All afternoon the search continued. At intervals and at widely separated points dull explosions took place on the bed of the river, creating smooth, round hillocks that lasted for the fraction of a second and then dissolved into swift-spreading wavelets, stained a dirty yellow by the upheaval of sand and mud, and went racing in ruffles to the banks which they tenderly licked before they died. White-bellied fish, killed by the shock of the explosions, came to the surface and floated away,—scores of them, large and small. Spider-like grappling hooks, with their curving iron prongs, raked the bottom from side to side, moving constantly downstream, feeling here, there and everywhere with insensate fingers for the body of Rosabel Vick.
A pall settled over the river; it reached far beyond the environs of Windomville, for Amos Vick was a man known and respected by every farmer in the district.
Night came. Courtney Thane, considerably shaken by the tragedy, set out immediately after dinner for the home of Alix Crown. He had been silent and depressed at dinner, taking his little part in the conversation, which dealt exclusively with the incomprehensible act of young Rosabel Vick.
"What possible reason could that pretty happy young girl have had for killing herself?" That was the question every one asked and no one answered. Mrs. Maude Baggs Pollock repeatedly asked it at dinner, and once Thane had replied:
"I still don't believe she killed herself. It is beyond belief. If she is out there in the river, as they suspect, it is because there was foul play. Some fiend attacked her. I will never believe anything else, Mrs. Pollock. I knew her too well. She would never dream of killing herself. She loved life too well. I can't help feeling that she is alive and well somewhere, that they will hear from her in a day or two, and that—"
"But how about the things they found in that boat?" demanded Doc Simpson. "She wouldn't be so heartless as to play a trick like that on her folks."
Courtney's answer was a gloomy shake of the head.
His heart was pounding heavily as he trudged up the walk to Alix's door. He knew that the crisis in his affairs was at hand. She had asked him to come. He had not given up hope. He was still confident of his power to win in spite of her amazing perversity. Inconsistency, he called it. Of one thing he was resolved: he would brook no delay. She would have to marry him at once. He wanted to get away from Windomville as soon as possible. He loathed the place.
Hilda came to the door.
"Miss Crown is over at Mr. Vick's," she announced. "She's not at home."
He stiffened. "I had an appointment with her for this evening, Hilda. She must be at home."
"She ain't," said the maid succinctly.
"Did she leave any word for me?"
"Not with me, sir. She telephoned to Mrs. Strong this evening to say she was going to stay with Mrs. Vick."
"All night?"
"No, sir. The car's going down to meet her at the ferry about ten o'clock."
He departed in a very unpleasant frame of mind. This was laying it on a bit thick, he complained. If she thought she could treat him in this cavalier fashion she'd soon find out where she "got off." What business had she, anyhow, over at the Vicks? All the old women in the neighbourhood would be there to—An idea struck him suddenly.
"I'll do it," he muttered. "I'll have to go over some time, so why not now? It's the decent thing to do. I'll go tonight."
He hurried up to his room. Opening his trunk, he took out his revolver, replaced the discharged shells and stuck it into his overcoat pocket. Picking up the little package of bank-notes, he fingered them for a moment and then, moved by an impulse for which he had no explanation, he not only counted them but quickly stuffed them into his trousers' pocket. Afterwards he was convinced that premonition was responsible for this incomprehensible act.
He crossed the ferry with several other people. The moon had broken through the clouds. Its light upon the cold, sluggish water produced the effect of polished steel. It reminded him of the grey surface of an ancient suit of armour. The crossing was slow. He could not repress a shudder when he looked downstream and saw lights that seemed to be fixed in the centre of the river. He closed his eyes. He could not bear to look at the cold, silent water. The soft splashing against the broad, square bow of the old-fashioned ferry served to increase his nervousness. The horrid fancy struck him that Rosabel Vick was out there ahead clawing at the slimy timbers in the vain effort to draw herself out of the water....He wished to God he had not come.
He was the first person off the ferry when it came to a stop on the farther side of the river. Ahead of him lay the road through the narrow belt of trees that lined the bank. He knew that a scant hundred yards lay between the river and the open road beyond and yet a vast dread possessed him. He shrank from that black opening in the wall of trees where dead leaves rustled and the wind whispered secrets to the barren branches.
He fell in behind a couple of men who strode fearlessly into the dark avenue. After him came two men and a woman. They were all strangers to him, so far as he could make out, but he felt a sense of security in their nearness. He gathered that they were bound for Amos Vick's. Presently they came to the open road beyond the trees. The half moon rode high and clear; the figures of his companions took shape, dusky and ghost-like; the fences alongside the road became visible, while straw-ricks, lone trees and other shadowy objects emerged from the maw of the night. Here and there in the distance points of light indicated the presence of invisible farmhouses, while straight ahead, a mile or more away, a cluster of lights marked the house of Amos Vick.
