"Thus assured, I fitted one of the skeleton keys."—page 279."Thus assured, I fitted one of the skeleton keys."—page 279.
Aided again by my skeleton keys, I hurriedly opened and searched the two valises. They were as honest as they looked.
The first contained a liberal supply of polished linen, a water-proof coat and traveling-cap, together with other articles of clothing, and two or three novels. The second held the clerical black suit worn by Dimber on the evening of his arrival in Trafton; a brace of linen dusters, a few articles of the toilet, and a small six-shooter.
There was nothing else; no concealed jimmy, no "tools" of any description.
It might have been the outfit of a country parson, but for the novels and the revolver. This latter was loaded, and, without any actual motive for so doing, I extracted the cartridges and put them in my pocket.
In another moment I was back in my own room, baffled, disappointed, and puzzled more than before.
Sitting there alone, I drew from my pocket the lately received telegram, and surveyed it once more.
4—. H, c, n, c, e, o, g, k, i, m, b—s, i, a—.
Well might Harris have been puzzled. Arrant nonsense it must have seemed to him, but to me it was simplicity itself. The dispatch was from Carnes, and it said:
"He is coming back."
Simplicity itself, as the reader will see, by comparing the letters and the words.
"He is coming back." This being interpreted, meant, "Blake Simpson is now returning to Trafton."
Was I growing imbecile?
Blake Simpson had departed in the daylight, doubtless taking the "tools of his trade" with him, hence the innocent appearance of his partner's room, for partners, I felt assured, they were.
He was returning under cover of the darkness; Dimber had gone out to meet him, and before morning, Trafton would be supplied with a fresh sensation.
How was I to act? How discover their point of attack?
It yet lacked more than two hours of midnight. Trafton had not yet gone to sleep.
Blake was coming back, but how?
My telegram came from a village fifteen miles distant. Blake then must have left the train at that point, and Carnes had followed him. He had followed him until assured that he was actually returning to Trafton, and then he had sent the message.
Blake might return in two ways. He might hire a conveyance and drive back to Trafton, or he might walk back as far as the next station, a distance of five miles, and there wait for the night express.
It seemed hardly probable that he would care to court notice by presenting himself at an inn or livery stable. He would be more apt to walk away from the village, assume some light disguise, and return by the train. It would be a child's trick for him to drop from the moving train as it entered the town, and disappear unnoticed in the darkness.
Carnes might return by that train, also, but we had agreed that, unless he was fully convinced that Blake meant serious mischief, and that I would need his assistance, he was to continue on his journey, as it seemed important that he should be in New Orleans as soon as possible.
After some consideration, I decided that I would attach myself to Dimber, should he return, as it seemed likely that he would, it being so early. And if he failed to appear, I would lie in wait for the night express, and endeavor to spot Blake, should he come that way.
Having thus decided, I resumed my hat, coat and boots, extinguished my light, locked my door and went down-stairs.
The office lamp was burning its brightest, and there underneath it, tilted back in the only arm-chair the room could boast, sat Dimber Joe; his hat hung on a rack beside the door, a fresh cigar was stuck between his lips, and he was reading again that brown-covered French novel!
I began to feel like a man in a nightmare. Could that indolent-looking novel reader be meditating a crime, and only waiting for time to bring the hour?
I went out upon the piazza and fanned myself with my hat. I felt discomposed, and almost nervous. At that moment I wished devoutly that I could see Carnes.
By-and-by my absurd self-distrust passed away, and I began to feel once more equal to the occasion.
Dimber's room was not, like mine, at the end of the building. It was a "front room," and its two windows opened directly over the porch upon which I stood.
I had the side door of the office in full view. He could not leave the house unseen by me.
Mr. Holtz came out to talk with me. I complained of a headache and declared my intention to remain outside until it should have passed away. We conversed for half an hour, and then, as the hands of the office clock pointed to half-past ten he left me to make his nightly round through kitchen, pantries, and dining-room, locking and barring the side door of the office before going. And still Dimber Joe read on, to all appearances oblivious of time and all things else.
A wooden bench, hard and narrow, ran along the wall just under the office window, affording a seat for loungers when the office should be overfull, and the chairs all occupied. Upon this I stretched myself, and feigned sleep, for a time that seemed interminable.
Eleven o'clock; eleven loud metalic strokes from the office time keeper.
Dimber Joe lowered the leg that had been elevated, elevated the leg that had been lowered, turned a page of his novel and read on. The man's coolness was tantalizing. I longed to forget my identity as a detective, and his as a criminal, and to spring through the window, strike the book from his hand, and challenge him to mortal combat, with dirks at close quarters, or pistols at ten paces.
Half-past eleven. Dimber Joe stretched his limbs, closed his book, yawned and arose. Whistling softly, as if not to disturb my repose, he took a small lamp from a shelf behind the office desk, lighted it leisurely and went up-stairs.
As he entered the room above, a ray of light, from his window gleamed out across the road. It rested there for, perhaps, five minutes and then disappeared.
Had Dimber Joe closed his novel to retire like an honest man?
Ten more long minutes of quiet and silence, and then the stillness was broken by a long, shrill shriek, sounding half a mile distant. It was the night express nearing Trafton station.
