect the deed. But here the problem proposed itself: Who had killed Maurice? The person who had stolen the devil-stick! Who had stolen the devil-stick? The person who--Major Jen came to an abrupt pause. He could think for the moment of no answer to that question; but it is only fair to say that, dazed by the terrible occurrence of his dear lad's death, Jen had not his wits about him.
While he was still considering the affair in a confused manner Jaggard reappeared with the men from "Ashantee" carrying a stretcher. While they placed the body of Maurice thereon, the groom bound for Deanminster passed them driving the dogcart, and Major Jen stopped the man to tell him that at all risk he was to bring back Dr. Etwald with him. Jaggard wondered at this, for Maurice--poor lad--was beyond all earthly aid--but Jen was thinking of a certain person who might have committed the crime, and he wished for the aid of Dr. Etwald to capture that person. In the meantime the necessities of the case called for the immediate removal of the body to "Ashantee."
It was a melancholy procession which bore the body up to the house. Four men carried the bier--for it was nothing else since it bore the dead body of a young man--and behind came Major Jen bowed to the ground with sorrow. He could hardly believe that Maurice was dead--that he had perished upon a lonely country road by an unknown hand. But that was the question! Jen began to think the assassin was not unknown; that he had a clew to find the guilty one; and he waited the coming of Dr. Etwald with great impatience to see what his opinion was regarding the course to be pursued.
In due time Etwald arrived, for the groom had been fortunate enough to find him at home. On hearing of the affair he expressed the deepest concern, and putting all other business on one side he came back to "Ashantee" in the dogcart. Before seeing Jen, he went up to Alymer's room, and examined the body of the unfortunate young man. Having satisfied himself so far as he was able, without making a post-mortem examination, he came down to the library where Jen awaited him.
"Well, Etwald," cried the major, when he saw the tall form of the doctor at the door, "have you seen him?"
"I have seen it," corrected Etwald, with professional calmness, "the poor fellow is dead, major--dead from blood-poisoning."
"I knew it; I guessed it--the devil-stick."
"That may be," rejoined Etwald, taking a seat, "but I can not be sure. You see neither you nor I know anything of the poison which was in the handle of that African instrument. It--"
"But what are you talking of?" broke in Jen, impetuously. "You say that my poor boy died from blood-poisoning. How else could he have come by that, save through being touched or struck with the devil-stick? No one in the neighborhood was likely to possess any weapon likely to corrupt the blood. If Maurice had been stabbed, or shot, or if his head had been smashed in, I could understand the crime--or rather the motive for the crime--better; but as it is, the person who stole the devil-stick must have killed him."
"And who stole the devil-stick?" asked Etwald, coolly. "If I forget not, major, you asked me the other day if I did."
"Yes, but I was wrong; I made a mistake."
"A mistake that under the present dispensation of things might prove awkward for me," said Etwald. "I was no friend to the dead man; I did not like him, nor he me. We both loved the same woman--we were rivals. What then so easy as for you to say--for a jury to believe--that I had stolen the devil-stick and killed Mr. Alymer, so as to get him out of my way."
"I never thought of such a thing," protested Jen. "I do not suspect you."
"Then whom do you suspect?" asked Etwald, fixing his dark eyes on the major.
"Dido--the negress, of Mrs. Dallas!"
Etwald shook his head and smiled.
"But that is ridiculous," said he. "The commission of a crime presupposes a motive. Now what motive had Dido to kill your friend?"
"She hated Maurice, and she did not want him to marry Miss Dallas."
"Neither did I, if I remember rightly," said Etwald, dryly, "Besides, Dido--as you proved--did not steal the devil-stick. However, if you are suspicious of her, go over to-morrow and see Mrs. Dallas. It will be as well to be sure of your ground before making a public affair of it. By the way, I suppose you will have a detective down from London, to sift the affair to the bottom?"
"I don't know; I'm not sure."
