He glanced at the girl as he ceased speaking. Her clear face was flushed to a tender pink, and her eyes were lowered.
"There is a good deal of truth in what you say, Mr. Rayton," she murmured. "It sounds like very clear reasoning to me. And you are right in—in believing that I do not care at all for David Marsh, in the way you mean. But may we not go even farther in disproving any connection between this case and the other two?"
For the fraction of a second her glance lifted and encountered his.
"Even if David happened to correspond with that young sailor of long ago, or with my dear father, the rival is missing," she said uncertainly. "The rivals were the most terrible features of the other cases."
Rayton got nervously to his feet, then sank down again.
"There would be plenty of rivals—of a kind," he said. "That is the truth, as you must know. But like poor Marsh, none is—would be—worth considering. So, you see, fate, or whatever it is that plays this game, is playing stupidly. That is why I think it nothing but chance, in this case—the whole thing nothing but the maddest chance."
"You have eased my mind very greatly," she said.
The Englishman bowed and rose from his chair. "I am glad," he said simply. "Now I must be starting for home. I left Banks and Goodine working over a moose head that Banks got yesterday."
"You do not think Dick Goodine set fire to David's camp, do you? There is bad blood between them, you know," she said anxiously.
"He was with us all yesterday and the day before," he answered, "so I knew he had nothing to do with it."
At the door the young woman said, "I am very glad you came over this morning." And then, with an air of sudden awakening to the commonplaces of life, "Did you come for anything in particular? To see Jim, perhaps?" she asked.
"No. Oh, no," he answered, hat in hand. "I just came—that is, I just happened along."
He was halfway home when he remembered the saucepan.
Old Timothy Fletcher, Captain Wigmore's servant and companion, was more of a mystery to the people of Samson's Mill Settlement than the captain himself. He was not as sociable as his master, kept to the house a great deal, and moved with a furtive air whenever he ventured abroad. In speech he was reserved to such an extent that he seldom addressed a word to anybody but Wigmore, and in manner he was decidedly unpleasant. He was neither liked nor understood by his neighbors. He did not care a rap what the people thought of him, and yet, with all his queerness and unsociability, he possessed many common human traits. He served the captain faithfully, had a weakness for rye whisky and Turkish cigarettes—weaknesses which he indulged on the sly—and spent much of his time in the perusal of sentimental fiction.
The afternoon of the day on which Mr. Rayton went across the fields to borrow a saucepan was bright and warm. The morning had promised rain, but a change of wind had given to late autumn a few more hours of magic, unseasonable warmth and glow. Timothy Fletcher, shod with felt, went to the door of the captain's bedroom and assured himself that the worthy gentleman was deep in his after-luncheon nap. Then he tiptoed to his own chamber, produced a paper-covered novel and a box of cigarettes from a locked trunk, and crept downstairs again. In the kitchen he changed his felt-soled slippers for a pair of boots. He crossed the garden, the little pasture beyond, and entered a patch of young firs and spruces. He walked swiftly and furtively, until he came to a little sun-filled clearing, on a gently sloping hillside. Here he found his favorite seat, which was a dry log lying near a big poplar. He seated himself on the log, leaned back against the poplar, lit a fat cigarette, and opened the book.
For a whole hour Timothy read steadily, chapter after chapter, and smoked four cigarettes. Then he placed the book face down upon his knee. The sun was warm and the air soft and fragrant. He closed his eyes, opened them with an effort, closed them again. His head sank back and settled slightly to the left. The book slid from his knee. But he gave it no heed.
He awoke, struggling violently, but impotently. He opened his eyes upon darkness. He cried out furiously, and his voice was beaten thunderously back into his own ears by an enveloping blanket. He knew it for a blanket by the weight and feeling of it. His back was still against the familiar poplar tree, but now it was pressed to the trunk by something that crossed his chest. His hands were bound to his sides. His ankles were gripped together.
Now it happened that a large widow, named Mrs. Beesley, came to the little hillside clearing just before sunset. She had been hunting through the woods all the afternoon for an herb that enjoys the reputation, in this country, of being a panacea for all ailments of the stomach. Now she was on her way home.
Rounding the big poplar, she beheld a shapeless, blanket-swathed, rope-bound form lumped against the trunk. She did not see the ropes clearly, nor fully comprehend the blanket; in fact she received only a general impression of something monstrous, bulky, terrific. She uttered a shrill scream, and, for a few seconds, stood spellbound. A choking sound, muffled and terrible, came from the shapeless bulk, and one end of it began to sway and the other to twist and wag. Mrs. Beesley turned and ran for her very life.
Instinct, rather than reason, directed Mrs. Beesley's fleeing feet toward the clearings and farmsteads of the settlement. She left the haunted woods behind her, crossed a lumpy pasture at an amazing pace, sprang into the middle of a brush fence, and fought through without a halt, sighted a house with a male figure in the foreground, and kicked her way toward these signs of protection with such high action that her elastic-sided boots acknowledged themselves frankly, and Captain Wigmore's suspicions of white stockings were confirmed. She arrived with such force as to send the frail old captain reeling backward across an empty flower bed. Following him, she reclined upon the mold.
"Bless my soul!" cried the captain. "Why, it is Mrs. Beesley! My dear Mrs. Beesley, what the devil is the matter with you? Allow me to help you to your feet. You'll ruin your gown in that bed, I'm sure. Did you see a bear?"