As he drew nearer, Thane was able to count the lights. He looked intently for the sixth window, an upstairs corner room was where it would be,—but there were lights in only five. The corner window was dark. He knew that window well....He wished he had a stiff drink of whiskey.
Half a dozen automobiles stood at the roadside in front of the house. He stopped beside one of them to look at his wrist-watch. It was half-past eight. Alix would be starting home in less than an hour. No doubt it had been arranged that one of these cars was to take her down to the ferry. He had seen her saddle horse late that afternoon standing in front of the blacksmith's shop, evidently waiting to be re-shod.
If he had his way,—and he was determined to have it,—Alix would walk with him to the ferry.
As he turned in at the gate he observed that the woman and her two companions, after pausing for a moment to look at the house, continued their way up the road. The men who had preceded him all the way were already on the front porch. He followed the disappearing trio with his eyes. The woman, he noticed for the first time, was very tall,—quite as tall as the men. She wore a shawl over her head, and some sort of a long cloak.
Setting his jaw he strode up the walk, looking neither to right nor left, mounted the steps where many a night he had sat with Rosabel beside him, and after passing a group of low-voiced neighbours, knocked on the closed door. He was admitted by an elderly woman who looked askance at this well-dressed stranger.
"I am Mr. Thane, a friend," he said. "Will you tell Mrs. Vick, please?"
"She's upstairs, and I—I—"
"I think she is expecting me. But,—wait. I thought I might be able to comfort her, but I can see by your expression that she isn't feeling up to seeing people. I came over primarily to see if there is anything I can do, Madam. You see, Rosabel and I were great pals." His voice broke a little, and he bit his nether lip.
"We've finally got her to lie down," said the woman. "She's—she's nearly crazy with the suspense and—everything. If you'll wait a little bit, I'll find out if she feels like seeing you. Alix Crown is with her. She coaxed her to stretch out on the bed. Miss Crown understands these things. She did some hospital work during the war—"
"Yes, I know Miss Crown," he interrupted.
"—and saw a lot of suffering, 'specially among mothers who came to see their crippled and sick sons in the hospitals."
"Perhaps if you were to tell Miss Crown that I am here she could—but no, I sha'n't even bother Miss Crown. She's got her hands full. I will sit down and wait awhile, however. If by any chance, you should be able to get word to Mrs. Vick that I am here, I think she might feel like seeing me."
"I'll see," said the woman dubiously, and went away.
Courtney sat down on a sofa in the parlour. He looked around the lamp-lit room....Over in the corner was the upright piano on which Rosabel used to play for him. He could see her now—the shapely, girlish back; the round, white neck and the firm young shoulders; the tilt of her head; the strong, brown hands,—he could see her now. And she used to turn her head and smile at him, and make dreadful grimaces when this diversion resulted in a discord....He got up suddenly and walked out into the dining-room.
Beyond, in the kitchen, he heard the rumble of men's voices. He hesitated for a moment, and then opened the door. There were half a dozen men in the kitchen, and one of them was Amos Vick. They were preparing to go out into the night. Vick's face was haggard, his garments were muddy, his long rubber boots were covered with sludge and sand. Catching sight of Thane in the doorway, the farmer went toward him, his hand outstretched.
"I'm glad you came, Courtney," he said, his voice hoarse but steady. "Lucinda will be pleased. Does she know you're here?"
"I sent word up, but if she doesn't feel like—"
"She'll want to see you. We're starting out again. Down the river." (His voice shook a little.) "My soul,—boy,—you look as white as a sheet. Here,—take a good swig of this. It's some rye that Steve White brought over. We all needed it. Help yourself. You've been overdoing a little today, Courtney. You're not fit for this sort of—That's right! That will brace you up. You needed it, my boy." Courtney drained half a tumbler of whiskey neat. He choked a little.
"I guess we'd better be starting, Amos," said Steve White.
"Take me along with you, Mr. Vick," cried Courtney, squaring his shoulders. "I can't stand being idle while—"
"You'd catch your death of cold," interrupted Vick, laying his hand on the young man's shoulder. "It's mighty fine of you and I—I sha'n't forget it. But you're not fit for an all night job like this. I feel sort of responsible for you, my boy. Your mother would never forgive me if anything happened to you, and this is a time when we've got to think about the mothers. Good night,—God bless you, Courtney."
"Good night, Amos."
The men trooped heavily out of the kitchen door.
Presently he heard the chugging of automobile engines and then the roar as they sped off down the road. He returned to the parlour. The whiskey had given him fresh confidence.
The elderly woman was talking to a couple of men in the hall. From the scraps of conversation he was able to pick up, he gathered that they were reporters from the city. She invited him into the room.
"We would prefer a very recent picture," one of the men was saying. "Something taken within the last few weeks, if possible. A snap-shot will do, Madam."
The speaker was a middle-aged man with horn-rimmed spectacles. His companion was much the younger of the two. The latter bowed to Thane, who had taken a position before the fireplace and was regarding the strangers with interest.
