"Yes, she and the Colonel made the fire and started the coffee."
"Ah!" said Terry with a note of satisfaction in his voice. "The matter begins to clear. Was Colonel Gaylord in the habit of smoking?"
"He smoked one cigar after every meal."
"Never any more than that?"
"No, the doctor had limited him. The Colonel grumbled about it regularly, and always smoked the biggest blackest cigar he could find."
"And where did he get his matches?"
"Solomon passed the brass match box from the dining-room mantelpiece just as he passed it to us to-night."
"Colonel Gaylord was not in the habit of carrying matches in his pockets then?"
"No, I think not."
"We may safely assume," said Terry, "that in this matter of making the fire, if the two were working together, the Colonel was on his knees arranging the sticks while Mrs. Mathers was standing by, giving directions. That, I believe, is the usual division of labor. Well, then, they get to the point of needing a light. The Colonel feels through his pockets, finds that he hasn't a match and—what happens?"
"What did happen," I broke in, "was that Mrs. Mathers turned to a group of us who were standing talking at one side, and asked if any of us had a match, and Rad handed her his box. That is the last anyone remembers about it."
"Exactly!" said Terry. "And I think I can tell you the rest. You can see for yourself what took place. Mrs. Mathers went back to the spot where they were building the fire, and the Colonel took the match box from her. No man is ever going to stand by and watch a woman strike a match—he can do it so much better himself. At this point, Mrs. Mathers—by her own testimony—was calledaway, and she doesn't remember anything further about the box. She thinks that she returned it. Why? For no reason on earth except that she usually returns things. As a matter of fact, however, she didn't do it this time. She was called away and the Colonel was left to light the fire alone. He recognized the box as his son's and he dropped it into his pocket. At another time perhaps he would have walked over and handed it back; but not then. The two were not speaking to each other. Later, at the time of the struggle in the cave, the box fell from the old man's pocket, and formed a most damaging piece of circumstantial evidence against his son.
"On the whole," Terry finished, "I do not think we shall have a very difficult time in clearing Radnor. I had arrived at my own conclusions concerning him from reading the papers; what extra data I needed, I managed to glean from Solomon's lies. And as for you," he added, gazing across at me with an imperturbable grin, "I think you were wise in deciding to be a corporation lawyer."
"And now," said Terry, lighting a fresh cigar, and after a few preliminary puffs, settling down to work again, "we will consider the case of Cat-Eye Mose—a beautiful name, by the way, and apparently a beautiful character. It won't be my fault if we don't make a beautiful story out of him. You, yourself, I believe, hold the opinion that he committed the murder?"
"I am sure of it," I cried.
"In that case," laughed Terry, "I should be inclined to think him innocent."
I shrugged my shoulders. There was nothing to be gained by getting angry. If Terry chose to regard the solving of a murder mystery in the light of a joke, I had nothing to say; though I did think he might have realized that to me, at least, it was a serious matter.
"And you base your suspicions, do you not, upon the fact that he has queer eyes?"
"Not entirely."
"Upon what then?"
"Upon the fact that he took part in the struggle which ended in my uncle's death."
"Well, certainly, that does seem rather conclusive—there is no mistake about the foot-prints?"
"None whatever; the Mathers niggers both wore shoes, and anyway they didn't go into the cave."
"In that case I suppose it's fair to assume that Mose took part in the struggle. Whether he was the only man or whether there was still a third, the cave itself ought to tell a pretty clear story."
Terry rose and paced up and down the room once or twice, and then came back and picked up one of the newspaper clippings.
"It says here that the boot marks of two different men are visible."
"That's the sheriff's opinion," I replied. "Though I myself, can't make out anything but the marks of Mose and the Colonel. Iexamined everything carefully, but it's awfully mixed up, you know. One really can't tell much about it."
Terry impatiently flung himself into the chair again.
"I ought to have come down last week! If I had supposed you people could muddle matters up so thoroughly I should. I dare say you've trampled the whole place over till there isn't one of the original marks left."
"Look here, Terry," I said. "You act as if Virginia belonged to you. We've all been working our heads off over this business, and you come in at the last moment and quarrel with our data. You can go over tomorrow morning and collect your own evidence if you think it's so far superior to anyone else's. The marks are just as they were. Boards have been laid over them and nothing's been disturbed."
"You're rather done up, old man," Terry remarked, smiling across at me good-humoredly. "Of course it's quite on the cards that Cat-Eye Mose committed the crime—but there are a number of objections. As Iunderstand it, he has the reputation of being a harmless, peaceable fellow not very bright but always good-natured. He never resented an injury, was never known to quarrel with anyone, took what was given him and said thank you. He loved Colonel Gaylord and watched over his interests as jealously as a dog. Well now, is a man who has had this reputation all his life, a man whom everybody trusts, very likely to go off the hook as suddenly as that and—with no conceivable motive—brutally kill the master he has served so faithfully? A man's future is in a large measure determined by his past."
"That may all be true enough," I said, "but it is very possible that people were deceived in Mose. I have been suspicious of him from the moment I laid eyes on him. You may think it unfair to judge a man from his physical appearance, but I wish you could once see Cat-Eye Mose yourself, and you would know what I mean. The people around here are used to him and don't notice it so much, but his eyes are yellow—positively yellow, and they narrow in the light just like a cat's. Onenight he drove Radnor and me home from a party, and I could actually see his eyes shining in the dark. It's the most gruesome thing I ever saw; and take that on top of his habits—he carries snakes around in the front of his shirt—really, one suspects him of anything."
"I hope he isn't dead," Terry murmured wistfully. "I'd like a personal interview."
He sat sunk down in his chair for several minutes intently examining the end of his fountain pen.
"Well," he said rousing himself, "it's time we had a shy at the ghost. We must find out in what way Radnor and Mose were connected with him, and in what way he was connected with the robbery. Radnor could help us considerably if he would only talk—the fact that he won't talk is very suggestive. We'll get at the truth without him, though. Suppose you begin and tell me everything from the first appearance of the ha'nt. I should like to get him tabulated."
"The first definite thing that reached the house," I replied, "was the night of myarrival when the roast chicken was stolen—I've told you that in detail."
