This revealment of conditions left me thoroughly puzzled. I was not frightened at the situation, for I largely attributed the fear shown by both Pete and Sallie to negro superstition. I could have dismissed their faith in a haunted house with a smile, and gone to sleep myself with an easy conscience, confident that a noisy wind, or a hooting owl, was the sum and substance of all the trouble. But Bill Coombs was a very different proposition. He was of the hard-headed kind, not to be easily alarmed by visionary terrors, and yet he was manifestly afraid to sleep in the house. I was sufficiently acquainted with his type to comprehend there must be some real cause driving him to retreat to the negro cabins for rest. He was a rough of the Southwest, illiterate of course, but a practical fellow, and, without doubt, a gun-fighter. He had been employed because of these very characteristics, and it would require surely a very real ghost to drive him away.
I sat there for some time smoking, endeavoring to think it all over coolly, and listening intently. At first I could distinguish the rattle of dishes downstairs, as Sallie cleared the table, and, a little later, heard Mrs. Bernard moving about uneasily in her room across the hall. But at last these sounds ceased, and the house became still. I removed a portion of my clothing and lay down on the bed, a certain uneasiness preventing me from undressing entirely. I was tired, but with little inclination for sleep. The room was large, the furniture of old style and well worn, the light of the small hand lamp leaving much of the spacious apartment in shadow. It was not only imagination which kept me wakeful, but the dim suspicion engendered in my mind by what Mrs. Bernard had said below. Could there be any truth in her questioning of the motives actuating the man who had sent us here? Had we come—mere pawns in some game of crime—deceived, perhaps betrayed to arrest? Was Coombs here merely to watch us, and report to Neale and Vail how we carried out our part of the bargain? The affair certainly looked altogether different now I was upon the ground, although I could figure out no possible object those men could have. At least they could accomplish nothing without my cooperation, and, if I discovered any evil afoot, I could block them instantly. I was there to save this property for the rightful heir, and was determined now to see that Philip Henley received all that was due him. It was after one o'clock before I fell into a drowsy sleep.
Indeed, it hardly seemed to me that I had entirely lost consciousness, when I was jerked bolt upright by the sharp report of a firearm. For a single instant I imagined the shot fired within my room; then I sprang to the door, and flung it open, peering out into the hall. Everything was still, the rays from my lamp barely extending to the head of the stairs. I could neither see, nor hear anything, and yet I had a strange premonition that I was not alone. There was an automatic revolver in the pocket of my coat, and I stepped back after it, picking up the lamp on my return, determined on a thorough examination of the upper story. There was no doubt about the shot—the sound was no effect of a dream. I wondered if the girl had been awakened by the report, and paused to listen at her door, but no sound reached me from within. The thought that she might have discharged the weapon occurred to my mind, but was as instantly dismissed, as I was convinced she possessed nothing of the kind.
I moved down the hall cautiously, regretting the need of a lamp, but the place was strange, and I dare not venture about in the dark. Old as the house was, there was no creaking of boards underfoot, and, strain my ears as I would, not the slightest sound reached me.
The first doors I came to were ajar, but the moon was at the back of the house, and I was obliged to enter each apartment, and flash my light into the corners to make sure they were vacant. These were medium-sized bedrooms, comfortably furnished, although containing nothing new. Only one exhibited any evidence of late occupancy, being in considerable disorder, the bed unmade, some discarded garments strewn about the floor. I prowled about within this room for some time, even invading the closet, but discovered nothing more suspicious than a loaded revolver in a bureau drawer, together with some torn letters, and an old newspaper. This was a local sheet, containing a notice of the death of Judge Henley, which I took time to read. The letters were in such scraps I could not even decipher the address.
One fact, however, was revealed—some man had been sleeping up here lately, and it was not Coombs, but a much smaller Individual. This knowledge made me even more cautious, as I tiptoed down the hall, now narrowed by the back stairway. The first door opened into a bath-room, the tub half full of dirty water, a mussed towel on the floor. The last door, leading to a room apparently extending clear across the rear of the house, was tightly closed. I set my lamp down well out of sight, and gripped my revolver, before attempting to manipulate the knob. It opened noiselessly; moonlight streamed through one window, where the curtain was not closely drawn, but the gloom was too dense to reveal much of the shrouded interior. I could dimly perceive a table, and some chairs, one overturned. There was no movement, however; no sign of present occupancy. Convinced as to this, I slipped back for my lamp, shading the flame so the light was thrown forward into the room. A single glance revealed everything. The table, a common deal affair, contained two bottles, one half filled, and three dirty glasses, together with a pack of disreputable-looking cards, some of these scattered about the floor. There was no other furniture, and the walls were bare, a dirty gray color. But what my eyes rested upon in sudden horror, was the body of a man, curled up in a ball on the floor as a dog lies, his face hidden in his arms. That he was dead I knew at a glance.
I had seen violent death often, but this was different, and I shrank back, staring at that motionless form as though stricken by paralysis. There was no movement in the room, no sound except the fluttering of a curtain. With effort I gained control over my nerves, and moved slowly forward, placing my lamp on the table, so as to have both hands free. This murder—or was it suicide?—had occurred within ten minutes. I turned the man over, revealing a bearded face, the features prominent but refined. He was no ordinary rough, and his clothing was of excellent material. He had been shot in the back of the head.