"I should if I were you. Mr. Sarby is in London. Why not wire up to him to bring down a clever man from Scotland Yard?"
"If I thought that--. But," added Jen, breaking off, "how did you know that David was in London?"
"Oh!" rejoined Etwald, quietly, "Mr. Alymer told me so to-night."
"To-night!" echoed Jen, starting up. "You saw Maurice to-night?"
"Certainly! About an hour and a half before he was murdered."
"At Deanminster?"
"At my house at Deanminster," replied the doctor with great deliberation.
"So it was you whom he went to see on business to-night?"
Etwald shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know if you call it business," he said, after a pause. "I asked Mr. Alymer to call and see me, and sent the message by that tramp named Battersea."
"I remember his coming. Go on, please."
"Mr. Alymer called, as I said," continued Etwald, "And then I told him that Miss Dallas was ill from being prevented by her mother from seeing him. That I was sorry for the poor young lady, and that I gave up my position as a rival. In fact," added the doctor, "I advised Mr. Alymer to see Miss Dallas and marry her as soon as he could."
"But why did you wish to act in this generous manner?"
"For the very simple reason that Miss Dallas is of a delicate and nervous constitution," said Etwald. "If she does not marry Mr. Alymer, with whom she is in love, she may die. I quite forget that I should speak in the past tense now, major. Mr. Alymer is dead, and Miss Dallas may pine away of grief. It was to prevent such a catastrophe from occurring that I surrendered my claim to her hand."
"Very generous of you indeed," said Jen, ironically; "but I do not see why you should behave in such a noble manner when you were so much in love with the girl."
"It is for that reason that I changed my mind. As you know I have been attending upon Mrs. Dallas this week, and I saw plainly enough that my case was hopeless; that the girl was dying to marry Alymer. Besides," added Etwald, carelessly, "the mother was not on my side."
"She wants Isabella to marry David."
"So I hear; and he is in town, as Mr. Alymer told me to-night. But what are you going to do about the matter, major?"
"Give notice to the police."
"There will be a post-mortem, of course," said Etwald, carelessly.
"No, no! I hope not," cried Jen, horrified at the idea.
"But there must be," insisted Etwald, cruelly. "Alymer died of poison, and it must be proved that such was the case. Then we may learn if he perished from the poison of the devil-stick. Afterward you must get a detective to search for the person who stole it from your smoking-room. Once he or she is found, and the assassin of your poor friend will be in custody."
"'He or she,'" repeated Jen, slowly. "Dido I mentioned; but 'he!' who is 'he?'"
"Ah, that is what we wish to find out," said the doctor, gravely. "But how do I know? Battersea may be the thief."
"The thief and the murderer!"
"Well, no, major. On second thought I do not think it is wise to couple those two words as yet. The thief may not be the murderer, and--but what can I say?" broke off Etwald, suddenly. "As yet we know nothing. It is late, now, major, and I must get back. Shall I give information to the police?"
"If you will be so kind," said the major, listlessly, and he let the doctor go away without another word.
All through that long night he knelt beside the bed upon which lay the corpse of the man whom he had loved as a son. The bedroom of Maurice was on the ground floor and the windows looked out onto a little lawn, which was girdled by thick trees in which the nightingales were singing. The sorrowful songs of the birds, flitting in the moonlight and amid the cloistral dusk of the trees, seemed to Jen like a requiem over the young life which had passed away. The major was broken-hearted by the sorrow which had come upon him, and when he issued from the chamber of death he looked years older than when he entered it. It seemed to his big loving heart as though the woman he loved had died anew in the person of her son.
Fortunately he was not forced to sorrow alone; toward midday David arrived from town, filled with grief and surprise at the untimely end of Maurice. He found the major in the library, and grasped him by the hand with genuine sorrow.
"My poor uncle," he said in a low voice. "I cannot tell you what I feel. Etwald telegraphed to me the first thing in the morning, and I came down by the earliest train there was. Poor Maurice!--and we parted in anger."