"And it was that same night that Aunt What-Ever-Her-Name-Is saw the ghost in the laurel walk?"
I nodded.
"Did she say what it looked like?"
"It was white."
"And when you searched the cabins did you go into the one where the grain is stored?"
"No, Mose dropped his torch at the entrance. And anyway Rad said there was no use in searching it; it was already full to the brim with sacks of corn meal."
"Do you think that Radnor was trying to divert you from the scene?"
"No, I am sure he hadn't a suspicion himself."
"And what did the thing look like that you saw Mose carrying to the cabins in the night?"
"It seemed to be a large black bundle. I have thought since that it might have been clothes or blankets or something of that sort."
"So much for the first night," said Terry. "Now, how soon did the ghost appear again?"
"Various things were stolen after that, andthe servants attributed it to the ha'nt, but the first direct knowledge I had was the night of the party when Radnor acted so strangely. I told you of his going back in the night."
"He was carrying something too?"
"Yes, he had a black bundle—it might have been clothes."
"And after that he and Mose were in constant consultation?"
"Yes—they both encouraged the belief in the ha'nt among the negroes and did their best to keep everyone away from the laurel walk. I overheard Mose several times telling stories to the other negroes about the terrible things the ha'nt would do if it caught them."
"And he himself didn't show any fear over the stories?"
"Not the slightest—appeared rather to enjoy them."
"And Radnor—how did he take the matter?"
"He was moody and irritable. I could see that something was preying on his mind."
"How did you explain the matter to yourself?"
"I was afraid he had fallen into the clutchesof someone who was threatening him, possibly levying blackmail."
"But you didn't make any attempt to discover the truth?"
"Well, it was Rad's own affair, and I didn't want the appearance of spying. I did keep my eyes open as much as I could."
"And the Colonel, how did he take all this excitement about the ha'nt?"
"It bothered him considerably, but Rad kept him from hearing it as much as he could."
"When did the ha'nt appear again after the party?"
"Oh, by that time all sorts of rumors were running about among the negroes. The whole place was haunted and several of the plantation hands had left. But the next thing that we heard directly was in the early evening before the robbery when Mose, appearing terribly frightened, said he had seen the ha'nt rising in a cloud of blue smoke out of the spring-hole."
"And how did the Colonel and Radnor take this?"
"The Colonel was angry because he had been bragging about Mose not being afraid, and Rad was dazed. He didn't know what to think; he hustled Mose out of the way before we could ask any questions."
"And what did you think?"
"Well, I fancied at the time that he had really seen something, but as I thought it over in the light of later events I came to the conclusion that he was shamming, both then and in the middle of the night when he roused the house."
"That is, you wished to think him shamming, in order to prove his complicity in the robbery and the murder; and so you twisted the facts to suit your theory?"
"I don't think you can say that," I returned somewhat hotly. "It's merely a question of interpreting the facts."
"He didn't gain much by raising all that hullabaloo in the middle of the night."
"Why yes, that was done in order to throw suspicion on the ha'nt."
"Oh, I see!" laughed Terry. "Well, now, let's get to the end of this matter. Wasany more seen of the ha'nt after that night?"
"No, at least not directly. For five or six days everyone was so taken up with the robbery that the ha'nt excitement rather died down. Then I believe there were some rumors among the negroes but nothing much reached the house."
"And since the murder nothing whatever has been seen of the ha'nt?"
I shook my head.
"Just give me a list of the things that were stolen."
"Well, the roast chicken, a box of cigars, some shirts off the line, a suit of Rad's pajamas, a French novel, some brandy, quite a lot of things to eat—fresh loaves of bread, preserves, a boiled ham, sugar, coffee—oh, any amount of stuff! The niggers simply helped themselves and laid it to the ha'nt. One of the carriages was left out one night, and in the morning the cushions were gone and two lap robes. At the same time a water pail was taken and a pair of Jake's overalls. And then to end up came the robbery of the safe."
"The ha'nt had catholic tastes. Any of the things turned up since?"
"Yes, a number of things, such as blankets and clothes and dishes have gradually drifted back."
"The carriage cushions and lap robes—ever find them?"
"Never a trace—and why anyone should want 'em, I don't know!"
"What color were the lap robes?"
"Plain black broadcloth."
Terry got up and paced about a few moments and then came back and sat down.
"One thing is clear," he said, "there are two ha'nts."
"Two ha'nts! What do you mean?"
"Just what I say. Suppose for convenience we call them ha'nt number one, and ha'nt number two. Number one occupied apartments over the grain bin and haunted the laurel walk. He was white—I don't wonder at that if he spent much time crawling over those flour sacks. He smoked cigars and read French novels; Mose waited on him and Radnor knew about him—and didn't get muchenjoyment out of the knowledge. It took money to get rid of him—a hundred dollars down and the promise of more to come. Radnor himself drove him off in the carriage the night he left, and Mose obliterated all traces of his presence. So much for number one.
"As for number two, he appeared three or four days before the robbery and haunted pretty much the whole place, especially the region of the spring-hole. In appearance he was nine feet tall, transparent, and black. Smoke came from his mouth and blue flames from his eyes. There was a sulphurous odor about him. He was first seen rising out of the spring-hole, and there is a passage in the bottom of the spring-hole that leads straight down to hell. Solomon is my authority.
"I asked him how he explained the apparition and he reckoned it was the ghost of the slave who was beaten to death, and that since his old master had come back to haunt the laurel walk, he had come back to haunt his old master. That sounds to me like a plausible explanation. As soon as it's light I'll have a look at the spring-hole."
"Terry," I said disgustedly, "that may make a very picturesque newspaper story, but it doesn't help much in unravelling the mystery."
"It helps a good deal. I would not like to swear to the flames or sulphur or the passage down to hell, but the fact that he was tall and black and comes from the spring-hole is significant. He was black—mark that—so were the stolen lap robes.
"Now you see how the matter stands on the night of the robbery. While ghost number one was out driving with Radnor, ghost number two entered the house through the open library window, found the safe ajar and helped himself. Let's consider what he took—five thousand dollars in government bonds, two deeds, an insurance policy, and a quart of small change—a very suggestive lot of loot if you think about it enough. After the robbery he disappeared, nothing seen of him for five or six days; then he turned up again for a day or so, and finally disappeared forever. So much for ha'nt number two. He's the party we're after. He pretty certainly robbed thesafe and he possibly committed the murder—as to that I won't have any proof until I see the cave."
