The other laughed. It was a most discomforting sound. The laugh of a land crab—if the beastcouldlaugh—would doubtless resemble Captain Wigmore's expression of mirth.
"You seem to be indignant, my dear fellow," he said, with exasperating calm. "But what do you expect? I caught you breaking into my house when you were under the impression that I was not at home. Do you think I should have put you in my own bed, with a hot-water bottle at your feet, and carried your breakfast up to you this morning? No, no, my dear Banks! It is my duty to this country, and to society in general, to keep a firm hand on you until the officers of the law relieve me of the charge."
"You old hypocrite!" cried Banks. "You scheming, lying, old devil! Bring the officers of the law! The sooner they get here the better I'll be pleased. I have something to say to them."
Wigmore chuckled. "I haven't sent for them yet," he said. "I rather enjoy the prospect of looking after you myself for a little while. I can stand it—if you can."
Mr. Banks watched the barrel of the rifle out of the corner of his eye; but the menacing thing did not waver.
"Where is Timothy Fletcher?" he asked.
"So that is your bright suspicion, is it?" returned Wigmore cheerfully. "He went to New York, I told you. Where do you think he is?"
"In this house, you old ape!" cried Banks.
Wigmore hooted.
The light was stronger, though still gray and thin. It was the light of an unsunlit November day filtered through a small square of snow-drifted glass into a chilly garret. The light alone was enough to drop a man's heart to the depths; but it was not the only thing that depressed Harvey P. Banks. He was anxious, cold, and hungry. He was sickened with disgust of himself and hate of Captain Wigmore. His head ached, his neck and shoulders were sore. To add to all this he could now see the face and eyes of his jailer by the cheerless light. The sight was not one calculated to dispel his anxiety or warm his blood. The eyes gleamed balefully up from the gloom of the stairway, with a green gleam in them like the eyes of a cat watching its helpless prey. In front of the eyes showed the black barrel of the rifle.
"How long do you intend to keep up this farce?" inquired Banks.
"I can stand it as long as you can," was the crisp reply.
"Very likely; but I don't see that I have any say in the matter just now."
"You are wrong, my big friend. You can have your liberty—qualified liberty—this minute if you wish. All you have to do is swear to me, on your honor as a Christian and a gentleman, that you will never mention this little adventure to a living person. You must invent some story for Rayton and set out for New York to-night. You must drop this feeble idea of yours of playing the detective. In short, you must swear to mind your own business in the future and leave me and mine alone."
"I'll see you in hell first!" cried the sportsman. "I am on your trail, and I'll stick to it. You'll pay heavily for this."
Wigmore chuckled. "Pay?" he said. "Pay? You forget, you big slob, that I am banker in this game—and I am not the kind of banker that pays."
"What do you think you are going to do with me?" asked Banks, with outward calm.
"Lots of things," replied Wigmore. "I will reduce your flesh, for one thing; and your fat pride for another. I'll make you whimper and crawl 'round on your knees. But just now I'll request you to come downstairs. Since you have broken the door of that room, I must give you another."
"I hope the other room will be an improvement on this."
"Yes. A very comfortable room."
"And what about breakfast?"
"You will have a cup of tea in half an hour—if you behave yourself in the meantime."
Banks laughed uncertainly.
"See here, captain, don't you think this joke has gone far enough?" he asked.
"Not at all," replied Wigmore. "My joke has just begun. Yours ended very quickly, on the floor of my sitting room—but that was your own fault. You are a blundering joker, Banks. You should have made sure that I was not at home before you went round shaking all the doors, and then crawled through the window. But that is a thing of the past, now, and so beyond mending. I hope you will derive more entertainment from my joke than you did from your own."
Banks had no answer to make to that. He fisted his big hands and breathed heavily.
"I must ask you now to step back to the farther wall of your room," said Wigmore.
Banks hesitated for a moment, then backed across the threshold and across the little room until his shoulders touched the farther wall.
"Stay there until I give you the word," said the old man.
Then face and rifle barrel vanished, and, at the same instant, Banks moved forward noiselessly and swiftly, lifted the couch in his strong hands, and dropped it down the dark well of the staircase. It crashed and banged against the wooden steps and the plaster walls; and before its clattering had ceased the big sportsman himself was halfway down the stairs. Halfway—and then he halted and recoiled, clutching at the cold walls! The couch had been a second too slow in following Wigmore, and Banks a second too slow in following the couch. The captain stood at the bottom of the stairs, a foot beyond the wreckage of the couch, laughing sardonically and presenting the muzzle of the rifle fair at his captive's waist.
"That was a false start," he said. "But I was expecting it, fortunately."
Banks sat down on a dusty step, trembling violently. He felt sick—actually sick at his stomach—with rage, chagrin, and terror of that ready rifle and the sinister face behind it. The eyes of the old man were more terrifying than the menacing black eye of the weapon. The gleam at their depths was scarcely human.
"Well?" asked Banks, at last, weakly. He passed a gloved hand across his forehead. "Well? What are you going to do?"
"That depends on you," said the captain. "If you throw furniture at me every time I turn my back, I'll be forced to knock you out again and tie you up. I can't risk being killed by you, for my life is valuable."
"Do you intend to hit me again with the sandbag?" asked the New Yorker thickly.
"No, I don't mean to take that risk again," replied the other. "Another crack like that might kill you—and I don't want to kill you just yet, unless I have to. Perhaps I won't kill you at all, my dear fellow. I may—of course; but I don't think so at the moment. I am whimsical, however—a man of quick and innumerable moods. However, I do not expect to thump you again with the sandbag. I have this rifle—for serious work—and this queer-looking little pistol for the joking. It is a chemical pistol—quite a new invention. I have tested it, and found it to be all the manufacturers claim for it. Don't move! You can see and hear perfectly well where you are! If I discharge it in your face, at a range of twenty feet, or under, it will stun you, and leave you stunned for an hour or more, without tearing the flesh or breaking any bones. The thing that hits you is gas—I forget just what kind. It is pretty potent, anyway—and I don't suppose you are particular as to what variety of gas you are shot with. It is a fine invention, and works like a charm. I am quite eager to test it again."
"Don't! Don't! Great heavens, man, have you gone mad?" cried Mr. Banks.
Old Wigmore raised the odd, sinister-looking pistol in his left hand.
"I don't think it hurts very much," he said. "Feels like being smothered, I believe. Of course the shock may be quite severe at such close range as this."
Banks closed his eyes. He was less of a coward than most men; but to sit there on the narrow stairs, chilled and helpless, and wait for the discharge of an unknown weapon in his face was more than courage and nerves could stand.
"Shoot!" he screamed. "Shoot, and be done with it!"
He cut a queer figure, humped there bulkily, in his great fur coat, with the fur cap pulled low about his ears, his eyes shut tight, and his big face colorless with fatigue and apprehension—a queer, pathetic, tragic figure. He waited for the explosion, every sense and every nerve stretched till his very skin ached. His mind was in a whirl. The thumping of his heart sounded in his ears like the roaring and pounding of surf.
"Shoot! Shoot!" he whispered, with dry lips and leathern tongue.
And still he waited—waited. At last he could bear the strain no longer. He uttered a harsh cry, stumbled to his feet, and opened his eyes, leaning one shoulder heavily against a wall of the staircase. A gasp of relief escaped him. Wigmore had retreated, and now stood several yards away from the bottom step. The muzzle of the rifle was still toward his victim, but his left hand, gripping that terrible, mysterious, little weapon, was lowered to his side. He chuckled. His face looked like that of a very old, very unhuman, and very goatish satyr.
