There was a tinkle of silver and china suggestive of the butler picking up a tray and preparing to depart, so Creighton fled from the vicinage as softly as the furry felines to which Bates had spitefully compared him. A smile played around the corners of his mouth. Utterly shameless, he reminded himself that if listeners hear no good of themselves, they also occasionally hear much that is valuable. So Bates and Miss Ocky were in conspiracy to conceal from him some conversation they had had! Um. It would be funny if he couldn't pry the truth out of one of them; mentally, he girded up his loins for the fray.
The immediate effect of what he had overheard was an alteration in his plans for the balance of the afternoon. He wanted to see Judge Taylor for more than one reason, but his brief essay in eavesdropping had served to remind him of a chore neglected nearer home. The servants. He must question them, painstakingly and at length, on the chance that one or more of them might have heard or noticed something that would bring him a step closer to the truth.
Copley Varr had gone upstairs, summoned to his mother's bedside by Janet Mackay who was temporarily in attendance on the stricken Lucy. That left the study clear for Creighton who immediately possessed himself of it and touched the bell for Bates. The old man appeared presently, gave an attentive ear to the detective's brief statement of his intentions, and answered on behalf of himself and the staff that all would be glad to assist Mr. Creighton in every possible way.
"The main essential is perfect frankness," said the detective.
"Yes, indeed, sir, I quite understand that," said the butler, a trifle too promptly. "It's wrong to hold anything back."
"I'll begin with the cook. I had a few words with her yesterday, just enough to learn she's nobody's fool. She's good-hearted, too—you can tell it by the layer of fat on the ribs of that Angora I've seen about." Creighton's eyes were laughing behind the shell-rimmed glasses. "Did it ever occur to you, Bates, that you can learn a lot about the cook by looking at the cat?"
"No, sir, it never did," said Bates, smiling faintly.
"It never did to me, either, until just this minute," admitted the detective frankly, "but I dare say there's a lot in it. Anyway, ask her to come here, please, and tell her I won't keep her long from her work."
Thus he played upon the sensibilities of his witnesses after a fashion whose worth he had demonstrated frequently in the past. He had put Bates a little more at his ease and to that extent weakened his defenses if it became necessary to startle him into speaking the truth, and he had sent a bouquet of flattering phrases to the cook which he confidently counted on Bates to deliver with his summons. That the butler had indeed done so was apparent the moment the cook appeared, her fat red face wreathed in smiles. A cross, recalcitrant woman who had sorely tried the patience of Mr. Norvallis the day before was an angel of sweetness as she responded to Creighton's inquisition.
Unfortunately, she did not have anything of value to offer in repayment for his studied politeness. Hers was the most prosaic of lives. She rose in the morning, cooked all day and went to bed, to rise and cook again. She knew nothing of what went on in the front part of the house, and Bates was the most close-mouthed butler she had ever worked with, he never opened his head about what he heard in the dining-room.
That let her out, and Creighton dismissed her with a request that she send in Betty Blake.
When she had recovered from a preliminary attack of nervousness, the pretty young housemaid unexpectedly produced information that gave Creighton furiously to think, for he reawakened an idea that had been present, but dormant, in his brain since his talk with Copley. It reminded him of a chance remark made by Jason Bolt to the effect that Langhorn had accompanied Graham when the latter came to see Varr, for Betty described how in passing through the hall on her way to bed she had seen the tannery manager "quarreling with Mr. Varr in his study."
"Sure they were quarreling, Betty?"
"Oh, yes, sir. They were both angry and excited."
"That was the night of the fire? The night of the robbery?"
"Yes, sir."
"You were on your way to bed—do you know what time it was?"
"Just past ten, sir,—or maybe half-past."
"That's near enough."
After a few more questions he let her go, telling her to ask Janet Mackay to join him in the study at her first opportunity. While he waited for the "tall, gaunt nondescript" to appear he contemplated the case of William Graham, and sitting in Varr's chair he came slowly to the same dark suspicions that Varr had entertained.
"Graham saw the notebook here, and knew what it was. He could use what was in it—none better. According to the watchman, Nelson, Graham sympathized with the strikers even if he ranked with the bosses. He was a bit the worse for liquor when he was here that evening, in the mood to think of some wild act and perhaps drunk enough to carry out the thought. He had time to slip down and set that fire, then come back when it was under way and sneak into the house. Granting that he used the dagger because it was handy, why did he carry it away with him? Was he thinking of murder already? Was he cool enough to figure that a weapon taken from Varr's own house would not readily be traced to him? Can't answer these questions—now!" Creighton lighted a cigarette and wrinkled his brow. "Graham has plenty of intelligence, from all accounts. He is clever enough to have thought of an effective disguise, and he probably knew the legend of the monk, since his daughter showed it to Miss Copley in a book belonging to them. Um. Is he the man I'm looking for?"
He did not have time for further reflection before the entrance of Miss Janet Mackay, once of Aberdeen, now a citizen of the world and the devoted henchwoman of Miss October Copley. She inclined her head stiffly in reply to his pleasant greeting, refused a chair, and remained standing in front of him, hands folded across her flat stomach, her cold eyes fixed on him through her cheap, steel spectacles. She was taller and gaunter and more angular than ever. Creighton chuckled inwardly. If Miss Copley was October, then this was January, or at best late December!
It did not take him long to discover that he had drawn another perfect blank. Trying to extract information from Janet Mackay was about as profitable as trying to squeeze water from a handful of Sahara sand. She knew nothing, and said less. After ten minutes of fruitless effort he gave it up.
