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“Then why has that chair––the chair in which he died––exerted such a peculiar, sinister influence over you? Why is it that every time you have entered this room since, you have been unable to keep away from it? Why, this very hour, when you thought yourself unobserved, did you walk straight to this chair and place your hand deliberately upon the place where the poison bottle was concealed? Why did you recoil? Why did that cry rise from your lips when you saw what it contained?”
“I touched the chair inadvertently, while I waited for Miss Lawton’s appearance, and my hand coming accidentally in contact with a hard substance, mere idle curiosity impelled me to draw it out. Naturally, I was startled for the moment, when I saw what it was.” The man’s voice deepened hoarsely, and he gave vent to another sneering, vicious laugh. As its echo died in the room, Blaine could have sworn that he heard a quick gasp from behind the curtains of the window-seat, but it did not reach the ears of Rockamore.
The latter continued, his voice breaking suddenly, with a rage at last uncontrolled:
“I could not, of course, know that that bottle of red ink was a cheap, theatrical trick of a mountebank, a creature who is the laughing-stock of the press and the public, in his idiotic attempts to draw sensational notoriety upon himself. But I do know that this effort has failed! You have dared to plant this outrageous, puerile trap to attempt to ensnare me! You have dared to strike blindly, in your mad thirst for publicity, at a man infinitely beyond your reach. Your insolence ceases to be amusing! If you try to push this ridiculous accusation, I shall ruin you, Henry Blaine!”
“No man is beyond my reach who has broken the261law.” The detective’s voice was quietly controlled, yet each word pierced the silence like a sword-thrust. “I have been threatened with ruin, with death, many times by criminals of all classes, from defaulting financiers to petty thieves, but I still live, and my fortunes have not been materially impaired. I do not court publicity, but I cannot shirk my duty because it entails that. And in this case my duty is plain. You, Bertrand Rockamore, came here, secretly, by night, to try to persuade Mr. Lawton to go in with you on a crooked scheme––to force him to, by blackmail, if necessary, on an old score. Failing in that, you killed him, to prevent the nefarious operations of yourself and your companions from being brought to light!”
“You’re mad, I tell you!” roared Rockamore. “Whoever stuffed you with such idiotic rot as that is making gammon of you! That conversation is a chimera of some disordered mind, if it isn’t merely part of a deliberate conspiracy of yours against me! You’ll suffer for this, my man! I’ll break you if it is the last act of my life! Such a conference never took place, and you know it!”
“‘Come, Lawton, be sensible; half a loaf is better than no bread,’” Blaine quoted slowly. “‘There is no blackmail about this––it is an ordinarybusinessproposition.’
“‘It’s a damnable crooked scheme, and I shall have nothing to do with it. This is final! My hands are clean, and I can look every man in the face and tell him to go where you can go now!’
“You remember that, don’t you, Rockamore?” Blaine interrupted himself to ask sharply. “Do you also recall your reply?––‘How about poor Herbert Armstrong? His wife––’”
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“It’s a lie! A d––d lie!” cried Rockamore. “I was not in this room that night! Such a conversation never occurred! Who told you of this? Who dares accuse me?”
“I do!” A clear, flute-like voice, resonant in its firmness, rang out from behind him as he spoke, and he wheeled abruptly, to find Anita standing with her slender form outlined against the dark, rich velvet of the curtains. Her head was thrown back, her eyes blazing; and as she faced him, she slowly raised her arm and pointed a steady finger at the recoiling figure. “I accuse you, Bertrand Rockamore, of the murder of my father! It was I who heard your conversation here in this room; it was I who found the vial which contained the poison you used when your arguments and threats failed! I am not mistaken––I knew that I could never be mistaken if I heard that voice again, shaken, as it was that night, with rage and defiance––and fear! I knew that I should hear it again some time, and all these weeks I have listened for it, until this moment. Mr. Blaine, this is the man!”
Her head was thrown back, her eyes blazing: and as she faced him, she slowly raised her arm and pointed a steady finger at the recoiling figure.
Her head was thrown back, her eyes blazing: and as she faced him, she slowly raised her arm and pointed a steady finger at the recoiling figure.
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“Anita, you have lost your mind!” With the shock of the girl’s appearance, a steely calm had come to the Englishman, and although a tremor ran through his tones, he held them well in leash. “My poor child, you do not know what you are saying.
“As for you,”––he turned and looked levelly into Blaine’s eyes,––“I am amazed that a man of your perception and experience should for a moment entertain the idea that he could make out a case of capital crime against a person of my standing, solely upon the hysterical pseudo-testimony of a girl whose brain is overwrought. This midnight conference, which you so glibly quote, is a figment of her distraught mind––or, if it actually occurred (a fact of which you have no proof), Miss Lawton admits, by the words she has just uttered, that she did not see the mysterious visitor, but is attempting to identify me as that person merely by the tones of my voice. She has made no accusation against me until this moment, yet since her father’s death she has heard my voice almost daily for several weeks. Come, Blaine, listen to reason! Your case has tumbled about your ears! You can only avoid serious trouble for both Miss Lawton and yourself by dropping this absurd matter here and now.”