"Wipe your eyes, my dear Banks," he said. "I won't hurt you, you poor little thing. Dry your eyes, and come down the rest of the way. I'll stand here, at the head of these stairs, while you toddle into that room. Then I'll lock the door, which is very strong, and get you your cup of tea. Come along! Come along! I haven't the heart to hurt such a white-livered whimperer."
For a moment the big sportsman glared at him, contemplating a mad rush, at the risk of a bullet through his breast—but only for a moment. Something in the old man's leer told him that the finger on the trigger would not hesitate, the muzzle would not waver. To attack now would be suicide. He realized that he was at the mercy of a madman.
"I'm coming. I'll be mightly glad of the tea," he said, with a painful attempt at a smile.
He made his way falteringly to the bottom of the steps, across the hall, and into the room indicated by the old man. All the fight and all the strength had gone out of him—for the time being, at least. The terrible play on the stairs had taken more stamina out of him than a day's march through a tangled wilderness, with a seventy-pound pack on his shoulders. He staggered to the bed, and sat down dizzily on the edge of it. Old Wigmore stood on the threshold, leering.
"I hope you like the room," he said. "I spent most of the night in fixing it up for you."
"Thanks. It looks fine," replied Banks. And it really was fine, he noticed, gazing around with reviving hope. There was a window—a real window—in the wall. He could soon attract attention from that window, or let himself out of it by a rope made of bedclothes. He had read of that dodge a dozen times. The old fellow was mad certainly; but there did not seem to be much method in his madness, after all. Banks turned his face away so as to hide a wan smile.
"Sit where you are, my boy, and I'll bring your tea in a minute," said the old man.
Then he stepped back and closed the door. Banks continued to sit on the bed and gaze around the room, uncertain whether to go to the window now or wait until Wigmore had brought the tea and again retired. He did not want to bungle things by being in too great a hurry. With a little patience and cunning on his part, his mad old jailer would soon be in his power. He decided to wait where he was. The bed was soft, and he was woefully tired. He turned sideways, threw his feet up, and sank head and shoulders back upon the tempting pillows.
With a sharp click, followed by a soft thud, the middle of the bed sank to the floor, and the bulging sides folded inward upon the astonished Mr. Banks. He shouted and struggled; but his head was lower than his heels, and his arms were pinned firmly against his sides. At last he twisted over until he lay on his left shoulder, and his right arm was clear. In another minute he would have been out of the ridiculous trap; but suddenly Captain Wigmore appeared, slipped a rope around the imbedded ankles, and bound them tight; and another around the free arm, and made it fast to the head of the bed. Then the old man stood and leered down at him.
"You are a terrible fellow for smashing furniture," he said. "You have a very violent temper. Out you come! Out you come!"
With incredible strength, the old man gripped the big, floundering sportsman, and yanked him from the bed, where he lay helpless, with his feet tied together, and his right wrist fast to the bed.
"There you are!" remarked Wigmore briskly. "Now, will you be good? Sit up, while I fix the bed. Sit up, do you hear? Then I'll give you your breakfast. You don't deserve it—but I have a tender heart."
He prodded Banks with the toe of his boot. Banks sat up without a word. His rage clouded his mind and deadened his tongue. Wigmore dragged the heavy bedding to the floor, and gazed with admiration at the bedstead. All the slats, save a few at the foot, were hinged in the middle.
"My own invention," said the old man. "Very ingenious, don't you think? But it has done its work, so let it lie. Here are some blankets for you, Banks. Hope you don't object to sleeping on the floor."
He tossed an armful of blankets into his prisoner's lap, and walked briskly from the room. He was back in half a minute, carrying a tray, which he placed on the floor within reach of Bank's free hand.
"Help yourself," he said. Then he went out, shutting the door behind him.
Mr. Banks sat motionless for a full minute, staring at the tray. A small teapot stood there, with steam rising from its spout. It was flanked on the right by a small jug of cream, and on the left by an empty cup. In front squatted a round dish under a cover. At last Banks pulled off his fur cap, and wiped the cold perspiration from his brow with the palm of a grimy hand.
"I suppose the old devil has doped it," he whispered, with a sigh. "Of course he has! What's the good of supposing?"
With an effort, he turned his face away from the teapot and the covered dish. He shifted back a little, so that the rope did not pull on his right arm. He gazed intently at the window, door, walls, and ceiling.
"I must plan a way to get out," he muttered. "I must plan a way to fool this old fiend."
But he could not concentrate his thoughts, for most of them were with his heart—yearning toward the teapot and the covered dish. At last he gave way, and allowed his gaze to rest again upon the silent tempters. His left hand went out to them, then came slowly back. He sighed, unfastened his coonskin coat, and cursed old Wigmore huskily, but heartily. Again the hand advanced. He lifted the teapot and poured some of the steaming amber liquid into the cup.
"It looks all right," he murmured. "But what's the use of looking at it? Of course the old beast has doped it! Heaven help him when I get hold of him!"
He set the teapot down, and groaned. He told himself to turn away; to forget the craving in his stomach; that he was not really hungry. He assured himself that it is beneficial to go without food now and then—for a day, or even for two days. Then he remembered having read somewhere that smoking allays the gnawing of hunger. He produced a cigar from the case in his pocket, and lit it fumblingly. While he smoked he kept his eyes fixed upon the tray. Suddenly he leaned forward and lifted the cover from the dish.
"Buttered toast!" he exclaimed, in so tragic a voice that the sound of it brought a smile to his dry lips. He replaced the cover with such violence as to crack the dish. After smoking gloomily for another minute or two, he again allowed his attentions to dwell upon the tea, toast, and cream. He lifted the half-filled cup and sniffed it. Did he detect a bitterness in the clean, faint fragrance of it, or was the bitterness only in his imagination? He tilted the cup this way and that, searching the clear liquid for some cloudy sign of danger. He was unsuccessful. He sniffed it again, and this time could not detect the least suggestion of bitterness.
"I am a fool!" he muttered. "My nerves have gone to pieces!"
With a quick hand, he slopped a little of the cream into the tea, and raised the cup swiftly to his lips. But he did not part his lips. For a moment he sat motionless, with the cup raised and tilted—and then, with an oath, he replaced it on the tray, untasted. The momentary gratification of thirst and hunger was not worth the risk. He turned his back upon the tray, and puffed away resolutely at his cigar. He would show the old devil that he was not entirely a fool!
Banks finished the cigar; and still old Wigmore had not returned. The tray still remained on the floor. Banks hitched himself to the head of the bed, and set to work with his left hand to unfasten the knots in the rope which bound him to that cursed, ingenious bedstead. The rope was small, and the knots were hard; but at last the outer knot began to loosen. He paused frequently in his work to glance over his shoulder at the door, and to hearken intently. At last he was free from the bed, but with the length of line still hanging from his wrist. Now he crawled across the room to the door, stood up on his bound feet, and tried the handle. The door was locked, as he had expected. Seated with his broad back against it, he worried the cord at his ankles with both hands until its three stubborn knots were undone. Then, moving on tiptoe, he carried the heavy bedstead across the room, and stood it solidly against the door.