"It's clear you know nothing!"
"I know the world is well rid of a selfish deevil."
"Tut, tut! Have you no respect for the dead?"
"Not a whit for him, dead or alive."
"How is Mrs. Varr?"
"Resting easier."
"Is her son with her still?"
"He went off somewhere an hour ago."
"That's all, then. Thank you."
She stalked away, head in air, stiff as any ramrod.
"Now for Bates," muttered the detective, and touched the bell. "I'll swear he's got something on his mind!"
In this surmise he was perfectly correct. The old butler did have something that was troubling him—a matter so grave and serious that they did not finish discussing it until the study was dusk and sounds from the dining-room indicated that Betty Blake was helpfully setting the table in the unduly prolonged absence of its regular attendant. When their talk was ended, it was the detective who wore a perplexed expression, while Bates had lost the troubled, almost haunted look that had been in his eyes since the death of Simon Varr.
Creighton hurried to his room to prepare for dinner, and when he glanced from his window he observed for the first time that the weather was about to exhibit itself in a petulant, ill-humored mood. Black storm-clouds were rolling up, a chill, gusty wind was rattling the windows and a heavy spat of rain dashed against the glass as he turned away. It would be a nasty night.
Miss Ocky remarked on the fact when she joined him in the dining-room. She looked unhappy.
"I hate cold," she told him. "Had enough of it in my life. I am going to have a fire lighted in the living-room. If you want to talk to me this evening you'll have to put up with having your toes toasted."
He assured her that toasted toes were his favorite delicacy. Then he nodded to a third place set at the table and raised his eyebrows.
"For Copley, but he hasn't turned up."
"He may be dining with his new father-in-law," suggested the detective. "Or with Jason Bolt, talking business."
She did not pursue the subject, but later, when they were seated before a crackling fire in the living-room, she attacked him briskly.
"I haven't talked with either you or him since your interview in the library. Was—was it satisfactory? Please tell me."
"With all the pleasure in the world. The interview was satisfactory—and I think I know what you mean by that! He accounted for his movements on the night before last with unimpeachable accuracy."
"Thank heaven!" said Miss Ocky. "I don't mean that I had any suspicion of him, but I'm glad if he has cleared himself in your eyes."
"He has, perfectly."
"I wish I knew what your plan of campaign is to be! You half promised to let me see just how a detective works, you know. What are you going to do first?"
"Suppose I don't know myself?" He paused to light her cigarette and one for himself, then added deliberately: "You can't always tell which way a detective will jump; they're worse'n cats."
"Oh!" cried Miss Ocky, and choked on a puff of smoke. "Eavesdropper!" she gasped.
"I didn't go for to do it. But if youwillhave these little intimate chats on a piazza without looking around the corner—! Now, you can tell me what it was all about."
"I'll tell you first that it's a mistake to take overheard remarks too seriously." Miss Ocky, recovered from smoke and emotion, smiled at the fire. "Once, when I was a little girl of seven, I got an awful scare that way—right in this very room, on a wild stormy night like this! I had come in to say good night to my father and mother, who were sitting before a fire as we are now. Just as I left the room, I heard my mother say to him, 'The old man is out to-night!' Unless you were a nervous, high-strung brat yourself, you can't imagine the effect of that on me. I crept off to bed shivering, and lay awake half the night. Every time the wind shook my windows, I pictured some monstrous, hoary-headed creature trying to get in and gobble me up!" She laughed a little. "It gives me a grue to think of it even yet. I discovered the explanation of the phrase the next day. Can you guess it?"
"No. Another local legend, perhaps?"
"Nothing half so thrilling." She pointed to a high shelf above the mantelpiece. "There is the answer!"
Creighton followed the direction of her finger and smiled. On the shelf stood one of those miniature Swiss chalets so popular in drawing-rooms a generation ago. Two little figurines, a young woman and an old man, operating on barometric principles, emerged from the front door in turn as the weather indications were fair or stormy. At this moment the old man was well out.
"Enough to scare any child to death," he admitted. "Now—"
"But tame when explained, like lots of overheard things. Once when I was staying with a Chinese family in Pekin—"
"Where did you get the idea," inquired Creighton mildly, "that I was fond of red-herring? As a matter-of-fact, I've always hated it."
"Mmph!" said Miss Ocky, and made a face at him. "Well, what do you want to know?"
"You are probably aware that I had a long talk with Bates this afternoon. He told me much that was interesting—but I'd likeyourversion of that conversation which you felt shouldn't be repeated to me."
"I wish I'd kept still about it," sighed Miss Ocky repentantly. "Now you'll probably magnify it out of all proportion. You see, I've known old Bates ever since I was a youngster, and we've always been good friends. He got in the habit years ago of bringing his troubles to me and talking them over—'blowing off steam,' he always called it! That was how we happened to have that talk a few days ago. Simon had been unusually querulous even for him—and he could be very trying at times. Bates had suffered a long while in silence, and when he got a chance to air his grievance to me he—he blew off quite a lot of steam first and last! He chiefly resented Simon's attitude toward Lucy, and I couldn't blame him there. One thing led to another, and that's how we came finally to agree that the world would be a brighter little planet if Simon no longer lived on it." Miss Ocky shrugged her shoulders. "The sort of thing that means nothing at the time but sounds like the very devil after a man is found murdered!"
"Yes, it does," answered Creighton gravely. "I had no idea you two had been contemplating the possible death of Simon Varr. That is not at all a pleasant bit of news."