It was murder then—murder! In an instant I pictured the tragedy exactly as it must have occurred—the open window, the overturned chair, the scattered cards, telling the whole story. Just what was the fellow doing here alone at that hour? Why should he have been killed? Even as I struggled with the horror, a sudden gust of wind extinguished the lamp, and I gripped the table, staring about in the haunted darkness. A moment and my eyes adapted themselves to the new environment, the moonlight streaming through the open window, and across the man's body. With heart quaking like a frightened girl, I stole across the floor, and glanced out. A single story extension, probably the kitchen roof, was below. Kneeling upon this the assassin could easily fire into the room. Beyond, the pale moonshine revealed a patch of grass, a weed-entangled garden, and behind these a dense forest growth. To the right of the garden I could dimly distinguish a row of small cabins, the negro quarters. Coombs would be occupying one of these, and they were so close that, even if asleep at the time, he could scarcely fail to hear the report of the gun in the silent night. Yet there was no light along the row of huts, no sign of human presence.
All this was but a rapid survey, for I dare not remain there, my back to that black interior. The body of the dead man huddled on the floor, the unknown mystery of the dark house, filled me with an awful dread. Seized by sudden terror I caught up the extinguished lamp, scarcely breathing until again outside in the hallway, the door closed behind me. Trembling in every limb I felt my way along through the darkness, guiding myself by the wall. What could I do? What ought I to do? I knew nothing of the house, or where to find the woman; I was not even sure of her presence. Indeed, the very memory of her snaky eyes gave me new horror. And Coombs! Suspecting him, as I did, it would be the height of folly to seek him out yonder in the dark. There was nothing left but to await daylight; to remain on watch, endeavoring alone to formulate some plan of future action.
Accustomed as I was to danger, the situation set my pulses throbbing—the intense blackness, the silence, the memory of that dead face, utterly unnerving me. I imagined things—a presence in that deserted hall through which I groped. Some unknown horror close at hand, even a spectral passing down the stairs. I listened, clinging to the banister-rail, feeling again helplessly for matches. Perhaps the faint scuffling was some scurrying rat, or some puff of wind in a chimney hole, but God only knows how glad I was to discover the open door to my own room again. There were matches there on the table, but my hand trembled so I struck three before the wick of the lamp caught fire. When I ventured to look out again, holding the light so as to see, the hall was desolate. I tiptoed across, and listened at her door; there was no sound within.
I crept back, closed the door behind me, and sat down facing it. My hand shook as I lit a cigar. This was becoming serious, a ghastly tragedy, in the playing of which I scarcely knew my part. The whole affair had seemed so simple at first, almost humorous. The earliest impression being that it was no more than a good joke. I was willing enough to be an instrument for keeping certain unknown institutions out of a legacy bequeathed them by a crazy man, and saving the property to his rightful heirs. Why not? especially as the very administrators themselves considered it the proper thing to do. Of course a technical crime was involved—I must pretend to be another, even forge that other's name, but for no criminal purpose. I was merely paid for the risk assumed, and it was easy money. Perhaps the years of rough life I had led had blunted my sensibilities to large extent—had left me less capable of distinguishing between right and wrong, yet, not until Mrs. Bernard had so unexpectedly voiced her doubt did I so much as suspicion I was being made a catspaw of for a criminal end. I was not willing to confess as much even now, but I saw the affair from a new viewpoint. I was not so sure, so certain, that I understood the entire truth.
Coombs was no plantation overseer, but a mere Texas bully. The very appearance of the man told that, and those neglected, weed-grown fields were another proof. What was he here for, then? And Sallie! Lord, I could despise that Texas rough, but the snaky eyes of the woman made me shiver, and look about apprehensively. Then there was the dead man—thedead man. There echoed into my brain the woman's whisper in the parlor below, "I 'm not afraid, but I am beginning to believe we 're doing wrong." There was wrong somewhere surely—cowardly crime, murder! But were we connected with it? Was it also part of the plot in which we were employed? I could not understand, yet resolved one thing clearly—I would find out tomorrow, early, before she had to be told the ghastly discovery of the night. With the first return of daylight I would seek out Coombs, tell him what I had seen, and compel him to confess the truth. Then I should know how to act, how to approach her, and explain. My nerves steadied as I sat there in the silence, and my mind drifted to the woman sleeping across the hall. Then, my cigar smoked out, I also fell asleep in the chair.
The gray of dawn was on the windows when I awoke, my body aching from its unnatural position. For the instant I imagined some unusual sound had aroused me, yet all was quiet, the only noise the twittering of birds from without. I closed my eyes again, but a ceaseless train of thought kept me wide awake, and, finally, I got upon my feet and looked out into the dawn, determining to explore our strange surroundings before any others were astir. With loaded revolver in my pocket, I slipped into the hall. The faint light revealed its shabbiness, the grimy rag carpet, and discolored walls. Some spirit of adventure led me the full length until my hand was upon the latch of that last door. I could not resist an impulse to look upon the dead man again by daylight, and thus assure myself of the reality of what seemed only a dream. I opened the door slowly, noiselessly, and peered cautiously within. The light was strong there, revealing clearly every nook and corner of the room. All was exactly as I recalled it to memory—the stained walls, the dirty floor, the table littered with cards, the overturned chair and the motionless body of the dead man. I ventured half way to the window, staring about at every sign revealed in the glare. From the wound in the head a dark flow of blood stained the floor, and, as I bent closer, noticed the eyelids were lowered over the dead eyes. Shot as he had been, killed instantly, the hand of the assassin must have performed this act. Then surely this killing had been no common quarrel, but a planned assassination, the culmination of some prearranged plot.