“It is true that I did not recognize your voice before, but I have not until now heard it raised in anger as it was that night––” began Anita, but Blaine silenced her with a gesture.
“And the bottle of prussic acid which was found yesterday hidden in the chair where just now you searched for it?” he demanded, sternly. “The incontrovertible evidence, proved late last night by an autopsy upon the body of Pennington Lawton, which shows that he came to his death by means of that poison––how do you account for these facts, Rockamore?”
“I do not propose to account for them, whether they are facts or not,” returned the other man, coolly. “Since I know nothing whatever about them, they are beyond my province. Unless you wish to bring ruin upon yourself, and unwelcome notoriety and possibly an official inquiry into her sanity upon Miss Lawton, you will not repeat this incredible accusation. Only my very real sympathy for her has enabled me to listen with what patience I have to the unparalleled insolence of this charge, but you are going too far. I see no necessity for further prolonging this interview, and with your permission I will withdraw––unless, of course,” he264added, sneeringly, “you have a warrant for my arrest?”
To Anita’s astonishment, Henry Blaine stepped back with a slight shrug and Rockamore, still with that sarcastic leer upon his lips, bowed low to her and strode from the room.
“You––you let him go, Mr. Blaine?” she gasped, incredulously. “You let him escape!”
“He cannot escape.” Blaine smiled a trifle grimly. “I’m giving him just a little more rope, that is all, to see if he will help us secure the others. His every move is under strict surveillance––for him there is no way out, save one.”
“And that way?” asked Anita.
The detective made no reply. In a few minutes he took leave of her and proceeded to his office, where he spent a busy day, sending cables in cipher, detailing operatives to many new assignments and receiving reports.
Late in the afternoon replies began to come in to his cablegrams of the morning. Whatever their import, they quite evidently afforded him immense satisfaction, and as the early dusk settled down, his eyes began to glow with the light of battle, which those closest to him in his marvelous work had learned to recognize when victory was in sight.
Suraci noted it when he entered to make his report, and the glint of enthusiasm in his own eyes brightened like burnished steel.
“I relieved Ross at noon, as you instructed me, sir,” he began, “in the vestibule of Mr. Rockamore’s apartment house. It was a good thing that I had the six-cylinder car handy, for he surely led me a chase! Ten minutes after I went on duty, Rockamore came out, jumped into his automobile, and after circling the park,265he turned south, zig-zagging through side streets as if to cut off pursuit. He reached South-end Ferry, but hovered about until the gates were on the point of closing. Then his chauffeur shot the car forward, but before I could reach him, Creghan stepped up with your warrant.
“‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I heard him say as I came up. ‘I’m to use this only in case you insist on attempting to leave the city, sir. Mr. Blaine’s orders.’
“Rockamore turned on him in a fury, but thought better of it, and after a minute he leaned forward with a shrug, and directed the chauffeur north again. This time he tried the Great Western Station, but Liebler was there, waiting for him; then the North Illington branch depot––Schmidt was on hand. As a forlorn hope he tried the Tropic and Oriental steamship line,––one of their ships goes out to-night,––but Norris intercepted him; at last he speeded down the boulevard and out on the eastern post-road, but Kearney was on the job at the toll-gate.
“He gave it up then, and went back to his rooms, and Ross relieved me there, just now. The lights are flaring in the windows of his rooms, and you can see his shadow––he’s pacing up and down like a caged animal!”
“All right, Suraci. Go back and tell Ross to have one of his men telephone to me at once if Rockamore leaves his rooms before nine. That will be all for you to-night. I’ve got to do the rest of the work myself.”
At nine o’clock precisely, Henry Blaine presented himself at Rockamore’s door. As he had anticipated he was admitted at once and ushered into the Englishman’s presence as if his coming had been expected.
“I say, Blaine, what the devil do you mean by this game you’re playing?” Rockamore demanded, as he266stood erect and perfectly poised upon the hearth, and faced the detective. A faint, sarcastic smile curved his lips, and in his pale eyes there was no hint of trouble or fear––merely a look of tolerant, half-contemptuous amusement. Immaculate in his dinner-coat and fresh boutonnière, his bearing superb in his ease and condescension, he presented a picture of elegance. Blaine glanced about the rich, somber den before he replied.
“I’m not playing any game, Mr. Rockamore. Why did you try so desperately to leave the city?”
The Englishman shrugged.