"More's the pity," sighed Jen, leaning upon the shoulder of Sarby; "but you cherish no anger in your heart now?"
"God forbid, sir!"
David spoke so fervidly that Jen saw plainly he meant what he said. The massive face of the young man looked worn and haggard in the searching light of the morning, and whatever enmity the love of the same woman had sown between him and the dead, it was not to be denied that he was suffering cruelly from remorse at their unhappy difference. Jen was sorry, but even in his own grief he could not forbear a stab.
"You can marry Isabella now," he said, bitterly.
"No!" said David, faintly, turning his face away. "At least not yet."
The major looked at him for a moment or two, then, with a new idea in his head, he took David by the hand and led him into the chamber of death.
"Swear," said he, "that you will not marry Isabella Dallas until you have discovered and punished the murderer of Maurice."
David swore.
Great was the dismay throughout the countryside when it became known that Maurice Alymer had been murdered. The dead man was well known in drawing-room and in hunting-field, so that there was hardly a person of consequence in the county who could not claim at least a bowing acquaintance with him. Moreover, Maurice was one of those men who are always popular, and much sympathy was manifested for his untimely death. Also the mysterious way in which he had come to his end, the absence of any known motive, and the knowledge that the deceased had no enemies--all these thing's combined to raise public curiosity to the highest pitch. The inquest on the dead body was awaited with much anxiety.
Crowds of people came from all parts of the country to view the scene of the crime, and, if possible, to gain a glimpse of Jen and David, who as relatives--as it might be said--of the deceased were notorious for the time being; but thanks to the presence of the police and the vigilance of Jaggard, the morbid crowd of sight-seers were unable to gratify their curiosity. The two men remained in seclusion, and saw no one save Dr. Etwald. A sympathetic message arrived from Mrs. Dallas, which, considering the way she had behaved toward Maurice, the major regarded as a gratuitous insult.
"Can't she let the poor man rest in his grave?" said Jen, wrathfully. "It is all through her opposition to the match that this has come about!"
"Oh, you can't say that, Uncle Jen," remonstrated David.
"Yes, I can, sir. If Maurice had not been prevented from seeing Isabella, there would have been no necessity for him to call on Etwald at Deanminster; and if he had not done that he would not have been on the high road in the night to meet with his death. Mrs. Dallas and her infernal negress are at the bottom of the whole accursed business."
Of course this was mere raving on the part of Jen, who had no reason to connect either woman with the crime; but the poor man was beside himself with grief at the loss of Maurice, and hardly knew what he was saying. Being in this frame of mind he was by no means pleased when shortly after the delivery of Mrs. Dallas' message Dido made her appearance with a request for a personal interview.
"I shan't see that black witch," cried the poor major. "David--Etwald, send her away."
"I wouldn't if I were you, major!" said Etwald, judiciously; "she might be the bearer of valuable information, likely to lead to the detection of Alymer's assassin."
"Then let her see the police, sir, although I don't agree with you. She is not the woman to put a rope round her own neck--black as it is."
"But surely, Uncle Jen, you don't look upon her as the guilty person!"
"How do I know who is guilty?" snapped Jen. "I wish I did! I'd hang him or her. But this black wretch and her confounded mistress have to do with the death of my poor boy, I am certain."
"I doubt it. But will you see Dido or shall I send her away?"
"Yes--no--yes. That is, I don't wish to see her. Ask her what she wants, David."
David left the room and remained absent for some time. On his return he stated that Dido had come with a message from Isabella, and that she refused to deliver it to anyone save the major. Seeing that the negress was thus insistent, and wondering what Miss Dallas might want with him at so painful a time, Jen yielded, and Dido was admitted into the library. She looked taller, more massive, and more sullen than ever, and though she trembled at the sight of Dr. Etwald--who, by the way, kept his dark eyes studiously fixed on her--she was fairly composed when she addressed the major.