She had no breath for words, just then, and her legs felt as if they had melted. Wigmore possessed himself of her fat hands, set his heels in the edge of the flower bed, and pulled. He suggested a small terrier worrying a large and sleepy pig. Presently he desisted from his efforts, retreated a few paces, and wiped his face with his handkerchief.
"Collect yourself, my dear Mrs. Beesley," he pleaded. "I'm afraid you'll catch your death sitting there. Come now, try to tell me all about the bear—and try to rise."
The widow found her voice, though she did not move.
"It weren't a b'ar, captain," she cried. "Sakes alive! No b'ar 'u'd scare me like that. Don't know what to call it, captain. The devil, I reckon—or a ghost, maybe—or a annerchrist. You better git yer gun, captain, and go back and take a look. Oh, lor'! Oh, sakes alive! I never thought to see the day Mary Beesley 'u'd jump fences like a breechy steer!"
"Calm yourself, Mrs. Beesley," returned old Wigmore, "and tell me where you saw this creature. Did it chase you?"
"It was in the little clearin' where the spring is," replied the widow. "No, it didn't chase me, captain, as far's I know. I didn't look 'round to see. It jes' growled and wiggled—and then I lit out, captain, and made no more to-do about a fence than I would about crossin' a hooked mat on the kitchen floor."
"Come in and sit down, Mrs. Beesley," said Wigmore. "I'll get my man Timothy and go up to the spring and look 'round. I haven't a doubt about it being a bear."
Wigmore went through the house shouting vainly for Timothy Fletcher. Then he went out to the road and caught sight of Benjamin Samson in the distance. He whistled on his fingers and waved a hand violently to the miller. Benjamin came to him as fast as his weight allowed.
"What's bitin' you, cap'n?" he asked.
"There is something by the spring up in the little clearing," said Wigmore—"something that frightened Mrs. Beesley, and growled and wagged itself. She is in the house, recovering from her fright. She ran like a deer."
"Then I'll bet it wasn't a man up by the spring," said Benjamin.
The captain let this mild attempt at humor pass without notice.
"I want to go up and take a look 'round," he said, "but I can't find Timothy anywhere. It may be a bear—and I am an old man. Will you come along with me, Benjamin?"
"Sure. If you can lend me a gun," replied Mr. Samson.
They found a shot-gun, slipped two cartridges loaded with buckshot into the breech, bade Mrs. Beesley sit quiet and be of good heart, and set out to investigate the little hillside clearing. It was now dusk. The sun had slipped from sight, and the shadows were deep in the woods. The captain carried a lighted lantern, and Benjamin the ready fowling piece.
They soon reached the poplar tree and the blanket-swathed figure bound against it. By lantern light it looked more grotesque and monstrous than by day, and Mr. Samson came within an ace of taking a snap shot at it, and then beating a hasty retreat. The captain was too quick for him, however, noticed the twitch of the miller's arm, and gripped him by the wrist.
"It's tied fast, whatever it is," he said.
"Don't you see the ropes? Come on, Benjamin, and keep a grip on your nerve. Here, let me take the gun!"
"I ain't scart," replied Samson thickly. "It gave me a start for a second, that's all."
They approached the shapeless figure cautiously.
"Who are you?" cried Wigmore.
The thing twisted and squirmed, and a muffled, choking, bestial sound came from it.
"I'll bet a dollar it's a man," said Benjamin. "Now what kind o' trick is this, I'd like to know? Maybe there's bin murder done. There's bin too many queer tricks 'round here lately to suit me."
"It is tied up in a blanket," said the captain. "Feel it, Benjamin, and find out what it is."
"Not me," returned Samson. "I guess it's only a man, but I ain't particular about feelin' of it. You go ahead, cap'n. I'll hold the light for you."
Old Wigmore stepped closer to the blanketed form and touched it gingerly with his left hand. It squirmed beneath his fingers, and again gave utterance to that amazing sound.
"Yes, it's a human being," said the captain. And then, "Bless my soul, look at his feet! It's poor Timothy Fletcher, by Heaven! Quick, Benjamin, lend a hand here! Cut that rope, man!"
In less than half a minute old Timothy was free. Lacking the support of the rope that had circled his chest and the tree, he tipped forward and slid heavily to the ground. The captain knelt beside him.
"Run to the house and get some brandy," he ordered. "You'll find some in my bedroom, behind the wardrobe. Make haste, Benjamin!"
"Well," replied Benjamin Samson, "I reckon I don't have to, cap'n. Queer thing, cap'n, but I happen to have a drop o' rye whisky in my pocket. Ain't carried sech a thing for years and years—but I've had a spell o' toothache lately and t' only thing does it any good's rye whisky. I hold some in my mouth now and again—and always spit it out, of course. Here you are, cap'n, and welcome."
Wigmore twisted out the cork and held the bottle to Timothy's lips. Timothy's eyes were shut, but his lips were open. His throat seemed to be in working order.
"He takes it like a baby takes its milk," said Benjamin. "I guess he ain't bin murdered, after all. There! I reckon he's had about all that's good for him. Wake up, Mr. Fletcher, and tell us all about it."
"Tell me who did this, my good Timothy, and I'll make it hot for him," said Wigmore. "When did it happen, my worthy friend?"
"This here country's gettin' that lawless it ain't fit fer honest men like us to live in no longer," said Mr. Samson.
Timothy growled and sat up. He glared at Benjamin, then turned his gaze upon his master.
