The first thing I noticed as I sped up the stairs was the absence of Stodger from his post in the upper hall, where I had last seen him. Only a few minutes previously I had peeped into the lower hall to satisfy myself that everything was right; at that time he was leaning on the balustrade, engaged in a desultory conversation with Officer Morrison, stationed below. But in a moment I understood.
The bath room door stood wide open, and on the floor lay Miss Cooper—lifeless, was my first horrified thought. Stodger, with the best of intensions and the least possible capacity for carrying them out, knelt helplessly beside her, under the delusion that he was rendering first aid.
Instantly I lifted the still form from the floor and pillowed the sunny brown tresses in the hollow of my arm. How light she was! How soft! How lovely and tender! It was wonderful—a sublime revelation—thus to feel the actual contact of her warm, yielding body.
But Heaven knows, I did n't stop to analyze my feelings at the time. For a while I was shaken, panic-stricken, utterly unable to do more than stare numbly down at the sweet pale face, framed in its nimbus of wavy brown hair. I got a grip on myself, though, and Stodger was sent flying to fetch Miss Fluette.
She came quickly enough, wondering and alarmed; and when she beheld me holding her cousin, would have snatched her from me—with what biting words I can only imagine.
But for once in her life, at least, that proud, wilful young lady bowed without a murmur to the tone of authority; for one brief moment she stared at me astounded, and in the next, as comprehension dawned, melted. It is hard to say which of her two attitudes was the more impressive: the flaming anger provoked by the sight of the unconscious girl in my arms, or the tenderly sweet manner with which she presently turned to minister to her. The voice which bade me leave Genevieve to her care was actually gentle. Very reluctantly, I withdrew with Stodger into the hall. Before I closed the door, however, I tersely charged Miss Belle to give me as soon as possible the explanation of the mystery.
The door closed, I turned upon my unoffending associate rather angrily, I 'm ashamed to say; but Stodger's good-nature was imperturbable. He could tell me absolutely nothing that threw light upon whatever terrifying experience Miss Cooper had undergone.
He had remained at the spot where I had last seen him, he said; a position he had assumed purposely, because from there he had a view of practically the entire second story. He had opened all the doors so that the slightest sound or movement in any of the chambers could not fail to attract his attention. Immediately behind him, by simply turning his head, he could see through the bath room, across the landing at the top of the rear stairs, and into the small sewing-room beyond. To right and left—east and west—the corridor extended the width of the house, and an intruder could have gained access to any of the rooms only by passing the watcher.
The sudden piercing scream, Stodger protested, had startled and astonished him as much as it had anybody. He wheeled round to find the bath room door so nearly closed that it was impossible to glimpse what lay beyond until he had again opened it; which he had done promptly, he declared, to behold only Miss Cooper. She was lying on the floor in a dead faint.
Miss Belle called to me, after a minute or two of anxious waiting, and I hastened into the bath room. Genevieve was so far recovered that she was able to look wonderingly up at her cousin, a terrified expression yet lingering in her eyes. Her face was white and drawn. Her cousin was upon one knee, supporting her upon the other and holding her tightly.
I knelt upon the other side, taking one of the little hands in mine. Almost at once I was gladdened and relieved by seeing the sweet face break into one of its lovely smiles.
"What was it?" I asked, anxiously enough. "Have you been hurt?"
"No, no," replied she, quickly, "not hurt—not in the least; only frightened within an inch of my life." She shuddered, and made as if to rise.
"Let me up, Belle; I 'm all right now—just a wee bit trembly from the shock, maybe, but I can stand."
She tried to laugh and to make light of the matter, but the pale lips and quivering muscles belied the attempt. I lifted her to her feet. Her cousin remained close to her, keeping a supporting arm round her waist and watching the white countenance with a passionate solicitude that made me glance curiously at her.
Every action, almost every word, of this vivid, high-spirited girl seemed to be an echo of her impetuous, wayward temper. Even a concern as natural as that excited by her cousin's present plight, was charged with an intensity which made me wonder what the effect might be if her feelings were ever deeply or ruthlessly stirred. While her affections were stamped with an immoderate fervor, one might readily enough fancy her resentment, fired by a word perhaps, striking with a blind vehemence that recked not at all of consequences. Her emotions, apparently, knew no happy, tranquil, steadfast medium.
As we stepped into the hall, Genevieve was saying, "I 'll go with you to the library. I merely got what I deserved, I suppose, for presuming to think that I might accomplish something single-handed. But—oh, it was dreadful!"
"What was?" bluntly demanded Miss Belle. "What silly notion ever made you jump up and sail out of the room that way?"
Genevieve turned to me with a faint smile.
"The face at the curtains," said she.
"Face!" echoed Miss Belle, manifestly believing that her cousin's mind was not normal. "For goodness' sake, Genevieve, what do you mean?"
But the girl continued to address me.
"You did n't see it?"
We had paused at the head of the stairs, two of us nonplussed and very curious. I shook my head.
"When you left the room," said I, "I was too occupied otherwise to be heeding the curtained alcove. I wondered, though, what sudden impulse moved you—why you should have gone into the alcove at all."