The room was not elaborately furnished, but every piece was good of its kind. Mr. Banks worked busily, moving about stealthily on the toes of his great boots. He had shed his coat, by this time, and rid his right arm of the dangling length of rope. Atop the hinged slats of the bed he placed a substantial chest of drawers, thus reënforcing the barricade and squaring himself with the ingenious slats by one and the same move.
"It will take a bigger man than Wigmore to get in at me now," murmured the sportsman.
He was tremendously pleased with his job, but did not waste much time in admiring it. Now that he was secure from interruption for a while, at least, was the time to develop the possibilities of the window. He would try to attract the attention of some passer-by. If there did not happen to be any passer-by, which was frequently the case, in Samson's Mill Settlement, for hours at a time—then he would join the pieces of rope with which he had been bound, lengthen the result with a blanket, and lower himself into the free outside world. Old Wigmore might shoot at him through the panels of the door, but he was more than willing to take the risk of being hit by such blind shooting. Once outside, he felt that he would be safe. Not even the mad captain was mad enough to murder him in open sight of the road and fields. These reflections occupied his mind during the seconds in which he turned from his contemplation of the barricade. He made one step toward the window, and then——
"Halt!" exclaimed the voice of Captain Wigmore, shrill, clear and menacing. Banks halted, with a gasp, and turned his face toward the hateful sound. To his dismay, he beheld the devilish face of the old man leering horribly within seven feet of him, through a square and unsuspected aperture in the door. With a low cry of defiance and nervous fright, he tried to set his limbs in motion again. Would his feet never move? He seemed to pass through a whole minute of terrific but futile exertion. It was like a grotesque nightmare of childhood days—grotesque, but horrible. He saw the old man's hand appear beside the leering face. In the hand was that queerly shaped pistol. And still his feet clung to the floor as if they were lead! A dull, feeble, popping report came to his aching ears. And then something gripped his windpipe with huge, hard fingers; some one struck him to earth with a gigantic balloon; a blank wave curled about him, fell upon him, pounded the life from his battling lungs, and dragged him, limp and dead, to the unsounded depths.
Captain Wigmore had discharged his chemical pistol in the big sportsman's face. That is all. He had slipped the panel, cried halt, raised his hand, and pulled the trigger, all within two seconds of time.
When Mr. Banks recovered consciousness for the second time since crawling into Wigmore's house, he felt much worse than he had on the first occasion. He felt very, very sick at the very pit of his stomach. His poor head was in a terrible way. At one moment his brains seemed to be floating far above him, light and thin as smoke, and at the next they lay heavily, but loosely, in his sore skull, like a fragment of iron, sliding from side to side. He lay flat, and groaned. Half an hour passed before he ventured to sit up and open his eyes. Absolute darkness surrounded him. He felt about with his hands, and found that he was lying on a folded blanket. He inquired further, and discovered that his new lodging was nothing but a tiny closet, about seven feet deep, and four feet wide, with a steeply sloping roof. The roof was made of a series of sharp-cornered humps. He bumped his head against one of them—and that enlightened him. He was in a closet under a staircase. His fur coat had been left in the bedroom; but, fortunately, the closet was not very cold. After another and briefer rest upon the flat of his back, he decided to try a smoke. He thrust a hand slowly into one pocket, less slowly into another, then swiftly and desperately into pocket after pocket. All were empty! Not so much as a match had been left to him; not so much as a crumb of tobacco.
The rage which this discovery inspired in the breast of Mr. Banks was out of all proportion to the seriousness of his loss. The effect upon him was stupendous. Sandbagging, binding, and pistoling had all failed to lift him to such a height of resentment at this. Why, even he could not have explained. His big boots were left to him—and his voice, such as it was. He began to shout and stamp his feet on the floor. His voice limbered up, and grew in strength, until the dry-tongued cry became a gigantic bellow. The feet pounded up and down until they encountered the door; and then they began to swing back and forth. The door winced and shook at every blow. It was a strong door, however, hung on massive hinges, fastened with a big lock, and barred in three places with rods of iron. Wigmore had taken no chances with this door. He had fixed things this time so that his prisoner was put to stay. That was his idea, anyway.
At last, reeling and breathless from his exertions, Banks sank to the floor, and lay still and silent. For a little while his head span sickeningly, and his mind and senses lay torpid; but only for a little while. This outbreak had done him good—had revived him to the finger tips. He sat up presently and listened for the approach of his enemy. Surely all that bellowing and thumping would bring him.
"If he opens that door, pistol or no pistol, it'll be the end of him," remarked the New Yorker. And he meant it. He was ready for murder. He raised himself to his knees, ascertained the position of the door with his hand, and faced it, waiting in savage expectancy.
At last his straining ears caught a sound. It was a very faint sound, and it came from the left instead of from the door. It was repeated—a faint, furtive tapping, like the tapping of a flipped finger against plaster. He moved cautiously toward the sound. It came again. He put out his hand, and touched the rough lath and plaster of the wall. How frail the barrier felt! He stood up very cautiously. "It may be a mouse—and it may be Wigmore—but it is worth trying," he whispered. Then he swung his right foot backward slowly, and brought it forward with all the force that lay in that long and muscular shank. A sound of cracking plaster and splintered laths rewarded and encouraged him. He steadied himself, with one hand on the door and one on the slope of the staircase, and settled down to kicking. His boot was thick, his leg strong, and his heart in the job. Things cracked and smashed and splintered. At last he knelt and advanced an inquiring hand. The blackness was full of the dust of powdered plaster. He found a ragged-edged break in the wall, and thrust his hand into it.
Mr. Banks snatched his hand back to his own side of the pierced partition, at the same time uttering a sharp cry of dismay. Nothing had hurt him; but in the blackness beyond his own narrow blackness his fingers had encountered flesh—the flesh of a human nose and eyebrow. He sagged back on his haunches, limp and trembling. Whatever he had expected to find, this was not it.
"Who is there? Speak! Who is there?" he whispered.
No voice answered him; but again he heard that thin rapping, like the flipping of a finger against a hard, dry surface. It was a trifle louder this time, but in exactly the same position.
"Can't you speak? Speak, for Heaven's sake!" cried Banks.
This time he was answered by a low, muffled, strangled groan. He searched his pockets again, with shaking fingers; and, at last, in a little roll of woolen dust in the corner of his match pocket, he found one wax match. This first seemed such a great and joyful thing to him that he had difficulty in restraining his laughter.
"Wigmore, you old devil, here's where I have you at last!" he exclaimed. "You're a fool! You should have picked my pockets thoroughly while you were about it. This little match will prove your undoing—as sure as my name is Harvey P. Banks!"
He began to chuckle—and the sound of his chuckling quieted and steadied him in a flash. "That won't do," he said. "That sounds downright idiotic. I must keep a grip on myself."
With his left hand he found a safe and suitable spot on the wall for the striking of the precious match; and then, with his trembling right hand, he struck it. The little flame hissed into existence, then caught the wax, and burned clear and quiet. He crouched low, and thrust the burning match through the hole in the lath and plaster, and into the chamber beyond, by the length of his arm. The hole was about three feet long and twelve or fifteen inches wide. He shuffled forward and thrust his head between the jaws of ragged plaster and splintered laths.
The match lit a closet even smaller than the one in which Banks lay. Banks beheld rough walls, a sloping roof, a door, and, directly under his hand, a small human figure, bound and gagged.
"Timothy Fletcher!" he exclaimed. "So this is New York—for you!"