"My lil missy want you, sar," said Dido, going straight to the point.
"What does she want to see me about?" asked Jen, coldly.
"I no know, massa. She weep! She ill! She make terrible bobbery, dat poo' girl. Massa, come an' see my lil missy dis day."
"I can't at present. The police are in the house; there is a lot to be attended to. Tell your mistress, Dido, that I will see her to-morrow."
"She want you to-day," insisted Dido, obstinately.
"I have given you the message," said Jen, sharply. "Tell her I'll see her to-morrow. And now, Dido, I want to know what you have to do with this crime?"
"I, massa! Ole Dido she do nuffin. Massa Maurice he die Voodoo! Oh, yes."
"By that devil-stick poison?"
"Me don't know what debble-stick is. I no touch him."
It was clearly impossible to learn anything from so obstinate a creature, so Jen repeated that he would call upon Isabella on the morrow, and dismissed the negress. As she left the room Dr. Etwald followed her, and on his return mentioned casually that he had been giving Dido some instructions as to what was to be done with Isabella.
"The girl is nervously excited," he explained; "and now that she has sustained this shock of Mr. Alymer's death there is no knowing what complications may ensue."
"You don't think her life is in danger?" asked David, in a faltering tone.
"No; but I fancy her reason is."
Here Jen looked suddenly at Etwald, and recalled the dinner at which the doctor had read the dead man's hand. Then he had prophesied ill of Maurice--an ill which it would seem had been fulfilled. Now, with equal curtness, he was prognosticating evil for Isabella. Vexed at such croakings, Jen spoke abruptly:
"You are a prophet of evil, Etwald," said he. "First my poor Maurice, now Miss Dallas."
"As to that," replied Etwald, with deliberation, "I foretell that Miss Dallas may get ill from perfectly natural signs. She was in love with Alymer; she is of a highly excitable and nervous character, so it is easy to know that unless great care is exercised her brain may be affected."
"But with regard to Maurice?"
"Quite a different thing. I read in his hand that he would be subject to a state of life in death."
"Which, as we guessed, meant paralysis or catalepsy," said David. "But, as you see, poor Maurice is dead. Your prophecy was false."
Etwald shrugged his shoulders.
"It would seem so," he assented. "Mr. Aylmer is dead, as you say; so the term life in death can not be applied to his present state of non-existence. But you will admit that I foretold that evil would happen to him if he decided to marry Miss Dallas. It has turned out as I thought."
"True, doctor," remarked Jen, keeping his eyes fixed upon the swart face of the other, "and is that all you have to say?"
"All? What else do you expect me to say?" demanded Etwald, coldly.
"Say who you think killed Maurice."
"That is beyond my powers."
"Then who stole the devil-stick?"
"I can't answer that question either," said the doctor, taking up his hat. "A detective may be able to assist you on those points. Engage one."
"No," said Jen, linking David by the arm, "we don't need aid from the law to learn who killed Maurice and avenge his death. David and myself will find the guilty person."
"Really! I hope you will succeed. But a case like this requires a trained intelligence such as you will find in a detective. Of course you may command my services, major, but I am afraid you will not succeed."
"We shall see," replied Jen, who was as obstinate as a mule on some points. "I am no fool."
"Certainly not," rejoined Etwald, with something like a sneer; "but you are also no detective."
"That we shall see," retorted the major, vexed by the sarcasm, and thereupon gave Etwald to understand by look and manner that he wished to be alone with David. When the doctor had taken himself off, and was walking past the library windows toward the curve of the avenue where it ran into the woods, Jen looked after him with a lowering face, and laid an inquiring finger on David's arm.
"Do you trust that man, my boy?" he asked, gravely.
"No," returned Sarby, after a pause. "I think he is a bad lot."
"I am sure of it, and what's more," added Jen, nodding, "it is my opinion that he knows who killed Maurice, if indeed he did not do it himself."
David shook his head.