"I'll have to speak to Mrs. Vick," murmured the woman. "I don't know as she would want Rosabel's picture printed in the papers."
"It would be of incalculable assistance, Madam, in case she has run away from home. We have an idea that she may have planted those garments in the boat in order to throw people off the track."
"Oh, she—she wouldn't have done that," cried the woman. "She couldn't be so heartless."
"You overlook the possibility that her mind may be affected. Dementia frequently takes the form of—er—you might say unnatural cunning."
"I'll speak to Mrs. Vick. There's a scrap-book of Kodak pictures there on the table. I was looking through it today. She and her brother, Cale, made heaps of pictures. You might be looking through it while I go upstairs."
Thane was lighting a cigarette.
"Have you told Miss Crown that I am here?" asked he, as she started toward the stairs.
"She says she'll be down in a few minutes. Mrs. Vick wants to see you before you go."
The two reporters were examining the contents of the scrap-book. The younger of the two was standing at the end of the little marble-topped table, his body screening the book from Courtney's view.
There were a number of loose prints lying between the leaves toward the end of the book. Rosabel had neglected to paste them in. The man with the horn-rimmed spectacles ran through them hastily. He stealthily slipped two of these prints up his sleeve.
Thane would have been startled could he have seen those prints. They were not pictures of Rosabel Vick, but fair-sized, quite excellent likenesses of himself!
The woman returned to say that Mrs. Vick was very much upset by the thought of her daughter's picture appearing in the paper, and could not think of allowing them to use it.
The elder man bowed courteously. "I quite understand, Madam. We would not dream of using the picture if it would give pain to the unhappy mother. Please assure her that we respect her wishes. Thank you for your kindness. We must be on our way back to town. Good night, Madam."
"These reporters are awful nuisances," remarked Courtney as the front door closed behind the two men. "Always butting in where they're not wanted."
"They seemed very nice," observed the woman.
"I've never seen one that wasn't a sneak," said he, raising his voice a little. The whiskey was having its effect.
Mrs. Vick and Alix entered the room together. The former came straight toward the young man. Her rather heavy face was white and drawn, but her eyes were wide and bright with anxiety. There was no trace of tears. He knew there would be no scene, no hysterics. Lucinda Vick was made of stern, heroic stuff. As he advanced, holding out his hands, he noticed that she was fully dressed. She could be ready at a moment's notice to go to her daughter.
"Oh, Courtney!" she cried, and a little spasm of pain convulsed her face for a fleeting second or two. Her voice was husky, tight with strain.
He took her cold, trembling hands in his.
"It's inconceivable," he cried. "I can't believe it, I won't believe it. You poor, poor thing!"
"It's true. She's gone. My little girl is gone. I could curse God." She spoke in a low, emotionless voice. "Why should He have taken her in this way? What have we done to deserve this cruelty? Why couldn't He have let her die in my arms, with her head upon my breast,—where it belongs?"
"Don't give up—yet," he stammered, confounded by this amazing exhibition of self-control. "There is a chance,—yes, there is a chance, Mrs. Vick. Don't give up. Be—be brave."
She shook her head. "She is dead," came from her stiff lips, and that was all.
He laid his arm across her shoulder. "I wish to God it was me instead of her," he cried fervently. "I would take her place—willingly, Mrs. Vick."
"I—I know you would, Courtney," said she, looking into his eyes. "You were her best friend. She adored you. I know you would,—God bless you!"
He looked away. His gaze fell upon Alix, standing in the door. His eyes brightened. The hunted expression left them. An eager, hungry light came into them. She was staring at him. Gradually he came to the realization that she was looking at him with unspeakable horror.
Mrs. Vick was speaking. He hardly heard a word she uttered.
"It was kind of you to come, Courtney. Thank you. I must go now. I—I can't stand it,—I can't stand it!"
She left him abruptly. Alix stood aside to allow her to pass through the door. They heard her go up the stairs, heavily, hurriedly.
"Alix!" he whispered, holding out his hands.
She did not move.
"I went up to the house to see you," he hurried on. "They told me you were here. I—"
Her gesture checked the eager words.
"You snake!" She fairly hissed the word.
He drew back, speechless. She came a few steps nearer.
"You snake!" she repeated, her eyes blazing.
"Wha—What do you mean?" he gasped, a fiery red rushing to his face.
"Would you have died for the Ritter girl?"
A bomb exploding at his feet could not have produced a greater shock. His mouth fell open; the colour swiftly receded, leaving his face a sickly white.
"Who the hell—" he began blankly.