The old man's bright eyes blinked like an owl's. He lay close against the wall, and now Banks saw one finger—one free finger—dart out and tap the plaster.
"Roll away from the hole," said Banks. Then the match scorched him, and he withdrew his hand and head. He sat back for a second or two, considering the situation.
"The old fiend!" he muttered. "He must be mad—or the devil himself. This explains the other thing that happened to poor Fletcher—the attack in the woods. Oh, the cunning old beast!"
Now he set to work with his hands, tearing away the light materials of the wall in strips and lumps. He put his hand through, found that Fletcher had rolled away, and then wriggled through himself. It was a tight passage, but at last it was safely accomplished. To remove the gag from Fletcher's stiff jaws was the work of a few seconds. To untie and unwind the complicated knots and cords that bound the old fellow's body and limbs took fully half an hour. During that time, Fletcher did not say one word.
For a little while after the freeing of Timothy Fletcher, Banks sagged weakly against the floor. His head was spinning again. He closed his eyes against the blackness, and began to drift off into a delightful, restful dream. He was all done—all in—down and out! What was the good of worrying? What was the good of anything? He had escaped from his cell. He had found Fletcher and set him free. He had earned his rest.
Timothy Fletcher dragged himself over to where Mr. Banks sagged against the door like a big, half-empty sack. Having spent half an hour in moving his tongue up and down, and round and round in his mouth, he now found himself in possession of a fragment of voice. Also, the blood was beginning to move in his arms and legs again. His mind was as clear as glass. He fastened his thin fingers in his rescuer's collar, and shook that careless head until it flopped and knocked against the door.
"Wake up!" he croaked. "Wake up! We got to get out of here."
Banks opened his eyes, and, in the dark, grabbed Fletcher with his big hands. For a moment he mistook the servant for the master, and, with a sudden, furious surge of strength, he shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. Fletcher yelled, and clawed the sportsman in the face. Then Banks realized what he was doing.
"Sorry," he gasped. "I was half asleep. How are we to get out?"
Fletcher did not answer immediately, but lay panting in the dust. At last he raised himself to his hands and knees. "This door," he whispered. "It is locked—that is all. You are strong. We must get out! Quick! Smash it!"
Mr. Banks got to his feet, and found the position of the door. He moved slowly. He laughed softly.
"Stand out of the way—out of the danger zone," he cautioned. "I'm going to kick. I can kick like an army mule."
"Kick! Kick!" croaked Timothy Fletcher, crouching off to one side. "There's drink downstairs. Food an' drink."
Banks balanced himself, lifted his right knee high against his waistcoat, and shot forward his right heel. With a rending of wood and ripping of dislodged screws, the door flew open, letting a flood of faint moonlight into the black closet. Banks staggered forward, fell flat on the floor outside, then nipped to his feet again as nimble as a cat. Weariness and sickness were forgotten. He felt superior to anything old Wigmore might try to do.
Fletcher staggered up, and reeled against the New Yorker.
"He'll shoot—if he's home," he gabbled. "Get hold of a chair—to let fly at him. Kill him if you see him! He's mad! Kill him like a rat!"
"You bet," replied Banks. "If I see him—then God pity him! Ah!"
He saw a heavy chair standing by the moonlit window. He ran forward, seized it by the back, and lifted it. He whirled it around his head. He felt strong enough to annihilate a score of maniacs.
"This will do. Come on," he whispered.
They went down a flight of heavily carpeted stairs to the lower hall. The winter moonshine lit the place faintly. Banks went ahead, with the big chair ready in front of him, and poor old Timothy crawling at his heels. The house was quiet as death. They reached the hall. Banks' anxious eye caught sight of the shadow of a curtain at the door of the dining room. The big chair hurtled through the air, and burst against the casing of the door.
"My mistake!" he cried, and the next moment had armed himself with another chair. They entered the dining room, found it empty, and closed and fastened the door. They rifled the sideboard of apples, soda biscuits, bread, butter, and a half bottle of sherry. Timothy Fletcher wet his insides with a dozen great gulps of the wine, direct from the bottle, and then crammed fragments of dry bread into his mouth.
"Go easy," cautioned Banks, between mouthfuls. "Dangerous. Chew your food."
At last he got possession of the bottle. The wonder is that the meal did not kill them. As it was, Timothy Fletcher lay down on the carpet, and swore that he would not move another step until he was dashed well ready, and felt a good deal better. Mr. Banks became indignant.
"I save your life, and then you go and eat yourself to death!" he cried. "It's enough to make any one angry. If you don't get up and come along out of this cursed house, I'll go without you."
Timothy rolled and twisted on the carpet.
"Don't," he whined, changing his tune. "I feel terrible bad, Mr. Banks. Don't leave me. He may come home soon. What time is it?"
Banks had forgotten that such a thing as time existed. He heard a clock ticking, tracked it to the chimneypiece, and carried it to the window. The moonlight was strong enough to read the hands by.
"Half-past nine," he said. "Half-past nine at night, of course—but of what night? Can it be only twenty-four hours since I crawled into this infernal house through a back window? I can't believe it! I've been sandbagged, and shot, and starved! Twenty-four hours!"
"I got an awful cramp," groaned Fletcher. "Get me some whisky! Quick! Cupboard in the corner."
"I told you not to make a pig of yourself," said Banks. But he found the cupboard, brought the whisky, and held the decanter to the old man's lips. He soon withdrew it, in spite of the other's expostulations.
"Half-past nine," he said. "Do you get that? When does Wigmore usually come home?"
"When do he come home?" repeated Timothy. "Blast him! Just when you don't expect him! That's when he comes home. After nine, you say? Then he must be out for the evening. We'd better go—soon. Let's have another drop of that whisky first."
"No more whisky for you. How are the cramps?"
"Bad! Bad! The soda crackers lay on my insides like bits of flint. I was near gone, Mr. Banks. He left me days and days without bite nor sup—may hell's flames scorch him!"
"But we must get away! He may be back at any moment. Once outside the house, we're safe."
"He has that pistol in his pocket. We'd soon be back again, if he met us."
"Rot!" exclaimed Banks. "Come along! Buck up!"
"Can't do it, sir. Not just now—anyhow. I feel that bad—I'd like to die."
The New Yorker relented, knelt beside him, and let him drink a little more of the whisky.
"Now, lie quiet until you feel better," he said. "I'll keep a watch out for Wigmore—and if I see him coming, I'll meet him at the door—with a chair. But you let me know as soon as you feel fit to move."
He took his stand at a window beside the front door. The night was almost as bright as day, and he could see clearly for hundreds of yards up the white road. So he stood for fifteen minutes, and nobody came in sight.
"Never before in all my life did I put in such a day as this," he reflected.
Then he heard Timothy's husky voice.
"I feel a mite better now. Maybe we'd best get out, Mr. Banks."
To hark back! After Mr. Banks' departure on his secret mission, Reginald Rayton climbed out of bed and dressed himself as well as he could. As it was hopeless to attempt a coat, he folded several blankets about his shoulders, the red one outside. Then he went down to the sitting room, where a good fire was burning, and shouted for his new stableboy. Bill Long entered from the kitchen and sat down, when requested, on the outer edge of an armchair. He answered a dozen questions concerning the horses and cattle fluently; but when his employer asked him suddenly if he knew of any one who held a grudge against him—Rayton—the youth rubbed one gray-socked foot across the other and scratched the back of his head uneasily.