“A sudden whim, I suppose. Would it be divulging a secret of your profession if you informed me why one of your men did not arrest me, since all had warrants on the ridiculous charge you brought against me this morning, of murdering my oldest and closest friend?”
“I merely wanted to assure myself that you would not leave the city until I had obtained sufficient data with which to approach you,” the detective responded, imperturbably. “I have come to-night for a little talk with you, Mr. Rockamore. I trust I am not intruding?”
“Not at all. As a matter of fact, after to-day’s incidents I was rather expecting you.” Rockamore waved his unbidden guest to a chair, and produced a gold cigarette-case. “Smoke? You perhaps prefer cigars––no? A brandy and soda?”
“Thank you, no. With your permission, I will get right down to business. It will simplify matters for both of us if you are willing to answer some questions I wish to put to you; but, of course, there is no compulsion about it. On the other hand, it is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be used against you.”
“Fire away, Mr. Blaine!” Rockamore seated himself267and stretched out his legs luxuriously to the open wood-fire. “I don’t fancy that anything I shall say will militate against me. I was an idiot to lose my temper this morning, but I hate being made game of. Now the whole situation merely amuses me, but it may become tiresome. Let’s get it over.”
“Mr. Rockamore, you were born in Staffordshire, England, were you not? Near a place called Handsworth?”
The unexpected question brought a meditative frown to the other man’s brow, but he replied readily enough:
“Yes, at Handsworth Castle, to be exact. But I can’t quite gather what bearing that insignificant fact has upon your amazing charge this morning.”
“You are the only son of Gerald Cecil Rockamore, third son of the Earl of Stafford?” The detective did not appear to have heard the protest of the man he was interrogating.
“Precisely. But what––”
“There were, then, four lives between you and the title,” Blaine interrupted, tersely. “But two remain, your father and grandfather. Your uncles died, both of sudden attacks of heart-disease, and curiously enough, both deaths occurred while they were visiting at Handsworth Castle.”
“That is quite true.” The cynical banter was gone from Rockamore’s tones, and he spoke with a peculiar, hushed evenness, as if he waited, on guard, for the next thrust.
“Lord Ashfrith, your father’s oldest brother, and next in line to the old Earl, was seated in the gun-room of the castle, sipping a brandy and soda, and carving a peach-stone. Twenty minutes before, you had brought the peaches in from the garden, and eaten them with him.268He was showing you how, in his boyhood, he had carved a watch-charm from a peach-stone, and you were close at his side when he suddenly fell over dead. Two years later, your Uncle Alaric, heir to the earldom since his older brother was out of the way, dropped dead at a hunt breakfast. You were seated next him.”
“Are you trying to insinuate that I had anything to do with these deaths?” Rockamore still spoke quietly, but there was a slight tremor in his tones, and his face looked suddenly gray and leaden in the glow of the leaping flames.
“I am recalling certain facts in your family history. When your Uncle Alaric died, he had just set down his cordial glass, which had contained peach brandy. An odd coincidence, wasn’t it, that both of these men died with the odor of peaches about them, an odor which incidentally you had provided in both cases, for it was you who suggested the peach brandy as a cordial at the hunt breakfast, and induced your uncle to partake of it.”
“It was a coincidence, as you say. I had not thought of it before.” The Englishman moistened his lips nervously, as if they suddenly felt dry. “Uncle Alaric was a heavy, full-blooded man, and he had ridden hard that morning, contrary to the doctor’s orders. I suggested the brandy as a bracer, I remember.”
“An unfortunate suggestion, wasn’t it?” Blaine asked, significantly. The other man made no reply.
“There was another coincidence.” The detective pursued relentlessly. “The brandy-and-soda, which Lord Ashfrith was drinking at the moment of his death, was naturally a pale amber color. So was the brandy which your Uncle Alaric drank as he died. And prussic acid is amber-colored, too, Mr. Rockamore! Lord Ashfrith269was carving a peach-stone when the end came, and the odor of peaches clung to his body. Your Uncle Alaric partook of peach brandy, and the same odor hovered about him in death. Prussic acid is redolent of the odor of peaches!”
Rockamore started from his chair.
“I understand what you are attempting to establish by the flimsiest of circumstantial evidence!” he sneered. “But you are away beyond your depth, my man! May I ask where you obtained this interesting but scarcely valuable information?”
“From Scotland Yard, by cable, to-day.” Blaine rose also and faced the other man. “An investigation was started into the second death, upon the Earl’s request, but it was dropped for lack of evidence. About that time, Mr. Rockamore, you decided rather suddenly, and for no apparent reason, to come to America, where you have remained ever since.”
“Mr. Blaine, if I were in the mood to be facetious, I might employ your American vernacular and ask that you tell me something I don’t know! Come to the point, man; you try my patience.”