"Ah! You feel better!" exclaimed the captain. "I am glad of it, my trusty friend. Tell me, now, when and how did this outrageous thing happen?"
"I'll trouble ye for another drop of that tonic, Mr. Samson," said Timothy.
"I reckon not," returned the miller. "Doctor Nash says as how too much is a long sight worse nor too little."
"Then where's my book?" demanded Timothy. "And my cigarettes?"
"You have not answered my questions, my dear fellow," said the captain.
"Chuck it!" returned the old servant. "I ain't in the mood for answerin' fool questions."
"I fear his nerves are badly shaken," whispered the captain to the miller. "We must get him home and put him to bed."
"But you ain't intendin' to leave the ropes and blanket behind, surely!" exclaimed Benjamin. He stooped, picked up the blanket, and held it to the light of the lantern. "Hah!" he cried. "It's my blanket! It's my new hoss blanket, by gosh! I missed it fust, last Sunday. And the rope's mine, too—my new hay rope, all cut to bits. I'll have the law on whoever done this, sure's my name's Benjamin Samson."
"Yourblanket?" queried Captain Wigmore. "Yourblanket and rope? But no, Benjamin. I don't suspect you, my friend, for I know you to be an honest man. But others—people who don't know you as I do—might think you were the person who tied Timothy to the tree."
"Chuck it!" growled Mr. Fletcher, picking up the lantern and limping away.
Thanks to Mrs. Beesley and Benjamin Samson, the story of the mysterious attack upon old Timothy Fletcher soon spread to the farthest outskirts of the settlement. Some inspired person connected this with the burning of David Marsh's camp, and it became a general belief that some desperate character was at work in the country. Samson suggested an escaped convict, but where escaped from he could not say. Timothy looked more unpleasant than ever, and kept his jaws together like the jaws of a spring fox trap. He did not seem to enjoy his position in the limelight. Mrs. Beesley found herself a heroine for a little while, but this did not make amends for the speedy ruination of her dreams concerning Captain Wigmore.
She had expected a warm continuation and a quick and romantic development of the friendly—aye, more than friendly—relations commenced by that adventure. But, alas, it had all ended as suddenly as it had commenced. The poor woman sometimes wondered if she had made a mistake in sitting for so long in the captain's flower bed.
"Men are queer critters," she said. "The late Mr. Beesley was touchy as a cat about them little things, and maybe the captain's the same. But he was that friendly and perlite, I really did think his intentions was serious."
Mr. Banks was keenly interested in Timothy's adventure. He talked to Captain Wigmore about it for fully an hour.
Two days after the mysterious, and apparently meaningless attack upon Wigmore's servant, the first snow of the coming winter descended upon the wilderness. Jim Harley had two full crews of lumbermen in the woods by now, but was himself spending half his time in the settlement. David Marsh's arm was still in splints, and Dick Goodine had not yet gone out to his bleak hunting grounds, beyond the fringes of the made roads and buckwheat-stubble belt.
Dick spent much of his time with Mr. Banks and Reginald Rayton. As for Mr. Harvey P. Banks, he seemed to have forgotten both his business and his distant home. He had still one hundred of those long cigars, and a tin box of fat cigarettes—and he knew he was welcome to his bed and board. He felt a warm friendship for his host and the Harleys, and a deep interest in all the other people of the place. Captain Wigmore and his old servant excited his curiosity like the first—or last—volume of an old-style novel. They suggested a galloping story; but Benjamin Samson, David Marsh, and the others suggested nothing more exciting than character studies. Doctor Nash did not interest the New Yorker at all, but of course the doctor could not realize this fact, and persisted in considering himself to be Mr. Banks' only congenial companion in the neighborhood.
On the day of the first snow Dick Goodine walked over to Rayton's farm to borrow a drawknife. He was making an extra pair of snowshoes, and overhauling his outfit for the winter's trapping. Banks and Turk were afield, looking for hares and grouse; but Dick found the Englishman in his red barn, threshing buckwheat. Rayton threw his flail aside and the two shook hands.
"Have you sech a thing as a drawknife, Mr. Rayton?"
"Two of them, Dick. I use them mostly to cut my fingers with."
"Can I have the loan of one for a few days?"
"I'll give you one, Dick. You'll be doing me a kindness to take it and keep it, old chap, for I am a regular duffer with edged tools."
He found the knife and spent ten minutes in forcing it upon the trapper as a gift. At last Dick accepted it.
"But I tell you right now, Mr. Rayton," he said, "I'll git mad if you try givin' me a horse, or a cow, or your farm. You've already give me something of pretty near everything you own. It ain't right."
Rayton laughed. Then his face became suddenly very grave.
"See here, Dick, I've something serious to say to you," he said. "Something I've been worrying over for the last day or two. You've always been honest with me—the soul of honesty—so I must be honest with you."
"What have I bin doin'?" asked the trapper uneasily.
"You? Oh, you haven't done anything that you shouldn't, old man. I am thinking of myself. You told me, a little while ago, that you were—ah—very fond of Miss Harley. But you told me in such a way, old man, as to lead me to think that—that you didn't believe yourself to have—much chance—in the quarter."
"That's right, Mr. Rayton," replied the trapper frankly. "I knew there wasn't any chance for me, and I know it still. I said thatyouwas the kind of man she'd ought to marry, some day. I'm a good trapper, and I try to be an honest friend to them as act friendly to me; but I'm just a tough, ignorant bushwhacker. She ain't my kind—nor David Marsh's kind—and neither is Jim. She's more like you and Mr. Banks."
