It was nearing noon when Burton left Dr. Underwood's. He took the street that ran by the Sprigg house, though it led him somewhat out of the most direct road to the hotel. He wanted to get the temper of the crowd and the gossip of the street. But the crowd had dispersed. He saw one man near the blackened wall of the house where the fire was supposed to have started. He was bending down, as though examining the ground. Then he rose and went away,--somewhat hurriedly and furtively, Burton thought. It was, indeed, this skulking quality in the man's hasty departure that made Burton look at him a second time. It was Selby. So! He was apparently hunting for the "proof" that he had promised. But why should he be so secretive about it?
As he came around by the other side of the burned house, he saw that two boys were still lingering on the scene of the morning's excitement. They were talking vigorously, and when Burton stopped by the fence and looked in, one of the boys, recognizing a kindred interest in the drama of life, called to him:
"Did yer see the bush where the kid was found?"
"What kid?" asked Burton.
"The Sprigg baby. He was right in here among the lilac bushes and the soft little shoots had been tied together around him, so's he couldn't get away, like Moses an' the bulrushes. Right in here. Yer can see the place now."
Burton jumped the fence and went up to the place where the boys were.
"Was the baby lost?" he asked.
"Mrs. Sprigg thought it was all burned up, because she forgot it when she came down in a hurry, and she was carrying on just awful, and then the firemen found the baby in here among the bushes, and they most stepped on it before they saw it."
"Had it crawled in by itself?"
"Naw, it was tied in! See here. You can see the knots yet, only most of them have been pulled to pieces."
"Who tied it in?" pressed Burton, bending down to examine the knots. They certainly were peculiar. The lithe lilac twigs had been drawn together by a cord that ran in and out among them till they were twisted and woven together as though they were part of a basket. It was the knot of an experienced and skilful weaver.
"Mrs. Sprigg she says at Henry Underwood would be too durn mean to look out for the kid and she thinks it was sperrets. But if it was sperrets they could a took the baby clear over to some house, couldn't they? The branches was tied together so's they had to cut some of them to get the kid out. See, you can see here where they cut 'em."
Burton found that the theory advanced by the boys that the incendiary who had fired the house had also, in dramatic fashion, saved the life of the youngest of the Sprigg brood, by carrying the infant down from the second floor, and knotting the lilac shoots about it so that it could not crawl into danger, was the most popular byproduct of the fire. The story was in every one's mouth.
When he entered the dining-room at the hotel, he encountered Ralston.
"Hello!" said the newspaper man. "I saw that you were registered here. Allow me to welcome you to the only home a bachelor like myself owns. Won't you sit at my table, to give the fiction some verisimilitude?"
"Thank you. I shall be glad to."
"You will suspect that my whole-hearted hospitality has some professional sub-stratum if I ask you at once how our friends the Underwoods are, but I'll have to risk that. I assume that you have seen them today."
"Yes, I have seen the doctor and Miss Underwood. They have met the amazing charge against Henry with dignity and patience. I didn't see Henry, and don't know what he may have to say."
"He'd better say nothing," said Ralston tersely. "It isn't a matter that is bettered by talk."
"Do you think there will be anything more than talk? I have as yet heard no suggestion of the slightest evidence against him."
"No, so far it is merely his bad reputation and the doctor's threat of yesterday. Have you happened to hear of the lively times Henry gave the town some six years ago? Property was burnt, things were stolen, people were terrorized in all sorts of ways for an entire summer. He must have had a glorious time."
"Was it proved against him?" asked Burton.
"The police never actually caught him, but they came so close upon his tracks several times that they warned the doctor that they had evidence against him. Then the disturbances stopped. That was significant."
"I heard something about it, but I understood that the attacks were mostly directed against the Underwoods themselves, and that the anonymous letters written by the miscreant were particularly directed against Henry. You don't suspect him of accusing himself!"