As this sound died upon the air, another greeted my ears; the sound of swift feet running heedlessly, hurriedly; coming directly toward me from the southward.
As I rose from my lounging place and stepped to the end of the piazza the runner came abreast of me, and the light streaming through the office window revealed to me Jim Long, hatless, coatless, almost breathless.
The lamp light fell upon me also, and even as he ran he recognized me.
Halting suddenly, he turned back with a quick ejaculation, which I did not understand.
"Long, what has happened?"
The answer came between short, sharp breaths.
"Carl Bethel has been shot down at his own door! For God's sake go to him! He is there alone. I must find a doctor."
"Carl Bethel has been shot down at his own door! For God's sake go to him! He is there alone. I must find a doctor."—page 286."Carl Bethel has been shot down at his own door! For God's sake go to him! He is there alone. I must find a doctor."—page 286.
In another instant he was running townward at full speed, and I was flying at an equal pace through the dark and silent street toward Dr. Bethel's cottage.
As I ran through the silent, dusky street, keeping to the road in preference to risking myself, at that pace, over some most uncertain "sidewalks," for pavements were unknown in Trafton, my thoughts were keeping pace with my heels.
First they dwelt upon the fact that Jim Long, in making his brief, hasty exhortation to me, had forgotten, or chosen to ignore, his nasal twang and rustic dialect, and that his earnestness and agitation had betrayed a more than ordinary interest in Carl Bethel, and a much more than ordinary dismay at the calamity which had befallen him.
Carl Bethel had been shot down at his own door!
How came it that Jim Long was near the scene and ready for the rescue, at eleven o'clock at night? Who had committed the deed? And why?
Some thoughts come to us like inspirations. Suddenly there flashed upon my mind a possible man and a probable motive.
Blake Simpson was coming back. Contrary to my expectations, he had probably entered Trafton on foot, having made the journey by means of some sort of conveyance which was now, perhaps, carrying him away from the scene of his crime.
This would explain the singular apathy of Dimber Joe. He had walked out earlier in the evening to ascertain that the way was clear and the game within reach, or, in other words, at home and alone. Then perhaps he had made these facts known to his confederate, and after that, his part in the plot being accomplished, he had returned to the hotel, where he had kept himself conspicuously in sight until after the deed was done. Here was a theory for the murder ready to hand, and a motive was not wanting.
Only a week since, some party or parties had committed a shameful outrage, and the attempt had been made to fasten the crime upon Carl Bethel. Fortunately the counter evidence had been sufficient to clear him in the eyes of impartial judges. The doctor's courage and popularity had carried him safely through the danger. His enemies had done him little hurt, and had not succeeded in driving him from Trafton. Obviously he was in somebody's way, and the first attempt having failed, they had made a second and more desperate one.
Here my mental diagnosis of the case came to an end. I had reached the gate of the doctor's cottage.
All was silent as I opened the door and entered the sitting-room. A shaded lamp burned softly on the center-table, and beside it stood the doctor's easy-chair and footrest. An open book lay upon the table, as if lately laid down by the occupant of the chair, who had put a half-filled pipe between the pages, to mark the place where he had stopped reading when interrupted by—what?
Thus much I observed at a glance, and then turned toward the inner room where, upon the bed, lay Carl Bethel.
Was he living or dead?
Taking the lamp from the table I carried it to the bedside, and bent to look at the still form lying thereon. The loose coat of white linen, and also the vest, had been drawn back from the right shoulder; both were blood-stained, and the entire shirt front was saturated with blood.
I put the lamp upon a stand beside the bed, and examined closer. The hands were not yet cold with the chill of death, the breath came feebly from between the parted lips.
What should I do?
As I glanced about the room while asking myself this helpless question, there came a step upon the gravel outside, quick, light, firm. Then the door opened, and Louise Barnard stood before me.
Shall I ever forget that woful face, white as the face of death, rigid with the calmness of despair? Shall I ever banish from my memory those great dark eyes, too full of anguish for tears? It was another mental picture of Louise Barnard never to be forgotten.
"Carl, Carl!"
She was on her knees at the bedside clasping the limp hand between her own, bowing her white face until it rested upon his.
"Carl, Carl! speak to me!"
"Carl, Carl! speak to me!"—page 292."Carl, Carl! speak to me!"—page 292.
But there was no word of tenderness in answer to her pitiful appeal, no returning pressure from the still hand, and she buried her head in the pillows, uttering a low moan of despair.
In the presence of one weaker than myself, my own helplessness forsook me. I approached the girl who knelt there believing her lover dead, and touched her shoulder lightly.
"Miss Barnard, we have no time now for grief. He is not dead."
She was on her feet in an instant.
"Not dead! Then he must not die!"
A red flush mounted to her cheek, a new light leaped to her eye. She waited to ask or give no explanation, but turned once more and laid her hand upon the blood-ensanguined garments.
"Ah, we must waste no more time. Can you cut away this clothing?"
I nodded and she sprang from the room. I heard a clicking of steel and the sound of opening drawers, then she was back with a pair of sharp scissors in her hand.
"Use these," she said, taking command as a matter of course, and flitting out again, leaving me to do my work, and as I worked, I marveled at and admired her wonderful presence of mind—her splendid self-control.