Rayton blushed deeply.
"My dear chap, you must not talk like that," he said. "You live in the bush, of course, but so do I, and so do all of us. But—but what I want to say, Dick, is this: I am—I am in love with Miss Harley!"
"Good for you!" exclaimed the trapper. He extended his hand. "Lay it there! And good luck to you!"
"I am investigating the mysteries of Samson's Mill Settlement along lines of my own," said Harvey P. Banks. "My system of detection is not perfect yet, but it is good enough to go ahead with. So far I have not nailed anything down, but my little hammer is ready, I can tell you. I am full of highly colored suspicions, and there is one thing I am ready to swear to."
"What is that?" asked Reginald Baynes Rayton.
"Just this, Reginald. I'll eat my boots—and they cost me twelve plunks—if the burning of young Marsh's camp and the attack upon old Timothy Fletcher are not parts of the same game. I don't see any connection, mind you, but I'll swear it is so. I have two pieces of this picture puzzle on the table, and I am waiting for more. I know that these two pieces belong to the same picture."
"And what about the marked card?" inquired Rayton. "Is it part of your puzzle?"
"Certainly. It is the title of the picture. But I want more pieces, and just at this stage I need another game of poker. Can you get the same bunch of players together for to-night—and Dick Goodine?"
"I'll try. If we both set to work we can make the round this afternoon. Jim Harley is home, I know. Why do you want Dick? I give you my word, H. P., that you'll not find him one of the crooked pieces of your puzzle picture."
"Right you are, son! But he has sharp eyes, and as he is our friend it would not be polite to give a party and leave him out. He needn't play. Somebody must sit out, anyway, or we'll have too many for a good game, but he can talk, and look on, and help burn tobacco."
"Good! Then we must get Goodine, Nash, Wigmore, Marsh, Jim Harley, and Benjamin Samson."
"Never mind Samson. We don't need him. He is harmless and hopeless—and one too many. Also, he has promised Mrs. Samson never to stay out again after ten o'clock at night."
"All serene. We'd better start out with our invites right after grub. And as the roads are bad we may as well ride. You can have Buller and I'll take Bobs. Who do you want to call on?"
"I'll see Nash and Wigmore, and leave the others to you."
So, after the midday meal, they saddled the two farm horses and set out. Mr. Banks rode straight to Captain Wigmore's house. The air was still mild and the sky was clouded. About four inches of slushy snow lay upon the half-frozen ruts of the roads. The New Yorker hitched Buller in an open carriage shed, and hammered with the butt of his whip upon the front door. He waited patiently for nearly ten minutes, then hammered again. This time the summons brought old Timothy Fletcher, looking even more sullen than usual and with his gray-streaked hair standing up like the crest of some grotesque fowl. His eyes had the appearance of being both sharp and dull at the same time. They showed inner points, glinting like ice, and an outer, blinking film like the shadow of recent sleep. For several seconds he stood with the door no more than six inches ajar, staring and blinking at the caller, his wind-tanned brow forbidding, but his lower face as expressionless as a panel of the door.
"Who d'ye want, sir?" he inquired at last, in a grudging voice.
"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Banks. "I really thought you were asleep, Timothy. I want to speak to the captain for a few minutes. Is he at home?"
Timothy Fletcher lowered his staring eyes for an instant, then raised them again, blinking owlishly. The glint in their depths brightened, and took on sharper edges.
"What d'ye want to speak to him about?" he asked suspiciously.
"I'll tell that to your master," replied Mr. Banks blandly.
"He ain't at home."
"Not at home? Guess again, my good man."
"I tell ye, he ain't at home!"
"Not so fast," said the sportsman coolly, and with astonishing swiftness he advanced his heavily booted right foot, and thrust it across the threshold. The door nipped it instantly.
"It is not polite to slam doors in the faces of your master's friends," he said.
Then he threw all his weight against the door, flinging it wide open and hurling Timothy Fletcher against the wall.
"I don't like your manners," he said. "I intend to keep my eye on you. I give you fair warning, Timothy Fletcher."
The old fellow stood against the wall, breathing heavily, but in no wise abashed. He grinned sardonically.
"Warning?" he gasped. "Ye warnme! Chuck it!"
Mr. Banks halted and gazed at him, noting the narrow, heaving chest and gray face.
"I hope I have not hurt you. I opened the door a trifle more violently than I intended," he said.
Fletcher did not answer. Banks glanced up the stairs and beheld Captain Wigmore standing at the top and smiling down at him. He turned sharply to the servant. "There!" he whispered. "Just as I suspected! You were lying."
The old fellow twisted his gray face savagely. That was his only answer.
Timothy retired to the back of the house as Captain Wigmore descended the stairs. The captain was in fine spirits. He clasped his visitor's hand and patted his shoulder.
"Come into my den," he cried. "What'll you have? Tea, whisky, sherry? Give it a name, my boy."
"A drop of Scotch, if you have it handy," replied the caller. "But I came over just for a moment, captain, to see if you can join us to-night in a little game of poker."
"Delighted! Nothing I'd like better. We've been dull as ditch water lately," answered the captain, as he placed a glass and decanter before his visitor. "Just a moment," he added. "There is no water—and there is no bell in this room. Timothy has a strong objection to bells."
Wigmore left the room, returning in a minute with a jug of water. He closed the door behind him.