He stretched his arms with a laugh.
"Oh, this isn't so bad! All we've got to do now is to identify those two ghosts."
"I'm glad if you think it's so easy," I said somewhat sullenly. "But I will tell you one thing, if you go to basing any deductions on Solomon's stories you'll find yourself bumping against a stone wall."
"We'll have Rad over to dinner with us tomorrow night," Terry declared.
He rose and pulled out his watch.
"It's a quarter before ten. I think it's time you went to bed. You look about played out. You haven't been sleeping much of late?"
"No, I can't say that I have."
"I ought to have come down at once," said Terry, "but I'm always so blamed afraid of hurting people's feelings."
I stared slightly. I had never considered that one of Terry's weak points, but as he seemed to be quite in earnest, I let the remark pass.
"Do you think I could knock up one of thestable-men to drive me to the village? I know it's pretty late but I've got to send a couple of telegrams."
"Telegrams?" I demanded. "Where to?"
Terry laughed.
"Well, I must send a word to the Post-Dispatch to the effect that the Luray mystery grows more mysterious every hour. That the police have been wasting their energies on the wrong scent, but that the Post-Dispatch's special correspondent has arrived on the scene, and that we may accordingly look for a speedy solution."
"What is the second one?" I asked.
"To your friend, the police commissioner of Seattle."
"You don't think that Jeff—?"
"My dear fellow, I don't think, unless I have facts to think about.—Don't look so nervous; I'm not accusing him of anything. I merely want more details than you got; I'm a newspaper man, remember, and I like local color even in telegrams. And now, go to bed; and for heaven's sake, go to sleep. The case is in the hands of the Post-Dispatch's young man, and you needn't worry any more."
I was wakened the next morning by Terry clumping into my room dressed in riding breeches and boots freshly spattered with mud.
They were Radnor's clothes—Terry had taken me at my word and was thoroughly at home.
"Hello, old man!" he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Been asleep, haven't you? Sorry to wake you, but we've got a day's work ahead. Hope you don't mind my borrowing Radnor's togs. Didn't come down prepared for riding. Solomon gave 'em to me—seemed to think that Radnor wouldn't need 'em any more. Oh, Solomon and I are great friends!" he added with a laugh, as he suddenly appeared to remember the object of his visit and commenced a search through his pockets.
I sat up in bed and watched him impatiently. It was evident that he had some news, and equally evident that he was going to be as leisurely as possible about imparting it.
"This is a pretty country," he remarked as he finished with his coat pockets and commenced on the waistcoat. "It would be almost worth living in if many little affairs like this occurred to keep things going."
"Really, Terry," I said, "when you refer to my uncle's murder as a 'little affair' I think you're going too far!"
"Oh, I beg your pardon," he returned good-naturedly, "I guess I am incorrigible. I didn't know Colonel Gaylord personally, you see, and I'm so used to murders that I've come to think it's the only natural way of dying. Anyhow," he added, as he finally produced a yellow envelope, "I've got something here that will interest you. It explains why our young friend Radnor didn't want to talk."
He tossed the envelope on the bed and I eagerly tore out the telegram. It was from the police commissioner in Seattle and it ran:
"Jefferson Gaylord returned Seattle May fifth after absence six weeks. Said to have visited old home Virginia. Had been wanted by police. Suspected implication in case obtaining money false pretences. Mistaken charge. Case dismissed."
"Jefferson Gaylord returned Seattle May fifth after absence six weeks. Said to have visited old home Virginia. Had been wanted by police. Suspected implication in case obtaining money false pretences. Mistaken charge. Case dismissed."
"What does it mean?" I asked.
"It means," said Terry, "that we've spotted ghost number one. It was clear from the first that Radnor was trying to shield someone, even at the expense of his own reputation. Leaving women out of the case, that pointed pretty straight toward his elder brother. Part of your theory was correct, the only trouble being that you carried it too far. You made Jeff commit both the robbery and the murder, while as a matter of fact he did neither. Then when you found a part of your theory was untenable you rejected the whole of it.
"This is how the matter stood: Jeff Gaylord was pretty desperately in need of money. I suspect that the charge against him, whatever it was, was true. The money he had takenhad to be returned and somebody's silence bought before the thing could be hushed up. Anyway, Seattle was too hot to hold him and he lit out and came East. He applied to Radnor, but Radnor was in a tight place himself and couldn't lay his hands on anything except what his father had given him for a birthday present. That was tied up in another investment and if he converted it into cash it would be at a sacrifice. So it ran along for a week or so, while Rad was casting about for a means of getting his brother out of the way without any fresh scandal. But Mose's suddenly taking to seeing ha'nts precipitated matters. Realizing that his father's patience had reached its limit, and that he couldn't keep you off the scent much longer, he determined to borrow the money for Jeff's journey back to Seattle, and to close up his own investment.
"That same night he drove Jeff to the station at Kennisburg. The Washington express does not stop at Lambert Junction, and anyway Kennisburg is a bigger station and travellers excite less comment. This isn'tdeduction; it's fact. I rode to Kennisburg this morning and proved it. The station man remembers selling Radnor Gaylord a ticket to Washington in the middle of the night about three weeks ago. Some man who waited outside and whose face the agent did not see, boarded the train, and Rad drove off alone. The ticket seller does not know Rad personally but he knows him by sight—so much for that. Rad came home and went to bed. When he came down stairs in the morning he was met by the information that the ha'nt had robbed the safe. You can see what instantly jumped into his mind—some way, somehow, Jeff had taken those bonds—and yet figure on it as he might, he could not see how it was possible. The robbery seemed to have occurred while he was away. Could Jeff merely have pretended to leave? Might he have slipped off the train again and come back? Those are the questions that were bothering Radnor. He was honest in saying that he could not imagine how the bonds had been stolen, and yet he was also honest in not wanting to know the truth."
"He might have confided in me," I said.