"I knew that you could not leave the room right then," she explained, the color coming quickly back to her cheeks; "I remembered our pact, and I thought I saw an opportunity of being really of assistance. It is not to be wondered at that nobody else saw what I did. It all happened so swiftly. By the merest chance I glanced toward the alcove, and at that very instant the curtains parted sufficiently for me to see a face." Again she shuddered.
"Mr. Swift, it was the most hideous face I ever looked upon. Had I been alone in the library doubtless it would have terrified me even then. But instantly it disappeared, and without a thought of being afraid, I hastened to investigate.
"As I got to the conservatory I saw the door at the farther end just closing. It didn't slam—there was n't a sound—but simply closed quickly before my eyes. Never for a moment did it occur to me that I ought to be cautious; that closing door only made me run the faster to learn who or what had closed it.
"Well, when I opened it, and the next door across the little passage, I saw the same thing repeated in the bedroom beyond—a door closing, apparently from its own volition. The same thing happened with the door opening into the rear hall.
"It was maddening to be just so far behind and unable to gain the fraction of a second which would enable me to find out who was fleeing from me in such haste—maddening to be rewarded with no more than a procession of closing doors.
"The chase continued on up the rear stairs, to the landing between the bath room and the small room at the back; there for the first time I felt a misgiving, and I hesitated. I was out of breath, my heart was pounding until my ears roared; everything else was so deathly still.
"A glance told me that the rear room was empty of any living presence. Cautiously I pushed open the bath room door; but it was too dark to see inside."
"Was the door into the hall shut?" I interrupted quickly, remembering that Stodger believed it to be open.
"Yes. I entered a bit timidly; all my assurance had somehow evaporated. Then—then, before I had time to make another move, two hands seized me.
"I was thrown violently against the wall, and one of the hands tried to grasp my throat. I was fighting as hard as I could; but—I was helpless.
"Then I screamed. I put my whole soul into it. Everything slipped away from me, and I knew nothing more until Belle was holding me in her arms and I felt her dabbing my face with water.… Dear girl, don't look so tragic; I'm all right now."
While Genevieve hung close at my side, the inquest waited until I had searched the place from cellar to garret. But never a trace of the mysterious intruder did I find. When I became satisfied that he had safely made his escape I asked Genevieve to describe the face.
"I 'm afraid I can't," she returned hesitatingly. "I had such a lightning-like glimpse of it. Still, in a general way, it was very swarthy and wrinkled—quite ape-like. The lower part was covered with a short, curling, sparse black beard; the eyes were like"—she searched for a simile—"like a snake's."
"That's graphic enough," I said; "but the description fits no countenance that I can now call to mind."
"What can it mean?" she asked wonderingly.
"It means," I grimly replied, "that I guessed right: the ruby is in this house. And I 'm going to have a time keeping it here, too, until I find it myself."
The one mistake of the intruder, whoever he might be, had been in peeping between the alcove curtains; of course he had been reconnoitring only; but a person who could move through the house so noiselessly might easily have accomplished, without discovery, whatever errand brought him there.
The idea was positively uncanny and far from pleasant to dwell upon. Stodger's hearing may not have been remarkably acute, but if my life depended upon shutting that door so close behind him and not attracting his attention, why, I should have hesitated long before essaying the performance. To have the ruby lifted from under the very noses of the watchers—while they were wide awake, too—would in all truth be a sorry ending of our search for it.
For the nonce, however, the mysterious face introduced only an additional problem; one upon which I had but little time, just at present, to bestow thought. The drama in the library had been interrupted at its most crucial stage. It was all-important that at least one phase of the case be brought to a termination, however unsatisfactory that termination might be, before anything else should be undertaken.
After explanations had been made and order was restored, the foreman did not proceed, as might have been expected, by reading the verdict. Instead he jerked his head sideways toward Miss Cooper.
"Mr. Coroner," he said, "we 'd like to ask the young lady some questions."
He was a poor specimen, that foreman; one of your little, officious, meddling busybodies, as aggravating as the buzzing of a persistent fly.
"If they are pertinent to the inquiry," said Dr. de Breen, "it is not only proper, but your duty to ask them. The young lady will be sworn."
At this unexpected demand she darted a startled glance from the foreman to Dr. De Breen, and then looked at me—as I joyfully fancied, for guidance and support.
I nodded—she could n't avoid the ordeal—and she bowed in acknowledgment of the oath, which the doctor rattled off as if it were all one long word.
And just here I am unable to refrain from pointing out how small an incident will sometimes afford the turning-point for a momentous crisis; such an apt illustration is presently to follow.
When interrupted by Genevieve's shriek of terror the foreman had been in the very midst of pronouncing the concluding phrase of the verdict. Had it not been for the strange face, had the venturesome girl not followed the face's owner, who could say how differently events might not have turned out? For I know now that the first verdict was quite different from the one finally read.
The catechism which Genevieve was required to undergo follows:
"What is your name?"
"Clara Genevieve Cooper."
"How old are you?"
"I was twenty-one in December."
"We would like to know, Miss Cooper, what relation, if any, you bear to the witness Maillot?"
"Merely that of a friend."
"How about him and the other young lady?"—an interrogation which instantly made Miss Belle flush and bridle. But the witness was fully equal to the occasion.
"I would n't undertake to speak for them," she replied composedly.