This knowledge, while it set my heart throbbing in realization of new danger, yet served also to stiffen my nerves. What had we blindly drifted into? What was behind this lawlessness which could make murder commonplace? What mystery lurked about this haunted, hideous house where death skulked in the dark? My thought was not so much concerned with myself, and my own danger, as with that of the young woman whom I was bound to protect. She had come innocently, driven by desperation, to play a part she already loathed in this tragedy, and now I alone stood between her and something too awful to contemplate. Now, before she awoke I must discover the truth, and thus be prepared to get her safely away.
I closed the door on the silence, and stole quietly downstairs. There was no movement, no sound in the great house. The front room, hideous in its grimy disorder, was vacant, and I opened the front door noiselessly, and stepped forth into the spectral gray light of the dawn. The first glimpse about was depressing enough. I had no conception of what I was confronting, or of what was to be revealed by my explorations, but the dismalness of the picture presented to that first glance gave me a shock impossible to explain. The house itself, big and glaring as it was, was nevertheless little better than a ruin, the porch beams rotten, the front blinds sagging frightfully, the paint blistered by the sun. Several of the windows were broken, and the steps sagged and trembled under my weight. The front yard, a full half acre in extent, was a tangled mass of bushes and weeds, a high, untrimmed hedge shutting off all view of the road. The narrow brick path winding through this mass of vegetation was scarcely discernible, apparently seldom, if ever, used. I was unable to determine the position of the gate so luxuriant was the weed growth, and thick the shrubbery. From the foot of the steps a narrow passage trampled into the dirt circled the corner of the house, disappearing within a few feet. This was the only sign visible of human occupancy.
Convinced that this must lead to the rear, and possibly the negro cabins where Coombs slept, I followed its tortuous windings, although half afraid to desert my guardianship of the house even for this purpose. Still there was little to be feared so long as Mrs. Bernard remained securely locked in her room. I was freer for exploration now than I would be later, and must know at once the conditions with which we had to contend. Beyond doubt the woman was still asleep, and, perhaps, by the time she aroused and appeared below stairs I could find a reasonable explanation of all this mystery—something to smile over, rather than fear. While this was but a vague hope, it still yielded me a measure of courage as I picked my way cautiously along the south side of the house, avoiding the windows as much as possible, until I emerged into a somewhat clearer space of ground at the rear. The kitchen was an ell, constructed of rough boards, but with shingle roof. The door stood ajar, and I glanced in, only to find the room empty, the pots and pans used the night before still unwashed.
There was nothing there to interest me, and I crossed a narrow space of grass to where a broken picket fence was visible amid a fringe of weeds. No description can fitly picture the gloomy desolation surrounding that ramshackle place. It got upon the nerves, the decay, the neglect apparent on every side. The very silence seemed depressing. Evidently this fence, now a mere ruin, had once served to protect a garden plot. But I saw merely a tangled mass of wild vegetation, so thick and high as to obstruct the view. Narrow footpaths branched in either direction, and I chose to follow the one to the right, thinking thus to skirt the fence, and learn what was beyond, before approaching the negro cabins on the opposite side. To my surprise, I found myself suddenly standing on the bank of a narrow bayou, the water clear, yet apparently motionless, the opposite shore heavily timbered. Owing to a sharp curve I could see scarcely a hundred yards in either direction, yet close in beside the shore a light boat was skimming over the gray water. Even as I gazed, the fellow plying the paddle saw me, and waved his hand. In another moment the bow grounded on the bank and its occupant came stumbling up the slight declivity.
He was a medium-sized, wiry-looking fellow, with olive skin and small mustache, dressed in brown corduroy, a colored handkerchief wound about his head in lieu of a hat. As he came to the level where I stood, he stopped suddenly, staring into my face.
"Sacre! I thought eet vas Coombs. Who are you, M'sieur?"
"I came in last night," I replied evasively, "and was just looking about a bit."
"So! you know Coombs, hey?"
"I 've met him—yes."
The black eyes searched my face, and I noted his right hand touch the hilt of a knife in his belt.
"What water is this?" I asked, ignoring his action, "bayou?"
"Oui, M'sieur."
"Are we near the sea?"
"Twenty-seex mile. You not know where you are? 'Tis odd you not know, M'sieur."
I laughed, enjoying his bewilderment, yet not realizing how to turn it to better account.
"Oh, no. I came by train in the night, and am a little hazy as to location. You live about here?"
"Som'time; then off again—sailor."
I nodded to prove I understood, but the man stopped uneasily.
"Whare Coombs? You know, M'sieur?"
"No, I don't," I acknowledged. "Asleep in his cabin likely."
The Creole, for such he undoubtedly was, made a swift resolve.
"'Tis like, M'sieur. I find out, maybe you come too!"
The last was more of an order than a question, and the fellow stepped back slightly in a manner almost a threat. Understanding the significance of the gesture I gave it no apparent heed, but turned in the direction of the cabins. I had no reason to avoid Coombs; indeed, I desired to see him, and I had no intention of permitting this lad to suppose that I feared his veiled threats. Without so much as glancing back at him I advanced along the footpath, my hands in my pockets. Yet my mind leaped from point to point in eager speculation. The whole thing was puzzling. I had come expecting a mere bit of play-acting, with all details left in the control of others. I anticipated no more than a few weeks of idleness, with, perhaps, the overseeing of a plantation, to partially keep my time occupied. Instead I found myself instantly involved in a network of mystery where even murder was part of the play. Little as I liked Coombs, this Creole was even more dangerous. The one was a rough, the other a venomous snake. So far as the original purpose of my adventure was concerned it had already largely faded from recollection. The swift recurrence of more startling events dominated. The spirit of adventure, with which I was liberally endowed, was fast taking possession of all my faculties. Whatever mystery surrounded this house, whatever of crime lurked in the neighborhood, I became determined to solve. For the moment I forgot even Mrs. Bernard, and my own assumed character, in the excitement of this new chase.