In a moment I knew, by the crack of a parlor match and a responsive flash of steady light, that she had found a lamp and lighted it.
There were the sounds of another search, and then she was back again with restoratives and some pieces of linen.
Glancing down at the bed she uttered a sharp exclamation, and all the blood fled out of her face. I had just laid bare a ghastly wound in the right shoulder, and dangerously near the lung.
It was with a mighty effort that she regained her self-control. Then she put down the things she held, and said, quite gently:
"Please chafe his hands and temples, and afterward try the restoratives. There is a fluid heater out there. I must have warm water before—"
"Long has gone for a doctor," I interrupted, thinking her possibly ignorant of this fact.
"I know; we must have everything ready for him."
She went out and I began my work of restoration.
After some time passed in the outer room, she came back to the bedside and assisted me in my task.
After a little, a faint sigh and a feeble fluttering of the eyelids assured us that we were not thus active in vain. The girl caught her breath, and while she renewed her efforts at restoration I saw that she was fast losing her self-control.
And now we heard low voices and hurrying footsteps.
It was the doctor at last.
Excepting Bethel, Dr. Hess was the youngest practitioner in Trafton. He was a bachelor, and slept at his office, a fact which Jim took into account in calling for him, instead of waking up old Dr. Baumbach, who lived at the extreme north of the village.
Dr. Hess looked very grave, and Jim exceedingly anxious, as the two bent together over the patient.
After a brief examination, Dr. Hess said:
"I must get at Bethel's instruments. I know he keeps them here, so did not stop to fetch mine."
"They are all ready."
He turned in surprise. Miss Barnard had drawn back at his entrance, and he was now, for the first time, aware of her presence.
"I knew what was required," she said, in answer to his look of surprise. "They are ready for you."
The doctor moved toward the outer room.
"I must have some tepid water," he said.
"That, too, is ready. I shall assist you, Dr. Hess."
"You!"
"Yes, I. I know something about the instruments. I have helped my father more than once."
"But—"
"There need be no objection. I am better qualified than either of these gentlemen."
He looked at me, still hesitating.
"I think you can trust the lady," I said; "she has proved her capability."
"Very well, Miss Barnard," said the doctor, more graciously; "it may try your nerves;" and, taking up some instruments, he turned toward the inner room.
"I shall be equal to it," she replied, as, gathering up some lint, and going across the room for a part of the water, fast heating over the fluid lamp, she followed him.
"Doctor, can'twedo something?" asked Jim Long.
"Nothing at present."
How still it was! Jim Long stood near the center of the room, panting heavily, and looking down at a dark stain in the carpet,—a splash of human blood that marked the place where Bethel had fallen under the fire of the assassin. His face was flushed, and its expression fiercely gloomy. His hands were clenched nervously, his eye riveted to that spot upon the carpet, his lips moved from time to time, as if framing anathemas against the would-be destroyer.
After a time, I ventured, in a low tone:
"Long, you are breathing like a spent racer. Sit down. You may need your breath before long."
He turned, silently opened the outer door, making scarcely a sound, and went out into the night.
That was a long half hour which I passed, sitting beside the little table with that splash of blood directly before my eyes, hearing no sound save an occasional rustle from the inner room, and now and then a low word spoken by Dr. Hess.
To think to the purpose seemed impossible, in that stillness where life and death stood face to face. I could only wait; anxiously, impatiently, fearing the worst.
At last it was over; and Jim, who evidently, though out of sight, had not been out of hearing, came in to listen to the verdict of Dr. Hess.
"It was a dangerous wound," he said, "and the patient was in a critical condition. He might recover, with good nursing, but the chances were much against him."
A spasm of pain crossed Louise Barnard's face, and I saw her clench her small hand in a fierce effort to maintain her self-control. Then she said, quite calmly:
"In his present condition, will he not require the constant attention of a surgeon?"
Dr. Hess bowed his head.
"Hemorrhage is likely to occur," he said. "Hemightneed surgical aid at a moment's notice."
"Then, Dr. Hess, would you object to our calling for counsel—for an assistant?"
He elevated his eyebrows, more in surprise at the pronoun, I thought, than at the suggestion, or request.
"I think it might be well to have Dr. Baumbach in to-morrow," he replied.
"I was not thinking of Dr. Baumbach," she said. "I wish to send to New York for a doctor who is a relative of Mr. Bethel's. I know—it is what he would wish."
Dr. Hess glanced from her face to mine and remained silent.
"When my father was sick," she went on, now looking appealingly from the doctor's face to mine, and then over my shoulder at Jim, who had remained near the door, "Dr. Bethel said that if he had any doubts as to his case, he should telegraph at once for Dr. Denham, and he added that he knew of no surgeon more skillful."
Still no answer from Dr. Hess.
Jim Long came forward with a touch of his old impatience and accustomed quaintness in his words and manner.
"I'min favor of the city doctor," he said, looking, not at Dr. Hess, but straight into my face. "And I'm entitled to a voice in the matter. The patient's mine by right of discovery."
Miss Barnard gave him a quick glance of gratitude, and I rallied from the surprise occasioned by the mention of "our old woman," to say:
"I think you said that this gentleman is arelativeof Dr. Bethel's; if so, he should be sent for by all means."