The succeeding questions brought out the relationship between the two girls, and also established Miss Fluette's identity. Something akin to a sensation prevailed in the jury-box for a few seconds after the six good men and true realized that the handsome gentleman with the white hair and dark beard was no other than the celebrated "wheat king." Their manner toward his niece underwent a sudden transformation; their attitude became more respectful.
Miss Cooper was dismissed, and Maillot was recalled. He denied any formal engagement between himself and Miss Fluette; but it soon became apparent, both from his manner and her growing vexation, pretty precisely what the relations between them really were. The jury learned that the young man's quest of the Paternoster ruby had not been undertaken without the stimulus of a very warm-hearted devotion.
Maillot was left sitting in the witness-chair while a new verdict was made out. It formally charged the young man with the murder of his uncle.
I afterward learned, by questioning the self-important foreman, that the first verdict had been an open one. The demand for Miss Cooper's testimony had been prompted by the "diversion"—I am using his own word—she had occasioned when she left the room, and afterward threw the proceedings into wild disorder by her scream. The interrupted verdict had failed to hold Maillot only by the narrowest margin; Miss Cooper's adventure had served to turn the scale against him.
"Look here," I demanded warmly, "don't you believe what she said?"
He smiled with an air of such superior knowledge that I very nearly cuffed his ears.
"Oh, I don't blame the young lady!—dear me, no!" he said, with a smirk. "Loyalty, you know. What do you think of it?"
I had turned to move away, much disgusted; but I lingered long enough to look him over curiously.
"What's your name?" I bluntly demanded.
"Griggs—Samuel B. Griggs."
"I think, Mr. Samuel B. Griggs—if you really want to know—that you 're a damned idiot."
As I recall the scene that brilliant winter morning in the Page library, one detail stands out so much more prominently than all the rest, that the really important aspects are quite overshadowed in my memory, and notwithstanding the surprising nature of Alfred Fluette's deportment, I am obliged to pause and group them in my own mind in order to produce a reasonably correct portrayal of what actually transpired. But one's memory is apt to play strange and unaccountable tricks, and mine is no exception. The best mental image I can recall is distorted, all out of drawing, as the artists say; I can see only Belle Fluette.
After the accusation fell from the foreman's lips, I quite suddenly became aware of the fact that she was standing rigidly erect, one hand strained to her bosom, the other clenched tightly against her cheek. Every vestige of color had flown from her face, leaving it as white as marble.
But her eyes! It is her eyes that still haunt me. They burned with a light of despair so profound that no mere human note could even feebly yield a hint of it; and behind the despair, plucking and tearing at her heart-strings, lay a misery unutterable. She alone had remained serenely confident of the outcome, and now, being the least prepared for it, the shock to her high-strung susceptibilities was more keenly poignant than human flesh could endure. She presented the appearance of one stunned, of one beaten and buffeted to stupefaction, yet through it all still sensible of an anguish that wrenched her very soul.
There was no outcry, no spoken word; but in a moment a tremor ran over her slender form, her knees gave way, and with one last desperate effort she tried to reach Maillot. Even as she turned to him, before a move could be made to sustain her, she tottered and fell prone upon her face. One extended hand clutched once at the young man's foot, then relaxed and grew still. It was as if her last conscious thought had been governed by a flitting impulse to seek the support of even so mean an assurance of his presence.
In a flash the lover was kneeling at his sweetheart's side, pressing her white face to his bosom in a wild embrace. He called to her frantically, coaxed her with endearments, wholly oblivious of his shocked audience. He assured her in choked, incoherent phrases that all was well with him; but he spoke to deaf ears.
Dr. De Breen, direct and practical, brought him to his senses with a sharp command.
Maillot reluctantly yielded Belle to Genevieve and the doctor. Not for a moment did a thought of his own trouble enter his head, I am sure, and he did not remove his tense look of anxiety from her face until Dr. De Breen convincingly declared that she was only in a swoon.
"Best thing for her, just now," said he, crisply; "she can't think. Furthermore, she needs a sedative to keep her from thinking for a while." Then to her father:
"Here, you, you take her home on the double-quick. Have in your physician. Let her cousin get her in bed."
It is likely that Alfred Fluette had not been addressed for many a day with such cavalier brusqueness, and overpowering indeed must have been his emotions now that he did not notice the doctor's abrupt manner. Even his daughter's condition seemed to produce only a momentary impression upon him; for by the time Maillot and Dr. De Breen had conveyed the limp girl to a divan, where Genevieve continued to minister to her, he was excitedly striving to catch the doctor's attention.
"Listen to me, sir," he commanded, his voice trembling, "you are the one in authority here; this young man mustnotbe remanded to jail."
Dr. De Breen stopped short and fixed him with a look of surprise. And I was not a little surprised myself. Knowing how bitterly opposed he had been to Maillot's attentions to Miss Belle, what was I to think? Did the manner in which the shock had prostrated her—had literally felled her to the floor—open his eyes to the depth of their attachment, and at the same time touch his heart with pity? His concern could not have been more pronounced if the young fellow had been his own son placed in similar jeopardy. Or—and here was my predominating thought—did he have the best of reasons forknowingthat Maillot was innocent?
During the brief pause in which Dr. De Breen coolly surveyed him—for once the perverse glasses observing their proper function—he recovered something of his equipoise.
"See here, Doctor," he went on more calmly, "I am not familiar enough with the proper procedure in—er—in criminal cases to know just what I want to say. But is the next step imprisonment for Mr. Maillot?"