“In view of recent developments, I am under the impression that Scotland Yard would welcome your reappearance on British soil, but I fear that will be forever impossible,” Blaine said slowly. “Just as you were beside your uncles when each met with his end, so you were beside Pennington Lawton when death came to him! That has been proved. Just as brandy and soda, and peach brandy, are amber-colored, so are Scotch high-balls, which you and Pennington Lawton were drinking. No odor of peaches lingered about the room, for Miss Lawton had lighted a handful of joss-sticks in a vase upon the mantel earlier in the evening, and their pungent270perfume filled the air. But the odor of peaches permeated the room when the tiny bottle which you hid in the folds of the chair was uncorked––the odor of peaches rose above the stench of mortifying flesh, when the body of your victim was exhumed late last night for a belated autopsy! The heart would have revealed the truth, had there been no corroborative evidence, for it was filled with arterial blood––incontrovertible proof of death by prussic-acid poisoning.”
There was a tense pause, and then Rockamore spoke sharply, his voice strained to the breaking point.
“If you are so certain of my guilt, Blaine, why have you come to me secretly here and now? What is your price?”
“I have no price,” the great detective answered, simply.
“Then why did you not arrest me at once? Why this purposeless interview?”
“Because––” Blaine paused, and when he spoke again, a solemn hush, almost of pity, had crept into his tones. “You come of a fine old line, Mr. Rockamore, of a splendid race. Your grandfather, the aged Earl, is living only in the past, proud of the record of his forebears. Your father is a soldier and statesman, valuable to the nation; his younger brother, Cedric, has achieved deserved fame and glory in the Boer War. There remains only you. For the sake of the innocent who must suffer with you, I have come to you to-night, that you may have an opportunity to––prepare yourself. In the morning I must arrest you. My duty is plain.”
As he uttered the words, the craven fear which had struggled through the malicious sneer on the other man’s face faded as if an obliterating hand had passed across his brow, and a look of indomitable courage and resignation271took its place. There was something akin to nobility in his expression as he turned to the detective with head proudly erect and shoulders squared.
“I thank you, Mr. Blaine,” he said, simply. “I understand. I shall not fail them––the others! You have been far more generous to me than I deserve. And now––good-night. You will find me here when you come in the morning.”
But in the morning Henry Blaine did not carry out his expressed intention. Instead, he sat at his desk, staring at the headlines in a paper spread out before him. The Honorable Bertrand Rockamore had been found dead on the floor of his den, with a bullet through his head. He would never allow his man to touch his guns, and had been engaged in cleaning one of them, as was his custom, in preparation for his annual shooting trip to Florida, when in some fashion it had been accidentally discharged.
“I wonder if I did the right thing!” mused Blaine. “He had the courage to do it, after all. Blood will tell, in the end.”
272CHAPTER XIXTHE UNSEEN LISTENER
“There’sa man outside who wishes to speak to you, sir. Says his name is Hicks, but won’t tell his business.”
Blaine looked up from the paper.
“Never heard of him. What sort of a man, Marsh?”
“Old, white-haired, carries himself like an old family servant of some sort. Looks as if he’d been crying. He’s trembling so he can scarcely stand, and seems deeply affected by something. Says he has a message for you, and must see you personally.”
“Very well. Show him in.”
“Thank you for receiving me, sir.” A quavering old voice sounded from the doorway a moment later, and Blaine turned in his chair to face the aged, erect, black-clad figure which stood there.
“Come in, Hicks.” The detective’s voice was kindly. “Sit down here, and tell me what I can do for you.”
“I bring you a message, sir.” The man tottered to the chair and sank into it. “A message from the dead.”
Blaine leaned forward suddenly.
“You were––”
“Mr. Rockamore’s valet, sir, and his father’s before him. I loved him as if he were my own son, if you will pardon the liberty I take in saying so, and when he came to this country I accompanied him. He was always good to me, sir, a kind young master and a real friend. It was I who found him this morning––”
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His voice broke, and he bowed his head upon his wrinkled hands. No tears came––but the thin shoulders shook, and a dry sob tore its way from the gaunt throat.
Blaine waited until the paroxysm had ceased, and then urged, gently:
“Go on, Hicks. You have something to tell me?”
“Yes, sir. The coroner and the press call it accidental death, but I––may God forgive me for saying it––I know better! He left word where none could find it but me, that you knew the truth, and he bade me give you––this!”
He produced a large, square envelope from an inner pocket, and extended it in his trembling hand to the detective. Without glancing at it, Blaine laid it on the desk before him.
“Where did you discover this?”