"You—you had no idea! You had no—!" Miss Ocky sat up very straight. "Didn't Bates tell you that?" she demanded crisply.
"No. He told me much, but he wouldn't tell me the subject of your conversation with him because he'd promised you he wouldn't. He was adamant. That's why I've had to get it out of you."
"Oh!" She slumped again into her chair. "You—youcreature!"
"I know," he said apologetically. "But what's a man to do if people hold out on him?"
"I suppose," said Miss Ocky in a small voice, "this is a judgment on me for wondering how a detective works!"
"Possibly. Did he make any threats?"
"No!" said Miss Ocky.
"Um. Would you tell me if he did?"
"N-no," said the lady.
"It makes a fellow long for the days of the Spanish Inquisition," said Creighton, addressing the fireplace. He added darkly, "There are several persons around that I could enjoy putting on a cozy little rack!"
"It's no use being bloodthirsty," she informed him. "As for Bates—! Oh, I do wish you'd stop getting ideas into your head!"
"I can't. It's the sort of head that gets 'em!"
"Well, I wish you'd draw the line at Bates! Why, I've known him all my life!"
"There is always some one to say that about any criminal. Always some one to say it isn't possible. The awful thing is, it is possible."
"But—Bates! How could any one associate the idea of murder with that gentle, harmless old man? Ridiculous!"
"He was devoted to your father because Mr. Copley stood by him when he didn't know where to turn. He had been in trouble. Did you know that?"
"Vaguely—from Bates himself. Why? What trouble was it?"
"Starvation. He had difficulty finding work because no one wished to employ a man who had just been pardoned out of a penitentiary where he was serving a life sentence for murder."
There was a brief silence.
"It can't be!" she whispered at length. "Not Bates! It can't betrue!"
"He was married in those days, and the other man was guilty of breaking up the home. Extenuating circumstances, you see. He was lucky enough to have a lawyer who didn't lose interest when the prison swallowed him, and he brought the matter to the attention of a new Governor who pardoned Bates after he had served five years. Your father happened on him when he was near the end of his rope, gave him sanctuary and helped him bury the past. That is his story."
"How did he come to tell you?"
"I persuaded him to. I've noticed ever since I've been in the house that he was shaky, nervous—worried. Three times out of five, when you see a servant in that condition following a mysterious crime, you can look for the explanation in a shady past. I tackled him from that basis. He didn't need much urging—in fact, he told me he had half made up his mind to come to me with the story of his own accord. I believe him. He had been in mortal terror lest the police discover it." Creighton paused in order to study her serious, thoughtful face. "He asked me to tell you this."
"He did!"
"He seems devoted to you. He had wanted to tell you himself, but could never quite find the courage. He has wanted you to know the truth about him, but has never been able to forget the way others used to receive it. He has taken some hard knocks."
"Poor soul. Poor lonely soul!" Her voice was tender.
"I thought you'd feel that way about it! You'll find an opportunity to make him understand, I suppose? Probably he won't want to talk much about it, but you—you could give him a friendly pat on the arm or—or something like that, couldn't you?"
Miss Ocky suddenly turned and looked at him with eyes that were shining through unshed tears.
"You're a queer man! You can sit there suspecting him of murder and still want me to be kind to him!"
"Have I said anything about suspecting him?" demanded the detective with almost a touch of asperity.
"You accused me of suspecting Copley last evening and I had to remind you that he'd probably turn up with a perfectly good alibi—and he did! If there's a pessimist in human nature sitting around here, it isn't I!"
"Mmph. All right, little sunshine!"
"I don't care anything about suspicion. I want proof. Until I get it, I try to preserve an open mind."
"Oh. Well, that's an improvement over Mr. Norvallis, I must admit!" Miss Ocky turned her eyes back to the fire. "What you've told me about Bates has given me quite a—a shock, Mr. Creighton. I won't drag any more red-herrings around, but can't wepleasetalk of something else?"
He cheerfully and promptly consented. They talked a while on every subject under the sun except the death of Simon Varr, and they were both a trifle disconcerted when a wild shrieking of brakes and a heavy step on the veranda announced the arrival of Herman Krech, who would tolerate no other topic until he left at eleven.
It was just short of midnight when Creighton, sound asleep, was roused by a discreet but persistent tapping on his door. He rolled out of bed, struck a match, opened the door and discovered Copley Varr, grinning broadly.
"I've got my father-in-law's blessing!" he announced.
"I congratulate you." The detective blinked. "Excuse me, but I was with the angels! Did you call me back just to tell me this?"
"No. I thought you ought to know that we were a pair of nuts this noon. Mr. Graham was holding pat hands in a poker game during the fire and robbery, and he was presiding at a lodge-meeting in Hambleton the night—the night before last!"
"With umpty-umph fellow-lodgers to prove it. Um. Touch 'em and they vanish!"
"What?"
"I mean, I'd like to find a prospect that would stay put for a while at least. As it is now, the moment I look sideways at any one he promptly trots out an alibi."
"Like I did to-day! I see. Trying for a detective, eh?"
"Very trying," said Peter Creighton. "Good night!"
He shut the door, and presently rejoined the angels.
After that midnight report from Copley Varr, ten days passed without the occurrence of a single distinctive event. They were not empty days, however, for Peter Creighton, who continued patiently to cast hither and yon very much like an Indian brave seeking the trail of an enemy warrior.