"I don't think so," said he, with conviction. "Why should he kill Maurice?"
"The lad was his rival."
"Mine also, major. Yet you don't suspect me of the deed."
"God forbid that my heart should harbor so ill a thought," cried Jen, with natural horror. "But I tell you what, David. We must sift this affair to the bottom. Maurice is dead, his assassin is at large, so we must catch him."
"Him, Uncle Jen?"
"Or her," added the major. "For all I know that black witch may have something to do with the crime. Likely enough, if she knows how to manipulate the devil-stick."
"But she denied knowledge of the devil-stick."
"Lies, lies, lies!" said Jen, scornfully. "If I could only--but enough of this for the time being," he added, abruptly. "We will talk of these things on a more fitting occasion."
The hours dragged heavily along in that house of mourning. The body of the dead man lay in the little chamber which looked out upon the laurel-encircled lawn. It was covered with a white sheet, the hands were folded upon the breast, and flowers had been laid thereon by the major. Over the face a handkerchief had been thrown, as the once handsome features were so discolored as to be absolutely repulsive to the sight. There was something terrible in the rigidity of the long form, stretched out so stiffly under the sheet. In the chamber candles were burning, and Jaggard was watching near the corpse. He was to watch throughout the night.
On the morrow the post-mortem examination was to take place, and the inspector of police at Deanminster had left a man in the house to look after the interests of justice. As yet the inspector--no very gifted man at the most--was doubtful of the proper course to pursue. A crime had been committed; the victim was a well-known gentleman; so here, if anywhere, was a chance of his covering himself with glory by discovering the assassin. But Arkel--the inspector in question--had only experience in bucolic crimes of the rick-burning order, or, at the worst, the poker murders of laborers. The subtlety with which this deed had been accomplished baffled him. He could not grasp the idea of the devil-stick, or even take in the mode of the death. If Arkel were to be the avenger of Alymer's death the assassin ran an excellent chance of getting off scot free.
David retired early to bed, as he was quite worn out with the anxieties of the day; but Jen was too grieved to sleep. He remained in the library, thinking over his great loss and wondering what wretch could have taken that young life. Toward twelve o'clock he went to the kitchen and had a short conversation with the policeman, who was a stupid, bucolic youth with no more brains than a pumpkin. Afterward he sought the chamber of death to see that Jaggard was not sleeping at his post. Finally, like the good old soldier he was, Jen went round the house to satisfy himself that the windows and doors were bolted and barred. All these things done, he returned to the library.
At first he read and smoked, then he paced up and down, thinking of his dead lad, and finally, as the hands of the clock drew to midnight, he threw himself into a chair, and worn out in body and in mind, the old man slept profoundly. Hour after hour passed in silence; the moon set and the night grew darker, as the wind rose and moaned through the woods round the house. Save the muttering of the breeze and the ticking of the clock not a sound was to be heard in that silent room wherein Jen slept heavily.
Suddenly he woke with a start. Somebody was rapping gently on the shutters of the middle window. Glancing at the clock, Jen saw that it was three in the morning, and wondering who could be outside at so untimely an hour, he rose to open the window. With care, begotten by old experience, he picked up his revolver and held it ready while unbolting the window shutters. When they were thrown open he saw a white figure with outstretched hands standing before the window.
"Good Lord, Miss Dallas! You here? At this hour!"
"Yes, yes," whispered the girl, stepping into the room. "I got out of my bedroom window and escaped from my mother and Dido. I want to see Maurice."
"But if you--"
"Maurice! Maurice!" interrupted the girl, wildly. "Take me to the dead chamber."
Seeing from her looks that she was too distraught to be argued with, Jen led her out of the library and into the dead man's room. Then he uttered a cry, which was echoed by a wild shriek from the girl.
The bed was empty--the corpse was gone.