"Ze right; turn to ze right, M'sieur," said a voice behind me, and then I saw Coombs standing before the door of the second cabin. Half dressed as he was, his ever-present "gun" hung low at his hip, and his face scowled in surprised recognition.
"What does this mean, Broussard?" he growled savagely. "Where did you pick up that fellow?"
I caught the wicked, snaky gleam of the Creole's eyes. All his early suspicion of me had revived instantly.
"At the landing," he hastened to explain. "How could I tell? He said he knew you, M'sieur."
"Oh, he did, hey! Well, all I know about him is that he blew in here last night with a woman; claimed to be young Henley, and took possession of the place. I reckon it 's about time I saw some papers to prove what yer are, young feller, 'for yer go snoopin' round at daylight. What's yer game enyhow?"
The man's bluster gave me my clew. The thought suddenly occurred to me that, for some reason, he was more afraid of me than I of him. And if I met him on the same ground he was of the disposition to give way first.
"You can see my authority, Coombs, any time you are ready to exhibit your own," I returned coolly, leaning back against the side of the cabin, and staring him straight in the eyes. "I 've got more occasion to question you, you big brute, than you have me. Who is going to prevent my walking about these grounds? You? Just try the experiment, and see how it comes out. If you are the overseer here, then it is my money that is paying your wages, and from the look of things," and I swept my hand toward the surrounding weeds, "you 'll not hold the job long at that."
Coombs did not cringe, but my tone brought him uneasiness.
"The niggers won't work," he returned gruffly. "Thar ain't a nigger on the place."
"Apparently white men enough hanging around. What 's the matter with the negroes?"
"Ghosts," and the fellow laughed. "Maybe yer've seen sum?"
I straightened up, stung by the sneer in his voice.
"No; but I 've seen something more to the point—a murdered man."
"What?"
"Just what I said. There was a man killed last night in that back room upstairs. Shot in the head through the window. I heard the shot and investigated. His body lies there now."
I saw Broussard's snaky eyes flash across toward Coombs' face, but the latter remained motionless.
"It's a damn lie!" he ejaculated roughly. "There is no body there."
"Easily settled. Come with me, and I 'll show you."
Rather to my surprise neither objected to the test, and we tramped in single file toward the house. Some precaution kept me at the rear, and I followed silently when Coombs entered the open door of the kitchen. Unknown to me there was a narrow back stairway, and we mounted this without exchanging a word. In the upper hall Coombs threw open the rear door, and, stood aside, not even looking within.
I glanced past him. There was the furniture as I remembered it, the dirty walls, the opened window. But the overturned chair stood against the wall, the cards were stacked on the table, and there was no body lying on the floor. So startled was I by this discovery that I could scarcely credit my eyesight, but was brought to a realization of the truth by Coombs' harsh laugh.
"Well, where 's yer dead man? I reckon ye don't see none, hey!"
"No," I insisted, "but I did see one—twice. The body lay there where the stain shows on the floor. It has been carried away within half an hour."
"A likely story. Who could do the job? Nobody round this shebang but Sallie an' me. I sure ain't been in yere, an' I reckon it wan't Sallie. So cut it out, young feller. After breakfast you an' I 'll hav' a talk, an' find out a few things. Come on, Broussard, an' let 's talk over that matter o' ours."
The two went down the stairs together, and I closed the door of the rear room, and stepped out into the hall. Sallie was in the kitchen, for I heard her voice questioning the men as they passed through. Out of the window I caught a glimpse of them both disappearing through the weeds toward the bayou. As to myself I was more at sea than ever. The sudden disappearance of the body had left me bewildered, yet more strongly convinced than before that this was no ordinary affair. Evidences of a plan, of cooperation, rendered the situation serious. That dead body had not moved itself; human hands had accomplished the deed during the brief period of my absence outside. Whose hands could have done it? Not those of Coombs, surely, for he could not have passed me and attained the house while I was in the garden unseen. Nor Sally, for she possessed no strength to more than drag the dead man to some near-by covert. With the possibility of this in mind I searched the vacant rooms of that floor, closets and all, thoroughly, but to no result. There was, therefore, but one conclusion possible—unknown parties were involved. We were not alone in the house in spite of its apparent desertion.
I paused in doubt before Mrs. Bernard's door, convinced this was the truth. Should I tell her frankly the story of the night, my vague discoveries, my suspicion? I surely had no right to deceive the woman, or keep her with me. I had determined myself to face it out, to risk life if need be, to learn the truth. But I had no right to further involve her. She had accompanied me thus far innocently enough, accepting my explanation, driven to acquiescing by the desperate situation in which she found herself. Already she regretted her hasty action. To involve her still deeper would be heartless. I could not do it, at least not without full confession.
I rapped at the door twice before there was any movement within. Then her voice asked who was there, and at my answer she came out fully dressed, fronting me with questioning eyes.
"The night has rested you," I said smilingly, my heart beating in swift appreciation of her beauty. "Are you ready for breakfast?"
"For anything to escape the loneliness of that room," she replied seriously. "If I really look rested, it is not from sleep for I have passed the night in terror." She held out her hands as though seeking to assure herself of my real presence. "Tell me what is wrong with this house? What occurred last night?"