The full scope of his investigation was not apparent to the naked eye, as Krech, who was chafing at the lack of developments and inclined to accuse his friend of masterly inactivity, discovered one afternoon. They were taking a stroll in the twilight at the detective's insistence, and met a roughly-dressed individual with a cap on the back of his head and a short pipe stuck in his mouth. He was loitering by the side of the road, and to Krech's surprise, Creighton excused himself and joined the man for a brief chat.
"Who's your rough-neck pal?" he demanded curiously as the detective came back and suggested a return home. "His face is familiar but I can't just place him."
"You once bought a painting from him when he was posing as an artist!" Creighton chuckled. "He reminded me of it just now; said you're the only connoisseur who ever really appreciated his work!"
"Gee Joseph! One of your men!"
"Fellow named Latimer."
"What is he doing around here?"
"Covering the tannery end of this affair. Latimer's an artist in more ways than one. When I told him what I wanted, he got two books on modern methods in tanning from the New York Public Library, studied them on the train coming up, and landed a job as easy as you please when Graham and Bolt started to replace the old hands who had left. Snappy work!"
"Gosh. And I thought you were investigating this case single-handed! You're a foxy guy at times, Creighton. Has Latimer learned anything useful?"
"Not to me, I'm sorry to say. The few facts he has turned up seem merely to darken the outlook for Charlie Maxon, that unfortunate prisoner-pent. He appears to be quite as bad an egg as Mr. Norvallis believes."
"Do you suppose Norvallis is making any progress withhiscase?" inquired Krech.
"He's sitting pretty with the voters!" said Creighton shortly. "By the way, neither Bolt nor Graham knows who Latimer is. Don't tell 'em."
"I won't," promised the big man.
He did, however, after the fashion of husbands, tell his wife that evening after dinner. They were standing together on the front steps of their host's house, having been persuaded with no great difficulty to lengthen their stay by at least another week, and Krech had just lighted a cigar to keep him company while he strolled over to the Varr home.
"You might have known Peter Creighton is never as idle as he looks," commented Jean Krech, when she had listened to the tale of Latimer. "He probably has a dozen more irons in the fire that you don't dream of. I suppose you're going over there now?"
"Uh-huh. There's always a chance he may have some news."
"Well, it's all right for you to drop in and ask," said Jean calmly. "But—don't linger, melove, don't linger!"
"Huh? What do you mean, don't linger? Why not?"
"You blind old goose! Has it ever struck you that Creighton is a rather lonely man?"
"Lonely?" Then the significance of her question suddenly hit him between the eyes. "Gee Joseph! Are you trying to promote a romance between him and Miss Ocky?"
"Precious little promotion is required," she corrected him. "It's as plain as the nose on your face how things are going." She laughed when her husband in his bewilderment reached up and felt of the promontory indicated. "Yes, it's very plain!"
"But they've only known each other a week or so!"
"What of it? They're old enough to know their own minds—both in the early forties. Neither of them has ever had a love-affair as far as we know; probably it hits them harder and quicker when they're like that!"
"Maybe you're right." Krech reflected deeply, and then nodded his head. "Suits me! I like her immensely, and of course he'd be a whole lot happier if he were married. Any man is."
"Oh,thankyou!" cried his beautiful wife softly. She slipped a hand beneath his elbow and gave his massive arm an affectionate squeeze while her blue eyes twinkled up at his. "Is um itty-witty baby happy, then?"
"Shut up," commanded Mr. Krech with intense dignity. "Don't go cooing at me—not where any one might hear you, anyway!"
An unprejudiced observer of the trend of events at the house on the hill must have admitted that Mrs. Krech had considerable grounds for her romantic suspicions. Twice during the ten days aforementioned Creighton was obliged to go to New York and spend half a day on business that would not be denied, and each time he returned bearing books and candy and a vast quantity of assorted and exotic fruits for which Miss Ocky had expressed a casual longing and which the marts of Hambleton could not provide. On the first occasion he pretended they were for Lucy Varr, still confined to her room, but on the second he abandoned pretense.
Then there was the incident of the picnic, sponsored by Miss Ocky. They took their lunch and plunged into the wilderness of hills that lay to the north of Hambleton, their destination the cave that was reputed to have sheltered the legendary monk. It was Miss Ocky's suggestion that in the haunts of the old monk they might come upon some traces of the new, if that imaginative imitator had carried his masquerade to the extent of using his predecessor's quarters, and Creighton, without the flutter of an eyelash, agreed that nothing was more likely. They found the cave—or some cave—but nothing else. Their disappointment weighed lightly upon them, and the detective enjoyed the day with all the artless abandon of a schoolboy playing hooky.
Even more significant than the picnic was thepilau. Miss Ocky had described this supposedly delectable dish to Creighton at some length, and the next day was impelled to possess herself of the kitchen and compose apilausuch as she swore appeared daily on the tables of the first epicures of Constantinople. However that might be, affairs are approaching a crisis when a woman is seized with a desire to demonstrate her culinary accomplishments to a man.
Thepilauwas an amazing dish. At table with them during those days was a very pale, very thin young man with gold pince-nez, fair hair and a painfully self-effacing manner, who had been quartered on the house by Judge Taylor for the purpose of documenting a vast accumulation of papers in Simon Varr's study. He took a mouthful of the pilau, started slightly, and took a second to make sure his senses had not deceived him about the first. Ten minutes later, the closest approach to any emotion that he ever revealed was visible on his face as Creighton sent back his plate for a third helping.