"It is," snapped the doctor.
"Then I will go his bond—in any amount; but he must not go to—"
"My dear sir," Dr. De Breen interrupted, with asperity, "a prisoner under charge of first degree murder cannot be admitted to bail; not even by the court having jurisdiction of his case, much less I. The police are now responsible for the young man's movements."
He deliberately turned his back upon the millionaire speculator, and strode away. Years after that scene, Dr. De Breen confided to me that Fluette had given him the impression that he was hinting at a bribe.
The words, however, seemed to strike Mr. Fluette like a physical blow. He winced perceptibly, and his face worked with agitation. But he rose splendidly to the occasion. In a second or so his customary commanding dignity returned, and his keen eyes flashed with resolution and defiance. He wheeled upon Maillot at the instant that much distressed young man was persuaded by Genevieve to leave Belle's side.
"Maillot," said he, in a firm voice, "I sincerely regret any hard feelings I may have entertained for you in the past. You are not only a courageous young man, but an innocent one, and one, therefore, that is being made to suffer a grievous wrong. I wish to say so here publicly; I wish, too, to say publicly that I mean to see that you have at your disposal the best legal talent procurable."
Maillot's reception of this proffer was peculiar. He looked the man of money squarely in the eyes for an instant; then his lips twisted into a mocking smile. He nodded his head ever so slightly, but the movement was unmistakably a curt rejection.
"Thank you," he said dryly, his voice low and even. "But I intend getting out of this scrape myself, Mr. Fluette; I don't wish to occasion you any future embarrassment. Please don't mistake my meaning."
Fluette made no further effort, and it was impossible to determine just how the rebuff—it was no less—affected him; he had himself too well in hand, now. He began preparations for conveying home his still unconscious daughter, and before they departed I contrived to have a private word with Genevieve. Her face was very tragic.
"I must see you alone—as soon as possible," I said hurriedly.
"I can't leave Belle," she whispered. "What is it?"
"My first request from my lieutenant," I chided, smiling down at her.
"Don't!" she pleaded. "I shall come. Where? When?"
"Dear me, no. I'll do the coming; it's only 'when'?"
"To-morrow?" she suggested doubtfully. "You know, we 're all so upset. And Belle—" The dear girl nearly broke down. "Yes, do come," she murmured tearfully, "as early as you can; everything depends upon you, now."
I caught her hand. "Please don't worry," I whispered; "everything will come out right. I can't bear to see you suffer. Will eight o'clock be too early?"
"No."
"I 'll not say 'Be brave,' for you 're the bravest girl in the world; but please, please don't fret and worry. Here 's your coachman. Good-bye."
She smiled wanly. "I sha'n't," she said. "Good-bye—till to-morrow morning."
She pressed my hand and ran lightly out.
Maillot now came over to where I was standing. He was very pale, his face was drawn with lines of suffering (more for Miss Belle than on his own account, beyond doubt), but his manner was quite composed. In fact, his demeanor was more subdued—chastened, as it were—than I had seen it at any time during our brief acquaintance.
"Well, it's over," he remarked bitterly.
"Don't be an ass," I returned. "If you are innocent, nothing worse can happen."
He smiled whimsically, quickly taking me up.
"And if guilty, the worst is yet to come, eh? Well, at any rate, I 'm your prisoner."
"Not necessarily mine," I said.
"By preference. I can't stand for those roughneck cops, and Stodger as a custodian is a joke. I 'd be too strongly tempted to dump him into the first handy snow-drift, and cut loose. I don't suppose you 'll insist on any rot about handcuffs and all that sort of thing?"
Notwithstanding his pretence of humorous indifference, there was a question in his tone, and he peered at me a bit anxiously. I grinned.
"I don't know," I said. "I won't take any chances on being dumped into a snow-drift."
"Rot! You know I could n't if I wanted to."
"Mr. Fluette could have helped you, Maillot."
I looked at him narrowly. He shrugged his shoulders, merely, and produced and lighted a cigarette.
"Let's go," he said, flipping the match away.
Stodger was left on guard at the Page place. My prisoner and I walked to a car and proceeded to police headquarters.
His attitude, naturally enough, was one of extreme dejection; nevertheless I tried to cheer him up—vainly—and when opportunity offered I also tried to get some light upon the ring episode.
"It does n't do for me to express an opinion one way or another as to your probable guilt or innocence, Maillot," I said at one time; "but I can tell you this much for your encouragement.
"Since the murder, several developments have turned up which convince me that there 's a deal more in the crime than either you or I can at present conceive. You can keep it in mind that I see more work ahead than I did immediately after quizzing you and Burke Wednesday morning.… By the way, that ring you slipped upon your finger this morning, whose is it?"
For a second he frowned with an air of trying to recall the incident. Suddenly his face cleared.
"Did you notice that?" he returned, with perfect composure. "It's mine—was my mother's wedding ring."
I was watching him intently. He met my regard with a level look.
"In the habit of wearing it?" I asked.
"Sometimes."
"See here," I came to the point with abrupt directness. "You appreciate quite as much as I do the significance of that broad band of gold on the middle finger of your right hand. Why did you put it there at such a time?"
He sat silent.
"You 've become mighty close-mouthed all at once," I sharply urged.