"He is Dr. Bethel's uncle," said Miss Barnard.
"Then," I repeated, with decision, "as a relative he should be sent for at once."
"Most certainly," acquiesced Dr. Hess, who now saw the matter in, to him, a more favorable light. "Send for him; the sooner the better."
"Oh," breathed the anxious girl, "I wish it could be done at once."
"It can," I said, taking my hat from the table as I spoke. "Fortunately there is a new night operator at the station; he came to-night, or was expected. If he is there, we shall save time, if not, we must get Harris up."
"Oh, thank you."
Dr. Hess went to take a look at his patient, and came back, saying:
"I will remain here until morning, I think."
"And I will come back as soon as possible," I responded, turning to go.
Jim Long caught up his hat from the floor, where he had flung it on entering.
"I reckon I had better go along with you," he said, suddenly assuming his habitual drawl; "you may have to rout Harris up, and I know right where to find him."
I was anxious to go, for a reason of my own, and I was not sorry to have Jim's company. "Now, if ever," I thought, "is the time to fathom 'the true inwardness' of this strange man."
We waited for no more words, but set out at once, walking briskly through the night that seemed doubly dark, doubly silent and mysterious, at the witch's hour of one o'clock.
We had walked half the distance to the station; in perfect silence, and I was studying the best way to approach Jim and overcome his reticence, when suddenly he opened his lips, to give me a glimpse of his "true inwardness," that nearly took me, figuratively, off my feet.
"Men are only men, after all," he began, sententiously, "anddetectivesare only common men sharpened up a bit. I wonder, now, how you are going to get the address of this Dr. Denham?"
I started so violently, that he must have perceived it, dark though it was.
What a blunder! I had walked away from the cottage forgetting to ask for Dr. Denham's address.
Uttering an exclamation of impatience, I turned sharply about.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"I'm going back after the address, of course."
"I wouldn't do that; time's precious. Do you go ahead and send the message. I'll run back and ask after the address."
"Long," I said, sharply, "what do you mean?"
"I mean this," he replied, his tone changing suddenly. "I mean that it's time for you and I to understand each other!"
"It is time for you and I to understand each other. Don't stop there looking moon-struck! Go ahead, and don't waste time. I'll run back and ask for the address. Miss Barnard, if she scented a secret, might be trusted with it. But, Dr. Hess—his brain has not kept pace with the steps of the universe."
With these remarkable words, Jim Long lowered his head, compressed his elbows after the fashion of a professional prize-runner, and was off like a flying shadow, while I stood staring after him through the darkness, divided betwixt wonder at his strange words and manner, and disgust at my own stupidity.
What did he mean? Had he actually discovered my identity? And, if so, how?
While waiting for a solution to these riddles, it would be well to profit by Jim's advice. So I turned my face toward the village, and hurried forward.
As I approached the station, a bright light from the operator's window assured me that I should not find the office empty, and coming stealthily toward it, I peered in, to see, seated in the most commodious office chair, Gerald Brown, of our agency, the expected "night operator."
On a lounge opposite the window, lay Charlie Harris asleep.
I tapped softly on the open casement, and keeping myself in the shadow whispered:
"Come outside, Gerry, and don't wake Harris."
The night-operator, who knew the nature of the services required of him in Trafton, and who doubtless had been expecting a visit, arose quietly and came out on the platform with the stealthy tread of a bushman.
After a cordial hand-clasp, and a very few words of mutual inquiry, I told Brown what had happened at the doctor's cottage, and of my suspicions regarding Blake Simpson; and, then, using a leaf from my note-book, and writing by the light from the window, I wrote two messages, to be sent before Harris should awake.
The first was as follows:
Doctor Charles Denham,
No. 300 —— street, N. Y.
Carl Bethel is in extreme danger; requires your professional services. Come at once.
Bathurst.
The second was addressed to our office, and was much longer. It ran thus:
Capt. B., A——, N. Y.
Murder was attempted last night; Bethel the victim. See that Denham comes by the first train to attend to him. Give him some hints before starting. Look out for B. S. If he returns to the city in the morning, keep him shadowed. Will write particulars.
Bathurst.
"There," I said, as I passed them to Brown, "send them as soon as you can, Gerry. The doctor will hardly receive his before morning, but the other will be delivered at once, and then they can hurry up the "old woman." As for Blake, he will probably take the morning train, if he returns to the city, so they have ample time to prepare for him. Did you see Carnes on the express?"
"Yes; but only had a moment's speech with him. He told me to tell you that Blake left the train at Ireton, and that he went straight to a sort of feed stable, kept by a man named Briggs—"
"Briggs!" I exclaimed, involuntarily.
"Yes, that was the name. At this stable he was furnished with a good team and light buggy, and he drove straight south."
"Ah! he did. But my time is not at my disposal just now, Gerry; I have a companion somewhere on the road. I suppose you got the bearings of this Trafton business at the Agency?"
"Yes; I think I am pretty well posted. I have read all your reports."
"So much the better. Gerry, you had better take up your quarters at the Trafton House. I am stopping there. It will be convenient, for more than one reason."