"Same crowd, I suppose," he said, "and the cards cut at eight o'clock."
Banks nodded, and sipped his whisky and water. "Yes, about eight," he answered. "We don't keep city hours."
"Do you expect the marked card to turn up again?" asked Captain Wigmore, fixing him with a keen glance.
The New Yorker looked slightly disconcerted, but only for a fraction of a second.
"Yes, I am hoping so," he admitted. "I want to see those marks. Do you think there is any chance of the thing working to-night?"
"That is just what I want to know," returned the captain. "If the devil is at the bottom of that trick, as Jim Harley would have us all believe, I see no reason why he should neglect us to-night. But, seriously, I am convinced that we might play a thousand games and never see those two red crosses on the face of a card again. It was chance, of course, and that the Harleys should have that family tradition all ready was a still more remarkable chance."
Mr. Banks nodded. "We'll look for you about eight o'clock," he said, and then, very swiftly for a man of his weight, he sprang from his chair and yanked open the door. There, with his feet at the very threshold, stood Timothy Fletcher. Banks turned to the captain with a gesture that drew the old man's attention to the old servant's position.
"I'd keep my eye on this man, if I were you," he said. "I have caught him both at lying and eavesdropping to-day."
"Timothy, what the devil do you mean by such behavior?" cried Wigmore furiously.
Timothy leered, turned, and walked slowly away.
Mr. Banks mounted his horse and set out for Doctor Nash's at a bone-wrenching trot.
"I'll bet a dollar old Fletcher is at the bottom of the whole business," he murmured. "I wonder where Wigmore picked him up. He looks like something lifted from the bottom of the sea." During the ride to the doctor's, and throughout the homeward journey, his mind was busy with Timothy Fletcher. When he reached home he told something of his new suspicion to Rayton.
"How could that poor old chap have got at that card?" asked Rayton. "He has never been inside my sitting room in his life."
"That is just what you think, Reginald," replied Mr. Banks. "But we'll soon know all about it, you take my word. I am on a hot scent!"
Jim Harley was the first of the company to arrive. He looked worried, but said nothing about his anxieties. Next came young Marsh, with his right arm in a sling and a swagger in his stride. Dick Goodine and Captain Wigmore appeared together, having met at the gate. The captain wore a cutaway coat, a fancy waistcoat, and a white silk cravat fastened with a pearl pin. His whiskers were combed and parted to a wish, his gray hair was slick as the floor of a roller-skating rink, and his smiling lips disclosed his flashing "store" teeth. He was much merrier and smarter than on the night of the last game.
Doctor Nash was still to come.
"We'll give him fifteen minutes' grace," said Rayton, "and if he does not turn up by then we'll sit in to the game without him."
"He is trying to be fashionable," said Captain Wigmore. "Poor fellow!"
Banks produced his cigars and cigarettes. David Marsh drew his chair close up to Dick Goodine's and began to talk in guarded tones.
"D'ye know, Dick, I'm mighty upset," he whispered. "I'd feel easier if I knew you'd done me dirt than the way I do now. I can stand up to a man—but this here mysterious business ain't the kind o' thing nobody can stand up to."
"Scart?" inquired Dick.
"No, I ain't scart. Just oneasy. D'ye reckon them little crosses will turn up to-night?"
"Guess not. That sort o' thing don't happen more'n once."
"Will you swear you didn't cut my canoe pole, Dick—so help you God!"
"So help me God, I didn't cut it nor harm it in any way. And I don't know who did."
"I believe you—now. I guess there's something worse nor you on my trail. If that marked card turns up to-night, and comes to me, I'll git out o' the country. That'll be the cheapest thing to do, I guess."
"I wouldn't if I was you. I'd just lay low and keep my eyes skinned."
Then Doctor Nash arrived, and all pulled their chairs to the table except Dick Goodine. They drew for cards and Mr. Banks produced an ace. The pack was swiftly shuffled, cut, and dealt. David Marsh put his left hand on the table, touched his cards, hesitated for a moment, and then sprang to his feet. His face was twisted with a foolish grin.
"I guess not!" he exclaimed. "It ain't good enough for me."
The captain, having settled down to business, had lost his sweet and playful temper.
"What's that?" he snapped. "Not good enough! What's not good enough?"
"The risk ain't good enough," replied Marsh, sullenly and yet with an attempt at lightness. "I don't like them red crosses. I've had enough of 'em, whoever works 'em—man or devil—he's cured me!"
"Cured you?" queried Jim Harley, glancing up from his hand.
"Yes,curedme!" cried Marsh forcibly, "and I don't care who knows it. I ain't 'shamed to say it, neither. I've broke my arm, lost a canoe, and a camp—and a good job! Ain't that enough? I quit! I quit right now."
"Do you mean you'll quit playing cards?" asked Rayton.
"I guess you know what I mean," retorted David. "And I guess Jim Harley knows, too."
"Oh, shut up!" snapped old Wigmore. "We came here to play poker, not to listen to you. Who sits in and takes this heroic gentleman's place? Goodine, it's up to you."
"Don't care if I do," said the trapper; so he and David Marsh changed seats.
The game went on for half an hour without any fuss. Doctor Nash was winning. Then, after a throwdown, Rayton gathered up the old pack and replaced them with a new.
"You are growing extravagant, Reginald," said the captain, glancing at him keenly.
Rayton laughed.
"I hear Turk scratching," he said. "Excuse me for half a minute."