“There is a flat, oblong casket of old silver, shaped somewhat like a humidor––a family relic, sir––which stands upon the center-table in the den. Whenever Mr. Rockamore had any message to leave for me in writing, concerning his confidential business, which he did not wish the other servants to have access to, he always slipped it into the casket. After the coroner had come and gone this morning, and some of the excitement had died down, I went back to the den, to straighten it. I don’t know why, but somehow I half suspected the truth. Perhaps it was the expression of his face––so peaceful and resigned, with all the hard, sneering lines the years had brought gone from it, so that he looked almost like a boy again, the bonny boy who used to ride helter-skelter on his pony through the lanes of Staffordshire, long ago.”
The aged man spoke half to himself and seemed to274have fallen into a reverie, which Blaine made no attempt to break in upon. At length he roused himself with a little start, and went on.
“At any rate, when I had the room in order, and was standing by the table taking a last look about, my hand rested on the casket, and quite without thinking, sir, I raised the lid. There within it lay a sealed envelope with my name on it! Inside was a certified check for two thousand pounds made out to me––he didn’t forget me, even at the last––and that letter for you, together with a little note asking me to––to take him home. Is it true, sir, that you do know the whole truth?”
“I think I do,” Blaine responded gravely. “I did the best I could for your late master, Hicks, all that I could do which was compatible with my duty, and now my lips are sealed. I cannot betray his confidence. You intend to accompany the body to England?”
“Of course, sir,” the old man said simply. “It was his last request of me, who have never refused him anything in all his life. When I have seen him laid beside the others of the House of Stafford, I will go back to the castle, to his father, and end my days there. My course is nearly run, and this great new country has no place in it for the aged. I––I will go now, sir. I have much to attend to, and my master is lying alone.”
When the old servant had taken his departure, Henry Blaine picked up the envelope. It was addressed in a firm, unshaken hand, and with a last touch of the sardonic humor characteristic of the dead man, it had been stamped with the seal of the renowned and honored House of Stafford.
The detective broke the seal, and lifting the flap, drew out the folded letter page and became immediately absorbed in its contents. He read:
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In view of your magnanimity to-night, I feel that this explanation––call it a confession, if you will––is your due. If you consider it your duty to give it to the world at large, you must do so, but for God’s sake be as merciful as you can to those at home, who will suffer enough, in all conscience, as the affair now stands.Your accusation was justified. I killed Pennington Lawton in the manner and for the reason which you alleged. I made an appointment by telephone just after dinner, to call upon him late that night. I tried by every means in my power to induce him to go in on a scheme to which, unknown to him, I had already committed him. He steadfastly refused. His death was the only way for me to obviate exposure and ruin, and the disgrace of a prison sentence. I anticipated his attitude and had come prepared. During a heated period of our discussion, he walked to the desk and stood for a moment with his shoulder turned to me, searching for a paper in his private drawer. I saw my chance, and seized upon it. I was standing before his chair, I may explain, watching him over its high back. I took the vial of prussic acid from my pocket, uncorked it and poured a few drops into his high-ball glass. I had recorked the vial, and was on the point of returning it to its hiding-place, when he turned to me. Had I raised my hand to my pocket he would have noticed the gesture; as it was, the back of the chair screened me, and on a sudden desperate impulse I thrust the vial deep in the leather fold between the seat and back.Lawton drank, and died. I left the house, as I thought, unnoticed and secure from detection. On subsequent visits to the house I endeavored to regain possession of the vial, but on each occasion I failed in my purpose, and at length it fell into the hands of Anita Lawton. I have no more to say. Of earlier events at home in England, which you and I discussed to-night, it is better that I remain silent. You, of all men, will appreciate my motive.And now, Blaine, good-night. Please accept my heartfelt thanks for the manner in which you handled a most difficult situation to-night. You have beaten me fairly at my own game. It may be that we shall meet again, somewhere, some time. In all sincerity, yours,Arthur Bertrand Rockamore.
In view of your magnanimity to-night, I feel that this explanation––call it a confession, if you will––is your due. If you consider it your duty to give it to the world at large, you must do so, but for God’s sake be as merciful as you can to those at home, who will suffer enough, in all conscience, as the affair now stands.
Your accusation was justified. I killed Pennington Lawton in the manner and for the reason which you alleged. I made an appointment by telephone just after dinner, to call upon him late that night. I tried by every means in my power to induce him to go in on a scheme to which, unknown to him, I had already committed him. He steadfastly refused. His death was the only way for me to obviate exposure and ruin, and the disgrace of a prison sentence. I anticipated his attitude and had come prepared. During a heated period of our discussion, he walked to the desk and stood for a moment with his shoulder turned to me, searching for a paper in his private drawer. I saw my chance, and seized upon it. I was standing before his chair, I may explain, watching him over its high back. I took the vial of prussic acid from my pocket, uncorked it and poured a few drops into his high-ball glass. I had recorked the vial, and was on the point of returning it to its hiding-place, when he turned to me. Had I raised my hand to my pocket he would have noticed the gesture; as it was, the back of the chair screened me, and on a sudden desperate impulse I thrust the vial deep in the leather fold between the seat and back.