"I am not altogether sure myself," I said, striving to speak quietly, and holding her hands tight, "But I will tell you all I know, after you have explained. Were you disturbed?"
"Yes, but I hardly comprehend what was reality, and what dream. I slept some, I am sure, lying pressed upon the bed. At first I thought that was impossible, I was so frightened, and I had so much to think about, but found myself too utterly exhausted to keep awake. Yet my slumber was fitful, and filled with dreams. But I am sure of some things—my door was tried twice, and I heard someone prowling about the hall—"
"That might have been me," I interrupted, "as I was out there during the night, but I certainly never tried your door."
"You had a light?"
"Yes."
"I saw that shining over the transom; it was much later when my door was tried; not long before daylight I think. Whoever it was, passed out the front hall window onto the porch roof. My light was burning, although turned low, and no doubt he saw me sitting up, wide awake on the edge of the bed, for he had disappeared by the time I gained sufficient courage to approach the window and look out."
"Climbed down the trellis, probably," I said, deeply interested. "It appears strong enough to support a man. I wish you had got sight of the fellow."
She lifted her hands to her head.
"But I was so frightened. My head throbs now with pain. I cannot explain, but—but I had begun to hate this mission of ours before we ever reached here, and then this awful house, and that man and woman. I almost begged you not to leave me alone, yet I conquered that weakness, and said good night, and locked my door. You never realized how I felt."
"No, not entirely, although I did comprehend you were sorry you had consented to come."
"Not that altogether," and her eyes uplifting met mine, "I was frightened last night in the darkness. I confess I completely lost my nerve, and would have run away if I could. Perhaps I even said things which made you believe I regretted my action in coming with you. But I am more myself now, and I mean to remain, and discover what it all means. Can you guess why?"
"No; I would naturally suppose the night would have added to your terror, your desire to get away."
"Then you do not suspect even now who I am?"
"Who you are? Only as you have told me."
"And I told you only a half truth. I am the wife of Philip Henley." Her cheeks flushed, a touch of passion in her voice as she faced me. "That is the truth. Do you suppose that I would ever have come here with you otherwise? No matter how desperate my condition was that would have been impossible. I should have despised myself. Even as it was I have been thoroughly shamed to have permitted you to think of me as you must. Now I tell you the truth—I consented to come because I am Philip Henley's wife."
My surprise at this swift avowal kept me silent, yet I could not conceal the admiration from revealment in my eyes. She must have read aright, for she drew back a step, grasping the knob of the door.
"I—I wanted to tell you yesterday—all the way coming down here. I felt that I could live the deceit no longer. I do not blame you, Mr. Craig, for you are a man, and you had every reason to believe that you were doing nothing really wrong. I wanted to learn all I could before I confessed my identity, and—and I wanted to discover just what you were like."
"You mean whether I could be trusted?"
"Yes; I—I could not tell at first. We met so strangely, and merely because I liked you from the beginning was not enough. You understand?"
"Yes, and now?"
She looked at me frankly.
"Now I am simply going to trust you fully. I must; there is no other way. I thought it all over and over again last night, and determined to confess everything as soon as we met this morning. I am Viola Henley, Mr. Craig, and I need you."
I had had time to think, swiftly to be sure, yet clearly enough. Surprised as I was by her statement, yet the truth as thus revealed failed to startle me seriously. Vaguely I had suspicioned the possibility before, not really believing it could be so, and yet struck by the similarity in circumstances of the two women. Consequently the shock of final discovery was somewhat deadened, and I retained the pose of thought. Moreover, to know her identity was an actual relief. Before, I had half doubted the righteousness of my cause, at times almost felt myself a criminal. Now that I could openly associate myself with Philip Henley's wife, in a struggle to retain for her what was justly her own, all feeling of doubt vanished, and I became grimly confident of the final result. Perhaps the relief I felt found expression in my face, for the woman exclaimed:
"I believe you are actually glad; that it pleases you to know this."
"It certainly does," I replied swiftly, "for now I can work openly, knowing exactly what I ought to do. I have felt like a rat skulking in a hole. I believed what those men told me; they convinced me with proofs I could not ignore, but they must have lied. In some details, at least, they must have deceived. How would it be possible for Philip Henley to be in a penitentiary convicted of crime?"
"It would not be," she returned firmly. "There was no time after I left him for an arrest and conviction. That alone is sufficient to convince me of fraud and conspiracy. More than that, Philip Henley was not one to commit a crime of that nature, and there was no reason why he should. His remittances were amply sufficient. Under the influence of liquor he might commit assault, or even murder, but never forgery."
"Then what do you think has occurred?"
"Either one of two things," she said soberly. "He is dead, or helplessly in the power of those men who sent you here. There is no other conclusion possible. They had possession of his papers—even his private memoranda. They knew more of conditions here than I had ever been told. In my judgment, he is dead. Otherwise I cannot conceive it possible they would dare attempt to carry out such a conspiracy. The very boldness of their plan convinces me they believed no one lived to expose them. They knew he was dead, and believed, if I still lived, that I knew nothing of this inheritance. The telegram announcing the Judge's death I never saw. It must have arrived while Philip was too intoxicated to grasp its meaning."
"You know nothing then of the two men, Neale and Vail?"
"No; there is a Justus C. Vail, a lawyer in the city. I found the name in the directory, and called at his office. He was away making political speeches; had been gone two weeks."
"Then the fellow assumed that name, thinking I might be familiar with it, and thus be impressed with the legality of the transaction. As to Neale, I will go to the courthouse in this county, and find out about him. Only first of all we must understand and trust each other. We have got some shrewd villains to fight, men capable of resorting to desperate measures. You have told me the whole truth about yourself now?"