"But that's what he did. In fact, that was what first set the police to watching him. Perhaps you haven't happened to hear of such things, but there is a morbid form of egotism that makes people accuse themselves of crimes just for the sake of the notoriety. The handwriting of those letters was disguised, but the police were satisfied that Henry wrote them. They watched him for weeks, and though, as I say, they never caught him at anything really incriminating, they came so close on his trail several times that he evidently got scared and quit. Watson, the chief of police here, told me about it afterwards, and he is not sensational. Quite the contrary."
"How old was Henry at that time?"
"About nineteen."
"No wonder that he has grown into a morose man," said Burton thoughtfully. "It would be hard for any one to keep sweet-tempered against the pressure of such a public opinion."
Ralston shrugged his shoulders. "Public opinion is a brute beast, I admit, but still Henry has teased it more than was prudent. However, he has his picturesque sides. Did you hear about the rescue of the Sprigg baby?"
"Being knotted in among the lilac bushes for safe keeping? Yes, I have even seen the bushes."
"He probably knew that the others would be able to escape and so looked after the only helpless one,--which seems to have been more than the baby's mother did. That should count in his favor with a jury."
"Well, they certainly can't bring him to trial unless they get more evidence against him than they have at present," said Burton.
Ralston's reply was interrupted by a telephone call. He went to the office to answer it, and when he returned his face was grave.
"It looks as though they really had got something like direct evidence at last," he said. "They have found Henry Underwood's knife under the window where the incendiary must have got in."
"Who found it?"
"A couple of schoolboys. They turned it over to the police. One of my men has just got the story."
"Is it beyond question that it is Henry's?"
"Selby has identified it as the same knife that Henry had last night when we were there. He was in the neighborhood, it seems, and recognized the knife which the boys showed him on finding it. You remember that Selby had Henry's knife in his hands last night, and broke the point of the blade."
"Yes, I remember," said Burton. He was also recalling something else,--a skulking figure slipping away from the spot where the knife was found a very little later. "Doesn't it seem curious that the knife was only discovered now, considering how many people have been back and forth over the place all forenoon?"
"The knife seems to have been trodden into the earth by the crowd. That's how it was not found sooner."
"It seems to be a case of Carthage must be destroyed," said Burton, with some impatience. "Selby vowed this morning that he would find evidence against Henry. He conveniently is at hand to identify a knife as Henry's which he had in his own hands last night. It wouldn't require very much imagination to see a connection there. Selby hates Henry. Selby uses Henry's knife, and in the passion of the moment slips it forgetfully into his own pocket. Then at the right time he loses it at a place where its discovery will seem to implicate Henry in a crime--"
"Sh!" warned Ralston, with a look of comic dismay.
But the warning came too late. Burton, startled, looked up in some anxiety, and found Selby just back of him, glaring at him with a look that was like a blow from a bludgeon. There was nothing less than murder in his eye. But instead of speaking, he turned on his heel as Burton half rose, and walked out of the room.
"I had no idea there was any one within earshot," said Burton, with dismay in his face.
"He just came in by that door back of you. I had no time to warn you."
"I'm a poor conspirator. Must I hunt Mr. Selby up, and apologize for the liveliness of my imagination?"
Ralston looked grave. "You must do as you please, but I'd let the cards lie as they fell. Selby has a violent temper,--"
"He certainly looked murderous."
"I can't understand why he walked off without saying anything. I should have expected him to do something violent. I saw him beat a horse nearly to death once because he was in a rage,--"
"That settles it. I shall not apologize. I'm glad he heard me."
Ralston laughed. "I'm glad you came to High Ridge! Do stay. We may be able to afford you some entertainment. You should hear Hadley! He is terrified to death for fear something will happen to him next because he rashly made the remark that we are not safe in our beds so long as the Underwoods are loose."
"What does he expect to happen?"
"Goodness knows!" Then, with a mischievous look, he added: "Henry Underwood's methods are always original! It will probably be a surprise."
Burton once more, to speak figuratively, threw his time-table into the waste-basket. He certainly could not leave High Ridge while things were in this chaotic condition. He must at least wait until something definite happened.
He did not have long to wait.