He went into the kitchen, and threw the old pack of cards into the stove. He returned immediately to his place at the table and the game went on. Nash's pile of blue chips dwindled steadily and Dick Goodine began to stack up the red, white, and blue. Mr. Banks seemed to be playing a slack game. Captain Wigmore played keenly and snapped at every one. Rayton left his chair for a few seconds and placed glasses, a decanter, and cold water on the table.
"Help yourselves," he said. "We'll have coffee, and something to eat, later."
Captain Wigmore waved the liquor aside, but the others charged their glasses. Goodine displayed three aces and scooped in a jack pot that had stood secure and accumulating for several rounds.
"Hah, Davy, you dropped out too soon," said Nash. "You got cold feet at the wrong time of day. Don't you wish, now, that you'd stayed in the game?"
"Wouldn't risk it, doc—not even for a ten-dollar pot," replied Marsh.
"Bah!" exclaimed old Wigmore, as he cut the deck for Jim Harley. Jim dealt. Rayton looked steadily at his five cards, then slipped them together between thumb and finger, and tilted his chair well back from the table.
"You look as if you'd been given something pretty good," said Captain Wigmore.
"Not half bad," answered the Englishman quietly.
"On the side," said Nash, "I bet you a dollar, even, that I hold the best hand—pat."
Rayton shook his head. "Not this time, Nash, if you don't mind," he replied quietly. "I want to take cards."
"That's easily managed," persisted the doctor. "I want cards, too; but we can lay our discards aside and show them later. Come, be a sport! Thought all Englishmen were sports."
Rayton hesitated, flushing.
"Right-o!" he said. "But I'll not be what you call a sport on one dollar! Twenty-five is my bet, Nash—even money. Come! How does that suit you?"
"It doesn't suit me at all—thanks just the same," returned the doctor sullenly.
"Perhaps you'll leave the English sporting instinct alone, after this," said Mr. Banks.
"For Heaven's sake, get on with the game!" cried old Wigmore.
All "came in" and took cards. Rayton asked for two, and though he did not bet, he kept the five cards in his hand. Wigmore took the money, this time.
"Supper," said the Englishman quickly, and gathered up all the cards with swift hands, his own included. He entered the kitchen quickly, and they heard him clattering about the stove.
After supper the game went on, with another fresh pack of cards. They had been playing for about a quarter of an hour when Captain Wigmore suddenly began to chuckle.
"What's the matter with you? Have you laid an egg?" asked Nash insolently.
For a second the old man's face was twisted with white-hot rage and his eyes fairly flamed upon the doctor. He trembled—then smiled calmly.
"Some one has, evidently," he said, and spread his five cards face-up upon the table. He pointed at the ace of clubs with a lean finger. It was marked with two little red crosses!
"You!" cried Jim Harley, staring incredulously from the card to the old man and back again to the card.
Nash and David Marsh began to laugh uproariously. Goodine and Rayton looked bewildered, and Banks scratched his head reflectively.
"That beats the band!" cried Nash, at last. "Jim, the spook who works that family curse of yours must be going daffy. Good for you, captain! There's life in the old dog yet! No wonder you are dressed up so stylish."
He leaned halfway across the table, guffawing in the old man's face.
Wigmore's hands darted forward. One gripped Nash's necktie, and the other darted into an inner pocket of his coat.
"Here! Drop it, you old devil!" cried the doctor.
Captain Wigmore sat back in his chair, laughing softly. He held something in his hand—something that they had all seen him draw from Nash's pocket.
"Gentlemen," he said, "look at this. It is another card marked with the two red crosses. I took it from the pocket of our worthy young pill roller. Who'd ever have thought that he was the mysterious indicator of trouble—the warning of the gods—the instrument of fate?"
"You darned old fool!" cried Nash, "that is the same card that was dealt to Davy Marsh last time we played. You know it as well as I do, you old ape! Look at it. Look at the back of it. Here, Rayton, you take a look at it."
"It is the same old card," said Rayton. "Nash took it away with him that night."
"Ah! My mistake," said the captain mildly.
When the company left the house, Rayton called Jim Harley back.
"I can't make it out," he said, looking from Banks to Harley, "but I want you chaps to know that two marked cards were dealt to me before supper. I kept quiet and changed the pack each time."
Harley clutched the Englishman's shoulder.
"You!" he exclaimed, with colorless lips. "Twice! Is that true?"
"Yes, it's true; but it is nonsense, of course," returned the Englishman.
"Don't worry, Jim," said Mr. Banks calmly. "The thing is all a fake—and I mean to catch the faker before I leave Samson's Mill Settlement!"
The morning after the second card party found Banks and Rayton eating an early breakfast with good appetites. If Rayton felt uneasy, face and manner showed nothing of it. The big New Yorker was in the highest spirits. He had found an unfamiliar sport—a new form of hunting—a twisted, mysterious trail, with the Lord knows what at the far end of it. He was alert, quiet, smiling to himself. He ate five rashers of bacon, drank three cups of coffee, and then lit a cigar.
"I'll have my finger on him within the week," he said, leaning back in his chair.
The Englishman glanced up at him, and smiled.
"I do not think we should encourage the idiot by paying any further attention to his silly tricks," he said. "Whoever he is, let him see that he does not amuse or interest any one but himself. Then he'll get tired and drop it. The whole thing is absolute foolishness, and the man at the bottom of it is a fool."