"You will be helping me out if you say what you think, Bill," encouraged Rayton.
"Well," replied Bill, "they do say as how you an' Doc Nash ain't any too friendly."
"That was nothing, Bill. Just a fit of bad temper. We are on very good terms now. Who else, d'you think?"
"There's Davy Marsh. He's got a mighty sore head. I hear him talkin' pretty wicked about ye, one day."
"But he don't mean it, you may be sure. It was just his trouble made him talk like that. He and I are on a very friendly footing. He has nothing to be sore at me about."
"I guess he thinks he has, Mr. Rayton. You've cut him out—or he thinks so. But he weren't never in to be cut out."
"Oh, come now, Bill! I don't think you should talk that way about Marsh. He means well enough. Who else?"
"Well, Mr. Rayton, what about old Cap'n Wigmore? He be mighty sweet on Miss Nell Harley—an' he's an all-fired wicked-lookin' old cuss. I guess if you knowed his heart you'd find him yer enemy."
Rayton laughed. "Poor old chap! I am sorry for him. But come now, Bill, you are not serious?"
"Yep. He be soft as mush on that girl. Father, he says so, too—an' so does ma."
"But you don't think he'd shoot me, do you?"
"Guess he would—if he got a good chance. Guess he'd as lief kill a feller as eat his supper—judgin' by the looks of him. Tell you what, Mr. Rayton, if I was you I wouldn't trust that old gent no farther'n I could chuck him over my shoulder. He's got a bad eye, he has, jist like Jim Wiggins' old hoss had—an' it ended by chawin' off two of his fingers when he wasn't lookin'."
"Whose fingers, Bill?"
"Jim's, in course."
"Oh! Of course. But, see here, Bill; you surely don't think old Captain Wigmore shot me in the shoulder?"
"That's what I think, Mr. Rayton. It be jist the kinder skunk trick he'd do.I'vewatched him, many's the time—when he didn't know it. He talks to himself—an' sometimes he laughs, an' dances 'round on his toes. That's gospel, Mr. Rayton. An' he makes faces—lor'! I'll bet ye a dollar, Mr. Rayton, that 'twas him shot you. He's bin a pirate, I guess—an' 'u'd jist as soon kill a man as Jack Swim 'u'd kill a pig. He's got a anchor thing inked in on his arm, anyhow—all red an' blue. I seen it one day when he didn't know I was lookin'."
"You seem to be greatly interested in him, Bill. You seem to have watched him pretty closely."
"That's right. First time I seen him and heard his name was Cap'n Wigmore, I began to spy on him. He brought to my mind some other cap's I've read about—Cap'n Kidd, an' Cap'n Flint. Yes, Mr. Rayton, I've watched him, you bet—'cept when he was lookin' at me. I'd jist as lief have a b'ar look at me as that old cuss!"
"For all that," replied Rayton, smiling, "I don't think Captain Wigmore is the man who shot me. He has an uncertain temper, I know, but I don't believe he would try to kill a man in cold blood. I can't think of any one who would try, deliberately, to kill me. It must have been an accident, Bill. That's what I think, anyway."
"Accident nothin'," returned Bill. "Pirates kill folks, don't they? You bet they do! Mr. Banks ain't so soft as you, Mr. Rayton. He's nosin' round, I kin see that. I'll bet he's spyin' on Cap'n Wigmore this very minute. Smart gent, Mr. Banks. Most Yanks be smarter nor Englishmen, anyhow, I guess."
Rayton's laughter was interrupted by Turk. The dog jumped up from the rug before the fire, stood for a moment, then ran into the kitchen, with his plume waving. The kitchen door opened and closed, Turk yelped a welcome, and next moment Dick Goodine entered the sitting room. The trapper carried his snowshoes under one arm and his blanket-cased rifle under the other.
"You, Dick!" exclaimed Rayton. "Has anything gone wrong? What's brought you back, old chap?"
"Yes, it's me," answered the trapper, with an uneasy laugh. "Didn't make much of a start, did I? But nothing's gone wrong. I made camp twenty miles out, on Dorker Crick—an' then I lit out on the back trail—just to tell you something that's on my mind."
He leaned in the doorway, smiling at the Englishman and swinging his fur cap in his hand. Snowshoes and rifle lay on the floor. Rayton gazed at him with a puzzled shadow in his clear, kindly eyes.
"Why, Dick, that's too bad," he said. "But pull off your togs and get something to eat—and then let me hear what you have on your mind. If I can help you, I'll do it. If it's money for more traps, I'm your man, Dick."
"It isn't money," said the trapper quietly. He threw off his mittens and outer coat, and drew a chair close to Rayton. "It is something pretty private," he said, "andimportant. It brought me all the way out of the woods, to see you."
Rayton was more deeply puzzled than ever, and a sharp anxiety awoke in him. Had this fate that had struck others also struck Dick Goodine? He inspected his friend anxiously, and was relieved to find that he had suffered no physical injury, at any rate.
"Bill," he said, "skip out and make a pot of coffee, there's a good chap. Shut the door after you."
Bill Long obeyed with dragging feet. He took half a minute to cross the threshold and shut the door.
"Now, Dick, fire away," said Rayton. "Get it off your chest. I'm your man, whatever your trouble may be."
The trapper leaned forward. Though his lips smiled, there were tears in his dark eyes.
"Is the shoulder gettin' along all right?" he asked huskily. "And the cold? How's it, Reginald?"
Rayton laughed with a note of astonishment and relief. "Did you come all the way out to ask about my shoulder and my cold?" he cried. "Well, you are a considerate chap, I must say! But it was foolish of you, Dick. I'm right as wheat; but it is mighty good of you to feel so anxious, my dear old chap—and you may be sure I'll never forget it."
Still the trapper smiled, and still the moisture gleamed in his dark eyes.
"I—I felt anxious—oh, yes," he said slowly. "I couldn't think o' nothin' else all the time I was trailin' along through the woods an' all last night in camp. That's right. So I just up an' lit out to tell you—to tell you the truth. I was a fool an' a coward not to tell it before. I'm the man who shot you!"
"What?" cried Rayton, staring. "You? For Heaven's sake, Dick, don't be a fool! Have you been hitting the jug again?"
"It's the truth," said the trapper quietly. "I shot you—an' I was scart to own up to it. I didn't know it was you until—until Iguessedit. I thought I had come pretty near hittin' somebody—but not you. I didn't know who. I heard the yells—an' they sounded strong enough. I'll tell you just how it was, Reginald."
He paused, breathing quickly, and brushed his hand across his face. Rayton went to the door and turned the key.
"Buck up, Dick," he said. "If you shot me—well, that's all right. No harm done; but tell me all about it if it will make you feel any better."
"It was this way," began the trapper. "I was trailin' 'round, lookin' for a buck deer or anything that might happen along—and after a while I seen what I took to be the neck an' shoulders of a buck. The light was bad, you know. The thing moved a little. I was sure I could see its horns. So I let fly. Down he went—an' then I heard the durndest hollerin' an' cussin'—an' I knew I'd made a mistake. But the cussin' was that strong I thought I'd missed. I cal'lated the best thing I could do was just to get away quietly an' keep my mouth shut; and just then came a bang like a cannon an' half a peck of pa'tridge shot peppered the bushes all round me. Then I was more'n sure I didn't hit the man, whoever he was, so I just lit out fer home, runnin' as quiet as I could.