Burton did not know exactly what he expected to happen, or what he would gain by staying, but something more than a sense of his responsibility to Rachel made him want to see the thing through. That suspicion should have buzzed so long about Henry Underwood and nothing yet be proved could only be due to a combination of luck and circumstances which could not be expected to continue indefinitely. With Selby hot on the trail, the police were likely to have some effective assistance. Malevolence is a great sharpener of the wits.
Wouldn't it be possible to get Henry out of town? Had he gone far enough in his hint to the doctor? Possibly if he saw Henry alone he could convey a warning that would be understood. He determined to see Henry.
But Henry was not at home. His disappointment in this information might have been greater if it had not been conveyed by Miss Underwood. He found it very easy to extend his inquiry into a call, and when he finally rose to take his leave he was surprised to find how time had flown. Philip was justified. The only thing to wonder at was Philip's discrimination. He must have been caught merely by her beauty, but even to appreciate her beauty at its right value was more than he had given Philip credit for. But what was the outcome to be? If the family were involved in a scandal, Philip was not the man to stand by her. He would be dominated by Rachel's prejudices, and Rachel would think the whole thing simply unspeakable. Yet things had gone so far that it would be impossible for Philip to withdraw without humiliating the girl,--and that, Burton now saw clearly, was the one impossible thing. No, the only way out was to stop the scandal from going further. Henry must be suppressed.
He had been revolving these thoughts as he walked the streets back to the hotel, when all at once his eye was caught by the sign:
It swung above the door of a prosperous looking place, and he looked at the premises with interest. So this was where Mr. Selby did business! As he looked, Mrs. Bussey came out of the office door, and scuttled off down the street like a frightened animal finding itself out of bounds. Possibly she was bringing some of her crippled son's carving to his employer. The connection was obvious and the relation was well understood, but somehow he did not like the idea of an inmate of the Underwood house having this side relation with a man who was an enemy. If anything were to be done to save Henry, it must be done skilfully and promptly. The atmosphere of the place was not favorable.
"There's a letter for you," the clerk said, as he handed Burton his key.
Burton took it with some wonder. He was not expecting mail here. But this letter had never gone through the mails. It was unstamped. The envelope was addressed in a heavy blunt penciling that he had seen before.
"Who left this?" he asked.
"I found it on the desk. I didn't see who left it there," the clerk said.
Burton did not open it until he reached his room. Then his premonition was confirmed. The scrap of paper was covered with the same heavy-lined writing that had been on the warning paper he had found in the morning. The message read:
"You have had one warning. This is the second. The third will be the last. You may as well understand that your help is not wanted."
And the clerk did not know how it came on his desk! There seemed to be a very conspiracy of stupidity and malice in the place. He examined it carefully. It was addressed to him by his full name,--and his circle of acquaintances in High Ridge was extremely limited! Henry had not been at home when he called there. The letter had been left by some one who could come into the hotel and go out without exciting comment,--then clearly a familiar figure in the town. Burton's lips curled cynically. And the meaning of the message was quite plain! His "help" was not wanted. Whom was he trying to help, except the Underwoods?
He put the letter, envelope and all, into a large envelope which he sealed and directed to himself. He did not wish to destroy it just yet, neither did he wish to leave it where it would fall under another eye.
He dined in the public dining-room, without seeing either Ralston or Selby, and, being in no mood to cultivate new acquaintances, returned at once to his own room. He lit a cigar and got a book from his bag and settled down to read himself into quietness; but his mind would not free itself from the curious situation in which he found himself, and presently he tossed the book aside and went to the table where he had left the sealed letter addressed to himself.It was gone. It had been abstracted from his locked room while he was down at dinner.
Suddenly, as he stood there thinking, there was a sharp "ping," and a pane of his window crashed into splinters and fell into the room. A thud near his head caused him to turn, and there in the wall was a small hole where a bullet had buried itself in the plaster. The third warning!