Astounded and horrified, the major, with Isabella Dallas clinging to his arm, stood staring at the empty bed. The candles were still burning, but Jaggard had fallen from his chair and was lying, a huddled heap, upon the floor. The one window of the room was wide open, and the wind--now blowing freely--was shaking a loose shutter to and fro. The shock of the discovery was so terrific that Jen for once in his life lost his presence of mind. He was recalled to his senses by the wild voice of Isabella.
"Maurice! Maurice! Where is he?" she cried, leaving the major and rushing toward the empty bed. "You said he was here--my poor dead love; but I can't see him. Where is he? Where is he?"
"God knows!" stammered Jen, turning his horrified gaze on the poor girl. He did not know what to do. Isabella was in a dangerous state of hysteria. She had on but a loose white dressing-gown, and her presence in the house at three o'clock in the morning was enough to overpower Jen's sense of the reasonable, independent of the crowning horror of the missing corpse. At this juncture the much-needed aid came from without. David Sarby rushed into the room.
He was half-clothed, pale as the white dress of Isabella Dallas, and evidently, from the wild look in his eyes and the quivering of his nether lip, badly scared. Stopping short a few paces from the door, he held up the lamp which he carried, to survey the astonishing scene before him. The sight of Jen tongue-tied and immovable, of Isabella weeping on her knees by the bedside, of the bed itself vacant of its dead occupant--all these things were calculated to shock even stronger nerves than those of David Sarby. Nevertheless, after a pause of sheer astonishment, he managed to stammer out a question:
"Did--did she cry out?" he asked, nodding toward the girl. "I heard a shriek."
His presence and question unlocked the major's tongue.
"Yes," he replied, in a hesitating manner, as of one unused to speech. "She came to the library window ten minutes ago, having escaped from the custody of her mother and Dido. Quite hysterical, as you see, and bent upon seeing our poor dead lad. To pacify her I brought her, but as you see--"
"The body is gone!" cried David, hurrying toward the bed.
"Gone! gone!" moaned Isabella, rising. "Oh, my dear, dead lover."
"Jaggard!"
"There," said Jen, pointing to the inanimate form of his old servant. "He is asleep or dead."
"Dead!" wailed Isabella, catching at the word, "Maurice dead!"
"We must alarm the house," cried Sarby, in a horrified tone, and thereupon walked swiftly toward the door. But before he could reach it the major, having recovered his presence of mind, seized him by the arm.
"No, no!" said Jen, hastily. "Do not bring any one here as yet, David. We must think of this poor girl. Take her home at once. When you are both out of the house I shall give the alarm. You understand--no one must know that Miss Dallas has been in my house at this hour."
"I quite agree with you," said David, simply, and, turning to Isabella, he took her gently by the hand. "Come, Miss Dallas. This is no place for you."
"Maurice!" muttered Isabella, looking piteously at him.
"Maurice is not here. Come, Miss Dallas, let me take you back to your mother."
"My mother is so cruel," said Isabella in a low tone, "and I feel so ill," she continued, raising her hand to her loose hair. "Yes, yes; I must go home. But Maurice--my dear Maurice."
"I shall tell you all about it to-morrow," answered Jen, soothingly, and led her out of the room. "At the present moment you must go home with Mr. Sarby. David, there is a loose cloak of mine in the hall. Wrap it round her and come into the library. It is best that she should leave in the way she came."
David did as he was told, and snatched up his own ulster after wrapping up Isabella. In the library they found the major reopening the shutters of the window, which he had closed on the girl's entry. When he flung them aside a gust of wind blew inward, sprinkling him with moisture.
"Rain," said Jen, drawing back, "All the better; there will be no spies about, and you can take Miss Dallas home without being observed."
Taking the girl by the hand, David led her toward the window. She was in a half-dazed condition, the result of the strong excitement which had impelled her to make this midnight visit, and her nerves being thus dulled, she surrendered herself passively to the guidance of David. Only at the window did she pause and look steadfastly at the major.
"You must find out what has become of my dear Maurice's body," she said, quietly.