If Miss Ocky noticed his tactless expression of awe—and she rarely missed anything so obvious—it probably did nothing to raise the young man in her esteem. She frankly disliked him.
"That Merrill!" she grumbled to Creighton when they were by themselves after dinner. "A perfect imposition on the part of Judge Taylor! Of course I couldn't very well refuse under the circumstances, but I'll be glad when we lose him!"
"He must have nearly finished his work," Creighton consoled her. "After all, he's harmless. Why does he annoy you?"
"I don't know," was the conclusively feminine reply. "He just does."
On the afternoon of the eleventh day after the death of Simon Varr, Creighton had a chat with Jason Bolt in the office of the tannery that was in no-wise remarkable except for the odd timeliness of the detective's farewell observation. Jason had asked him if he was satisfied with the progress made to date or whether he was discouraged by the present lull which so closely resembled stagnation. Could he say when the mystery might take some definite turn toward solution?
"Ask me when the millennium is coming and be done with it," said Creighton rather plaintively, wondering why so many people seemed to credit detectives with oracular powers. "If Norvallis has the right pig by the ear, Maxon may break down, turn State's evidence and hang his accomplice. That's one possibility. Another—we may as well face it—is that this case will go to swell the great army of unsolved mysteries." He hesitated, then added, "There's a third possibility, of course."
"What is it?"
"The chance that a break will come from some totally unexpected quarter when we've all but given up hope. I've seen that happen a score of times. There's no predicting it—no counting on it. But when it comes—then look out! A case that has been placid and smooth as a mill pond will suddenly develop the characteristics of a maelstrom!" He smiled encouragement at the troubled Jason. "If one starts in this case, we may reasonably expect that its gurgitations will yield us that missing notebook if nothing more."
He was on foot that afternoon by choice, for he had long held that a daily walk is the best exercise for a man whose profession does not in itself provide him with much physical activity. He preferred it to gymnasium stuff, too; a man can think deeply while walking with perfect safety, if he avoids traffic, whereas the hospitals are full of misguided gentlemen who have committed the error of thinking deeply on some other subject while engaged, say, in "skinning the cat."
He had much to make him thoughtful these days. He was not at all satisfied with the situation in this Varr case, though he refrained from revealing his pessimism to others, and was reluctantly coming to fear that Norvallis had indeed gotten the jump on him—and jumped in the right direction. The possibility irritated him. He wished to clear up this murder himself more than he had ever wished for anything in his life. Wasn't Miss Ocky waiting confidently for him to do just that?
The intrusion of her name into his thoughts turned them into a new channel. He knew now that before he dropped his personal supervision of this case, before he left Hambleton for New York to attend to matters which were pressing there, he would have to ask Miss October Copley one of the most important questions he had ever asked in the course of a career devoted mostly to inquisitions. The prospect gave him a shivery feeling up and down his spine!
He walked briskly up the short-cut through the woods and came out at the end of the kitchen garden, now associated with a grimmer business than the growing of vegetables. It was due to his swift pace that he was in the open, in plain view, before he noticed two figures seated on the big granite bowlder near the tomato-patch. He would have retreated to the obscurity of the trees and watched that interview if Miss Ocky had not spied him and risen instantly from her seat on the rock.
"Come here!" she called. "The very man we want!"
He walked over to them, and Miss Ocky's companion, a tall, handsome, fair-haired man, stood up to acknowledge the impending introduction. He looked pale and worn, more haggard even than that morning at the inquest.
"Mr. Creighton—Mr. Leslie Sherwood," said Miss Ocky quickly. "You haven't met each other yet, have you?"
"No, I haven'tmetMr. Sherwood," acknowledged the detective, accenting the verb very slightly.
"But you've been on my track!" said Sherwood, smiling rather nervously. "My valet was shrewd enough to suspect the man who scraped an acquaintance with him and showed so much interest in discovering my whereabouts on the night of Simon Varr's murder! He followed his new acquaintance one afternoon and saw him report to you."
"You appear to be more fortunate than I in the intelligence of your followers," said Creighton rather glumly. "I'm glad, though, to have this matter brought into the open." He glanced at Miss Ocky and back to Sherwood. "May I speak frankly, or shall we adjourn to the house by our two selves?"
"I have nothing to conceal from Miss Copley," answered Sherwood, flushing slightly. "As a matter of fact, I've just been making a full statement to her of my actions that evening and she had just advised me strongly to consult you when you suddenly appeared."
"Excellent advice. I'll explain my curiosity first, though. During the course of my investigation I've had to poke up a lot of gossip and more or less ancient history, and some of it related to you. According to my information you were once—attentive—to Miss Lucy Copley. You left, and she married Simon Varr. You returned, and Simon Varr, who had not proved a kind husband, is presently murdered. I had already noted your agitation at the inquest, and without entertaining definite views, I still thought it advisable to learn what I could about you."
"Quite naturally," admitted Sherwood with a certain urbanity, though his color deepened. "I can see now that you had some reason to regard me askance. However, the fact that you are already so well posted in my affairs has its consoling virtues—it makes it easier for me to tell you more." He hesitated, looked toward Miss Ocky as if for encouragement, received it in a short nod and added slowly, "I may as well begin with a circumstance that would probably have crystallized your suspicions of me if you had learned it for yourself."
"What was that?" asked the detective a bit impatiently.
"I was present at the murder," said Sherwood.
Miss Ocky, who had heard the story already, sat down on the rock and calmly waited its continuance, but Creighton's eyes narrowed.