Burton went down the stairs two steps at a time and out into the street. The hotel was on the main street, and Burton's room on the second floor looked toward the front. Across the street from the hotel was a small park, full of trees and shadows. It was clear that the shot through his front window had come from the direction of this park, and also that it would be futile to try to discover any one who might have been in hiding there. There were a hundred avenues of unseen escape. It was already dark enough to make the streets obscure.
Burton went in and reported the shooting to the clerk. Of the missing letter he said nothing.
"Some boys must have been fooling around in the park with a gun," said the clerk, after viewing the scene of the disaster. "They might have hit you, the idiots. I'll bet they are scared stiff by now,--and serve them right."
"I wish you'd give me another room," said Burton abruptly.
"Why? You don't think they'll try to pot you again, do you?" smiled the clerk.
"I prefer to take another room," said Burton stiffly.
"Oh, very well. The adjoining room is vacant, if that will suit you."
"Yes. You may have my things moved in. Or, hold on. I'll move them in now, with your assistance, and you needn't say anything about the change downstairs."
The clerk took some pains to make it evident that he was suppressing a smile, but Burton did not particularly care what opinion the young man might form of his courage. He had other things in view.
His new room looked toward the side of the hotel. A driveway ran below his windows, separating the hotel from a large private house adjoining. Burton took a careful survey of his location, and when he settled down again to read, he was careful to select a position which was not in range with the windows.
He was beginning to take the High Ridge mystery seriously.
Burton had reason to congratulate himself on having formed a clear idea of the location of his new room, for he had occasion to use that knowledge in a hurry.
He had dropped into an early and heavy sleep, to make up for his wakeful adventures of the night before, when he was awakened by a succession of screams that seemed to fill the room with vibrating terror. He was on his feet and into his clothes in less time than it would have taken the average man to wake up. While he was dressing another shriek showed that the sounds came from the adjoining house which he had noticed across the driveway. He dropped at once from his window to the roof of a bay window below and thence to the ground. It was a woman shrieking. That was all he knew. He stumbled across the driveway, and found his way to the front door of the house. It was locked. Even while he was trying it, a man from the street dashed up the steps and ran along the porch to a side window, which he threw up.
"Lucky you thought of that," cried Burton, running to the spot. On the instant he recognized Henry Underwood.
"For heaven's sake, if there is trouble here, keep away," he said impetuously, forgetting everything except that this was Leslie's brother.
But Henry had jumped in through the open window without answering, and naturally Burton followed. Together they sprang up the stairway, their way made plain by the low-turned light in the upper hall. At the top a girl stood, screaming in the mechanical, terrified way that he had heard. At the sight of Henry, who was ahead, she shrieked and cowered.
"What is the matter?" Burton demanded. And when she did not answer immediately, he added impatiently: "Tell me at once what frightened you."
She pointed to an open bedroom door, and Burton sprang toward it. It was a curious sight that met his eye.
In a large old-fashioned four-poster a man was lying, gagged and bound,--and not only bound, but trussed and wound about with heavy cord until he looked like a cocoon, or an enlarged Indian papoose, ready to be swung from a drooping branch. His head fell sideways on the pillow in a way that would have been ludicrous, if the whole situation had not been so serious.
Burton removed the gag first of all and tried to help the man to sit up, but he was so bound to the framework of the bed that nothing could be done until the cord was cut. While he was still struggling with the cord, other people began to come rushing in,--servants from the house and men from the street or the hotel, attracted, as Burton had been, by the girl's cries, and a stray policeman. Their exclamations and questions, rather than any recognition on his own part, told him that this absurdly undignified figure, almost too terrified to talk, was none other than his pompous friend, Mr. Hadley.
Under their united efforts the cord was soon cut, and Mr. Hadley was lifted to a sitting position.
"Are you hurt, Mr. Hadley?" some one asked.
He only groaned reproachfully in reply.
Burton had for the moment forgotten about Henry. Now he glanced anxiously about the room, which already seemed crowded. Henry was not to be seen, and Burton drew a breath of relief. Thank heaven he had cleared out!
Ralston had been one of the first to arrive on the scene, and his practical question soon brought order into the confusion.