"Absolutely, yes. I told you the truth before, except only my real name. I was married to Philip Henley. Wait, here is my marriage certificate; I have always kept it with me, for I have been afraid of him almost from the first. I gave you the name Bernard unthinkingly, as that was the name he insisted upon living under. He explained his father required this, or else would stop his remittances. I had to humor him, although I thought it most strange. Is that all you wish to know?"
"All now, yes. I must have time to think, and plan what is best for us to do. I can already see my duty sufficiently clear, but not how to go at it. The fact is, Mrs. Henley—"
"Would it not be better for you to call me Viola?" she interrupted. "Someone might overhear, and we must continue to carry out the deception, I suppose."
"It will be safer, if you do not object."
"I? Oh, no; I shall not care in the least. You were saying?"
"This, Viola," and her eyes suddenly flashed into mine, "the conditions I have already discovered here—in this house—are no less strange, and dangerous than the mission which brought us here. Everything looks bad. You ought to know it, and you are strong enough to be told. I do not know who tried your door last night, and later escaped down the trellis. If I did I could determine what action to take. But one thing I do know—there was murder committed in this house."
"Murder!" her face went white, her fingers clasping my sleeve, "Who was killed? Coombs? That woman?"
"Neither. A man I never saw before. I heard the same shot which frightened you; took my lamp and investigated. I found him lying dead on the floor of the rear room. He had been shot in the back of the head through an open window."
"Merciful God! and the body still there."
"No, but its disappearance only adds to the mystery. I dared not create an alarm at once, as we were in a strange house, and I had no means of knowing where to find either Coombs or the housekeeper. Nor did I venture to leave you alone unguarded. As soon as daylight came I went in there again to convince myself the murder was not a dream. The man's body lay there undisturbed. I turned him over, and examined the wound. Then I went out and found Coombs, who sleeps in one of the negro cabins. He sneered at my discovery, but finally accompanied me back to the house. I could not have been absent to exceed thirty minutes, and yet, when we opened the door of that rear room, the body had disappeared—vanished completely. Not a thing remained to tell of any tragedy."
"It had been dragged into some other room; hidden away in some closet. The woman did it."
"That was my thought at first. As soon as I got free from Coombs I searched this floor, every inch of it, and found nothing, not even so much as a stain of blood. The dead man was heavily built, and Sallie could never have lifted him alone. There were others—men—concerned in the affair."
"And you saw none?"
"Only a Creole who came down the bayou by boat just as I reached the bank. He had some message for Coombs—a snaky-eyed little devil—but he had nothing to do with the removal of the body, for he was not out of my sight after he landed."
Bewildered consternation was clearly manifested in the girl's white face, and yet there was a firmness to the lips that promised anything but surrender. I was sufficiently a fighting man to comprehend the symptoms, and my own heart throbbed in quick response to her anticipated decision. For an instant she seemed to struggle to regain her breath.
"Oh, how terrible! I can scarcely realize that all you have told me can be fact. It sounds incredible, monstrous. Why, it is as if we lived in a wild land, and another century. No novelist could conceive of such a horrible condition. There were pirates along this coast once—I have read of them—but now, in our age of the world, to even dream of such a state of affairs would be madness. What can it mean? Have you any theory?"
"Absolutely none; I am groping in the dark, without a single clew. All I know is that Coombs is a big ruffian, but too cowardly to commit murder. The Creole might, and I would n't trust Sallie with a knife on a dark night, but, in my judgment, there are others involved about whom we know nothing."
"You mean there is a band? that we have stumbled into a rendezvous of outlaws?"
"I suspicion so. This plantation has been practically abandoned for years. Even when the Judge was alive he lived in town, and could get no negroes to work out here because they believed the place was haunted. A bayou comes within a hundred yards of the rear of the house, so concealed by trees and weeds as to be almost invisible until you stand on the banks. We are only a little over twenty miles from the Gulf. Altogether this would make an ideal hiding place for Mobile or New Orleans thieves. I don't say this is the solution, but it may be. More likely they will prove to be a local gang, smugglers, or moonshiners with a touch of modern piracy on the side."
"What do you mean to do?"
The question was asked quietly, and I glanced at her, noting the color had returned to her cheeks.
"I? Why remain and ferret it out, I suppose," and I laughed. "I was never very good at running away, and really I must get at the bottom of this affair. Coombs is going to have a talk with me later—intends to make sure who I am, no doubt—and I may learn something from him during the interview. Anyhow, I am just obstinate enough to stay it out."
"What about me?"
"You better return to town; a traveling man on the train said there was a good hotel. Probably Coombs has some kind of a rig we can drive down in. I 'll ask him after breakfast."
"Is it because you do not wish me with you?"
I hesitated slightly, confused by such direct questioning.
"I shall feel more free alone," I replied at last, "for I shall have only myself to guard. I am used to taking care of myself. Besides, this is likely to prove a rather unpleasant situation for a lady. You must remember I propose to fight this thing out now in the open. I am going to be Gordon Craig, and not a make-believe Philip Henley. The scene has changed, and I 'm glad of it. I feel more like a man already."
"And you conclude I can be of no help, no assistance—"
The cracked voice of Sallie came to us up the stairs, the unexpected sound startling both.
"I reckon you all better com' down an' eat."
She stood in the light of the front door watching us, and we descended the flight of steps without exchanging a word. The woman turned and walked in advance into the dining-room.
"Where is Coombs?" I asked, looking about curiously.