"You were present! At the murder!"
"In the background only, I assure you," amended Sherwood, and plunged rather desperately into his account. "It is a habit of mine to grab my hat and stick and take a short walk every evening before going to bed, and that was how I came to be out that night. I had no special objective, and—and because old memories had been stirred by my return I almost unconsciously cut across the fields near my house and headed for that path which leads to this garden. I used to do that twenty-two years ago when—when there used to be some one to meet me right by this rock! Somehow, I felt as if I wanted to—to look at a certain lighted window before I turned in. I don't expect you to understand—"
"I do, however! What time was all this?"
"Half-past ten, roughly. When I got here, the only light burning was in Simon's study—otherwise the house was in darkness, which seemed to me an ironic commentary on my foolish gesture! The study light went out almost immediately, but I lingered on. I sat down on a fallen log in the deep shadow of those trees—there, to the right of the path—and began to think back to old times. One discovery I made was that I hated Simon Varr more than ever after all these years. Damaging confession, I suppose?
"Twenty or thirty minutes must have passed. Then I heard a cautious step on the trail—and nearly fell off my log when a figure in the garb of a monk glided into the open. Rather weird! Sounds silly here, of course, but for a moment my hair stood on end. I had a notion that I was seeing a ghost!
"Before I recovered my wits, it—it happened! I had supposed Simon had gone to bed when his light went out, but now he appeared from around the corner of the house. It was obvious that he was stalking the monk. It was like watching a scene in a melodrama, and I couldn't have moved hand or foot to save my life. All of a sudden, Varr rushed him. I thought the fellow would run, but instead of that he waited. When Simon got close, the monk appeared to raise a sort of mask he wore. I heard Simon cry out something in a surprised voice, and then I saw a flash of steel as the monk threw up his arm and brought it down. Simon dropped to the ground and lay on his back—and the monk glided off down that trail before I realized that I had seen a murder!"
"Why didn't you chase him—holler—dosomething!" cried Miss Ocky.
"Couldn't seem to budge," said Sherwood briefly. He looked a little hurt. "If you think it was just cowardice you're jolly well mistaken! I had no sensation of fear at any time. You've heard the expression, 'rooted with amazement'? Well, I was it!
"I was still in that condition three minutes later, perhaps, when I heard another, heavier step on the trail. A man appeared, and from the way he walked I could tell he had been drinking. He staggered toward the body, but he was staring at the house and shaking his fist at it. He reeled off the cement path and almost stumbled over Simon before he saw him. He gave a cry, and stooped to look closer—then turned and bolted for dear life and vanished down the trail. He had been scared sober!
"I began to get back my senses. The first thing I thought of was my own position and what I should do. If I were called on to account for my presence there it would involve the mention of Lucy's name if I told the truth—and to save my neck I couldn't think of a plausible lie! There was none to explain my presence in Varr's kitchen garden at eleven o'clock at night!
"I felt under no obligation to give the alarm—it never once occurred to me that the second man wasn't tearing hell-for-leather to the police-station with his story! I did, however, feel that I could not leave Simon lying there with a knife in him while there was a possibility of his being still alive. It took all the nerve I had, but I walked out and took a careful look at him. I knew enough about anatomy to see at once that he had been stabbed through the heart and must have died instantly. Then I lost no time in getting away—"
"You kept to this cement path?"
"Yes; I had sense enough to leave no tracks in that soft earth. I got home without meeting any one, and I hoped I would never be drawn into the case.
"It gave me a jolt when I found the crime had not been reported by that second man. The inquest reassured me when it seemed as if everybody was at a loss to know who had committed the murder. They could remain at a loss for all of me, so long as I wasn't brought into the case—and Lucy! Then, the next morning, the papers had the news of Maxon's arrest! I haven't slept much since!"
"I'm hardly surprised," said Creighton dryly. "Your story does one thing to the Queen's taste—it corroborates Maxon's description of his movements that evening. He was drunk when he broke jail, he had an hour or so to kill before meeting Drusilla Jones, and he staggered up here with the tipsy notion of wrecking the garden to spite old Varr. He was sobered by what he found, as you noticed, but even then didn't have sense enough to see that his best bet was to go straight to the police. He claims he never stopped to think how black appearances against him would be. Would you be able to swear that he was the man you saw here after the murder?"
"Yes. I went to court when he was examined and remanded and I recognized him beyond a shadow of doubt."
"And I'm to understand you've kept silent simply out of consideration for Mrs. Varr?"
"That weighs a good deal with me," said Sherwood quietly. "I haven't enjoyed these past nine days, Mr. Creighton. When I couldn't stand it any longer, I came to Miss Copley to tell her of my difficulty."
"And I advised him to talk with you and be guided by your instructions," threw in Miss Ocky.
"What had I better do?" asked Sherwood hopelessly.
"Do! There's a man in the county jail with an ugly charge hanging over him that a word from you will lift—and you ask me what to do!" Creighton was scandalized. "Go to Norvallis—instantly! Tell him the truth and let him decide how much publicity must attend the liberation of Maxon. I don't think he will insist upon much!"
"You're right, Mr. Creighton—but not helpful."
"Helpful! What did you expect?" snorted the detective indignantly. "Did you think I'd encourage you to let Maxon rot in jail just to humor your quixotic notions about gossip and a woman's name? I sympathize with your difficulty, but that's as far as I can go. There are two things I've never done and never expect to do knowingly—let an innocent man suffer unjustly or a guilty one escape!"