"Now, Mr. Hadley, you must pull yourself together and give us all the information you can at once, so that we can take steps to discover who did this before he gets beyond reach. Did some one enter your bedroom?"
"Yes. Oh, Lord, yes!"
"Did you see him come in?"
"I was asleep. Then I felt some one touching me and tried to sit up. I couldn't move. I tried to call out, but my jaw was tied up with that horrible cloth. I couldn't see, because the handkerchief was tied over my eyes."
"Didn't you see him at all? Can you give no description?"
"How could I see, with my eyes tied up?"
"Did he say anything?"
"No, but he laughed horribly under his breath, in a kind of devilish enjoyment. It made my blood run cold. I thought he was going to kill me next. Oh, Lord!"
"How did he get out? By the window or the door?"
"I don't know. It was quiet and I waited for what was going to happen next and waited, and waited, and it got to be more and more horrible until I thought I should die before some one came."
"He came in by the window," said a man in the crowd, who had been examining the room. "See, here are the marks of mud on the window sill. He must have pulled himself up by the vine trellis. See how it is torn loose here. Was the window open when you went to bed, Mr. Hadley?"
"Yes. Oh, Lord, that such things should be allowed to happen!"
"Who was it gave the alarm? You, Miss Hadley? How did you discover what had happened to your father?"
The young woman whom Burton had seen in the hall had come into the room. She was holding fast to the bedpost and staring at her father with a look of fascinated horror.
"I felt the wind blowing through the hall," she said. "I came out to see where it came from."
"Had you been asleep?"
"N-no." (She was fully dressed, Burton noticed.)
"Had you been in your room long?" Ralston persisted.
"N-yes," she hesitated, with an involuntary glance at her father. "A-all evening."
"And you heard no noise of any one entering the house or leaving it?"
"No."
"Where did the wind come from? Was there a door open?"
"No, it came from father's room. It was blowing so hard that I thought I ought to shut his window, so I went in and then I found him all strapped in bed."
"Yes, and she just began to scream, and never thought of cutting the cord," grumbled Hadley.
"Was there a light in the room?" Ralston pressed his questions.
"Yes, the gas was lit."
"Well, it seems perfectly clear that some one has climbed up by the vine to the open window, entered while you were asleep, lit the gas after first bandaging your eyes so that you could not see, and then, after tying you up, made his escape in the same way. Now let's see if we can get any clue as to his identity. Of course it was no burglar. A burglar doesn't indulge in fancy work of this sort. There must have been personal enmity back of it. Did he leave anything in the room?"
Burton had been standing by the fireplace, listening. His eye had already caught sight of a folded paper on the mantel which had a curiously familiar look. Surely he had no interest in preventing the truth from being known; yet he was on the point of moving nearer and getting quiet possession of the paper when some one else noticed it and picked it up.
"Here's a message from him," he shouted, and then read aloud:
"If you keep on accusing me, and slandering me in public, worse things will happen to you next.
"Dr. Underwood."
"I knew it was Dr. Underwood," gasped Hadley. "Oh, Lord, I knew he would get even with me for saying that we would not be safe in our beds. I didn't mean it. I always knew I was perfectly safe in my bed."
Ralston came quickly over and took the paper from the hand of the man who had picked it up. As he did so he glanced at Burton, as though recognizing that he was the one man here who might be expected to speak for Dr. Underwood.
"Where was it?"
"Right here, on the mantel."
Ralston handed it over to Burton, asking in an undertone: "What do you make of it?"
Burton took the paper and examined it, but merely shook his head to escape answering. It did not need a glass to show him that it was written on the same typewriter that had produced the other documents he had examined.
"But it is signed, isn't it?" exclaimed Hadley. "It says Dr. Underwood."
"Of course it is perfectly clear in the first place that Dr. Underwood did not write it, since he would not leave a public confession behind him, and he would not sign his name in that fashion. It is written by some one who wanted to throw suspicion on Dr. Underwood, and who was ignorant enough to think it could be done in this very clumsy way," said Burton.