"It would have been a good deal better if he had. But in order to understand Rad's point of view, you must take into account Jeff's character. He appears to have been a reckless, dashing, headstrong, but exceedingly attractive fellow. His father put up with his excesses for six years before the final quarrel. Cat-Eye Mose, so old Jake tells me, moped for months after his disappearance. Rad, as a little fellow, worshipped his bad but charming brother.—There you have it. Jeff turns up again with a hard luck story, and Mose and Radnor both go back to their old allegiance.
"Jeff is in a bad hole, a fugitive from justice with the penitentiary waiting for him. He confesses the whole thing to Radnor—extenuating circumstances plausibly to the fore. He has been dishonest, but unintentionally so. He wishes to straighten up and lead a respectable life. If he had, say fifteen hundred dollars, he could quash the indictment against him. He is Radnor's brother and the Colonel's son, but Rad is to receive a fortune whilehe is to be disinherited. The money he asks now is only his right. If he receives it he will disappear and trouble Rad no more.—That, I fancy, is the line of argument our returned prodigal used. Anyway, he won Rad over. Radnor was thinking of getting married, had plenty of use for all the money he could lay his hands on, but he seems to be a generous chap, and he sacrificed himself.
"For obvious reasons Jeff wished his presence kept a secret, and Rad and Mose respected his wishes. After the robbery Radnor was too sick at the thought that his brother may have betrayed him, to want to do anything but hush the matter up. At the news of the murder he did not know what to think; he would not believe Jeff guilty, and yet he did not see any other way out."
Terry paused a moment and leaned forward with an excited gleam in his eye.
"That," he said, "is the whole truth about ghost number one. Our business now is to track down number two, and here, as a starter are the missing bonds."
He tossed a pile of mildewed papers on the bed and met my astonishment with a triumphant chuckle.
It was true—all five of the missing bonds were there, the May first coupons still uncut. Also the deeds and insurance policy, exactly as they had left the safe, except that they were damp and mud-stained.
I stared for a moment too amazed to speak. Finally, "Where did you find them?" I gasped.
Terry regarded me with a tantalizing laugh.
"Exactly where I thought I'd find them. Oh, I've been out early this morning! I saw the sun rise, and breakfasted in Kennisburg at six forty-five. I'm ready for another breakfast though. Hurry up and dress. We've got a day's work before us. I'm off to the stables to talk 'horses' with Uncle Jake; when you're ready for breakfast send Solomon after me."
"Terry," I implored, "where on the face of the earth did you find those bonds?"
"At the mouth of the passage to hell," said Terry gravely, "but I'm not quite sure myself who put them there."
"Mose?" I queried eagerly.
"It might have been—and it might not." He waved his hand airily and withdrew.
At breakfast Terry drank two cups of coffee and subsided into thought. I could get no more from him on the subject of the bonds; he was not sure himself, was all the satisfaction he would give. When the meal was half over, to Solomon's dismay, he suddenly rose without noticing a new dish of chicken livers that had just appeared at his elbow.
"Come on," he said impatiently, "you've had enough to eat. I've got to see those marks while they're still there. I'm desperately afraid an earthquake will swallow that cave before I get a chance at them."
Fifteen minutes later we were bowling down the lane behind the fastest pair of horses in the Gaylord stables, and through the prettiest country in the State of Virginia. Terry sat with his hands in his pockets and hiseyes on the dash-board. As we came to the four corners at the valley-pike I reined in.
"Would you rather go the short way over the mountains by a very rough road, or the long way through Kennisburg?" I inquired.
"What's that?" he asked. "Oh, the short way by all means—but first I want to call at the Mathers's."
"It would simply be a waste of time."
"It won't take long—and since Radnor won't talk I've got to get at the facts from the other end. Besides, I want to see Polly myself."
"Miss Mathers knows nothing about the matter," said I as stiffly as possible.
"Doesn't she!" said Terry. "She knows a good many things, and it's about time she told them.—At any rate, you must admit that she's the owner of the unfortunate coat that caused the trouble; I want to ask her some questions about that. Why can't girls learn to carry their own coats? It would save a lot of trouble."
It ended by my driving, with a very bad grace, to Mathers Hall.
"You wait here until I come out," said Terry, coolly, as I drew up by the stepping stone and commenced fumbling for a hitching strap.
"Not much!" said I. "If you interview Polly Mathers I shall be present at the interview."
"Oh, very well!" he returned resignedly. "If you'd let me go about it my own way, though, I'd get twice as much out of her."
The family were at breakfast, the servant informed me. I left Terry in the parlor while I went on to the dining-room to explain the object of our visit.
"There is a friend of mine here from New York to help us about the trial"—I thought it best to suppress his real profession—"and he wants to interview Miss Polly in regard to the coat. I am very sorry—"
"Certainly," said Mrs. Mathers, "Polly is only too glad to help in any way possible."
And to my chagrin Polly excused herself and withdrew to the parlor, while her father kept me listening to a new and not veryvaluable theory of his in regard to the disappearance of Mose. It was fifteen minutes before I made my escape and knocked on the parlor door. I turned the knob and went in without waiting for a summons.
The Mathers's parlor is a long cool dim room with old-fashioned mahogany furniture and jars of roses scattered about. It was so dark after the bright sunshine of the rest of the house, that for a moment I didn't discover the occupants until the sound of Polly's sobbing proclaimed their whereabouts. I was somewhat taken aback to find her sitting in a corner of the big horsehair sofa, her head buried in the cushions, while Terry, nonchalantly leaning back in his chair, regarded her with much the expression that he might have worn at a "first night" at the theatre. It might also be noted that Polly wore a white dress with a big bunch of roses in her belt, that her hair was becomingly rumpled by the cushion, and that she was not crying hard enough to make her eyes red.
"Hello, old man!" said Terry and I fancied that his tone was not entirely cordial. "Justsit down and listen to this. We've been having some interesting disclosures."
Polly raised her head and cast him a reproachful glance, while with a limp wave of the hand she indicated a chair.
I settled myself and inquired reassuringly, "Well, Polly, what's the trouble?"
"You tell him," said Polly to Terry, as she settled herself to cry again.