He gave me a little half-smile, and glanced away.
"By advice of counsel I refuse to talk," said he, quietly.
"If you are the counsel, you have a fool for a client—andvice versa," I retorted. "I suppose, too, that you refuse any assistance that I—"
Instantly his assumed indifference vanished.
"By no means," stopping me with considerable warmth. "If there 's any way out of this rotten mess it's you that must get me out. My hands are literally tied, now. And—Swift," he hesitated; his face clouded and his voice suddenly dropped, "I—I simply can't say anything more, old chap."
"So," I quietly observed, "you too are worried about Fluette."
He started as if stung.
"My God, Swift!" he began, and stopped. He sat staring at me a moment in utter dismay, then his disturbed look wandered to a window.
"You 're too devilish sharp," he muttered.
"Lucky for you that I am," retorted I, cheerfully. "This is a bad tangle that we 're caught in, Maillot."
He said nothing more. By the time we reached our destination he was prepared to enter philosophically upon his period of confinement, whether it should prove long or short. As I turned to depart I noticed that he was following me with a wistful look.
"I 'll see that you are kept posted about the young lady," I told him; which elicited a deep sigh of relief and a fervent word of thanks.
Again I was preparing to leave him, the turnkey standing by and impatiently jingling the ring of big brass keys which was suspended from his arm, when the prisoner called me back. He searched my eyes earnestly.
"Swift," he began, "as I said before, I 'm helpless now to fight for myself. But I want to warn you against that devil Burke. I know nothing further than that he has been in the habit of visiting Mr. Fluette and of being closeted with him for hours at a time. The subject of those long conferences Mr. Fluette has kept strictly to himself, evading all of Belle's inquiries and attempts to make him talk about the fellow. Burke is repulsive to her—for which you can't blame her—and her curiosity over a man like him and a man like her father having anything in common is quite natural. It is odd, you know.
"That's not what I intended saying, though." He paused and eyed me keenly an instant. "If anything turns up that drags Mr. Fluette into this business, you will find that Burke's the one who has tangled him. Watch Burke."
Then the heavy steel door clanged to between us.
After the cell door closed upon Royal Maillot I returned at once to the house of tragedy, whose evil genius was promising to play havoc with the lives of so many of the living; and as I approached the bleak, austere old mansion something in its silent and inanimate exterior seemed to repulse my advance up the gravel walk. My steps lagged, and at last I drew to a halt.
Cold and clear and snappy as the day was, still there was something oppressive in the air that hung about the house of death. I looked at the lifeless windows. Staring vacantly, utterly expressionless of the swift-moving tragic drama that had been enacted behind them, failing to foreshadow what was yet to transpire here, they all at once brought forcibly to my mind Alexander Burke. Thus did his eyes hide, instead of disclose, the workings within.
That the mind of this man was secret and evil I could now no longer doubt. Felix Page had been a powerful man, physically and mentally; yet Alexander Burke, sly and impassive, soft-spoken and soft-footed, ever alert and observant and burrowing, like a mole, in darkness, had undermined him, and—the conviction grew—had brought about his cruel death.
In what way? What far-reaching machination was he so laboriously evolving? What snare was he casting unseen to bring down in ruin the lives of others? And why? Coward that he was, had he at no time worked in the broad light of day?
An unwelcome sense of depression was slowly weighing me down. It was as if the silent house were haunted. At the time, I was convinced that I was merely making a hodge-podge of the hundred and one clews that had come to my hands, though now I know that the whole vast scheme was gradually taking shape in my mind. I was bewildered by the wide diversity of the opposed interests, left powerless by failure to light upon a sure point of common interest defining the attitudes of the different actors. For to say that it was the ruby did not clear the fog any—unless I accepted the growing assurance that Alfred Fluette was the active instrument of death.
Still, every detail I had gathered was necessary to complete the circle. When finally I did have my case all in hand there was no single point that remained obscure.
My brooding inertia was dispelled by a shout from Stodger. He was standing on the front porch, regarding me with considerable curiosity.
"Hi! What you doing down there, Swift? Come here!"
I soon learned that he had something of interest to report.
"D' ye know, Swift," said he, with much seriousness, extending his chubby hands to the welcome warmth of the library fire, "it's an outrage—damme, if it is n't—that I 'm so fat. H'm! Believe in ghosts?"
I was instantly all attention. Genevieve's terrifying experience was too recent and real for me to scout any supernatural suggestion of my colleague.
I quickly asked:
"Seen anything about the house?"
"Not in here. Outside. Could n't chase 'em."
"I'm glad you are fat, then; who would have watched the house while you were chasing whatever it was you thought you saw?"
He clapped one hand on top of his bullet of a head, and stared at me in comical surprise.
"Say! You're right, Swift! You are, by George! First time I ever found a—ah—you know—a consolation for my—er m—my stoutness.
"Two shadows. Didn't get to see 'em plain. All the time you were gone I could glimpse 'em now and then—first one place, then another—slipping and sliding through the bushes, trying to keep hid, y' know."
As may be imagined, I was profoundly interested.
"What did they look like?" I asked.
Stodger shook his head. "Bushes too thick. No leaves; but they would n't come close enough for me to get a good look. H'm. Watching the house, all right."