Gerry agreed with me in this, and, as at that moment we heard footsteps approaching, which I rightly guessed to be those of Jim Long, we separated at once, and I went forward to meet Jim.
Before, I had deemed it necessary to press the siege, and lead Jim to talk by beginning the attack in a voluble manner. Now, I was equally intent upon holding my own forces in reserve, and letting him open the engagement, which, after a few moments' silence, he did.
A few rods away from the depot stood a church, with broad, high steps leading up from the street, and a deep, old-fashioned portico.
Here Jim came to an abrupt halt, for we had turned our steps southward, and said, with more of courtesy in his voice than might have been expected, considering his recent abruptness:
"Let us go up there, and sit under the porch. It's safer than to talk while walking, and I fancy you would like me to explain myself."
I followed him in silence up the steps, and sat down beside him on the portico.
"I wonder," began Jim, lowering his voice to insure himself against possible eavesdroppers, "I wonder why you have not asked me, before this time, how it happened that I was the first to discover Bethel's condition, or, at any rate, the first to give the alarm."
"There has scarcely been time," I replied, guardedly. "Besides I, being so nearly a stranger, thought that a question to be more properly asked by Miss Barnard or the doctor."
"You are modest," said Jim, with a short laugh. "Probably it will not occur to Miss Barnard to ask that question, until her mind is more at ease concerning Bethel's condition. As for Dr. Hess, he had asked it before he took off his nightcap."
"And did you answer it," asked I, maliciously, "in the same good English you are addressing to me?"
"I hope not," he replied, laughing again. "I told him the truth, however, in a very few words, and now I will tell it to you. Last night—I suppose it is morning now by the clock—I spent the evening in the village, principally about the Trafton House. I presume you are wondering how it came that you did not see me there, for I happen to know that you spent the entire evening in the office or on the porch. Well, the fact is, I was there on a little private business, and did not make myself very conspicuous for that reason. It was late when I came home, and, on looking about the cabin, I discovered that my gun was missing. My door, for various reasons, I always leave unlockedwhen absent, so I did not waste any time in wondering how the thief got in. I missed nothing else, and, after a little, I went outside to smoke, and think the matter over. I had not been out many minutes before I heard the report of a gun,—mygun, I could have sworn. It sounded in the direction of Bethel's cottage, and I was not many minutes in getting there. I found the door open, and Bethel lying across the threshold, wounded, as you have seen. He was almost unconscious then, but as I bent above him he whispered one word, 'Louise.' I could not leave him lying there in the doorway, so I lifted him and carried him to the bed, and then, seeing that it was a shoulder wound, and that he still breathed, I rushed off, stopping to tell Louise Barnard that her lover was wounded and, maybe, dying, and then on again until I saw you, the very man whose help I wanted."
"And why my help rather than that of another?"
"Because, next to that of a physician, the presence of adetectiveseemed most necessary."
"Long," I said, turning upon him sharply, "this is the second time you have referred to me as 'a detective.' Will you be good enough to explain?"
"I have spoken of you as a detective," he replied, gravely, "because I believe you to be one, and have so believed since the day you came to Trafton. To explain in full would be to occupy more time than you or I can well spare to story telling. I have watched you since you first came to this place, curiously at first, then earnestly, then anxiously. I believe you are here to ferret out the authors of the many robberies that have happened in and about Trafton. If this is so, then there is no one more anxious to help you, or who could have a stronger motive for so doing, than Jim Long."
He paused for a moment, but I remained silent, and he began anew.
"I think you are interested in Bethel and his misfortunes. I think you know him for the victim of those who believe him to be what you really are."
"You think there are those who fear Bethel because they believe him to be a detective? Is that your meaning?"
"That is my meaning."
"Long," I said, seriously, "you tell me that your gun was stolen last night; that you recognized the sound of the report coming from the direction of Bethel's house."
He moved closer to me and laid a hand on my shoulder.
"It was my gun that shot Bethel," he said, solemnly. "To-morrow that gun will be found andIshall be accused of the crime. If the devils had possessed my knowledge, it would have been you, instead of Carl Bethel, lying somewhere now, dying or dead. I say these things to you to-night because, if my gun is found, as I anticipate, and I am accused of the shooting, I may not be able to serve Carl Bethel, and he is not yet out of danger. If he lives he will still be a target for his enemies."
He spoke with suppressed emotion, and my own feelings were stirred as I replied:
"Long, you have been a mystery to me from the first, and I do not read your riddle even now, but I believe you are a man to be trusted. Give me your hand, and depend upon it you shall not rest long under a false accusation. Carl Bethel, living, shall not want a friend; Carl Bethel, dead, shall have an avenger. As for you, and myself—"
"We shall understand each other better," he broke in, "when the time comes for me to tell you my own story in my own way."
"Then," I said, "let us go back to Bethel. I want to take a look about the premises by the first streak of daylight."
"Ah!" ejaculated Jim, "that is what I wanted to hear you say."
During the night there was little change in Bethel's condition, and in the gray of dawn Miss Barnard went reluctantly home, having been assured by the doctor that the patient was in no immediate danger, and, by Jim and myself, converted to the belief that he might be safely trusted for a short time to our care.