"I'll tell you," said Terry, glancing warily at me, "but it's a secret, remember. You mustn't let any of those horrid newspaper men get hold of it. Miss Mathers would hate awfully to have anything like this get into the papers."
"Oh, go on, Terry," said I, crossly, "if you've got anything to tell, for heaven's sake tell it!"
"Well, as far as we'd got when you interrupted, was that that afternoon in the cave she and Radnor had somehow got separated from the rest of the party and gone on ahead. They sat down to wait for the others on the fallen column, and while they were waiting Radnor asked her tomarry him, for the seventh—or was it the eighth time?"
"The seventh, I think," said Polly.
"It's happened so often that, she's sort of lost track; but anyway, she replied by asking him if he knew the truth about the ghost. He said, yes, he did, but he couldn't tell her; it was somebody else's secret. On his word of honor though there was nothing that he was to blame for. She said she wouldn't marry a man who had secrets. He said that unless she took him now, she would never have the chance again; it was the last time he was going to ask her—is that straight, Miss Mathers?"
"Y-yes," sobbed Polly from the depths of her cushion.
Terry proceeded with a fast broadening smile; it was evident that he enjoyed the recital.
"And then being naturally angry that any man should presume to propose for the last time, she proceeded to be 'perfectly horrid' to him.—Go on, Miss Mathers. That's as far as you'd got."
"I—I told him—you won't tell anyone?"
"No."
"I told him I'd decided to marry Jim Mattison."
"Ah—" said Terry. "Now we're getting at it! If you don't mind my asking, Miss Mathers, was that just a bluff on your part, or had Mr. Mattison really asked you?"
Polly sat up and eyed him with a sparkle of resentment.
"Certainly, he'd asked me—a dozen times."
"I beg pardon!" murmured Terry. "So now you're engaged to Mr. Mattison?"
"Oh, no!" cried Polly. "Jim doesn't know I said it—I didn't mean it; I just wanted to make Radnor mad."
"I see! So it was a bluff after all? Were you successful in making him mad?"
She nodded dismally.
"What did he say?"
"Oh, he was awfully angry! He said that if he never amounted to anything it would be my fault."
"And then what?"
"We heard the others coming and he started off. I called after him and asked him where he was going, and he said he was going to the d—devil."
Polly began to cry again, and Terry chuckled slightly.
"As a good many other young men have said under similar circumstances. But where he did go, was to the hotel; and there, it appears, he drank two glasses of brandy and swore at the stable boy.—Is that all, Miss Mathers?"
"Yes; it's the last time I ever saw him and he thinks I'm engaged to Jim Mattison."
"See here, Polly," said I with some excusable heat, "now why in thunder didn't you tell me all this before?"
"You didn't ask me."
"She was afraid that it would get into the papers," said Terry, soothingly. "It would be a terrible scandal to have anything like that get out. The fact that Radnor Gaylord was likely to be hanged for a murder he never committed, was in comparison a minor affair."
Polly turned upon him with a flash of gray eyes.
"I was going to tell before the trial. I didn't know the inquest made any difference.I would have told the coroner the morning he came to take my testimony, only he brought Jim Mattison with him as a witness, and I couldn't explain before Jim."
"That would have been awkward," Terry agreed.
"Polly," said I, severely. "This is inexcusable! If you had explained to me in the first place, the jury would never have remanded Radnor for trial."
"But I thought you would find the real murderer, and then Radnor would be set free. It would be awful to tell that story before a whole room full of people and have Jim Mattison hear it. I detest Jim Mattison!"
"Be careful what you say," said Terry. "You may have to take Jim Mattison after all. Radnor Gaylord will never ask you again."
"Then I'll ask him!" said Polly.
Terry laughed and rose.
"He's in a bad hole, Miss Mathers, but I'm not sure but that I envy him after all."
Polly dimpled through her tears; this was the language she understood.
"Good by," she said. "You'll remember your promise?"
"Never a syllable will I breathe," said Terry, and he put a hand on my shoulder and marched me off.
"She's a fascinating young person," he observed, as we turned into the road.
"You are not the first to discover that," said I.
"I fancy I'm not!" he retorted with a sidewise glance at me.
Terry gazed at the landscape a few moments with a pensive light in his eyes, then he threw back his head and laughed.
"Thank heaven, women don't go in for crime to any great extent! You're never safe in forming any theory about 'em—their motives and their actions don't match."
He paused to light a cigar and as soon as he got it well started took up the conversation again.
"It's just as I suspected in regard to Rad, though I will say the papers furnished mighty few clues. It was the coat that put me on the track coupled with his behavior at the hotel.You see his emotions when he came out of that cave were mixed. There was probably a good deal of disappointment and grief down below his anger, but that for the moment was decidedly in the lead. He had been badly treated, and he knew it. What's more, he didn't care who else knew it. He was in a thoroughly vicious mood and ready to wreak his anger on the first thing that came to hand. That happened to be his horse. By the time he got home he had expended the most of his temper and his disappointment had come to the top. You found him wrestling with that. By evening he had brought his philosophy into play, and had probably decided to brace up and try again. And that," he finished, "is the whole story of our young gentleman's erratic behavior."
"I wonder I didn't think of it myself," I said.
Terry smiled and said nothing.
"Radnor is naturally not loquacious about the matter," he resumed presently. "For one thing, because he does not wish to drag Polly's name into it, for another, I suppose he feelsthat if anyone is to do the explaining, she ought to be the one. He supposed that she would be present at the inquest and that her testimony would bring out sufficient facts to clear him. When he found that she was not there, and that her testimony did not touch on any important phase of the matter, he simply shut his mouth and said, 'Very well! If she won't tell, I won't.' Also, the coroner's manner was unfortunate. He showed that his sympathy was on the other side; and Radnor stubbornly determined not to say one word more than was dragged out of him by main force. It is much the attitude of the little boy who has been unfairly punished, and who derives an immense amount of satisfaction from the thought of how sorry his friends will be when he is dead. And now, I think we have Rad's case well in hand. In spite of the fact that he seems bound to be hung, we shall not have much difficulty in getting him off."
"But what I can't understand," I grumbled, "is why that little wretch didn't tell me a word of all this. She came and informed me off-hand that he was innocent and asked me toclear him, with never a hint that she could explain the most suspicious circumstance against him."