"I got home all right, thinkin' it was all a mighty good joke on me, an' turned in soon after supper. But I couldn't get to sleep. I began to wonder if I'd missed the mark, after all. The light was bad, of course; but I don't often miss a shot like that at two hundred yards. I commenced workin' it out in my mind, an' thinkin' it over an' over every way.
"Moose an' caribou, an' even deer, run miles with these here nickled bullets in them—aye, an' right through 'em; an' I've read about soldiers fightin' for five or ten minutes after they was hit. Then why shouldn't the man I fired at by mistake holler an' cuss an' let fly at me, even if he was plugged? That's the way I figgered it out—an' pretty soon I began to think I had hit him.
"I couldn't get it out of my head. I saw him layin' out on the ground, maybe bleedin' to death. I reckoned the thing to do was hike over an' tell you an' Mr. Banks about it an' see what you thought of it. So, after studyin' on it a while longer, I got up an' dressed an' sneaked out of the house. When I got to your house there was a light in the settin'-room window. That scart me, for it was past two o'clock in the mornin'—pretty near three. I let myself in, quiet; an' there was Mr. Banks in the things he goes to bed in—the cotton pants an' little cotton jumpers—asleep in his chair by the settin'-room fire. That gave me another scare. I woke him up. He jumped like I'd stuck a pin into him.
"'Hullo, Dick,' says he. 'I thought it was Reginald. Where is Reginald, anyhow?'
"'Well, where is he?' says I, feelin' kinder faint in my stomach. 'Maybe he's gone to bed. It's three o'clock, anyhow.'
"Then he told me as how you an' him had gone out gunnin' together that mornin,' an' how you hadn't come home yet. Then I felt pretty sick; an' I up an' told him what I was a feared of—but I was too scart and rattled to tell him all I knew about it. It was only guessin', anyhow—though I felt as certain I'd shot you as if I'd seen myself do it. I made up a bit of a yarn for him.
"I told him as how I was in the woods when, about sundown, I heard a rifle shot, an' then a lot of hollerin', an' then a gun shot. I told him what I thought—that maybe somebody had plugged somebody—and how that somebody might be you. Well, he fired a few questions at me, an' then he grabs the lamp an' hits the trail for upstairs. Inside ten minutes he's down again; an' we get lanterns an' brandy an' blankets, an' out we start. It took us a long time to find you—but we did—thank God!
"That's the truth of it, Reginald; an' I couldn't rest easy till you knew of it—an' until I'd had another look at you. What with all the queer things goin' on 'round here of late—an' them cards dealt to you—an' the bad name I have, I was scart to own up to it before."
"I understand," said Rayton slowly—"and I don't blame you, Dick."
He put out his free hand, and they shook heartily.
"You're a rare one," said the trapper. "You're white, clean through."
The Englishman laughed confusedly.
"Now, we'd better let Bill Long in and try that coffee," he suggested. "About what you've just told me, Dick—well, I think we'd better keep it quiet for a few days. We'll tell Banks, of course; but nobody else. Unlock the door, will you, Dick?"
They drank coffee and smoked. Bill Long went to bed, yawning, before eleven.
"Where's Mr. Banks, anyhow?" inquired Dick Goodine. "Is he makin' a call over to the Harleys'?"
"He went out to find the man who shot me," replied Reginald, with a smile; "but, as he has missed him, no doubt he is at the Harleys'. What time is it? Eleven! He should be home by now."
Half an hour later they both began to feel anxious. Banks was not in the habit of staying out after eleven o'clock. There was nothing in Samson's Mill Settlement to keep a man out late.
"He went out lookin' fer trouble," remarked the trapper, "an' maybe he's found it. Guess I may's well go over to Harleys' an' take a look 'round."
"Perhaps he has gone to see Nash," suggested Rayton.
"Or old Wigmore."
"That's so. Better turn out Bill Long, too. He can go one way and you another, Dick. Banks went out in search of trouble, as you say—and perhaps he has found it. What sort of night is it?"
"Cloudin' over. Looks like snow—and it's milder."
Fifteen minutes later the trapper and Bill Long left the house, each carrying a stable lantern. Bill Long returned within an hour. He had been to Doctor Nash's, Samson's, and several other houses, and had failed to see or hear anything of the New York sportsman. Twenty minutes later Dick Goodine returned, accompanied by Jim Harley. Jim had come in from one of his lumber camps early that evening, having heard of Reginald Rayton's accident. He looked worn and anxious; but expressed his relief at finding the Englishman alive.
"It is more than I expected when I first heard you had been shot," he said frankly.
Goodine told of the unsuccessful search for Banks. At the Harley house he had learned that Banks had not been there during the evening. Captain Wigmore had been there, however, for a little while, and had mentioned seeing Banks on the road. Then Jim Harley and Dick Goodine had called on the captain to make further inquiries.
By that time, it was snowing moderately. They had banged at the door for fully ten minutes; and at last the old man, yawning and draped about in a dressing gown, had let them in. No, he had seen nothing more of the New Yorker. He had persuaded them to enter and sit down for a little while, and had mixed hot toddy. He had suggested that Banks was safe home by that time. Then the two had left the yawning captain to return to his bed—and that was all.
"Well, he's not here," said Rayton. "What's to be done now? What do you suggest, Jim?"
Jim had nothing to suggest. His anxiety was written large on his face.
"Maybe he's gone into the woods an' got himself lost," said the trapper. "Anyhow, I reckon the best thing we can do is turn out an' hunt 'round again. Maybe he's hurt himself."
"That's right," returned Jim Harley. He laid his hand on Rayton's shoulder. "And the best thing you can do is to go to bed," he added solicitously.
Harley, Goodine, and Bill Long went out again with their lanterns. The snow had ceased, but the stars were still thinly veiled.
"I can't understand this," whispered Harley to the trapper. "Mr. Banks should be safe, anyway. He has never got the marked card."
"Can't a man get into trouble without the help of them danged cards? You seem to have 'em on the brain, Jim!" retorted Dick.
Jim sighed resignedly. The fate that made, dealt, and followed those little red crosses was a real and terrible thing to him.
The three took different roads after agreeing to inquire at every house they came to, and, if possible, to get others to help in the search. It was now after one o'clock.
Dick Goodine searched the sides of the road, the edges of fields, the pastures, and every clump of bushes and of timber he came to. He aroused the inmates of one house, made fruitless inquiries, and was informed that the only adult males of the family were away in the lumber woods, and so could not turn out to hunt for the missing sportsman. At last he found himself standing again before Captain Wigmore's residence. He could not say what influence or suggestion had led him back to this spot. He had followed his feet—that is all. One window on the second floor was faintly lighted.
"I'd like to know what that old cuss is doin' up this time of night," he muttered.
He banged at the knocker of the front door until the captain came downstairs.
"You again, Richard!" exclaimed the old man. "Come in. Come in. Still looking for Mr. Banks?"
"Yes. He ain't turned up yet," answered the trapper, stepping into the hall.
"I'll dress and help you hunt for him," said the captain. "He is a particular friend of mine. I can't get to sleep for worrying about him."
Captain Wigmore lit a lamp in the sitting room, and then went upstairs to dress. As soon as he was gone, the trapper commenced a noiseless tour of the room, of the hall, and of the rooms in the front of the house. He even searched beneath articles of furniture and behind every open door. He explored the kitchen, the pantry, and the pot closet behind the stove.