A little later, with the first clear light of the dawn, I left Jim on guard at the bedside, and went to take a survey of the premises.
I was not long in convincing myself that there was little to be discovered outside, and returning to the house seated myself in Bethel's easy-chair.
"Long," I called softly,—somehow since last night I could not bring myself to use the familiar "Jim," as of old.
He came from the inner room looking a mute inquiry.
"Long, you had ought to know something about your own gun; was that wound of Bethel's made at long or short range?"
He looked surprised at first, then a gleam of intelligence leaped to his eyes.
"What do you mean by short range?" he asked.
"Suppose Bethel to have stood on the steps outside, was the gun fired from behind that evergreen just beyond, and close to the gravel walk, or from some other point equally distant?"
He opened the door and glanced out at the tree, seeming to measure the distance with his eye.
"It was further away," he said, after a moment's reflection. "If the scoundrel had stood as you suggest, the muzzle of the gun would have been almost at Bethel's breast. The powder would have scorched his clothing and his flesh."
"Do you think it may have been fired from the gate, or a few feet beyond it?"
"Judging by the appearance of the wound, I should say it must have been from a little beyond the gate."
"I think so too," I said. "I think some one drove to the gate last night with a light buggy, and two small horses. He or they drove quite close to the fence and stopped the horses, so that they were hidden from the view of any one who was nearer the house. The buggy was directly before the gate and so close that it could not have been opened, as it swings outward. The horses were not tied, but they were doubtless well trained animals. A man jumped out of the buggy, and, standing beside it, on the side farthest from the gate, of course, leveled your gun across the vehicle and called aloud for the doctor. Bethel was alone, sitting in this chair by this table. His feet were on this footstool," touching each article as I named it. "He was smoking this pipe, and reading this book. The window was open, and the blinds only half closed. The man, who probably drove close to the fence for that purpose, could see him quite distinctly, and from his attitude and occupation knew him to be alone.
"When Bethel heard the call, he put down the book and pipe with cool deliberation, pushed back the footstool and opened the door, coming from the light to the darkness. At that moment he could see nothing, and leaving the door open he stepped outside, standing clearly outlined in the light from within.Thenthe assassin fired."
"When Bethel heard the call, he put down the book and pipe with cool deliberation, pushed back the footstool and opened the door,"—page 312."When Bethel heard the call, he put down the book and pipe with cool deliberation, pushed back the footstool and opened the door,"—page 312.
Jim Long came toward me, his eyes earnestly searching my face.
"In Heaven's name, what foundation have you for such a theory," he asked, slowly.
"Excellent foundation," I replied. "Let us demonstrate my theory."
Long glanced at his charge in the inner room, and then said, "go on."
"Suppose me to be Bethel," I said, leaning back in the big chair. "That window is now just as it was last night, I take it?"
"Just the same."
"Well, if you choose to go outside and walk beside the fence, you will be able to decide whether I could be seen as I have stated."
He hesitated a moment, and then said:
"Wait; I'll try it;" and opened the door.
"Long," I whispered, as he passed out, "keepthis sideof the fence."
"Yes."
He was back in a moment.
"I can see you plainly," he said.
"And, of course, with a light within and darkness outside you could see me still more plainly."
"I suppose so," he assented.
"Now for the second test. I hear my name called, I lay aside my book and meerschaum, push back my footrest, and go to the door. I can see nothing as I open it," I was suiting the action to the word, "so I fling it wide open, and step outside. Now, Long, that spot of blood tells me just about the location of Bethel's head when you discovered him. Will you point out the spot where his feet rested?"
Long considered a moment and then laid two fingers on the step.
"There, as nearly as I can remember," he said.
I planted my own feet on the spot indicated by him.
"Now, please go to the gate. Go outside of it. There are some bits of paper scattered about; do not step where you see any of these."
He obeyed my directions, striding over and around the marked places.
"Now," I called, retaining my position on the door-step, "step about four feet from the gate, and from that distance how must you stand to take aim at me, on this spot?"
He shifted his position a trifle, went through the motion of taking aim, looking down at his feet, then dropped his arms, and said:
"I can't do it; to aim at you there, I would have to stand just where you have left some bits of paper. In any other position the bushes obstruct the sight."
I came down to the gate and swung it open.
"Just what I wanted to establish. Now for the next test," I said. "Mark me, Long; do you see those bits of paper along the fence? Go and look at the ground, where they lie, and you will see the faint impression of a wheel. Just before the gate where the vehicle stood for a moment, the print is deeper, and more easily noticed. I said that the gun was fired across the buggy; you have convinced yourself that aim could be taken from only one position, at this distance. The man must stand where those bits of paper are scattered. Now, look;" I bent down and gathered up the fragments of paper; "look close. Here is a fine, free imprint from the heel of a heavy boot. As there is but one, and that so marked, it is reasonable to suppose that the assassin rested one foot upon the buggy wheel, thus throwing his weight upon this heel."
Long bent to examine the print and then lifted his head to ejaculate:
"It is wonderful!"
"It is simplicity itself," I replied; "the a, b, c of the detective's alphabet. I said there were two horses; look, here is where one of them scraped the fence with his teeth, and here the other has snatched a mouthful of leaves from the doctor's young shade tree. Here, too, are some faint, imperfect hoof-prints, but they are enough to tell us, from their position, that there were two horses, and from their size, that the animals were pretty small."