"You've got me," Terry laughed. "I give up when it comes to finding out why women do things. If you hadaskedher, you know, she would have told you; but you never said a word about it."
"How could I ask her when I didn't know anything about it?"
"I managed to ask her," said Terry, "and what's more," he added gloomily, "I promised it shouldn't go any further—that is, than is necessary to get Rad off. Now don't you call that pretty tough luck, after coming 'way down here just to find out the truth, not to be allowed to print it when I've got it? How in the deuce am I to account for Rad's behavior without mentioning her?"
"You needn't have promised," I suggested.
"Oh, well," Terry grinned, "I'm human!"
I let this pass and he added hastily, "We've disposed of Jeff; we've disposed of Radnor, but the real murderer is still to be found."
"And that," I declared, "is Cat-Eye Mose."
"It's possible," agreed Terry with a shrug. "But I have just the tiniest little entering wedge of a suspicion that the real murderer is not Cat-Eye Mose."
"There is Luray," I said, pointing with my whip to the scattered houses of the village as they lay in the valley at our feet.
Terry stretched out a hand and pulled the horses to a standstill.
"Whoa, just a minute till I get my bearings. Now, in which direction is the cave?"
"It extends all along underneath us. The entrance is over there in the undergrowth about a mile to the east."
"And the woods extend straight across the mountain in an unbroken line?"
"Pretty much so. There are a few farms scattered in."
"How about the farmers? Are they well-to-do around here?"
"I think on the whole they are."
"Which do they employ mostly to work in the fields, negroes or white men?"
"As to that I can't say. It depends largely on circumstances. I think the smaller farms are more likely to employ white men."
"Let me see," said Terry, "this is just about planting time. Are the farmers likely to take on extra men at this season?"
"No, I don't think so; harvest time is when they are more likely to need help."
"Farming is new to me," laughed Terry. "East Side problems don't involve it. A man of Mose's habits could hide pretty effectually in those woods if he chose." He scanned the hills again and then brought his eyes back to the village. "I suppose we might as well go on to the hotel first. I should like to interview some of the people there. And by the way," he added, "it's as well not to let them know I'm a friend of yours—or a newspaper man either. I think I'll be a detective. Your young man from Washington seems to have made quite a stir in regard to the robbery; we'll see if I can't beat him. There's nothing that so impresses a rural population as adetective. They look upon him as omnipotent and omniscient, and every man squirms before him in the fear that his own little sins will be brought to light." Terry laughed in prospect. "Introduce me as a detective by all means!"
"Anything you like," I laughed in return. "I'll introduce you as the Pope if you think it will do any good." There was no keeping Terry suppressed, and his exuberance was contagious. I was beginning to feel light-hearted myself.
The hotel at Luray was a long rambling structure which had been casually added to from time to time. It was painted a sickly, mustard yellow (a color which, the landlord assured me, would last forever) but it's brilliancy was somewhat toned by a thick coating of dust. A veranda extended across the front of the building flush with the wooden side-walk. The veranda was furnished with a railing, and the railing was furnished at all times of the day—except for a brief nooning from twelve to half-past—with a line of boot-soles in assorted sizes.
We drew up with a flourish before thewooden steps in front of the hotel, and I threw the lines to the stable boy who came forward to receive us with an amusing air of importance. His connection with the Luray tragedy conferred a halo of distinction, and he realized the fact. It was not every one in the neighborhood who had had the honor of being cursed by a murderer. As we alighted Terry stopped to ask him a few questions. The boy had told his story to so many credulous audiences that by this time it was well-nigh unrecognizable. As he repeated it now for Terry's benefit, the evidence against Radnor appeared conclusive. A full confession of guilt could scarcely have been more damning.
Terry threw back his head and laughed.
"Take care, young man," he warned, "you'll be eating your words one of these days, and some of them will be pretty hard to swallow."
As we mounted the steps I nodded to several of the men whom I remembered having seen before; and they returned an interested, "How-dy-do? Pleasant day," as they cast a reconnoitering glance at my companion.
"Gentlemen," I said with a wave of my hand toward Terry, "let me introduce Mr. Terence Kirkwood Patten, the well-known detective of New York, who has come down to look into this matter for us."
The chairs which were tipped back against the wall came down with a thud, and an awed and somewhat uneasy shuffling of feet ensued.
"I wish to go through the cave," Terry remarked in the crisp, incisive tones a detective might be supposed to employ, "and I should like to have the same guide who conducted Mr. Crosby the time the body was discovered."
"That's Pete Moser, he's out in the back lot plowin'," a half dozen voices responded.
"Ah, thank you; will some one kindly call him? We will wait here."
Terry proceeded with his usual ease to make himself at home. He tipped back his hat, inclined his chair at the same dubious angle as the others, and ranged his feet along the railing. He produced cigars from various pockets, and the atmosphere became lessstrained. They were beginning to realize that detectives are made of the same flesh and blood as other people. I gave Terry the lead—perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he took it—but it did not strike me that he set about his interviewing in a very business-like manner. He did not so much as refer to the case we had come to investigate, but chatted along pleasantly about the weather and the crops and the difficulty of finding farm-hands.
We had not been settled very long when, to my surprise, Jim Mattison strolled out from the bar-room. What he was doing in Luray, I could easily conjecture. Mattison's assumption of interest in the case all along had angered me beyond measure. It is not, ordinarily, a part of the sheriff's duties to assist the prosecution in making out a case against one of his prisoners; and owing to the peculiar relation he bore to Radnor, his interference was not only bad law but excruciatingly bad taste. My dislike of the man had grown to such an extent that I could barely be civil to him. It was only because it was policy on my part notto make him an active enemy that I tolerated his presence at all.
I presented Terry; though Mattison took his calling more calmly than the others, still I caught several sidewise glances in his direction, and I think he was impressed.
"Happy to know you, Mr. Patten," he remarked as he helped himself to a chair and settled it at the general angle. "This is a pretty mysterious case in some respects. I rode over myself this morning to look into a few points and I shall be glad to have some help—though I'm afraid we'll not find anything that'll please you."