"I mean to trail him, and pin him down, fool or no fool," replied Banks. "I'll make him pay dear for his fooling, by thunder! He is having his fun—and I mean to have mine."
Rayton laughed. "Go ahead and have your fun, old chap; but I tell you that the more notice you pay his silly tricks, the more you tickle his vanity."
"I'll tickle more than his vanity before I'm done with him," promised Banks.
The two were washing the dishes, when the kitchen door opened, and Dick Goodine stepped into the room.
"We're in for another spell o' soft weather," he said. "It's mild as milk this mornin'. This little lick o' snow'll be all gone by noon. It don't look as if I'll ever get into the woods with my traps."
He sat down, filled and lit his pipe, and put his feet on the hearth of the cookstove.
"That was an all-fired queer thing about old Wigmore," he said. "All the fools ain't dead yet, I reckon. Since the captain got that there card, the thing don't look as serious to me as it did. Not by a long shot! What d'you say, Mr. Banks?"
"You are right, Dick, according to your lights," replied the New Yorker.
The trapper looked puzzled.
"He means that you don't know all the particulars of what happened last night," said Rayton. "Captain Wigmore got the marked card, right enough, after supper—but I got it twice, before supper. That is the puzzling part of it, Dick."
The care-free smile fled from Goodine's handsome and honest countenance. His dark cheeks paled, and a shadow, starting far down, came up to the surface of his eyes.
"You!" he exclaimed. "Twice—before supper! That—that looks bad to me. That's the worst yet."
"My dear chap, if the silly thing was dealt to me every night, and chucked into my bedroom window every morning, it wouldn't be a jot less silly," replied Rayton. "Some idiot, who has heard Jim Harley's story, is trying to have some fun out of it. That is all. It amuses him evidently, and doesn't hurt us."
Dick Goodine shook his head. "I guess it hurt David Marsh," he said—"whatever it may be. It smashed his arm, an' pretty near drownded him, an' burned his camp, an' about fifty dollars' worth o' gear an' grub. That don't look much like fun to me—not like fun for the man who gets the card, anyhow. I'll tell you right now, if ever it comes to me I'll light out within the hour, an' hit the trail for my trappin' grounds over beyond the back o' nowhere."
"Don't believe it, Dick."
"But that's just what I'd do all the same. It ain't natural. It's more nor a game, I tell you—it's like something I've read about, somewheres or other."
"You're wrong there, Dick," said Mr. Banks. "It is a game—a dangerous one, maybe, but a game, for all that. I'll show you the player, one of these days, as sure as my name is Harvey P. Banks! In the meantime, Dick, I'll bet you five dollars that if you happened to be picked out to receive those red marks, as Reginald has been picked out—for the same reason, I mean, according to the family tradition—you'd not budge an inch or back water half a stroke. You'd just put your finger to your nose at the warning, as Reginald does, even if you thought Fate, family curses, Spanish ghosts, old Jackson, and the devil were all on your trail."
The color came back to the trapper's cheeks. He lowered his glance to the toes of his steaming boots on the hearth of the stove, and shifted uneasily in his chair.
"I guess yer right," he said huskily. "I guess I'd be brave enough to face it, devil an' all, if I had that reason to be brave. But I ain't got that reason, an' never will have—so I'm scart. I'm a durned ignorant bushwhacker, I reckon. Anyhow, I'm scart."
Rayton placed a hand on the other's shoulder for a second.
"That is like you," he said. "You are more frightened about your friend than you'll ever be about yourself. But cheer up, old man! I don't think Fate will break any canoe poles on me."
"Fate!" repeated Mr. Banks, laughing merrily. "Oh, you are safe enough from Fate, Reginald!"
But Dick Goodine shook his head.
During the morning, Rayton went over to the Harley place. The sun was glowing with a heat as of September, and the snow was already a mixture of slush and mud. Dick Goodine went about his business; and Mr. Banks sat by the kitchen stove, smoking and struggling with his puzzle. Rayton found Jim Harley in the barnyard. Jim's greeting was emotional. He gripped the Englishman's hand, and looked steadily into his face with troubled eyes.
"I was just going over to see you," he said. "I'm glad you're here. I—I feel pretty bad about you, Reginald—mighty bad, I can tell you!"
"For Heaven's sake, Jim, what's the trouble?" asked Rayton. "What have I done—or what d'you think I've done?"
Harley flushed. "You know what the trouble is—what is worrying me," he said. "You have not done anything. I am thinking of the marked card, as you know very well."
Rayton laughed, and slapped the other on the back.
"Laugh, if you choose," returned Harley; "but I tell you it is no laughing matter. Have you forgotten what I told you about those red crosses? Have you forgotten the manner of my father's death? Great heavens, man, it is nothing to laugh about! Those marks have brought two men to their death. And there's Marsh! He came within an inch of being drowned that day his pole broke. Of course, you think I am a fool. You may call me one if you want to. But, for God's sake, get out of here until the danger passes! That's all I ask, Rayton. Get out! Get away from this settlement for a little while!"
The smile left the Englishman's face, and he gaped at his friend in utter astonishment.
"Get out?" he repeated, in a dazed voice. "Get out? What for? What good would that do to any one? What—in the name of all that's sensible—are you driving at?"
"Get away from here—away from me—and save yourself," replied Harley. "Don't you understand? This trouble is allourfault—all due to my sister. Don't you see that? Then get away from us! Drop us, and clear out!"
"To save myself from the curse of the little red marks on the card, I suppose?"