"Be good enough to remember where you are," cried Alix, lowering her voice as she glanced over her shoulder. "I can say all I have to say to you in a very few words, Mr. Thane. Don't interrupt me. I have been a fool,—a stupid fool. We need not go into that. Thank heaven, I happen to be made of a little stronger stuff than others who have come under your influence. You would have MARRIED me,—yes, I believe that,—because it would have been the only way. I have the complete history of your betrayal of the Ritter girl. I know how your leg was injured. I know that you were kicked out of the American Ambulance and advised to leave France. I don't believe you ever served in the British Army. I have every reason to believe that you poisoned my dog, and that you,—were the man who came to my window the other night. And I suspect that you are the cause of poor Rosabel Vick's suicide. Now you know what I think of you. My God, how could you have come here tonight? These people trusted you,—they still trust you. Until now I did not believe such men as you existed. You—"
"I had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with Rosabel," he cried hoarsely. He was trembling like a leaf. "Don't you go putting such ideas into their heads. Don't you—"
"Oh, I am not likely to do that," she interrupted scornfully. "I shall not add to their misery. If I could prove that you betrayed that poor, foolish child,—then I would see to it that you paid the price. But I cannot prove it. I only know that she would have been helpless in your hands. Oh, I know your power! I have felt it. And I did not even pretend to myself that I loved you. What chance would she have had if she loved and trusted you? I shudder at the thought of—If Amos Vick should even suspect you of wronging his child, he would not wait for proof. He would tear you to pieces. You may be innocent. That is why I am giving you your chance. Now, go!"
"You certainly will give me the opportunity to defend myself, Alix. Am I to be condemned unheard? If you will allow me to walk to the ferry with you—"
"And who is to act as my bodyguard?" she inquired with a significant sneer. "Go! I never want to see your face again."
With that, she left him. He stood perfectly still, staring after the slender, boyish figure until it was hidden from view by the bend of the stairway.
His eyes were glassy. Fear possessed his soul. Suddenly he was aroused to action.
"I'd better get out of this," he muttered.
His hand clutched the weapon in his coat pocket as he strode swiftly toward the front door. Once outside he paused to look furtively about him before descending the porch steps. Several men were standing near the gate. The porch was deserted. He wondered if Amos Vick was down there waiting for him. Then he remembered what Alix had said to him: "These people trust you,—they still trust you." What had he to fear? He laughed,—a short, jerky, almost inaudible laugh,—and went confidently down the walk. As he passed the little group he uttered a brief "good night" to the men, and was rewarded by a friendly response from all of them.
Down the moonlit road he trudged, his brain working rapidly, feverishly. In his heart was the rage of defeat, in his soul the clamour of fear,—not fear now of the dark strip of woods but of the whole world about him. He communed aloud.
"The first thing to do is to pack. I've got to do that tonight. I'm through here. The jig's up. She means it. How the devil did she find out all this stuff?...But if I leave immediately it will look suspicious. I've got to stick around for a few days. If I beat it tomorrow morning some one's bound to ask questions. It will look queer. Tomorrow I'll receive an urgent letter calling me home. Mother needs me. Her health is bad....I wonder if an autopsy would reveal anything....Tomorrow sure. I can't stand it here another day....There's nothing to worry about,—not a thing,—but what's the sense of my hanging around here any longer? She's on. Some meddling whelp has been—Good Lord, I wonder if it could be that fat fool, Webster?...If I skip out tonight, it would set Vick to thinking....What a fool I was...."
And so on till he came to the woods. There, his face blanched and his heart began to pound like a hammer. He drew the revolver from his pocket and plunged desperately into the black tunnel; he was out of breath when he ran down to the landing.
Through the gloom he distinguished the ferry boat three-quarters of the way across the river, nearing the opposite bank. His "halloa" brought an answer from the ferryman. Cursing his luck in missing the boat by so short a margin of time, he sat down heavily on the stout wooden wall that guarded the approach. It would be ten or fifteen minutes before the tortoise-like craft could recross and pick him up. His gaze instantly went downstream. The faint, rhythmic sound of oarlocks came to his ears. There were no lights on the river, but after a time he made out the vague shape of an object moving on the surface a long way off. From time to time it was lost in the shadows of the tree-lined bank, only to steal into view again as it moved slowly across a jagged opening in the far-reaching wall of black. It was a boat coming upstream, hugging the bank to avoid the current farther out.
Some one approached. He turned quickly and beheld the figure of a woman coming down the road. His heart leaped. Could it be Alix? He dismissed the thought immediately. This was a tall woman—in skirts. She came quite close and stopped, her gaze evidently fixed upon him. Then she moved a little farther down the slope and stood watching the ferry which, by this time, was moving out from the farther side. He recognized the figure. It was that of the gaunt woman who crossed with him earlier in the night.
The ferry was drawing out from the Windomville side when a faint shout came from down the river. Burk answered the call, which was repeated.
"This is my busy night," growled the ferryman. "I ain't been up this late in a coon's age. Not since the Old Settlers' Picnic three years ago down at the old fort. I wonder if those fellers have got any news?"
Courtney stepped off the boat a few minutes later and hurried up the hill. The woman followed. At the top of the slope he passed three or four men standing in the shelter of the blacksmith shop, where they were protected from the sharp, chill wind that had sprung up. A loud shout from below caused him to halt. Burk, the ferryman, had called out through his cupped hands:
"What say?"