"Anything pleases me, so long as it's the truth," Terry threw off, as he studied the sheriff, with a gleam of amusement in his eyes; he was thinking, I knew, of Polly Mathers. "I hope," he added, assuming a severely professional tone, "that you haven't let a lot of people crowd into the cave and tramp up all the marks."
The landlord, who was standing in the doorway, chuckled at this.
"There ain't many people that you coulddrive into that there cave at the point of the pistol," he assured us. "They think it's haunted; leastways the niggers do."
"Have niggers been in the habit of going in much?"
"Oh, more or less," the sheriff returned, "when they want to make themselves inconspicuous for any reason. I had a horse thief hide in there for two weeks last year while we were scouring the country for him. There are so many little holes; it's almost impossible to find a man. Tramps occasionally spend the night there in cold weather."
"Do you have many tramps around here?"
"Not a great many. Once in a while a nigger comes along and asks for something to eat."
"More often he takes it without asking," one of the men broke in. "A week or so ago my ole woman had a cheese an' a ham an' two whole pies that she'd got ready for a church social just disappear without a word, out o' the pantry winder. If that ain't the mark of a nigger, I miss my guess."
Terry laughed.
"If that happened in the North we should look around the neighborhood for a sick small boy."
"It wasn't no boy this time—leastways not a very small one," the man affirmed, "for that same day a pair o' my boots that I'd left in the wood house just naturally walked off by theirselves, an' I found 'em the next day at the bottom o' the pasture. It would take a pretty sizeable fellow that my boots was too small for," he finished with a grin.
"Theyarea trifle conspicuous," one of the others agreed with his eyes on the feet in question.
I caught an interested look in Terry's glance as he mentally took their measure, and I wondered what he was up to; but as our messenger and Pete Moser appeared around the corner at the moment, I had no time for speculation. Terry let his chair slip with a bang and rose to his feet.
"Ah, Mr. Moser! I'm glad to see you," he exclaimed with an air of relief. "It's getting late," he added, looking at his watch, "and I must get this business settled as soonas possible; I have another little affair waiting for me in New York. Bring plenty of calcium light, please. We want to see what we're doing."
As the four of us were preparing to start, Terry paused on the top step and nodded pleasantly to the group on the veranda.
"Thank you for your information, gentlemen. I have no doubt but that it will be of the greatest importance," and he turned away with a laugh at their puzzled faces.
The sheriff and I were equally puzzled. I should have suspected that Terry, in the rôle of detective, was playing a joke on them, had he not very evidently got something on his mind. He was of a sudden in a frenzy of impatience to reach the cave, and he kept well ahead of us most of the way.
"I suppose," said Mattison as he climbed a fence with tantalizing deliberation—we were going by way of the fields as that was shorter—"I suppose that you are trying to prove that Radnor Gaylord had nothing to do with this murder?"
"That will be easy enough," Terry threwback over his shoulder. "I droppedhimlong ago. The one I'm after now is the real murderer."
Mattison scowled slightly.
"If you can explain what it was that happened in that cave that upset him so mightily, I'd come a little nearer to believing you."
Terry laughed and fell back beside him.
"It's a thing which I imagine may have happened to one or two other young men of this neighborhood—not inconceivably yourself included."
Mattison, seeing no meaning in this sally, preserved a sulky silence and Terry added:
"The thing for us to do now is to bend all our energies toward finding Cat-Eye Mose. I doubt if we can completely explain the mystery until he is discovered."
"And that," said the sheriff, "will be never! You may mark my words; whoever killed the Colonel, killed Mose, too."
"It's possible," said Terry with an air of sadness, "but I hope not. I came all the way down from New York on purpose to see Mose, and I should hate to miss him."
Having lighted our candles, we descended into the cave and set out along the path I now knew so well. When we reached the pool the guide lit a calcium light which threw a fierce white glare over the little body of water and the limestone cliffs, and even penetrated to the stalactite draped roof far above our heads. For a moment we stood blinking our eyes scarcely able to see, so sudden was the change from the semi-darkness of our four flickering candles. Then Terry stepped forward.
"Show me where you found the body and point out the spot where the struggle took place."
He spoke in quick, eager tones, so excited that he almost stuttered. It was not necessary for him to act the part of detective anylonger. He had forgotten that he ever was a reporter—he had forgotten almost that he was a human being.
From where we stood we pointed out the place above the pool where the struggle had occurred, the spot under the cliff where the body had lain, and the jagged piece of rock on which we had found the coat. Moser even laid down upon the ground and spread out his arms in the position in which we had discovered the Colonel's body.
"Very well, I see," said Terry. "Now the rest of you stay back there on the boards; I don't want you to make a mark."
He stepped forward carefully to the edge of the water and bent over to examine the soft, yellow clay which formed the border of the pool on the lower side. Instantly he straightened up with a sharp exclamation of surprise.
"Did any negroes come in with you to recover the body?" he asked.
"No," returned the sheriff, "as old man Tompkins said, you couldn't hire a nigger to stick his head in here after the Colonel wasfound. They say they can hear something wailing around the pool and they think his ghost is haunting it."
"They can hear something wailing, can they?" Terry repeated queerly. "Well I begin to believe they can! What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, facing around at us. "How do you account for these peculiar foot-prints?"
"What prints?" I asked as we all pressed forward.
At the moment the calcium light with a final flare, died out, and we were left again in the flickering candle light which seemed darkness to us now.
"Quick, touch off another calcium!" said Terry, with suppressed impatience. He laid a hand on my shoulder and my arm ached from the tightness of his grip. "There," he said pointing with his finger as the light flared up again. "What do you make of those?"
I bent over and plainly traced the prints of bare feet, going and coming and over-lapping one another, just as an animal wouldmake in pacing a cage. I shivered slightly. It was a terribly uncanny sight.
"Well?" said Terry sharply. The place was beginning to get on his nerves too.
"Terry," I said uneasily, "I never saw them before. I thought I examined everything thoroughly, but I was so excited I suppose—"
"What did you make of them?" he interrupted, whirling about on Mattison who was looking over our shoulders.
"I—I didn't see them," Mattison stammered.
"For heaven's sake, men," said Terry impatiently. "Do you mean they weren't there or you didn't notice them?"