Lawton drank, and died. I left the house, as I thought, unnoticed and secure from detection. On subsequent visits to the house I endeavored to regain possession of the vial, but on each occasion I failed in my purpose, and at length it fell into the hands of Anita Lawton. I have no more to say. Of earlier events at home in England, which you and I discussed to-night, it is better that I remain silent. You, of all men, will appreciate my motive.
And now, Blaine, good-night. Please accept my heartfelt thanks for the manner in which you handled a most difficult situation to-night. You have beaten me fairly at my own game. It may be that we shall meet again, somewhere, some time. In all sincerity, yours,
Arthur Bertrand Rockamore.
The detective folded the letter slowly and returned it to its envelope. Then he sat for long buried in thought. Rockamore had taken the solitary loophole of escape from overwhelming disgrace left to him. He had, as276far as in him lay, expiated his crimes. What need, then, to blazon them forth to a gaping world? Pennington Lawton had died of heart-disease, so said the coroner. The press had echoed him, and the public accepted that fact. Only two living persons beside the coroner knew the truth, and Blaine felt sure that the gentle spirit of Anita Lawton would be merciful––her thirst for vengeance upon her father’s murderer sated by his self-inflicted death––to those of his blood, who, innocent, must be dragged in the mire by the disclosure of his infamy.
When Henry Blaine presented himself an hour later at her home, he found Anita inexpressibly shocked by the tragic event of the night.
“He was guilty!” she murmured. “He took his own life to escape falling into your hands! That gunshot was no accident, Mr. Blaine. He murdered my father in cold blood, but he has paid. I abhor his memory, and yet I can find it in my heart to be sorry for him!”
In silence, the detective placed in her hands the letter of the dead man, and watched her face as she slowly read it. When she looked up, her eyes were wet, and a tiny red spot glowed in either cheek.
“Poor Father!” she moaned. “With all his leadership and knowledge of men, he was helpless and unsuspecting in the hands of that merciless fiend! And yet even he thought of his own people at the last, and wanted to spare them. Oh, how I wish we could! If we might only keep from them forever the knowledge of his wickedness, his crime!”
“We can, if you are willing.”
Blaine met her look of startled inquiry, and replied to it with a brief résumé of his interview of the previous277evening with Rockamore. When he added his suggestion that the matter of the way in which her father came to his death be buried in oblivion, and the public left to believe the first report, she was silent for a time.
“But the coroner who performed the autopsy night before last,” she remarked, at length, hesitatingly. “He will make the truth public, will he not?”
“Not necessarily. That depends upon you. If you wish it, nothing will ever be known.”
“I think you are right, Mr. Blaine. Father’s death has been avenged; neither you nor I can do more. The man who killed him has gone to his last account. Further notoriety and scandal cannot help Father, or bring him back to me. It would only cause needless suffering to those who are no more at fault than we ourselves. If the coroner can be silenced, we will keep our secret, you and I.”
“Unless,”––Blaine’s voice was very grave––“unless it becomes necessary to divulge it in order to get the rest of them within our grasp.”
“The rest?” she looked up as if she had scarcely heard.
“Mallowe and Carlis and Paddington and the horde of lesser conspirators in their hire. We must recover your father’s immense fortune, and find out how it was possible for them to divert it to their own channels. There is Mr. Hamilton to be thought of, too––his injury, his kidnaping! If we can succeed in unraveling this mysterious tangle of events without recourse to the fact of our knowledge of the murder, well and good. If not, we must make use of whatever has come to our hand. With the rest of the malefactors brought to justice, you can afford to be magnanimous even to the dead man who has done you the most grievous wrong of all.”
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“It shall be as you say––”
She broke off suddenly as her eyes, looking beyond Blaine’s shoulder, fell upon a silent figure in the doorway.
“Mr. Mallowe!” she cried. “When did you come? How is it that Wilkes failed to announce you?”
“I arrived just at this moment.” The smooth, unctuous tones floated out upon the strained tension of the air. “I told Wilkes I would come right up. He told me Mr. Blaine was with you, and I wish to congratulate him on his marvelous success. Surely you do not mind the liberty I took in announcing myself, my dear child?”
“Not at all,” Anita responded, coldly. “To which success of Mr. Blaine’s do you refer, Mr. Mallowe?”
“Why, to his discovery of Ramon, of course.” Mr. Mallowe looked from one to the other of them as if nonplused by Anita’s unexpected attitude. Then he continued hurriedly, with a show of enthusiasm. “It was wonderful, unprecedented! But how did Ramon come to be in Mac Alarney’s retreat, and so shockingly injured?”