"At this point there was loud applause from the gallery!" murmured Miss Ocky in her soft, amused drawl, and brought him to earth. "Go on, Leslie, and do your duty. It can't be helped."
"Very well," said Mr. Sherwood unhappily, and got off the rock. "Nothing more you want to ask me, is there?"
"N-no," answered the detective, a bit subdued by Miss Ocky's rebuke. "Yes—one thing. What did this confounded monk look like?"
"Well, I can't help you much there. I got the impression that he wore a mask—as Miss Copley did when she saw him on the trail. He was dressed from head to foot in black. He even wore black gloves; it was an odd thing that made me notice that. Have you ever seen a man straighten up from some completed task and stand looking down at it, nodding his head and rubbing his hands together as if to say, 'Well, there's a good job over and done with'? That's what this fellow did as he stood above Simon—"
"Oh!" gasped Miss Ocky, and collapsed limply on the bowlder, her face ashen. "Oh!"
"What is it?" snapped Creighton, wheeling upon her. "What is the matter?"
"It's all so ghastly—so—so cold-blooded!" she managed to stammer. "Don't mind me. I'm all right."
"Um," said Creighton, eyeing her doubtfully. "You come into the house and get a rest before dinner! Good-day, Mr. Sherwood!"
He carried his point without much difficulty. He hovered over Miss Ocky until he had her safely in the house and on her way to her room, and for once her militant spirit seemed burned out. He reproached himself bitterly for having let her listen to Sherwood, though nobody could have foreseen that the noodle-pated idiot would start embroidering his story with graphically gruesome tidbits! Why hadn't he kept his fat head shut? Serve him right if Norvallis jumpedhimnext and put him in the jug for political prestige! For a few minutes Creighton was almost cheerful as he pondered that possibility.
Fortunately for his peace of mind, Miss Ocky reappeared for dinner and impressed him as having entirely regained her composure. She was her usual gently mocking, always slightly cynical and amusing self. As the swift conversation flashed back and forth between them—past the apparently unconscious person of young Mr. Merrill—he gradually recovered his own equanimity and was quite himself again by the time he and Miss Ocky settled to coffee and cigarettes in the cozy corner of the veranda.
"Almost time for Mr. Krech to make his evening call," she suggested. "They dine earlier at the Bolts' than we do here."
"Queer thing about Krech," mused Creighton. "I've never seen him take so little interest in a case as he does in this. Usually he is at my heels from morning until night, spraying questions the way a machine-gun sprays bullets. Now he just blows in—and presently blows out."
"Oh!" said Miss Ocky. She sat up straight, scratched her chin meditatively with one slim forefinger, and darted him a look that he missed. "Mmph. Y-yes, that is queer."
"Of course he's devoted to his wife," continued the detective, "and I suppose that distracts a man from the pursuit of a mere hobby."
"Briefly," said Miss Ocky. "Briefly!"
"A charming woman ought not to be cynical—" Creighton broke off and raised his hand. "He's coming now; you can hear that car of Bolt's six miles on a quiet night! Shall we tell him about Leslie Sherwood?—the poor chap hasn't had anything so nourishing for a week."
"Swear him to secrecy," stipulated Miss Ocky.
Thus, when the big man appeared and dropped into a chair, he was duly pledged to discretion and informed of the fact that an eyewitness of the murder had turned up.
"My gosh!" he exclaimed when the details had been told. "Why, that just naturally blows Norvallis clean out of water! What'll he do if he loses Mr. Vote-getter Maxon?"
"Pinch Sherwood," chuckled Creighton. "That ought to net him even handsomer returns."
"Oh—no!" cried Miss Ocky, and turned white. "Oh, I think it is simply disgraceful that such things can happen in a civilized country! Bad enough to be the subject of gossip and suspected of a crime, but to be actually imprisoned on mere suspicion—"
"I was only joking," cut in the detective hastily. "Norvallis will make no such stupid blunder. I'm sorry to say there is a wide difference between what can be done to a mere workingman and what may be done to a country gentleman of position."
"So much the worse!" snapped Miss Ocky unappeased.
"This lets out Charlie Maxon," muttered Krech, and regarded his friend morosely. "Seems to me, Creighton, that every time this case takes one step forward, it slides back two. Jason Bolt is getting fearfully down in the mouth. When this news reaches him it will be the finishing touch."
"I had a talk with him this afternoon," said the detective, and flicked his cigarette over the veranda rail. "Reminded him that Rome wasn't built in a day and that murderers aren't always caught in a night, that the darkest hour is just before the dawn, and dropped a few other comforting thoughts in similar vein. I also mentioned that one never knew in a case of this kind when something might happen—"
"It's happening now!"
Krech hissed the words in a fierce whisper. His eyes had automatically followed the detective's glowing cigarette and had been attracted by something farther off, barely visible through the deepening dusk. Almost before Miss Ocky and Creighton could sense the meaning of his words, he had sprung to his feet and vaulted the veranda railing. Thanks to a downhill slope of the ground at this point the piazza floor was a full nine feet from the grass lawn, and they heard a hearty grunt as Krech alighted. Then he recovered his footing and sped with extraordinary swiftness for so large a man across the sward in the direction of that woods that edged it.
"What is it?" gasped Miss Ocky. "Oh—what is it?"
"The monk!" cried Creighton. "The monk!"