The matter was serious enough, in all conscience. Our incessant vigilance was most certainly justified by the pertinacity of these mysterious prowlers, for as long as they surreptitiously sought to enter the house, my belief that the ruby lay hid somewhere beneath its roof was in a way confirmed.
Stodger was sagely nodding his head at me.
"To-night," he said, with meaning. "Bet anything you like."
"To-night," I thoughtfully echoed. "It would not surprise me in the least."
Although a close watch was maintained throughout the remainder of the day, we saw no more of the elusive "shadows." My arrival, manifestly, had frightened them away.
I put in a portion of the time until nightfall going carefully over the old house again, from cellar to roof. My purpose now was to ascertain whether there were any secret passages or concealed openings whereby we might be surprised; and my labors convinced me that there were none. The face which Genevieve saw at the alcove curtains could be easily accounted for, since, with the exception of Stodger, who was in the second story, and the officer in the lower hall, everybody in the house was assembled in the library, and, of course, completely absorbed in the inquest. It had been an easy matter to open one of the lower windows, or even one of the rear or side doors, and enter the house.
I found that the walls were all of an even, normal thickness, and there were no spaces between floors or walls for which I did not satisfactorily account. I also kept a watchful eye for the prototype of the designs on the cipher, but discovered nothing that was at all like them.
Otherwise the day proved to be wholly uneventful. I spent much time in consideration of my case, naturally; but this exercise yielded nothing more conclusive than that Alfred Fluette's place in it was assuming larger and larger proportions as time went by.
I was much impressed with Maillot's charge to watch Burke. But here again I was offered no new light. It was satisfying to know that another than myself was distrustful of the erstwhile secretary; but as for watching him—well, I knew that he was being subjected to a constant espionage that left nothing to be desired.
It was, doubtless, the emphasis which Maillot had laid upon Burke's secret visits to Fluette that engaged my interest. I would have liked very much to know what they portended. If the slippery secretary had been carrying on negotiations with the millionaire for the Paternoster ruby, then the latter's position relative to the murder stood out quite clearly. With knowledge of those interviews in my possession I would be in a position to lay my case before the State's Attorney, who, beyond question, would procure a warrant for Fluette's immediate arrest.
What a sensation that would create!—Alfred Fluette charged with the murder of his rival and bitter enemy, Felix Page! It would be particularly startling inasmuch as a coroner's jury had already fastened the crime upon another man. I believe the reader will unhesitatingly admit, by this time, that the Page affair presented many remarkable aspects.
There was one discordant element in such a theory, however: namely, how could Fluette hope to retain possession of the gem, once he had secured it? How could he defend his title to it? Although the stone was immensely valuable, any person save the rightful owner would have an exceedingly difficult time disposing of it.
But this objection was in turn offset by the possibility that Page, although he had purchased the ruby openly,had actually acquired no just title to it. I admit, considering that Felix Page was never the sort of man to buy a pig in a poke, that the possibility was rather far-fetched; still, it was a possibility, and a very pregnant one, too. For if such were the case, Burke might have obtained, in some underhand manner, authority to dispose of it.
And this brought me to the, as yet, unaccounted-for Japanese—I call them such for lack of a more definite characterization. How otherwise was their obscure connection with the case to be explained? Why, the very word "ruby" instantly calls up a picture of the East. How often have priceless gems been filched from Oriental potentates! How often have mysterious murders been committed to recover some jewel stolen from an Eastern temple, the murderer driven forth by religious zeal—or fanaticism, call it what you will—to a relentless search for the fetich, and to wreak a dire vengeance on the plunderer! Admitting that the present intricate problem involved a similar instance, I could not see how the fact might tend to aid me any.
After supper, which was brought in to us, Stodger and I divided the night into two watches—I taking the first until two o'clock in the morning, and he assuming responsibility from that time on until he chose to awaken me.
I arranged the two watches thus because I imagined that if an attempt should be made to enter the house during the night, it would occur at some time near the hour mentioned when both of us would more than likely be awake. My guess, you will see, was a poor one.
I also wanted to devote the fore part of the night, when my brain is always clearest, to an exhaustive study of the cipher found by Genevieve in the jewel-box. Until Stodger was ready to retire I could concentrate my whole mind upon it, I told myself, without fear of being disturbed. After my companion turned in I would have to remain alert, keeping pretty constantly on the move so that no marauder might steal in upon us unawares, or from an unexpected quarter.
If the place was bleak and dreary in the daytime, what words will describe its dispiriting influence at night? There is a silence that is soothing and restful, which imbues one with a sense of comfort and a pleasant desire for sleep. Then there is another sort of silence; one that magnifies every trifling sound, sounds that could not even be detected during the day; the sort of silence that hints at uneasy stirrings and movements all about one. The distant cockcrow rings clear and high, floors creak, the very timbers of the house complain, and mice scurry in the walls.
It was such a stillness that enveloped us. Even Stodger's irrepressible good-humor failed to cheer. The old mansion was possessed of a thousand voices, strange, indefinable noises that kept our attention constantly divided; yet the night was so still that I could hear our watches ticking in our pockets.
The result was that the cipher received only scant attention from me. I would get only fairly absorbed in my task when Stodger would startle me with a sudden "Ssh!" or a no less startling command to "Listen!" Whereupon we would both sit straining our ears to hear—nothing.