Long examined the different marks with eager attention, and then stood gazing fixedly at me, while I gathered up my bits of paper.
"I shall not try to preserve these as evidence in the case," I said. "I think we shall do very well without them. They were marked for your benefit, solely. Are you convinced?"
"Convinced! Yes, convinced and satisfied that you are the man for this business."
We returned to the house, each intent on his own thoughts.
The sun was rising in a cloudless sky. It would not be long before curious visitors would be thronging the cottage. After a time I went to the door of the room where Jim had resumed his watch.
"Long," I asked, in a low tone, "do you know any person in Ireton?"
He shook his head.
"Do you know whether this fellow Tom Briggs has any relatives about Trafton?"
He pondered a moment.
"Yes," he said, finally. "He has a brother somewhere in the neighborhood. I don't know just where. He comes to Trafton occasionally."
"What is he like?"
"He is not unlike Tom, but goes rather better dressed."
"Do you know his occupation?"
"A sort of horse-trading character, I think."
I considered for a time, and then resumed my catechism.
"Among the farmers whose horses have been stolen, do you know one who is thoroughly shrewd, cautious and reliable?"
"I think so," after a moment's reflection. "I think Mr. Warren is such a man."
"Where can he be found?"
"He lives five miles northwest of Trafton."
"If you wished to organize a small band of regulators, say six or eight, where could you find the right men, and how soon?"
"I should look for them among the farmers. I think they could be organized,for the right purpose, in half a day's ride about the country."
As my lips parted to launch another question, the outer door opened slowly and almost noiselessly, and Louise Barnard brushed past me and hurried to the bedside.
"Miss Barnard—"
"Don't lecture me, please," she said, hurriedly. "Mamma is better and could spare me, and Icouldnot sleep. I have taken a cordial, and some food. You must let me stay on guard until Dr. Denham arrives. I will resign my post to him."
"Which means that you will not trust to us. You are a 'willful woman,' Miss Barnard, and your word is our law, of course. There is actually nothing to do here just now but to sit at the bedside and watch our patient. And so, if youwilloccupy that post, Long and myself will take a look at things out of doors."
She took her seat by the bedside, and, beckoning Jim to follow me, I went out, and, turning to see that he was close behind me, walked to the rear of the house.
Here we seated ourselves upon the well platform, where Jim had once before stationed himself to watch the proceedings of the raiding party, and for a full half-hour remained in earnest consultation.
At the end of that time, Jim Long saddled and bridled the doctor's horse, led him softly from the yard, mounted, and rode swiftly away to the northwest.
Very soon after Jim's departure, the first visitors arrived at the cottage, and most welcome ones they were.
Miss Barnard, who seemed capable of wise thought in the midst of her grief and anxiety, had dispatched her own servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and, early as was the hour, that good man had hastened to the cottage, with his wife at his side. Their presence was comforting to Miss Barnard and myself. Mr. Harris was the right man to assume responsibilities, which I, for various reasons, had no desire to take upon myself, and Mrs. Harris was the very companion and assistant needed by the anxious girl. They were soon in possession of all the facts, as we knew them, concerning the previous night, and its calamity.
I say, as we knew them; Miss Barnard had heard nothing concerning the part Jim's gun was believed to have played in the sad affair, and I did not think it necessary to enlighten either her or Mr. Harris on that subject, at that time.
Leaving Bethel in such good hands, I went back to the hotel. But before I could breakfast or rest, I was called upon to repeat again and again all that I could or would tell concerning this new calamity that had befallen Dr. Bethel, for the news of the night was there before me.
As I re-entered the office, after quitting the breakfast table, I found a considerable crowd assembled, and was again called upon to rehearse my story.
"It looks sorter queerish to me," commented a hook-nosed old Traftonite, who had listened very intently to my words. "It's sorterqueerish! Why warn't folks told of this sooner? Why warn't the alarm given, so'at citizens could agone and seen for theirselves how things was?"
I recognized the speaker as one who had been boisterously and vindictively active on the day of the raid upon Bethel's cottage, and I fixed my eye upon his face with a look which he seemed to comprehend, as I retorted:
"Dr. Bethel has received one visit from a delegation of 'citizens who were desirous to see for theirselves how things was,' and if he suffered no harm from it, it was not owing to the tender mercies of the 'citizens' aforesaid. The attendance of a mob last night would not have benefited Bethel. What he needed was a doctor and good nursing. These he had and will have," and I turned upon my heel to leave the room.
"I should say," spoke up another voice, "that there was a detective needed around there, too."
"Nothing shall be lacking that is needed," I retorted, over my shoulder, and then ascended the stairs, wishing heartily, as I entered my room, that Trafton and a large majority of its inhabitants were safely buried under an Alpine avalanche.
Two hours later I awoke, and being in a more amiable mood, felt less inclined to consign all Trafton to annihilation.
Going below I found the office comparatively quiet, and Dimber Joe and the new operator socially conversing on the porch.
Gerald's presence was a relief to me. I felt sure that he would keep a sharp eye upon the movements of Dimber, and, being anxious about the situation of Bethel I returned to the cottage.