His glance, darting ahead of the speeding Krech, had discerned an unmistakable figure outlined against a clump of white birch as though the monk had deliberately chosen a background against which he would be most conspicuous to the group on the piazza. He was standing there motionless, apparently indifferent to the rushing menace of Krech, and through the detective's brain, searing it like a flame, shot the memory of something Sherwood had said, "I thought the fellow would run, but instead of that he waited!" He was waiting now!
"Krech!" cried the detective. "Careful—careful!"
His hands were on the rail of the veranda. It had not taken two seconds for him to size the situation and shout his warning, and those same seconds were occupied in getting out of his chair and dashing to the rail. He had one leg over this when two hands like steel clamps circled his right arm and gripped him fiercely.
"Please—oh,please!" stammered a frightened voice.
"Ocky!" he gasped in furious protest. "Leggo!"
He wrenched himself free and went sprawling over the rail, a wordless prayer in his heart that no broken legs or sprained ankles were to be his portion. He landed unhurt in a providential flowerbed, and struggled again to his feet to discover that both the monk and Krech had vanished.
There was a little-used trail which commenced near the birch-trees and ran sharply downhill to the small house that Miss Ocky had donated to her nephew and his bride. Creighton knew of its existence, and never doubted now that the monk had disappeared into it at the last moment with the impetuous Krech in full pursuit. He drew an electric torch from his hip-pocket as he raced for the dark entrance to the path, anxiety for his friend the paramount force that speeded his flying feet.
"Why did he try to jump him like that?" he thought. "If he had only used his head a bit! He could have sauntered into the house, out the back door, crept through the woods and taken the fellow in the rear. He has all the courage of a mad bull—and about as much sense."
This unkind summary of Krech's character was no sooner complete than Creighton himself was in the trail, plunging headlong down its sharp declivity with quite as much recklessness as his friend had shown, save the advantage of his flash. He played its powerful beam ahead of him as he ran and leaped, until twenty yards from the entrance he suddenly dug his heels hard into the rubble of the path to halt his wild career as the light showed him the body of a man lying face downward in the trail. Its bulk alone left no doubt of identity.
"Hell!" snapped the detective, and the one vicious word was the epitome of all that he felt.
With desperate haste he jammed the torch into a crotch of a small tree so that its rays illuminated the scene, then dropped to his knees beside the prone body of his friend, exerted all his strength and rolled it over on its back. His eager fingers, pressing, prodding, explored the still form throughout its length.
"No wounds—no broken bones," was his first relieved diagnosis. Then "Hello—here we are!" An angry red abrasion on the big man's forehead had caught his attention. He touched it, and smiled as it elicited a groan from the victim that sounded to Creighton like celestial music. "A crack on the head—knocked him out!" he muttered, then raised his voice. "I say, Krech—come to, old man, come to!"
The adjuration seemed to penetrate Mr. Krech's dazed faculties. His eyes opened, blinked once or twice, opened again and stared tranquilly up into Creighton's. His lips moved and words issued.
"A fall like that," he observed calmly, "would have killed an ordinary man."
"Thank heaven!" ejaculated the detective fervently. "Are you much hurt? What happened?"
"Tripped—came down with a dirty wallop and cracked my head on something awfully hard." He raised himself cautiously to a sitting position and glanced about him. "That chunk of granite there—doesn't it look to you as if it were freshly broken?"
"I guess it was only this big root!" said Creighton, and laughed aloud in his relief. Then his mirth abruptly gave way to surprise. "Hello," he said. "Hello—hello—hello!"
He had been looking around too, and now he picked up a loose end of stout wire that was attached at one extremity to a sapling. There could be no question as to what it was doing there. Until Krech's shin had snapped it, it had been stretched taut across the trail a foot above the ground.
"Gee Joseph!" exclaimed the big man, staring at the simple apparatus of destruction. "Clever little hellion, ain't he?" He stood up, moved his arms and legs tentatively and gave himself a shake.
"All right?" asked Creighton quickly.
"Never felt better in my life. Little shaking-up like that—good for a man. Who was the ancient johnnie that used to bounce up from the earth a bit stronger for every time he hit it?"
"Antaeus," suggested the detective absently.
"Uh-huh. H. Antaeus Krech—that's me." He added with more appropriate seriousness, "What became of our little playmate?"
"Search me," replied Creighton, still thoughtful. "I'm trying to figure out what was back of all this. It was a prearranged trap, of course. He showed himself deliberately, invited us to chase him, then arranged this wire to insure his get-away. But—why?"
"I can give you a good guess, Peter, my boy," said Krech slowly. "I think I have inadvertently saved your life."
"Huh? What's that?"
"Suppose you are getting too close to the truth of who killed Simon Varr—or suppose the murderer thinks you are, which comes to the same thing. He doesn't care for the idea—not a-tall. So he has a happy inspiration and plots this scenario as you have described it—only to draw an anticlimax. You were supposed to do the chasing. Naturally he couldn't foresee that your guardian angel, the unfortunate me, would come galloping down here and spring his trap.
"What if it had been you who was slumbering peacefully in the middle of the path instead of me? Would you ever have awakened again? Or would you now be sitting somewhere on a cloud talking it all over with Simon? How's that for a theory?"
"You think he'd have stuck a knife in me? I must admit there is a nasty air of plausibility about your sketch." The detective mused a moment. "There's one consolation if it's true; it's mighty complimentary—almost flattering—to my ability!"
He stood up and rescued his torch from its resting-place in the tree. As he took it down, its beam was deflected briefly along the trail, and in that instant he uttered a quick exclamation.
"Look there!" he snapped. "What's that?"