"I promise you," replied Jen, with a look of stern determination in his face.
"And you will let me know?"
"I promise you," said Jen again. "Please go. Miss Dallas. There is no time to be lost, and you must not be found here."
Thus entreated, Isabella stepped out into the night, and in a moment or so she was swallowed up in the darkness with her companion. Left alone, the major closed the window, bolted and barred the shutters, and then hastened back to the death chamber, where he rang the bell. In a few minutes the footman, half-dressed and half-asleep, made his appearance; then came the policeman hastily from the kitchen; finally, as the bell still continued ringing, all the other servants, male and female, poured into the room. A single glance showed them what had occurred--the insensible Jaggard, the empty bed, the open window. A babel of voices ensued.
"Silence, all of you," cried Jen, authoritatively. "We must act, not talk. Two of you take Jaggard to his room. Tell the groom to ride at once to Deanminster for Dr. Etwald and Inspector Arkel. Sampson," he added, turning to the policeman, who was stolidly staring at the empty bed, "rouse yourself. Take lanterns and search for footmarks. There must have been more than one person to carry off a dead body."
These directions were obeyed at once. The house, the grounds, the whole wild night with its driving tempest became radiant with lights and alive with terrified men. That a human being should be murdered was sufficiently ghastly without this crowning horror of a missing body coming after. Every man looked on his fellow with suspicion; in the yellow light of the lanterns, dimly through the steady downpour of rain, could be seen pallid faces and scared expressions. And while the men folk scoured the house, the park, and the adjacent lanes environing "Ashantee," the female servants, unnerved and hysterical, crowded together in the kitchen, whispering over hastily prepared tea. It was a wild night, and full of the vague horrors of death and mystery.
Etwald came immediately from Deanminster in company with Arkel, whom this last extraordinary event took entirely by surprise. He questioned Sampson--the young policeman left in charge--he searched the chamber of death, stepped out of the window and across the lawn toward the belt of laurels which divided the lawn from a winding and tortuous lane. This, a tenebrous pathway even in the noonday, slipped eel-like through darkling trees to emerge into the high road a quarter of a mile away. Arkel was so long absent that Jen could only surmise that he had gone into this outward darkness, and on the inspector's return it appeared that the major was right in his conjecture. Furthermore Arkel brought back certain news.
"Without doubt the body was taken out through the window," he said to Jen. "The flower-bed beneath the lattice is trampled down. It was carried across the lawn--for I could see by the light of the lantern the footmarks of four feet--and through the bushes into the lane. The way can be traced easily enough to that point; but it is too dark to note any further sign."
"Nothing more can be done to-night," said Jen, gloomily. "The men have returned dead tired, but they have seen nothing and no one."
"Where were you when the body was stolen?"
"Sleeping in the library. I saw that all was safe about midnight, and then sat down over a book and fell asleep. I woke somewhere about three--"
"You are sure it was that hour?"
"Certain. I heard the hall clock strike. On waking I went into the room where the dead body was laid out to assure myself that all was well. I found the bed empty, the window open, and Jaggard insensible."
"Did you hear any noise?"
"None at all. But the wind and rain were wild outside, so that they may have drowned the noise made by those who broke in."
"We must question your servant," said Arkel, having noted the major's answers in his pocket-book. "He was stunned, I believe?"
"I can't say. I haven't examined him. Stunned or drugged, I suppose."
"And where is Mr. Sarby?" asked the inspector, as they turned to leave the room.
The major was prepared for this question, and as he did not intend that the visit of Isabella to the house should become known to the police, he answered it in a guarded fashion.
"Mr. Sarby went out as soon as we discovered the loss, and he has not yet returned."
"Was he with you when you made the discovery?"
"No. He had retired to bed," rejoined Jen. "But as soon as I saw what had taken place I called him up, and he jumped through the window to see if he could espy any traces of the robbers. Then the servants came, and I sent for you."