Dr. Hess stood in the doorway, in conversation with Mr. Harris.
"How is the patient?" asked I, approaching them.
"Much the same," replied the doctor. "But there will be a change soon."
"Has he spoken?"
"No; he will hardly do that yet, and should not be allowed to talk even if he could. When the change comes there will be fever, and perhaps delirium."
I passed them and entered the sick-room.
Mrs. Harris sat by the bed. Louise Barnard was not there.
"We have sent Louise home," Mrs. Harris whispered, seeing me glance about inquiringly. "The doctor told her that if she insisted upon remaining she would soon be sick herself, and unable to help us at all. That frightened her a little. The poor child is really worn out, with her father's sickness and death, her mother's poor health, and now this," nodding toward the bed.
"Have you had any visitors?"
"Oh, yes. But we knew that the house must be kept quiet, and Mr. Harris has received the most of them out in the yard. Dr. Hess says it will be best to admit none but personal friends."
"Dr. Hess is very sensible."
Going back to join the two gentlemen, I saw that Dr. Hess was hastening toward the gate with considerable alacrity, and that a pony phæton had just halted there.
Swinging the gate wide open, the doctor assisted the occupant to alight.
It was Miss Manvers.
There was an anxious look upon her face, and in her eyes a shadow of what I had once discovered there, when, myself unseen, I had witnessed her interview with Arch Brookhouse on the day of the garden party. She was pale, and exceedingly nervous.
She said very little. Indeed her strongest effort to preserve her self-control seemed almost a failure, and was very evident to each of us. She listened with set lips to the doctor's description and opinion of the case, and then entered the inner room, and stood looking down at the figure lying there, so stalwart, yet so helpless. For a moment her features were convulsed, and her hands clenched each other fiercely. Her form was shaken with emotion so strong as to almost overmaster her. It was a splendid picture of fierce passion held in check by an iron will.
She came out presently, and approached me.
"You were one of the first to know this, I am told," she said, in a low, constrained tone. "Please tell me about it."
I told her how I was called to the rescue by Jim, and gave a brief outline of after events.
"And has all been done that can be?" she asked, after a moment of silence.
"Not quite all, Miss Manvers. We have yet to find this would-be murderer and bring him to justice." I spoke with my eyes fixed on her face.
She started, flushed, and a new excited eagerness leaped to her eyes.
"Will you do that?Canyou?"
"It shall be done," I replied, still watching her face.
She gave a little fluttering sigh, drew her veil across her arm, and turned to go.
"If I can be of service, in any way," she began, hesitatingly.
"We shall not hesitate to ask for your services," I interrupted, walking beside her to the door, and from thence to the gate, a little to the annoyance of Dr. Hess, I fancied.
As I assisted her to her seat in the phæton, and put the reins in her hands, I saw Arch Brookhouse galloping rapidly from the direction of town. And, just as she had turned her ponies homeward, and I paused at the gate to nod a final good-bye, he reined his horse up sharply beside her vehicle.
"How is the doctor, Adele?" he asked, in a tone evidently meant for my ears.
"Don't speak to me," she replied, vehemently, and utterly regardless of my proximity. "Don't speak to me. I wish it wereyouin his place."
She snatched up her whip, as though her first instinct was to draw the lash across his face, but she struck the ponies instead, and they flew up the hill at a reckless gait.
As Brookhouse turned in the saddle to look after the flying phæton, I saw a dark frown cross his face.
But the next instant his brow cleared, and he turned again to bestow on me a look of sharp scrutiny.
Springing from his horse, and throwing the bridle across his arm, he approached the gate.
"Did you hear her?" he exclaimed. "That is what I get for being an amiable fellow. My friend is not amiable to-day."
"Evidently not," I responded, carelessly. "Lovers' quarrels are fierce affairs, but very fleeting."
He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
"I have been so unfortunate as to offend her," he said. "By to-morrow she will have forgotten the circumstances."
"Will she, indeed?" thought I. "We shall see, my friend."
But I made no audible comment, and he dismissed the subject to ask the stereotyped questions, "How was Dr. Bethel? Could he be of any service? How did it happen?"
While I was answering these questions with the best grace I could muster, there came the patter of horse's hoofs, and Jim Long rode up to the side gate, dismounted with a careless swing, nodded to me, and, opening the gate, led the doctor's horse stableward.
The look of surprise on my companion's face was instantly followed by a malicious smile, which, in its turn, was banished to give place to a more proper expression.
"Long has been giving the doctor's horse some exercise," he said, half inquiringly.
"I believe he has been executing some commission for Miss Barnard," I fabricated, unblushingly. "Long has been very useful here."
"Indeed," carelessly; then glancing at his watch, "nearly noon, I see."
He turned, vaulted into his saddle, and touched his hat. "Good-morning. In case of necessity, command me;" and with a second application of his finger-tip to the brim of his hat, he shook the reins and cantered away.
As soon as he was out of sight I went straight to the stable where Jim was bountifully feeding the tired horse.
"Well, Long?"
"It's all right, captain. I've had a hard ride, but it'sdone."
"And the men?"
"Will be at the cabin to-night."