The wind bore the answer from an unseen speaker in the night, clear and distinct: "We've got her!"
An icy chill, as of a great gust of wind, swept through and over Courtney Thane. His mouth seemed suddenly to fill with water. He could not move. The men by the forge ran swiftly down the hill. The tall woman turned and after a moment followed the men, stopping in the middle of the road a few rods above the landing. She was still standing there when Courtney recovering his power of locomotion struck off rapidly in the direction of Dowd's Tavern. Halfway home he came to an abrupt halt. An inexplicable irresistible force was drawing his mind and body back to the river's edge. He did not want to go back there and see—Rosabel. He tried not to turn his steps in that direction, and yet something like a magnet was dragging him. A sort of fascination,—the fascination that goes with dread, and horror, and revulsion—took hold of him....He moved slowly, hesitatingly at first, then swiftly, not directly back over the ground he had just covered but by a circuitous route that took him through the lot at the rear of the forge. He made his way stealthily down the slope, creeping along behind a thick hedge of hazel brush to a point just above the ferry landing and to the left of the old dilapidated wharf. Here he could see without himself being seen.... He watched them lift a dark, inanimate object from the boat and lay it on the wharf....He heard men's voices in excited, subdued conversation....He saw the tall woman running up the road toward the town. She paused within a dozen feet of his hiding place.... Then something happened to him. He seemed to be losing the sense of sight and the sense of hearing. His brain was blurred, the sound of voices trailed off into utter silence. He felt the earth giving way beneath his quaking knees....The next he knew, men's voices fell upon his dull, uncomprehending ears. Gradually his senses returned. Out of the confused jumble words took shape. He heard his own name mentioned. Instantly his every faculty was alive.
Through the brush he could see the dark, indistinct forms of three or four men. They were in the road just below him.
"You shouldn't have let him out of your sight," one of the men was saying. "Hang it all, we can't let him give us the slip now."
The listener's eyes, sharpened by anxiety, made out the figure of the woman. She spoke,—and he was startled to hear the deep voice of a man.
"He was making for the boarding house. Webster says he is not in his room. I took it for granted he was going home or I wouldn't have turned back."
Where had he heard that voice before? It was strangely familiar.
"Well, we've got to locate him. I'll stake my life he is George Ritchie. I compared this snap-shot with the photograph I have with me. Shave off that dinky little moustache and I'll bet a hundred to one you'll have Ritchie's mug all right. Hustle back there, Gilfillan,—you and Simons. He'll be turning up at the house unless he's got wind of us. Don't let him see you. You stay here with me, Constable. The chances are he'll come back here to wait for Miss Crown, if he's as badly stuck on her as you say, Gilfillan. They're all fools about women."
The hidden listener was no longer quaking. His body was tense, his mind was working like lightning. He was wide awake, alert; the fingers that clutched the weapon in his pocket were firm and steady; he scarcely breathed for fear of betraying his presence, but the courage of the hunted was in his heart.
The little group broke up. Constable Foss and one of the strangers remained on the spot, the others vanished up the road. He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the wharf. A long dark object was lying near the edge, while some distance away a small knot of men stood talking. The moon, riding high, cast a cold, sickly light upon the scene.
"I've always been kind of suspicious of him," Foss was saying, his voice lowered. "What did you say his real name is?"
"His real name is Thane, I suppose. I guess there's no doubt about that. Mind you, I'm not sure he's the man we've been looking for these last six months, but I'm pretty sure of it. Last February two men and a woman tried to smuggle a lot of diamonds through the customs at New York. I'll not go into details now further than to say they landed from one of the big ocean liners and came within an ace of getting away with the job. The woman was the leader. She was nabbed with one of the men at a hotel. The other man got away. He was on the passenger list as George Ritchie, of Cleveland, Ohio. The woman had half a dozen photographs of him in her possession. I've got a copy of one of 'em in my pocket now, and it's so much like this fellow Thane that you'd swear it was of the same man. This morning Gilfillan,—that's the Pinkerton man,—telephoned to his chief in Chicago to notify the federal authorities that he was almost dead certain that our man was here. He's a wonder at remembering faces, and he had seen our photographs. Simons and I took the three o'clock train. Gilfillan met us in the city and brought us out after we had instructed the police to be ready to help us in case he got onto us and gave us the slip."
"How much of a reward is offered?" inquired Foss.
"We are not supposed to be rewarded for doing our duty," replied the Secret Service man curtly. "He got away from us and it's our business to catch him again. You can bet he's our man. He wouldn't be hanging around a burg like this for months unless he had a blamed good reason for keeping out of sight."
"He's been in mighty bad health,—and, if anybody should ask you, there ain't a healthier place in the world than right here in—"
"It's healthier than most jails," admitted the other with a chuckle.