"He done eat already, but I reckon he 'll be 'round 'gain after a while. You all just help yerselves."
We endeavored to talk as we sampled the meal, directing our conversation into safe channels, both obsessed with a feeling that whatever we said would be overheard. The woman vanished into the dark passage leading toward the kitchen, but no sound of labor reached us from that direction, which made me suspicious that she lingered not far from where we sat. I caught Mrs. Henley's eyes occasionally straying in that direction uneasily. Yet she managed to keep up a sprightly conversation, largely relating to the country we had traveled over. Neither of us ate heartily, merely toying with the rather unpalatable food, and, as soon as we dared, pushed back our chairs. It was a relief to get out of the room, but as we stood a moment in the front doorway, breathing in the fresh air, I noticed a giant form approaching the house through the weeds.
"Coombs is coming already for his interview," I said hastily. "As it may be stormy perhaps you had better retreat upstairs."
She glanced in the direction of his approach, and drew slightly back into the shadow of the hall. There was a flush on her cheeks, and her eyes met mine almost defiantly.
"I will go," she said quickly, "but I shall not leave this house while you remain."
She was gone before I could speak, before I could even grasp the full purport of her decision. I followed the flutter of her skirt up the stairs, half tempted to rush after, yet as instantly comprehended the uselessness of any attempt at influencing her. Even the short space of our acquaintance had served to convince me that she was a woman of resource, of character, and determination. If she felt it right to remain no argument would be effective, or have the slightest weight. Perhaps another night would change her mood, but now, in the sunshine, her courage would hold steadfast. Even as these considerations flashed across my mind, I heard the thud of Coombs' feet upon the steps of the veranda. That he had been drinking I realized at a glance, and it was equally evident that he planned to overawe me by brutal domineering. In spite of every effort to control my expression I could not restrain a smile at the manifest bluster of his approach.
"So yer 've got through eatin', hey," he began coarsely. "Whar 's the female? Thought I saw her here."
"You did," I returned coldly, "but Mrs. Henley has returned to her room."
"Mrs. Henley, huh! Think yer kin pull thet bluff over me!"
"What bluff?"
"Aw, this Henley racket you sprung last night—'bout yer being young Phil Henley come back."
"Did I say that?"
"Yer shure did," eyeing me in some surprise. "I reckon my ears heard all right. Why, what are yer this morning?"
"If I ever made any such claim as that, Coombs, it was merely to assure our admittance. You were not overly-cordial, you know, and I did n't propose having the lady walk back to town. It's different this morning, and I am going to be just as frank with you as you are with me. Is that square?"
"I reckon," uneasily, not yet able to gauge my purpose, and feeling his bluff a failure. "I ain't got nothin' ter lie about so fur as I know. Let's go inside, whar we kin have it out quiet like."
I followed him into the front room, and he kicked out a chair so as to bring my face to the windows. As I sank into it I noticed a dusty mirror opposite which gave me a dim reflection of the entire room. Coombs shut the door leading to the back of the house, and sat down facing me, his big hands on his knees. His effort to look pleasant only made him appear uglier than usual.
"Wal, go on!" he said gruffly.
I crossed my legs comfortably, and leaned back in the chair, quite conscious of thus adding to his irritation. If I could only anger the fellow sufficiently he might blurt out something of value. Anyhow, my best card was cool indifference.
"There is not much to say," I replied deliberately. "I 'll answer your questions so far as I think best, and then I 'll ask a few of you. The lady upstairs is Viola Henley, the wife of Philip Henley. She has come down here to take legal possession of this property. That is the situation in a nutshell. I am merely accompanying her to make sure that she gets a square deal."
His jaw sagged, and his eyes wandered.
"Oh, hell," he managed to articulate. "What is your real game?"
"Exactly as I have stated it, Coombs. To the best of my knowledge Philip Henley is dead—at least he has disappeared—and his widow is the rightful heir to this estate."
"Wal, I reckon he ain't dead—not by a jugful."
I felt the hot blood pump in my veins. Did the man know this to be true, or was he merely making the claim for effect?
"That, of course, remains to be proven," I returned smilingly.
"Oh, does it, now! So does this yer wife business, to my thinkin'. Wal, it won't take long ter settle the matter, believe me. Who are you enyhow?"
"My name is Craig—Gordon Craig."
"A lawyer?"
"Not guilty."
"A damn detective?"
"Same plea."
I thought he gave a grunt of relief; anyhow there was more assurance in his manner, a fresh assumption of bullying in his voice.
"All right, then; I reckon I got yer number, Craig. Yer after a little easy money. Somehow yer caught onto the mix-up down yere, an' framed up a scheme to cop the coin. Might hav' worked too if I had n't been on the job, an' posted. Damn nice-lookin' girl yer picked up—"
"Drop that, Coombs!" I interrupted sharply, leaning forward and staring him in the eyes. "Let loose all you care to about me, but cut out the woman!"
"Oh, too nice, hey!"
"Yes, too nice for you to befoul even with your tongue. If you mention her name again except in terms of respect there is going to be trouble."
He laughed, opening and closing his big hands.
"I mean it," I went on soberly. "Don't think I am afraid of you, you big slob. No, you keep your hands where they are. If it comes to a draw you 'll find me quick enough to block your game. Now listen."
Had I been less in earnest, or less puzzled as to the real situation, I would have laughed at the expression upon the man's face. With hat pulled over his eyes, he sat stiff, staring at me, his fingers twitching nervously, unable to determine just the species confronting him. I made no display of a weapon; he could not be sure that I was armed, yet my right hand was hidden in the side pocket of my coat. I could read the doubt, the indecision in his mind, as plainly as though expressed in words. The brute and the coward struggled for mastery.