Inspector Arkel, who could not see one inch beyond his nose, was quite satisfied with this explanation, and nodded in reply. He left the room with the major to seek out Jaggard, and, if possible, to learn from him what had occurred. But this they were unable to do. The man had been stunned by a blow on the head, and was quite insensible.
"And yet he was a strong man," said Etwald, when he conveyed this intelligence. "He must have been taken by surprise."
"Undoubtedly," asserted Jen, readily. "But he must also have been asleep, else he would have called out as the men burst through the window."
"How do you know there were more than one?" asked Etwald, in a jesting tone.
"Because Maurice was an unusually heavy man," replied the major, "and he could not have been carried off--that is, his body could not have been carried off," he corrected, with a sigh, "unless by two men. There may have been three, for all I know. But what is the meaning of it all?" cried Jen, in bewildered dismay. "Why was the poor lad's body stolen?"
"Resurrectionists!" suggested Arkel; whereupon Major Jen shuddered.
"For God's sake, don't even hint at such a thing," he cried, vehemently. "It would be too terrible; and, as it happens, quite unbelievable. It is incredible that such a thing could occur nowadays."
"It is incredible that such a thing as the theft of a body should occur," said Etwald, dryly. "Yet it has taken place. But where is Mr. Sarby? I should think that he would be present to aid you." Jen was just about to repeat his feigned explanation regarding David's absence, when the door opened, and the young man, wet and exhausted, entered the room. To give him his cue, the major spoke to him at once.
"You are just in time, David, as I was telling these gentlemen about your hunt after those wretches. Did you see anyone?"
"I saw nothing," said David, wearily. "God knows what has become of the body!"
"Have you any theory, Mr. Sarby?"
"No, doctor! I am too weary to frame theories at this hour of the night. But, no doubt, Mr. Inspector yonder, can--"
"Certainly not," interrupted Arkel, sharply. "I can prove nothing. I am quite puzzled."
"And no wonder," said Etwald, counting off events on his fingers. "The devil-stick, the murder, the theft of the body. This is a catalogue of horrors. A man might do worse than write a story on these things."
"I agree with you!" remarked the major, sharply. "A man might make a jest of these horrors--as you are doing."
"I assure you I never felt less like jesting in my life," replied Etwald, coldly. "But it is no use discussing such a thing at five in the morning. If you can do without me, major, I shall return to Deanminster. I am tired."
"But Jaggard?" asked David, rising stiffly from his chair.
"He is all right for the time being. I have detailed a housemaid as nurse, and she knows what to do. I'll come back again in the morning and see if he has recovered his senses."
When Etwald took his departure, Major Jen sent David to bed, in spite of the young man's remonstrances, but remained up himself to talk to Arkel. For a long time Jen discussed the matter with the inspector, but the conversation proved extremely unsatisfactory. Arkel was not a clever detective, or even a keen-witted man, and in a case like the present--difficult and involved--he was quite at a loss how to proceed. Finally, Major Jen dismissed him in despair, and while Arkel went to see his men, who were posted round the house--a clear case of shutting the stable-door after the steed was stolen--Jen remained alone to think of what he should do. "I must be my own detective," he thought, pacing the library. "This man is a fool. He will find out nothing, and I won't have even the satisfaction of burying the body of my poor lad. I must do the work myself, with the assistance of David. To find out who stole the devil-stick; that is the first step. To discover who killed Maurice; that is the second step. To learn who carried away his body; that is the third step. Three very difficult things to find out, and I don't see where to begin. I must learn all I can about Maurice's past life, for he may have enemies of whom I know nothing. Once I learn who his enemies are--if he had any--and I may discover the truth. I shall go and sleep, and when I awaken I shall set to work to solve these mysteries."
As he spoke the major unbarred the shutters of the window. The rain had ceased, the dawn was breaking, and the terrible night was at an end.
"It is an omen!" said the major, "an omen of good!"