“The same people who ran him down the day Miss Lawton sent for him to come to her aid––the day she learned of her father’s insolvency.” Blaine spoke quickly, before the girl had an opportunity to reply. “The same people who on two other separate occasions attempted his life!”
“You cannot mean to tell me that there is some conspiracy on foot against Ramon Hamilton!” Mallowe’s face was a picture of shocked amazement. “But why? He is the most exemplary of young men, quite a model in these days––”
“Because he is a man, and prepared to protect and279defend to the last ounce of his strength the thing which he loved better than life itself––the thing which, but for him, stood helpless and alone, surrounded by enemies and hopelessly entangled in the meshes of a gigantic conspiracy!”
“You speak in riddles, Mr. Blaine.” Mallowe’s gray brows drew together.
“Riddles which will soon be answered, Mr. Mallowe. Miss Lawton’s natural protector––her father––had been ruthlessly removed by––death. Only Mr. Hamilton stood between her and the machinations of those who thought they had her in their power. Therefore, Mr. Hamilton was also removed, temporarily. Do I make myself quite clear now?”
“It is impossible, incredible! What enemies could this dear child here have made, and who could wish to harm her? Besides, am I not here? Do not I and my friends standinloco parentisto her?”
“As you doubtless are aware, one of Miss Lawton’s pseudo-guardians, at least, has involuntarily resigned his wardenship,” Blaine remarked.
“You refer to the sudden death last night of my associate, Mr. Rockamore?” Mallowe shook his head dolorously. “A terrible accident! The news was an inexpressible shock to me! It was to comfort Miss Lawton for the blow which the loss of this devoted friend must be to her that I came to-day.”
“I fancy the loss itself will be consolation enough, Mr. Mallowe. The accident was tragic, of course. It takes courage to clean a gun, sometimes––more courage, perhaps, than to spill into a glass an ingredient not usually included in a Scotch highball, let us say.”
“Mr. Blaine, if you are inclined to be facetious, sir,280let me tell you this is neither the time nor place for an attempt at a jest! When Miss Lawton called you in, the other day, and engaged you to search for Mr. Hamilton––”
“Oh, she didn’t call me in then, Mr. Mallowe! I’ve been on the case from the start, all this last month, in fact, and in close touch with Miss Lawton every day.”
Mallowe started back, the light of comprehension dawning swiftly in his eyes, only instantly to be veiled with a film of craftiness.
“What case?” he asked. “Ramon Hamilton has not been missing for a month.”
“The case of the death of Pennington Lawton! The case of his fraudulently alleged bankruptcy! The case of the whole damnable conspiracy to crush this girl to the earth, to impoverish her and tarnish the fair name and honored memory of her father. It’s cards on the table now, Mr. Mallowe, and I’m going to win!”
“You must be mad!” exclaimed the older man. “This talk of a conspiracy is ridiculous, absurd!”
“Mr. Rockamore called me ‘mad,’ also, yesterday afternoon, standing just where you stand now, Mr. Mallowe.” The detective met the lowering eyes squarely. “Yet he went home and––accidentally shot himself! A curiously opportune shot that! Miss Lawton’s enemies depended too confidently upon her credulity in accepting without question the unsubstantiated assertion of her father’s insolvency. They did not take into account the possibility that their henchman, Paddington, might fail, or turn traitor; that Mac Alarney might talk to save his own hide; that Jimmy Brunell’s forgeries might be traced to their source; that the books in the office of the Recorder of Deeds might divulge interesting items to those sufficiently concerned to delve281into the files of past years! You discharged your clerk on the flimsiest of excuses, Mr. Mallowe––but you did not discharge her quite soon enough. Rockamore’s stenographer, and the switchboard operator in Carlis’ office,––who, like your filing clerk, came from Miss Lawton’s club,––were also dismissed too late. As I have said, my cards are on the table now. Are you prepared to play yours?”
For answer, Mallowe turned slowly to Anita, his face a study of pained surprise and indignation.
“My dear girl, I do not understand one word of what this person is saying, but he is either mad, or intoxicated with his success in locating Ramon, to the extent that he is endeavoring to build up a fictitious case on a maze of lies. Any notoriety will bring him welcome publicity, and that is all he is looking for. I shall take immediate steps to have his incomprehensible and dangerous allegation suppressed. Such a man is a menace to the community! In the meantime, I must beg of you to dismiss him at once. Do not listen to him, do not allow him to influence you! You are only an impulsive, credulous girl, and he is using you as a mere tool for his own ends. I cannot imagine how you happened to fall into his clutches.”
Anita faced him, straight and slim and tall, and her soft eyes seemed fairly to burn into his.