"Umph!" grunted Mr. Foss, delivering without words a full and graphic opinion on the subject of humour as it exists in the minds of people who live in large cities. He chewed for a time in silence. "What became of the woman and the other man?"
"Oh, they were sent up,—I don't know for how long. They're old hands. Husband and wife. Steamship gamblers before the war. Fleeced any number of suckers. She must be a peach, judging from the pictures I've seen of her. They probably would have got away with this last job if she and Ritchie hadn't tried to put something over on friend husband. She had the can all ready to tie to him when he got wise and laid for her lover with a gun. The revenue people had been tipped off by agents in Paris and traced the couple to the hotel. They sprung the trap too soon, however, and the second man got away."
"Well, I guess there ain't any question but what this feller here is old Silas Thane's grandson. They say he's the livin' image of old Silas. So he must have sailed under a false name."
"They usually do," said the other patiently.
"And you want me to arrest him on suspicion, eh?"
"Certainly. You're a county official, aren't you?"
"I'm an officer of the law."
"Well, that's the answer. We are obliged to turn such matters over to the local authorities. What do you suppose I'm telling you about the case for? When I give the word, you land him and—well, Uncle Sam will do the rest, never fear."
"That's all right, but supposin' he ain't the man you're after and he turns around and sues me for false arrest?"
"You can detain anybody on information and belief, my friend. Don't you know that?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Foss with commendable asperity. "Supposin' he's got a revolver?"
"He probably has,—but so have we. Don't worry. He won't have a chance to use it. Hello! Isn't that a man standing up there by that telephone pole? We'll just stroll up that way. Don't hurry. Keep cool. Talk about the drowning."
They were halfway up the hill before Courtney moved. Every nerve was aquiver as he raised himself to his feet and looked cautiously about. The thing he feared had come to pass, but even as he crouched there in the shelter of the bushes the means of salvation flashed through his mind. He realized that the next fifteen or twenty minutes would convince these dogged, experienced man chasers that their quarry had "got wind of them" and was in flight. The hunt would be on in grim earnest; the alarm would go out in all directions. Men would be watching for him at every cross-roads, every railway station, every village, and directing the hunt would be—these men who never give up until they "land" their man.
His only chance lay in keeping under cover for a day or two,—or even longer,—until the chase went farther afield and he could take the risk of venturing forth from his hiding place. He had the place in mind. They would never think of looking for him in that sinister hole in the wall, Quill's Window! There he could lie in perfect safety until the coast was clear, and then by night steal down the river in the wake of pursuit.
Their first thoughts would be of the railroad, the highways and the city. They would not beat the woods for him. They would cut off all avenues of escape and set their traps at the end of every trail, confident that he would walk into them perforce before another day was done.
Like a ghost he stole across the little clearing that lay between the road and the willows above the ferry. The snapping of a twig under his feet, the scuffling of a pebble, the rustling of dead leaves and grass, the scraping of his garments against weeds and shrubbery, were sounds that took on the magnitude of ear-splitting crashes. It was all he could do to keep from breaking into a mad, reckless dash for the trees at the farther side of this moonlit stretch. With every cautious, fox-like step, he expected the shout of alarm to go up from behind, and with that shout he knew restraint would fail him; he would throw discretion to the winds and bolt like a frightened rabbit, and the dogs would be at his heels.
He was nearing the trees when he heard some one running in the road, now a hundred yards behind him. Stooping still lower, he increased his speed almost to a run. The sound of footsteps ceased abruptly; the runner had come to a sudden halt. Thane reached the thicket in another stride or two and paused for a few seconds to listen. A quick little thrill of relief shot through him. No one was coming along behind him. The runner, whoever he was, had not seen him; no cry went up, no loud yell of "There he goes!"
Picking his way carefully down the slope he came to the trail of the Indians, over which he had trudged recently on his trip to the great rock. He could tell by the feel of the earth under his feet that he was on the hard, beaten path by the river's edge. Now he went forward more rapidly, more confidently. There were times when he had to cross little moon-streaked openings among the trees, and at such times he stooped almost to a creeping position.
Occasionally he paused in his flight to listen for sounds of pursuit. Once his heart seemed to stop beating. He was sure that he heard footsteps back on the trail behind him. Again, as he drew near the rock-strewn base of the hill, a sound as of some one scrambling through the underbrush came to his straining ears, but the noise ceased even as he stopped to listen. He laughed at his fears. An echo, no doubt, of his own footsteps; the wind thrashing a broken limb; the action of the water upon some obstruction along the bank.
Nevertheless he dropped to his hands and knees when he came to the outlying boulders and jagged slabs close to the foot of the black, towering mass. There was no protecting foliage here. Never in his life had he known the moon to shine so brightly. He whispered curses to the high-hanging lantern in the sky.
The murmur of the river below brought a consoling thought to him. He would not suffer from thirst. He could go without food for a couple of days, even longer. Had not certain English women survived days and days of a voluntary hunger strike? But he could not do without water. In the black hours before dawn he would climb down from his eerie den and drink his fill at the river's brink.