Every few minutes one or the other of us, or both together, would go over the entire house, examining doors and windows and making sure that no one had entered since the last tour of inspection.
This was repeated so many times that Stodger himself grew glum, and at last signified a determination to turn in. He made himself comfortable on the big library divan,—the same divan which had held Belle Fluette's motionless form only a few hours previous,—wrapped himself in a heavy blanket from Felix Page's bed, and was soon fast asleep; or, at least, he offered audible evidence that he was.
Again I tried to fasten my attention upon the cryptic parchment; but it was of no use. In spite of myself, my head would jerk up to a listening attitude every time a board creaked or I fancied I heard a door somewhere in the house being cautiously opened. Time after time I would be sent stealthily to some remote corridor or chamber, only to return again to the library no wiser than before.
I finally thrust the cipher back into my pocketbook and resigned myself to a lonely vigil. The great library was a place of shadows and dark recesses, as well as of silence; and had it not been for the regular, stertorous breathing of the sleeper, I might have wished myself well out of it.
The hours dragged along—midnight, one o'clock, two, half-past, and still I did not rouse Stodger; I never had less desire to sleep. During one of my excursions through the empty, echoing rooms I set down my lantern—we had provided ourselves with this convenience—and looked out into the night. The pleasant weather of the past few days had ended; it was dark—very dark—and an occasional flake of snow, materializing ghostlike within the square of light from the lantern, scraped along the small diamond panes with a feathery touch.
Presently I entered Felix Page's bedroom. And here, for the first time that night, I was sensible of an absolute stillness. Not even a board creaked. Not a breath stirred the leafless boughs outside, nor rattled the withered vines on the walls. Then of a sudden I grew rigid, tensely alert, and watchful. From somewhere a breath of icy outdoor air struck upon my face and hands.
Now whatever else might be said of this old house, it was not a place of drafts. Its walls were thick and solid, its doors massive, and the doors and windows were snug-fitting; therefore, the fact that I now felt a perceptible rush of air could signify but one thing—that an outside door or window had been opened.
During a brief pause I hesitated over whether I should rouse Stodger; but so slight a warrant decided me not to. A shout from any part of the house, should he be needed, would accomplish the purpose quite as well.
So I merely stood motionless and listened. The circumstance that my straining ears could now hear nothing whatever was in itself ominous. The hush which had fallen upon the place was the sort that heralds an advance through a forest of the most cautious of hunters. Danger might be creeping upon me from every side and in any imaginable guise; if so, here was my warning.
Then it was that I smiled and reached a decision. With infinite caution I sank to the floor, removed my shoes, and draped a rug over the lantern. Only the dimmest points of light showed through the weave of the fabric; merely enough to serve as a guiding beacon in case I wanted to find it in a hurry. Next, with my revolver in hand, I stole to the hall door, which had been left ajar purposely, and peered out.
The darkness was fathomless, the silence complete. The spacious lower hall was the Dionysius' ear of the house; if there was any movement about the place, here if anywhere it would be detected and its source determined.
The floor was of hardwood, and my feet were soon numb with cold. Then, too, bravery is a relative term when all is said and done. A coward may be always a coward, but it is not an inevitable corollary that a brave man is always brave. To know a possible antagonist, to walk boldly up to him in the broad light of day, is one thing; to stand in a hyperborean hall in the dead of the night, surrounded by the darkness of the pit, ignorant alike of the nature of your peril and the point from which an attack may come—that is quite another.
So I freely own that my jaws ached with the effort of keeping my teeth from clicking together like castanets.
In the course of a long and not uneventful career, I have been in a good many tight places and under all sorts of conditions where I had to hold myself to the matter in hand with every grain of will power that I could muster; but never since that night in the old Page hall have I experienced precisely the same unnerving feeling that possessed me then. I came perilously close to an ignominious retreat—and before ever I had an idea of what I was running from!
Fortunately for whatever status I may hold in this chronicle, the movement was checked at its inception. In a flash my momentary panic was forgotten. I caught a sound that I recognized and, moreover, located on the instant. It was the long, unmistakable creak of a loose stair plank such as follows the gradual shifting of a person's weight from one foot to another. Somebody was slowly and cautiously ascending the rear stairs.
I could smile once more and breathe normally. Instead of retreating, I was in the next few seconds stealing up the front stairs. Nor did I move very slowly, either. I knew by experiment that its steps were all solid, and that I need not fear the betrayal of any complaining board.
At the stair head I became cautious again; I did n't want to risk a collision with theétagère. What must I do, however, but stumble against the topmost step and plunge head foremost right into the thing.
The ensuing crash that filled the house was like an explosion. It also drowned my comments. To make matters worse, in my efforts to keep from falling, my revolver shot from my hand and through the balusters, and went clattering down to the landing with the noise of a falling brick.
I recovered myself on the instant, however, and with a final malediction, darted toward the bath room. There was a sound of scurrying behind its door; but I paused not for doors. Fortunately it was a trifle ajar, and it went open before me with a thud. Also from behind it a most unmistakable human grunt emanated, the sort of involuntary notice a person gives when he has the wind suddenly knocked out of him. Then right in my ears there sounded the most weird, unearthly cry that I ever heard; it was positively uncanny. A cold chill went through me from head to foot.
Events thereafter moved with such electric swiftness that the details are all blurred.