“I am not so credulous as you think, Mr. Mallowe. I never for a moment believed your assertion that my father died a pauper, and I took immediate steps to disprove it. Doctor Franklin was your tool, when he came to me with your message, but not I! And I shouldn’t advise you to try, at this late date, to ‘suppress’ Mr. Blaine. Many other malefactors have attempted it, I understand, in the past, but I never heard of any of them282meeting with conspicuous success. You and my other two self-appointed guardians must have been desperate indeed to have risked trying to hoodwink me with so ridiculous and vague a story as that of the loss of my father’s fortune!”
“This is too much!” Mallowe stormed. “Young woman, you forget yourself! Because of the evil suggestions, the malevolent influence of this man’s plausible lies, are you such an ingrate as to turn upon your only friends, your father’s intimate, life-long associates, the people who have, from disinterested motives of the purest kindness and affection, provided for you, comforted you, and shielded you from the world? Anita, I cannot believe it of you! I will leave you, now. I am positively overcome with this added shock of your ingratitude and willful deceit, coming so soon after the blow of my poor friend’s death. I trust you will be in a thoroughly repentant frame of mind when next I see you.
“As for you, sir!” He turned to the immovable figure of the detective. “I will soon show you what it means to meddle with matters which do not concern you––to pit yourself arrogantly against the biggest power in this country!”
“The biggest power in this or any other country is the power of justice.” Blaine’s voice rang out trenchantly. “When you and your associates planned this desperatecoup, it was as a last resort. You had involved yourselves too deeply; you had gone too far to retrace your steps. You were forced to go on forward––and now your path is closed with bars of iron!”
“I will not remain here any longer to be insulted! Miss Lawton, I shall never cross the threshold of this house again––this house, which only by my charity283you have been suffered to remain in––until you apologize for the disgraceful scene here this morning. I can only hope that you will soon come to your senses!”
As he strode indignantly from the room, Anita turned anxiously to Henry Blaine.
“Oh, what will he do?” she whispered. “He is really a power, a money-power, you know, Mr. Blaine! Where will he go now?”
“Straight to hisconfrèreCarlis, and tell him that the game is up.” The detective spoke with brisk confidence. “He’ll be tailed by my men, anyway, so we shall soon have a report. Don’t see anyone, on any pretext whatsoever, and don’t leave the house, Miss Lawton. I will instruct Wilkes on my way out, that you are to be at home to no one. I must be getting back to my office now. If I am not mistaken, I shall receive a visit without unnecessary delay from my old friend Timothy Carlis, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”
Blaine’s prediction proved to have been well founded. Scarcely an hour passed, and he was deep in the study of some of his earlier notes on the case, when all at once a hubbub arose in his outer office. Usually quiet and well-ordered, its customary stillness was broken by a confused, expostulatory murmur of voices, above which rose a strident, angry bellow, like that of a maddened wild beast. Then a chair was violently overturned; the sudden sharp sound of a scuffle came to the detective’s listening ears; and the door was dashed open with a jar which made the massive inkstand upon the desk quiver.
Timothy Carlis stood upon the threshold––Timothy Carlis, his face empurpled, the great veins upon his low-slanting forehead standing out like whipcords, his huge, spatulate hands clenched, his narrow, slit eyes gleaming murderously.
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“So you’re here, after all!” he roared. “Those d––d fools out there tried to give me the wrong steer, but I was wise to ’em. You buffaloed Rockamore, and that senile old idiot, Mallowe, but you can’t bluff me! I came here to see you, and I usually get what I go after!”
“Having seen me, Carlis, will you kindly state your business and go? This promises to be one of my busiest days. What can I do for you?” Blaine leaned back in his chair, with a bland smile of pleased expectancy.
“It ain’t what youcando; it’s what you’regoin’to do, and no mistake about it!” the other glowered. “You’re goin’ to keep your mouth shut as tight as a trap, and your hands off, from now on! Oh, you know what I mean, right enough. Don’t try to work the surprised gag on me!”
He added the latter with a coarse sneer which further distorted his inflamed visage. Blaine, with an expression of sharp inquiry, had whirled around in his swivel chair to face his excited visitor, and as he did so, his hand, with seeming inadvertence, had for an instant come in contact with the under ledge of his desk-top.
“I’m afraid, much as I desire not to prolong this unexpected interview, that I must ask you to explain just what it is that I must keep my hands off of, as you say. We will go into the wherefore of it later.”
Carlis glanced back of him into the empty hallway, then closed the door and came forward menacingly.
“What’s the good of beating about the bush?” he demanded, in a fierce undertone. “You know d––n’ well what I mean: you’re butting in on the Lawton affair. You’ve bitten off more than you can chew, and you’d better wise yourself up to that, here and now!”
“Just what is the Lawton affair?”