Now a sickening fear gripped him. What if he were to find it impossible to scale that almost perpendicular steep? What if those hand-hewn clefts in the rock fell short of reaching to the cave's entrance? The processes of time and the elements may have sealed or obliterated the shallow hand and toe holds. His blood ran cold. He had dreaded the prospect of that hazardous climb up the face of the rock. Now he was overcome by an even greater dread: that he would be unable to reach the place of refuge.
He had no thought of Alix Crown now—no thought of her beauty, her body, her riches. His cherished dream was over. She took her place among other forgotten dreams. The sinister business of saving his own skin drove her out of his mind. It drove out all thought of Rosabel Vick. The hounds were at his heels. It was no time to think of women!
II — Anxiety that touched almost upon despair hastened his steps. Abandoning caution, he ran recklessly up the path among the rocks, stumbling and reeling but always keeping his feet, and came at last to the gloomy, forbidding facade of Quill's Window. Here he groped along the wall, clawing for the sunken cleats with eager, trembling hands. He knew they were there—somewhere. Not only had he seen them, he had climbed with ease, hand over hand, ten or a dozen feet up the cliff. He had shuddered a little that day as he looked first over his shoulder and then upward along the still unsealed stretch that lay between him and the mouth of the cave, seventy or eighty feet away. But that was in broad daylight. It would be different now, with darkness as his ally.
He remembered thinking that day how easy it would be to reach Quill's Window by this rather simple route. All that was required was a stout heart, a steady hand, and a good pair of arms. All of these were bestowed upon him by magic of darkness. It was what the light revealed that made a coward of him. Why, he could shut his eyes tight and go up that cliff by night as easily as—but where were the slots?
At last his hand encountered one of the sharp edges. He reached up and found the next one above,—and then for the first time realized that his eyes had been closed all the time he was feeling along the cold surface of the rock. He opened them in a start of actual bewilderment. The blackish mass rose almost sheer above him, like a vast wall upon which the moon cast a dull, murky light. He closed his eyes again and leaned heavily against the rock. His heart began to beat horribly. He felt his courage slipping; he wondered if he had the strength, the nerve to go on; he saw himself halfway up that endless wall, clutching wildly to save himself when a treacherous hand-hold broke loose and—
He opened his eyes and tried to pierce the shadows below the rocky path. Was it best to hide in that hole up there, after all? Would it not be wiser, now that he had a fair start, to keep on up the river, trusting to—
A chorus of automobile horns in the distance came to his ears suddenly,—a confused jumble of raucous blasts produced by many cars. The alarm! The search was on! The wild shriek of a siren broke the stillness near at hand, followed a few seconds later by the gradually increasing roar of an engine as it sped up the dirt road not three hundred yards to his left,—the road that ran past the gate on the other side of the hill. God! They were getting close!
Another and even more disturbing sound came to him as he stood with his fingers gripping one of the little ledges, the toe of his shoe fumbling for a foothold in another. Somewhere back on the trail he had just traversed, a rock went clattering down to the river. He heard it bounding—and the splash as it shot into the water.
He hesitated no longer. Shutting his eyes, he began the ascent....
A dark object turned the corner of the cliff below and moved slowly, cautiously along the wall. Suddenly it stopped. From somewhere in the gloom ahead came a strange and puzzling sound, as of the dragging of a tree limb across the face of the rock. The crouching object in the trail straightened up and was transformed into the tall, shadowy figure of a man.
For many seconds he stood motionless, listening, his eyes searching the trail ahead. The queer sound of scraping went on, broken at intervals by the faint rattle of sand or dirt upon the rocky path. At last he looked up. Far up the face of the cliff a bulky, shapeless thing was crawling, slowly but surely like a great beetle.
The watcher could not believe his eyes. And yet there could be no mistake. Something WAS crawling up the sheer face of the cliff, a bulging shadow dimly outlined against the starlit sky.
The man below went forward swiftly. Twice he stooped to search with eager hands for something at his feet, but always with his gaze fixed on the creeping shadow. He knew the creeper's goal: that black streak in the wall above, rendered thin by foreshortening. He knew the creeper!
Twenty or thirty paces short of the ladder he stopped. From that spot he hurled his first rock. His was a young, powerful arm and the missile sped upward as if shot from a catapult. It struck the face of the cliff a short distance above the head of the climber and glanced off to go hurtling down among the trees beyond.
Thane stopped as if paralysed. For one brief, horrible moment he felt every vestige of strength deserting him, oozing out through his tense, straining finger-tips. The shock had stunned him. He moaned,—a little whimpering moan. He was about to fall! He could hold on no longer with those weak, trembling hands. His brain reeled. A great dizziness seized him. He clung frantically to the face of the rock, making a desperate effort to regain his failing senses. Suddenly his strength returned; he was stronger than ever. A miracle had happened.