"I 've told you the truth about who we are, and our purpose in coming here," I went on slowly and clearly, "because I have decided to fight in the open. Now I want to know who you are? What authority you have on the Henley plantation? Speak up!"
The reply came reluctantly, but there must have been a sternness in my face which compelled an answer.
"I told yer—I 'm the overseer."
"A fine specimen, from the looks of the place; what was you ordered to grow—weeds?"
"Thet 's none o' your business."
"It 's the business of the lady upstairs, Coombs, and I am representing her at present. It will be just as well for you to be civil. Who appointed you to this position—the administrators?"
"I reckon not."
"Ever hear of a man named Neale, P. B. Neale?"
"No."
"Or Justus C. Vail?"
He shook his head.
"No one sent you any word then that we were coming? or gave you any orders to look after us?"
The blank expression of his face was sufficient answer. I waited a moment, thinking, endeavoring to determine my next move. This knowledge made one thing clear—we were playing a lone hand. As well planned as was the scheme of those two conspirators they had reckoned without sufficient knowledge of the existing conditions here. But was this true? Would villains as shrewd as they be guilty of such neglect? Besides, they had assured me that the overseer would be notified of our coming. Suddenly there flashed back to my memory a picture of that murdered man in the rear room. Could he be the connecting link? the overseer sent by Neale? If this horrible suspicion was correct it only proved the desperate character of those against whom I contended. And if true only the harshest measure would compel Coombs to acknowledge the truth. I drew in my breath, every nerve braced for action. Then I jerked the revolver from my pocket, and held it, glimmering ominously in the light, across my knee.
"You probably have some reason for lying to me," I said coldly, "and now I am going to give you an equally good reason for telling the truth. What do you know about the administrators of this estate?"
He was breathing hard, his eyes on the shining barrel.
"There is one named Neale, is n't there?"
"I—I reckon so."
"How do you know?"
"Wal," feeling it useless to struggle against the argument presented by the blue steel barrel, "Hell, all I know is a fellow com' 'long yere a while back with a paper signed Neale, thinkin' ter take my job."
"What happened to him?"
"Oh, he just nat'ally got kicked out inter the road, an' I reckon he 's a running yet. He was a miserable Yankee runt, an' I did n't hurt the cuss none to speak of. What yer askin' all this fer enyhow," he questioned anxiously, "an' a drawin' that gun on me?"
"It seemed to be the only available method for extracting information. Pardon my insistence, Coombs, but was n't that dead man up there the fellow Neale sent?"
"Not by a damn sight," and I could see the perspiration break out on his forehead. "Why, there wan't none enyhow. That guy skipped out North agin."
"All right; we'll let it go this time. Now one more question and I am done. Under whose orders are you in charge here?"
He was so long in answering, his eyes glaring ugly under heavy brows, that I elevated my weapon, half believing he meditated an attack.
"You 've got to answer, Coombs," I said sternly, "or take the consequences. I 'm in dead earnest."
Suddenly I became aware that his glance was not directly upon me, and I lifted my own eyes to the surface of the tarnished mirror behind where he sat. It reflected the large portrait of the late Judge Henley hanging on the opposite wall, and—by all the gods!—I thought I saw it move, settle back into position! I was upon my feet instantly, swinging aside into a better situation for defense. Perhaps that seeming movement, swift and elusive, might be a figment of imagination, a mere trembling of the glass. But I was taking no chances. The very conception of some hidden peril threatening me from behind awoke the savage in me instantly. Before Coombs could realize what had occurred I had the gun muzzle at the side of his head.
"Now answer," I commanded sharply. "Whose orders put you here?"
He choked, shrinking back helpless in the chair.
"By God! you won't always have the drop on me—"
"Well, I have now. Speak up; who is the man?"
His eyes ranged along the wall, an expression in them like that of a whipped cur.
"Philip Henley," he whispered, so low I scarcely caught the name.
"What!"
"Wal, I told yer," he growled resentfully. "Yer kin believe er not just as you please, but, so help me, that's the truth. I reckon I know."
As I stared at him, half believing, half incredulous, I became conscious that she stood in the hall doorway. Coombs lifted his head, glad of any respite, and I glanced aside also, dropping the revolver back into my coat pocket.
"You—you were quarreling?" she asked, coming into the room, "you were so long I became anxious, and came down."
"Nothing serious," I assured her, smilingly. "Coombs here was a little reluctant to impart information, and I was compelled to resort to primitive methods. The result has been quite satisfactory."
"Kin I go now?" he asked uneasily.
"Yes, by way of the front door."
I watched his great hulking figure until he disappeared along the path leading around the house. I had no fear that he would ever face me openly; all I needed to guard against was treachery. Then I turned and looked into the questioning eyes of the woman.
"What did you learn? What did he say?"
"Only one thing of real importance," I answered in subdued tone, "and I dragged that out of him by threat. He was not employed by Neale, and the fellow who was sent down here to assist us was disposed of in some way."
"Killed, you mean?"
"I suspect as much, but Coombs claims he was kicked off the place, and returned North."
For a moment she stood silent, breathing heavily, her eyes on my face. In the pause I saw again the picture of the old Judge, and remembered.
"Why is he here then? What authority has he?"
"Come outside into the garden, and I will tell you the whole story. Somehow I feel here as though we were being watched every minute. Never mind a hat; we will find shade somewhere."