"Yes, yes. Go away and save yourself. That is what I ask you, Rayton."
"You really believe, then, in the power of those crosses? You really believe that my life is in danger—that I have been marked by Fate?"
"I only know what those crosses have done in the past. The evil is not in the marks, though. Don't think I'm quite a fool! But they are sent as a warning—by some unknown enemy of ours. Can't you see that, Rayton? My father was murdered after receiving a card marked with those crosses. David Marsh's life was attempted! Don't you see? We have a bitter, hidden enemy!"
"No, I don't!" retorted Rayton, with spirit. "I don't think Marsh's life was attempted. Great heavens, Jim, didn't a canoe pole ever break in this country before? And didn't a shack ever burn down before? Buck up and look at the thing like a sensible man! What happened to that young bounder Marsh was nothing but chance. You make me angry, 'pon my word you do! But don't think for a minute that you can make me angry enough to run away—or that you can scare me away. I stand pat; but if my house catches fire, or anything of that kind happens, then I'll set to work and dig up the fool who hands out those marked cards, and land him in jail."
"I have asked you to go, for your own sake. I can't do anything more," returned Harley.
Rayton gazed at him earnestly, eye to eye; but Harley kept his eyes steady.
"Jim, that sounds queer," he said. "It sounds like some rot that Nash was talking, not long ago. Perhaps you know what I mean. Nash's idea was that you dealt the marked card to Marsh, and then invented the story, just to scare Marsh away from your sister. Now he will say that you are trying to frighten me away."
"He is a liar!" cried Harley.
"I know your story is true," said the Englishman, "and I know you are just as much in the dark about those cards as I am; but if you go on like this, old chap, other people will think as Nash thinks. Nash is not the only fool in these woods.
"And I want to tell you that even if you were trying to frighten me away from here you couldn't do it! That's my position, Jim. I am here—and here I stay! Whoever marks those cards is a harmless idiot. I love your sister—though she doesn't know it, yet—and the only thing that can chase me away from her is her own word. So save your anxiety for me, old chap, and keep your wind to cool your porridge. Also, think the thing over quietly; and, if it continues to worry you, go hunting for the man who makes a fool of you by marking those cards. Good morning."
Reginald Rayton turned and strode away without waiting for an answer to his last long speech. He was angry—hot and cold with it, from his head to his feet. He had been excited into a premature disclosure of his sentiments toward Nell Harley. He had been talked to like a fool—and he had talked like a fool. He was furious. He felt the need of some one to punch and kick. It was years since he had last been in such a wax. And this was his mood when Doctor Nash appeared over the brow of a hill in front, driving toward him in a mud-splashed buggy. Nash drew rein within a yard of the Englishman. The Englishman halted. Nash leaned forward, and grinned.
"That was a good one, last night," he remarked. "A good joke on old Wigmore; but I don't quite see the point of it. Do you?"
"No. Is there supposed to be any point?" returned Rayton.
"Sure! What d'ye think it's all about if there isn't a point to it? You fellows are lobsters, I must say, if you are still cloudy on that business. Those marks are warnings—oh, yes! But they are not sent by Fate. They are sort of 'keep off the grass' signs issued and posted by a very dear friend of yours. Last night he felt my eye on him, and so threw the bluff. It worked pretty well, too. It had me guessing for about an hour; and then I thought it over after I went to bed, and got it all straight and clear."
"I am glad that some one has it straight and clear," said Rayton. "I am in the dark, myself; but I agree with you that the deal to Wigmore was a bluff. I am positive about this because a marked card came to me twice before supper."
Nash uttered a derisive whistle, then slapped his knee with an open hand.
"I might have guessed it!" he cried. "So it's your turn, is it? Keep off the grass, Reginald. Good old Jim! He knows what he's about."
"What are you driving at?" demanded the Englishman. "What has Jim to do with it?"
He had heard the doctor's theory before, but wanted first-hand proof of it—and he was looking for an excuse for letting loose.
"What has Jim to do with it?" repeated Nash sneeringly. "Why, you lobster, he has everything to do with it. He'sit! What's your head made of, anyway? A block out of the oak walls of old England, I suppose."
Rayton averted his face.
"Do you mean that Jim has anything to do with the marks on those cards?" he asked, in a faint and unsteady voice.
"You lobster! He marks them, and he deals them!" cried Nash.
Rayton faced him.
"You are a liar," he said quietly. "Not only that, but you are a bounder. Better whip up your nag and drive away, or I'll be tempted to pull you out onto the road and give you what you need. You are a disgrace to this settlement." He stepped back to the edge of the road. "Drive along, fat head," he commanded.
But Nash did not drive along. He had a great opinion of himself—of his physical as well as his mental powers. He hung the reins on the dashboard.
"Do you mean that?" he asked. "Are you trying to insult me? Or are you drunk?"
"I am not drunk. Yes, I am trying to insult you. It is rather a difficult thing to do, I know."
"Steady, Champion!" cried Nash to his nodding horse. Then he jumped over the wheel, threw aside his hat and overcoat, and plunged at Rayton, with his fists flying. He smote the air. He flailed the sunlight. He punched holes in the out of doors. At last he encountered something hard—not with his fist, however, but with an angle of his face. With a futile sprawl, he measured his considerable length in the mud and slush of the highway. So he lay for a little while, one leg flapping, then scrambled slowly to his feet. He gazed around in a dazed way, and at last rested his glance upon Rayton.