"Guess I'm on the wrong track this time," he admitted at last, and when Wigmore came down he was sitting patiently on the edge of his chair, with his toes turned demurely inward and his hands on his knees. The captain eyed him keenly for a moment.
"Want anything?" he asked. "A drink, or anything?"
"No; thanks all the same, captain," returned the trapper.
"I heard you wandering around," said Wigmore. "I thought that perhaps you were looking for something. You were admiring my pictures, I suppose?"
The trapper's face flushed swiftly. "Guess again," he answered calmly. His gaze met the old man's, and did not waver. The captain was the first to look away. He sighed as he did so.
"I am afraid you do not trust me entirely," he said. "But we must go and look for poor Banks. He may be freezing to death somewhere. Come along, Richard. There is no time to lose."
As the two passed from the house, Goodine was in front, and for a moment his back was turned fairly to the captain. He heard a little gasp, and turned swiftly. The captain withdrew a hand quickly from an inner pocket, and stooped to lock the door.
"What's the trouble?" asked Dick.
"A twinge in my knee. I am growing old," answered Wigmore in pathetic tones. And to this day, the trapper has never fully realized how near he was at that moment to a sudden and choking oblivion.
The old man began to limp after half an hour of tramping the frozen roads and scrambling through underbrush and deep snow. At last he sat down on a hemlock stump and confessed that he had reached the end of his endurance and must go home. He was sorry; but it was better to drag himself home now than keep at it a few minutes longer and then have to be carried. Goodine agreed with him; and after a short rest the old man set out on his homeward journey. As long as he was in range of the trapper's vision he staggered wearily; but once beyond it he scuttled along like a little dog. He was anxious to get home and assure himself that none of his neighbors were exploring his house during his absence.
Dick Goodine continued his unsuccessful searching of woods, roads, and fields until dawn. He crossed the trails of other searchers several times, but not once the trail of Mr. Banks' big and familiar hunting boots. Upon returning to Rayton's, he found Jim Harley, Benjamin Samson, Doctor Nash, and several other men drinking coffee in the kitchen. Reginald had been driven off to his bed by Nash only a few minutes before. An air of gloom and mystery pervaded the room. Doctor Nash alone showed an undaunted bearing. He talked loudly, and slammed the back of his right hand into the palm of his left continually.
"Banks is no fool!" he exclaimed, for the tenth time. "Do you think he'd walk out of this house and lose himself on a night like this? Rot! Tell me who set fire to Davy Marsh's camp, who tied old Fletcher up in that blanket, and who shot Rayton, and I'll tell you who knows where Banks is. It may be one man, or it may be a gang doing the work; but there's one man at the back of it all. Same with the marks on the cards. At first I put it all down to you, Jim; but I couldn't see why you should tie up old Fletcher. Now, I see it pretty straight. That Fletcher business was all a bluff. Heletsomebody tie him up—and, as I've told you a dozen times, that somebody is old Wigmore. What do you say, Dick?"
The others all turned and stared at the trapper with anxious, sleep-shadowed eyes.
"I ain't sayin' yes or no yet a while, doc," replied Goodine. "What you say sounds pretty reasonable; but I wouldn't swear to it. I ain't a fancy detective, but when I see a lot of smoke I can guess at fire as well as the next man. Old Fletcher's vanished, anyhow—an' so has Mr. Banks. I don't hold that what happened to Reginald has anything to do with the other queer business. Accidents will happen! But I guess Captain Wigmore is lyin' when he says Tim Fletcher went to New York; an' I guess he was actin' the goat when he let on as how he thought Doc Nash marked them cards. But guessin' won't find Mr. Banks!"
"Of what do you accuse Captain Wigmore?" asked Jim Harley, gripping Dick's arm. "I've heard a lot of hinting, but no straight charge. Speak up like a man and be done with it. Say what you mean. I'm sick of listening to hints against the old man behind his back."
In the silence that followed, the trapper looked steadily into Harley's eyes, and gently but firmly unfastened the grip of the fingers on his arm.
"Keep cool, Jim," he said. "Keep a tally on yer words."
"I'll keep cool enough, Dick. Don't worry about me," retorted Jim. "But answer a few questions, will you? A few straight questions?"
The trapper nodded.
"Do you think Captain Wigmore had anything to do with the marks on the cards?" asked Harley. "Give me a straight yes or no to that."
"A straight yes or no! Right you are! Yes, I do!"
"You do! Why?"
"Because I do, that's all. Ask your other questions, an' be darned quick about it. My temper's short."
"Have you any proof that he marked the cards?"
"No. And you haven't any proof that he didn't, neither."
The others crowded close around Dick Goodine and Jim Harley.
"And do you think he had anything to do with Davie Marsh's troubles?"
"Can't say. Don't know."
"Do you think he shot old Reginald Rayton?"
"No, I don't."
"Why don't you?"
"Because I shot him myself."
A gasp went up from the group of anxious and astonished men.
"You!" exclaimed Harley. "I don't believe it."
"It's the truth, anyhow. I mistook him for a buck. He knows all about it."
"Took him for a buck?"
"That's what I said; an' if any man here thinks I'm lyin' he'd better not say so, or he'll get his face pushed in."
"It's a mistake that's bin made before," said Samson.
Others nodded.
"Well, there you are!" said Harley. "If you hadn't wounded Rayton yourself, you'd say that Captain Wigmore did it. But all this talk won't help Banks. What are we to do next?"
"Have some breakfast and a nap, an' then start in huntin' him again," said Benjamin Samson. "We simply got to find him, or there'll be terrible things printed in the New York papers about this here settlement."
All left the house for their own homes except Goodine and Doctor Nash. As Goodine busied himself at the stove, preparing breakfast, Nash said: "That was a startler, Dick. Is it straight that you plugged Rayton in the shoulder?"
"Just as I said, doc," replied the trapper.
"Does Wigmore know you did it?"
"Guess not, or he would have said so before this. He put it onto you."
"He did, the old skunk. But he knew he was lyin' when he said it. If it wasn't you, Dick, I'd think Wigmore had paid some one to take a shot at Rayton. My idea is that he works the cards and then gets some one else to make the trouble."
"Maybe so. He didn't get me to do that shootin', anyhow. I guess he's the man who works the cards, all right; but I'd like to know what he does it for."
"My idea is that he had heard that story about the cards before and is trying to scare people away from Nell Harley. The old fool is soft as mush on her himself, you know."
"Well, doc, what we'd best do now is to eat a snack an' then turn in an' get a couple of hours' sleep; an' if we don't find Mr. Banks to-day we'll just up an' ask old Wigmore the reason why."
Two hours later Captain Wigmore himself arrived at Rayton's house. Nash, Goodine, and young Bill Long were in the kitchen, pulling on their moccasins and overcoats. The captain looked exceedingly tired, but very wide awake.
"I've found a clue!" he exclaimed. "Look at this knife! Did you ever see it before, any of you?"
He placed a big clasp knife on the table.
"Why, it's Banks' knife," cried Doctor Nash. "I've seen it several times. I'd swear to it."
"Yes, it's his. And there's H. P. B. cut on the handle," said Dick.
"I found it this morning, on the Blue Hill road," said the captain.
"On the Blue Hill road? How far out?"