I remember that I heard Stodger shouting encouragement, and his stockinged feet patting the bare floors as he ran. As the bath room door shot open and the strange cry shrilled forth, some object fell to the floor near me. There was also a sound of running feet up the rear stairs; which would indicate that my enemy was a host, and that the main body was returning to accomplish a rescue.
In a flash I had reached forth my arms and grappled with the unknown behind the door. That struggle would have been short, for he was like a child in my grasp. But instantly I was seized from all sides at once, it seemed. It was as if a dozen hands were feeling over me, to distinguish friend from foe.
Into what had I rushed so blindly? Who was opposing me? How many were there?
At least twice I was borne to one knee by sheer weight and the number of my assailants. Both times I succeeded in shaking myself free and rising again to my feet. I was warm enough now, heaven knows, and I had the satisfaction of knowing that I was inflicting far more damage than I was receiving.
I knew when Stodger unhesitatingly threw himself into the thick of the fray. Good old Stodger! And there we fought, silently, furiously, in the restricted space of the bath room, enveloped in a darkness that one could almost feel. Again and again I collided with the porcelain tub. More than once when I secured a firm grasp upon one of my unseen adversaries, I picked him up bodily and hurled him with all the force of which I was capable toward where I fancied the tub to be. But in the riot and frenzied confusion of being jerked first this way and then that, how could mortal distinguish the location of anything!
The struggle ended abruptly. Stodger and I were at a disadvantage, for he dared not shoot on my account, and I had no weapon but my two bare hands.
Not so our antagonist, however. Of a sudden one side of my face felt as if some one had quickly drawn the tip of a red-hot poker from the corner of my eye to my chin. At the same instant a crushing blow caught me above one ear.
The blow did not render me unconscious, but it more than staggered me. For an instant such strength as was left me was needed to keep from tumbling headlong. I was on my knees and one hand, while the other arm was hooked over the rim of the tub.
The fight had ended. I could hear a patter of feet on the rear stairs; I could hear some one near me on the floor, breathing heavily; then fell silence. I tried to yell to Stodger to be up and after them, but the result was only a painful wheezing in my throat. Then the gasping form on the floor groaned, and I managed to get dizzily to my feet.
We received the worst of that fight in more ways than one. When I managed to find a candle and light it, I discovered that Stodger was the one who had groaned. He was sitting up, not badly hurt, and staring dazedly at the candle. His mouth hung ludicrously open. But in a moment he struggled upright.
"Good God, Swift!" he gasped. "You 've been butchered!"
Then I recalled the red-hot poker. I put a hand to my cheek; it came away covered with blood. From the shoulder down, my clothes were saturated with it, and I had left a crimson trail to mark each of my movements since the keen-edged blade had laid my face open.
But enough of the wound. The white pucker of scar which to-day disfigures my face will be a life-long memento of that spirited combat in the dark.
After we were in condition to do so, Stodger and I set about an inspection of the scene.
First of all, we did n't find a trace of our adversaries, or how many of them there might have been, until we came to the snow outside. An open dining-room window indicated their method of ingress, the trampled snow beneath their number. There had been five.
"Why the bath room?" Stodger demanded, in deep perplexity. "Why should everything that happens in this house be pulled off there?"
Why indeed?
"Let's go back there and try to find out," I returned, stiffly, for my cheek was paining under the mass of plaster that Stodger had piled upon it.
Carefully and systematically, we went over every inch of space—I don't know how many times I had done so since the murder—but found absolutely nothing that was not already familiar to me. It was miserably aggravating that every search I undertook in this house of mystery should prove fruitless. Yet, we could find nothing whatever to serve as a reply to Stodger's pertinent question.
It was before the bath room door that Felix Page had met his death; it was the bath room that had been designated on the chart found by me in the snow; it was to this point that both Alexander Burke and Alfred Fluette had turned with a glance of ardent eagerness; it was to the bath room that Genevieve had pursued the mysterious yellow face—always the bath room. It would seem to be the converging point of the tragedy's every moving current.
We were about to give it up in despair, when I started forward with a wordless cry.The bar of yellow soap was gone!
On the instant the import of this discovery flashed into my mind. How blind and dull I had been!
During the struggle Tuesday night, between Page and—shall I say Fluette?—in the hall, Burke had in some way secured the ruby, and with diabolical clevernesshad pressed it into the bar of soap! A bit of manipulation under the water-tap had removed all traces. Think of the brain that could light upon a hiding-place like that in the stress of such a moment! And I had paused by that very bar of soap, philosophizing and moralizing—it made me sick to think of it. No wonder they were all so interested in the bath room!
This revelation left my mind blank for a second. Then came a rush of mingled feelings—bitter chagrin and disappointment, mortification because I had been outwitted, and a blind, hot resentment against those who had bested me.
Recalling the object I had heard drop to the floor at the moment I dashed the door open, I dropped to my hands and knees and began a feverish search for some sign. Yes, there it was—a small smear of soap, where the bar had struck.
For a while Stodger thought I was crazy, and perhaps I was. I fumed and raved at him for not entering into the search with a frenzied zeal equal to mine. At last he too understood.
But our pawing over the floor and the stairs, and even in the snow outdoors, availed nothing. We were beaten, confounded, made a laughing-stock.
The bar of soap was gone.