The mouth of the cave was not more than half a dozen feet above him. He opened his eyes for one brief, daring glance upward. Not more than five or six steps to go. Gritting his teeth he went on. Now only four more ledges to grip, four more footholds to find.
A second stone whizzed past his head and struck with a crash beyond him. He heard it whistle, he felt the rush of air.
"God! If that had got my head! What an inhuman devil he is! The dirty beast!"
The fourth stone caught him in the side after glancing off the wall to his left. He groaned aloud, but gripped more fiercely than ever at his slender support. For a few seconds he could not move. Then he reached up and felt for the next "cleat." He found it but, like many others he had encountered, it was filled with sand and dirt. That meant delay. He would have to dig it out with his fingers before risking his grip on the edge. Fast and feverishly he worked. Another stone struck below his feet.
"Hey!" he yelled. "Let up on that! Do you want to kill me? Cut it out! I can't get away, you damned fool! You've got me cornered." His voice was high and shrill.
The answer was another stone which grazed his leg.
A moment later he reached over and felt along the floor of the cave for the final hold. Finding it, he drew himself up over the edge and crawled, weak and half fainting, out of range of the devilish marksman.
For a long time he lay still, gasping for breath. They had him cold! There was no use in trying to think of a way out of his difficulty. All he wanted now was to rest, a chance to pull himself together. After all was said and done, what were a few years in the penitentiary? He was young. Five years—even ten,—what were they at his time of life? He would be thirty-five, at the most forty, when he came out, and as fit as he was when he went in.
"It was all my fault anyway," he reflected bitterly. "If I had let Madge alone I—Oh,—what's the use belly-aching now! That's all over,—and here am I, paying pretty blamed dearly for a month's pleasure. They've got me. There's no way out of it now. Jail! Well, worse things could happen than that. What will mother think? I suppose it will hurt like the devil. But she could have fixed this if she'd loosened up a bit. She could have gone to Washington as I told her to do and—hell, it wouldn't have cost her half as much as it will to defend me in court. She can't get a decent lawyer under—well, God knows how many thousands."
He sat up and unbuttoned his overcoat in order to feel of the spot where the stone had struck him. He winced a little. After a moment's reflection he drew a box of matches from his pocket.
"No harm in striking a match now," he chattered aloud. "I may as well see what sort of a place it is."
He crawled farther back in the cave, out of the wind, and struck a match. His hand shook violently, his chin quivered. During the life of the brief flare, the interior of Quill's Window was revealed to him. The cave was perhaps twenty feet deep and almost as wide at the front, with an uneven, receding roof and a flat floor that dropped at no inconsiderable slant toward the rear. It appeared to be empty except for the remains of two or three broken-up boxes over against one of the walls. He struck a second match to light a cigarette, continuing his scrutiny while the tiny blaze lasted. He saw no bones, no ghastly skulls, no signs of the ancient tragedies that made the place abhorrent.
He crawled back to the entrance. Lying flat, he peered over the ledge.
"Hallo, down there!" he called out. No response. He shouted once more, his voice cracking a little.
"Where are you?"
This time he got an answer. A hoarse voice replied:
"I'm here, all right."
Thane forced a laugh.
"Well, I'm up here, all right. You've got me treed. What's the idea? Waiting for me to come down?" No answer, "Say, it's worth a lot of money to you if you'll just walk on and forget that I'm up here. I'll give you my word of honour to come across with enough to put you on easy street for the rest of your life." He heard the man below walking up and down the path.
"Did you hear what I said? You can't pick up twenty-five thousand every day, you know." He waited for the response that never came. "Honesty isn't always the best policy. Think it over." Another long silence. Then: "I suppose you know the government does not pay any reward." Still that heavy, steady tread. "If you think I'm going to come down you're jolly well off your nut." He wriggled nearer the edge and peered over. The black form shuttled restlessly back and forth past the foot of the ladder, for all the world like a lion in its cage. Presently it moved off toward the bend at the corner of the cliff, where it stopped, still in view of the man above,—a vague, shapeless object in the faint light of the moon.
Many minutes passed. Ten, fifteen,—they seemed hours to the trapped fugitive,—and then he heard a voice, suppressed but distinct.
"Who's there?"
There was a moment's silence, and then another voice replied, but he could not make out the words.
The man stepped out of sight around the bend. A few seconds later, Thane heard a jumble of voices. Drawing away from the ledge, he slunk deeper into the cave. He heard some one running along the trail, and a muffled voice giving directions. He drew a deep, long breath.
"The death watch, eh?" he muttered. "They're going to sit there till I have to come out. Like vultures. They haven't the nerve to come up here after me. The rotten cowards!"
Then he heard something that caused him to start up in a sort of panic. He stood half erect, crouching back against the wall, his eyes glued on the opening, his hand fumbling nervously for the revolver in his pocket.
Some one was climbing up the cliff!