The sheriff and I looked at each other blankly, and neither answered.
Terry stood with his hands in his pockets frowning down at the marks, while the rest of us waited silently, scarcely daring to think. Finally he turned away without saying a word, and, motioning us to keep back, commenced examining the path which led up the incline. He mounted the three stone steps,and with his eyes on the ground, slowly advanced to the spot where the struggle had taken place.
"How tall a man did you say Mose was?" he called down to us.
"Little short fellow—not more than five feet high," returned the sheriff.
Terry took his ruler from his pocket and bent over to study the marks at the scene of the struggle. He straightened up with an air of satisfaction.
"Now I want you men to look carefully at those marks on the lower borders of the pool, and then come up here and look at these. Come along up in single file, please, and keep to the middle of the path."
He spoke in the tone of one giving a demonstration before a kindergarten class. We obeyed him silently and ranged in a row along the boards.
"Come here," he said. "Bend over where you can see. Now look at those marks. Do you see anything different in them from the marks below?"
The sheriff and I gazed intently at theprints of bare feet which marked the entire vicinity of the struggle. We had both examined them more than once before, and we saw nothing now but what had already appeared. We straightened up and shook our heads.
"They're the prints of bare feet," said Mattison, stolidly. "But I don't see that they're any different from any other bare feet."
Terry handed him the ruler.
"Measure them," he said. "Measure this one that's flat on the ground. Now go down and measure one of those prints by the borders of the pool."
Mattison took the ruler and complied. As he bent over the marks on the lower border we could see by the light of his candle the look of astonishment that sprang into his face.
"Well, what do you find?" Terry asked.
"The marks up there are nearly two inches longer and an inch broader."
"Exactly."
"Terry," I said, "you can't blame us for not finding that out. We examined everything when we took away the body, and thosemarks below were simply not there. Someone has been in since."
"So I conclude. Now, Mattison," he added to the sheriff, "come here and show me the marks of Radnor Gaylord's riding boots."
Mattison returned and pointed out the mark which he had produced at the inquest, but his assurance, I noticed, was somewhat shaken.
"That," said Terry half contemptuously, "is the mark of Colonel Gaylord. You must remember that he was struggling with his assailant. He did not plant his foot squarely every time. Sometimes we have only the heel mark: sometimes only the toe. In this case we have more than the mark of the whole foot. How do I account for it? Simply enough. The Colonel's foot slipped sideways. The mark is, you see, exactly the same in length as the others, but disproportionately broad. At the heel and toe it is smudged, and on the inside where the weight was thrown, it is heavier than on the outside. The thing is easy enough to understand. You ought to have been able to deduce it for yourselves.And besides, how did you account for the fact that there was only one mark? A man engaged in a struggle must have left more than that behind him. No; it is quite clear. At this point on the edge of the bank there was no third person. We are dealing with only two men—Colonel Gaylord and his murderer; and the murderer was bare-footed."
"Mose?" I asked.
"No," said Terry, patiently, "not Mose."
"Then who?"
"That—remains to be seen. I will follow him up and find out where he comes from."
Terry held his candle close to the ground and followed along the path. At the entrance to the little gallery of the broken column it diverged, one part leading into the gallery, and the other into a sort of blind alley at one side. Terry paused at the opening.
"Give me some more calcium light," he called to the guide. "I want to look into this passage. And just hand me some of those boards," he added. "It's very necessary that we keep the marks clear."
The rest of us stood in a huddled group onthe one or two boards he had left us and watched him curiously as he made his way down the passage. He paused at the end and examined the ground. We saw him stoop and pick up something. Then he rose quickly with a cry of triumph and came running back to us holding his hands behind him.
"It's just as I suspected," he said, his eyes shining with excitement. "Colonel Gaylord had an enemy he did not know."
"What do you mean?" we asked, crowding around.
"Here's the proof," and he held out towards us a well gnawed ham bone in one hand and a cheese rind in the other. "These were the provisions intended for the church social; the pies, I fancy, have disappeared."
We stared at him a moment in silent wonder. The sheriff was the first to assert himself.
"What have these to do with the crime?" he asked, viewing the trophies with an air of disgust.
"Everything. The man who stole those isthe man who robbed the safe and who murdered Colonel Gaylord."
The sheriff uttered a low laugh of incredulity, and the guide and I stared open-mouthed.
"And what's more, I will tell you what he looks like. He is a large, very black negro something over six feet tall. When last seen, he was dressed in a blue and white checked blouse and ragged overalls. His shoes were much the worse for wear, and have since been thrown away. He was bare-footed at the time he committed the crime. In short," Terry added, "he is the chicken thief whom Colonel Gaylord whipped a couple of days before he died," and he briefly repeated the incident I had told him.
"You mean," I asked, "that he was the ha'nt?"
"Yes," said Terry, "he was the second ha'nt. He has been hiding for two or three weeks in the spring-hole at Four-Pools, keeping hidden during the day and coming out at night to prowl around and steal whatever he could lay his hands on. He doubtlessdeserved punishment, but that fact would not make him the less bitter over the Colonel's beating. When I heard that story, I said to myself, 'there is a man who would be ready for revenge if chance put the opportunity in his way.'"
"But," I expostulated, "how did he happen to be in the cave?"
"As to that I cannot say. After the Colonel's beating he probably did not dare to hang about Four-Pools any longer. He took to the woods and came in this direction; being engaged in petty thieving about the neighborhood, it was necessary to find a hiding place during the daytime and the cave was his most natural refuge. We know that he is not afraid of the dark—the spring-hole at Four-Pools is about as dismal a place as a man could find. He established himself in this passage in order to be near the water. See, here in the corner are drops of candle grease and the remains of a fire. On the day of the Mathers's picnic he doubtless saw the party pass through and recognized Colonel Gaylord. It brought to his mind the thrashing he had received. While he was still broodingover the matter, the Colonel came back alone, and it flashed into the fellow's mind that this was his chance. He may have been afraid at first or he may have hesitated through kindlier motives. At any rate he did not attack the Colonel immediately, but retreated into the passage, and the old man passed him without seeing him and went on into the gallery and got the coat.