"About three miles from my place. I've been hunting for Banks since sunrise, and this is all I've found."
"What in thunder would he be doing out there?"
"That's what we must find out," said the captain. "Perhaps he was drunk and didn't know where he was going. Or perhaps he was bound for Blue Hill station to catch a train. Heaven only knows!"
"How is the road?"
"Very fair, as far as I went."
"Then I'll hitch the horses into the sled, and we'll light out on his trail," said the trapper.
And that is what happened. Goodine and Doctor Nash set off at a brisk trot in the sled, taking Captain Wigmore along with them as far as his own gate. He gave them some exact information as to the place where he had picked up the knife. He said that he was sorry that he could not go along with them, but he was an old man and very tired. So they drove on without him. Several teams had been hauling timber and cordwood that way since the snow, so the road was in very good condition.
They reached the spot—or as near it as they could tell—where Wigmore claimed to have found the knife, and spent half an hour in searching the woods on both sides of the road. Needless to say, they found no further trace of Mr. Banks. Then they went on all the way to Blue Hill Corner and the railway station. The distance was fourteen miles—fourteen long miles. At the village and the station they made inquiries, but no one there had seen the big New Yorker. He had not left by the morning train. They remained to dinner at Blue Hill Corner, searched the surrounding country after dinner, then set out on the homeward road, making frequent stops to hunt about in the woods. It was close upon sunset when they reached Samson's Mill Settlement. Dick Goodine was depressed, and Doctor Nash was in a bad temper.
"Darn this country, anyway!" exclaimed Nash. "It's full of a lot of savages—and crooks. And what's to become of my practice if I have to spend all my time hunting round for Banks? To hell with it!"
Early in the afternoon of the same day, Nell Harley received an unexpected visit. It was from Maggie Leblanc. Jim was away, still searching for the lost New Yorker, and Kate was busy in the sewing room upstairs.
"I wanter tell'e somethin' very particular," said Maggie, in a faint voice and with a flurried manner. "Let me tell ye all by yerself. It—it be mighty particular."
"Is it about Mr. Banks? Do you know where he is?" asked Nell anxiously.
"No, it ain't about him," replied Maggie Leblanc. "I don't know nothin' about him."
Nell led the way to the sitting room, and motioned her visitor to a chair by the fire.
"Has—has anything happened to—Mr. Rayton?" she asked.
Maggie shook her head. "No! No! It is about me—an' Dick Goodine." She brushed her eyes furtively with the back of her hand. "I liked Dick," she continued unsteadily; "but he didn't seem to care. Then I—begun to feel's if I hated him. I knew him an' Davy Marsh was bad friends, so I begun to try to get Dick inter trouble with Davy—an' maybe with the law. After Davy's canoe upsot in the rapids that day, I went an' found the broken pole in the pool, an' fixed an end of it so's it looked like it had been cut halfway through. Then I put it up on a rock so's it would be found.
"I knowed folks would think Dick done it because he an' Davy wasn't good friends, an' he was the last man Davy seen afore he started upstream that day. Dick helped Davy to load the canoe. Then—thenIsot fire to Davy's camp. But when Dick said as how he didn't fire the camp nor cut the pole, most every one seemed to believe him. I was feelin' different about Dick by that time—mighty sorry I tried to hurt him. But I was afeared to tell anybody what I done. Davy Marsh is that mean an' small, he'd have the law on me. Then Mr. Rayton, he got shot—an' then Mr. Banks, he got lost; an' this mornin' Dick Goodine up an' tells yer brother, an' Doc Nash, an' a whole bunch more, as how it was him shot Mr. Rayton."
"Yes. Jim told me of it. He mistook Mr. Rayton for a deer," said Nell.
"But some folks don't believe as how he took him for a deer," said Maggie. "It's the talk all over the settlement now—an' old Captain Wigmore, he be makin' a terrible story of it all. He has started up talk about what happened to Dave Marsh ag'in. He's makin' it look 'sif Dick done everything—an' like 'sif he done something to Mr. Banks, too. An' there be plenty of fools in this settlement to listen to him. So I'm tellin' ye the truth about who sot fire to Davy Marsh's camp. Davy don't know it himself. He says Dick done it—when Dick ain't lookin'. But I done it—an' 'twas me doctored that piece of canoe pole that broke by accident first of all—an' I'm willin' to swear to it on the book!"
"You need not swear it to me," said Nell Harley. "I believe what you have told me—every word of it—though it is a terrible thing! And I believe whatever Dick Goodine says. What can I do to help Dick?"
"I guess you like Dick pretty well," said Maggie Leblanc, with a swift, sidewise glance of her black eyes. "An' Dick likes you. That's why I got mad at him, an' Wigmore an' some other folks say that's why he shot at Mr. Rayton."
"Surely not!" cried Nell, in distress. "How can he say such things? Oh! I am growing to detest that old man—with his everlasting smile. As for Dick—why, he scarcely knows me. And he is Reginald's friend. And he knows—of course he knows—that—that Reginald and I—love each other."
Maggie Leblanc nodded her head vigorously and smiled.
"Don't you fret yerself," she said. "If he don't know it, then I'll tell him."
Her eyes clouded again instantly. "I guess ye can help Dick by just tellin' yer brother Jim what I told ye. Then he'll stand up fer Dick—him and Mr. Rayton will—an' what old Cap'n Wigmore says won't harm him much, I guess."
"I will tell him. He will be on Dick's side, of course," said Nell. And then, "But why is Captain Wigmore trying to get Dick into trouble? What has he against Dick?"
"Maybe he's just tryin' to keep folks from lookin' too close at his own doin's," said Maggie.
Nell Harley nodded, but said neither yes nor no. The thought was in her own mind. Captain Wigmore, the recent troubles and mysteries, and the marked cards had been associated in her thoughts of late.
Jim Harley got home in time for supper. He told of a fruitless search; and then Nell told of Maggie Leblanc's amazing confession. Jim sighed as if with sudden relief. After a minute of reflective silence, he said: "But, still, the accidents followed the cards—except in this last case. How are we to explain that—and the cards themselves? First, it was Davy Marsh, and then Rayton; but the card was never dealt to Mr. Banks!"
"Which shows that your foolish old curse is going all wrong," said his wife.
"Reginald does not believe in the curse—and neither do I," said Nell.
"Whoever did the injuries, and whoever dealt the cards, the injuries have followed the dealing of the cards," said Jim gloomily.
"Except in this last case," said his wife. "It looks to me as if Fate, or whatever you call it, is getting itself mixed up."
After supper, Jim, and his wife, and sister, all went over to see Reginald Rayton. A fresh force of men had taken up the hunt for Mr. Banks, and parties had started for every village and settlement within a radius of thirty miles. The Harleys found Reginald in the sitting room, in company with Dick Goodine and Doctor Nash. Rumor of old Wigmore's campaign against the trapper had already reached them, and they were talking it over. Nash was bitter.
"The old devil tried to put it on me," he said, "and maybe he would have succeeded if Dick hadn't confessed. Just wait till I see him! Dick shot Rayton; but it was Wigmore himself who fired Marsh's camp—yes, and who's at the bottom of many more of these tricks!"
Then Nell Harley told them what Maggie Leblanc had confessed to her. The silence that followed the story was broken by Dick Goodine.
"She told you that!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "She told it herself? To save me? Where is she now?"
He was about to leave the room when the door opened and he was confronted by Captain Wigmore.