Some one in the room gave an unpleasant laugh. Selby, who had been standing in the background near Miss Hadley, now spoke up.
"If it wasn't Dr. Underwood himself, I guess it was some one not so very far from him."
"What do you mean?"
"Henry Underwood was in the hall there when I came in. He kept out of sight, but he was there. He stayed until Proctor read that paper aloud. He isn't here now, is he?"
There was a sensation in the room. No one else had seen him, but no one but Selby had stood where he could look into the dimly-lit hall.
"Well, what of it?" said Burton impatiently, though he had wondered himself what had become of Henry. "It seems to me that the name of Underwood sets you all off. If Henry Underwood chose to go home when he found his assistance was not needed, that surely is not in itself a suspicious circumstance. He probably knew his presence, if noticed, would be made the subject of vilification in some way."
Selby sneered, but he exercised the unusual self-control of saying nothing. But the man who had picked up the note on the mantel had been examining the cord with which Hadley had been bound and which Burton had cut. He now stood up and faced the little company with a seriousness of aspect that was more impressive than any voluble excitement could have been.
"I sold Henry Underwood that cord, yesterday," he said. His tone and look made it seem like an affidavit.
"You are sure of it, Mr. Proctor?" asked Ralston.
"Quite sure. It is a peculiar cord. I got it in a general invoice about two years ago, and it has been lying in a drawer in the store ever since,--there has never been any call for anything of that sort. Yesterday Henry Underwood was in and asked for some light rope that would be strong enough to bear a man's weight, and I remembered this ball and brought it out. I have never seen another piece of cord like it. It isn't likely that there is another piece in town of that same unusual make."
The men pressed about the bed to examine the cut cord,--all except Selby, who crossed the room to where Miss Hadley had sunk into a chair. She still had a dazed look, and though Selby talked to her for some time in an earnest undertone, Burton could not see that she made any response. Selby caught Burton's eye upon them and scowled, but went on with his murmured speech.
"If you will make the charge against Henry Underwood, I will take him into custody," at last said the police officer who was in the room.
"Oh, Lord, what will happen to me if I do?" gasped Hadley.
"Well, if he is in jail, I guess nothing more will happen to you," said the officer dryly.
"But Dr. Underwood--"
"If Henry Underwood is at the bottom of all these tricks, then Dr. Underwood isn't," said Ralston quickly. "We all know that the doctor and Henry are not on very good terms. Just what the trouble is between them, or how deep it goes, we don't know, but it may be that Henry is bitter enough against his father to try to turn suspicion against him in this way, and if he did this, he did the other things. They all hang together. What do you think, Mr. Burton?"
"I agree with you that they all seem to hang together."
"But not that Henry would seem to be the responsible person?"
"As to that, I am hardly in a position to express an opinion," he said quietly. He had been examining the curiously knotted cord that had been wound about the unfortunate Mr. Hadley.
The knots rather than the cord itself were what attracted his attention. They were peculiarly intricate,--the knots of a practiced weaver. What was more, they had the same peculiar twist that the woven withes of lilac had had. Probably it was a knot familiar to sailors and weavers, but certainly not one man in a thousand could make it so neatly, so deftly, so exactly. The police was certainly incredibly stupid not to take note of so peculiar and distinguishing a mark, but at this moment it was not his role to offer any suggestions.
"Do you wish me to arrest Henry Underwood?" asked the policeman. "It's up to you to say, Mr. Hadley."
"You won't tell him that I accused him?"
"I won't tell him anything! I only want to know if you think that there is a reasonable guess that he did this night's work. If you will say that, I'll arrest him on suspicion. I don't want to get myself into trouble by arresting a man if you are going to back down afterwards and say you have no charge to bring against him."
"I'll bring the charge, if Mr. Hadley won't," said Selby sharply. "I demand his arrest."
"That's enough," said the policeman, slipping quietly from the room.
Burton was at his heels. "If you don't mind, I'll go out with you."
"And if I do mind?"
"I'll go anyhow," said Burton.
Burton's policeman picked up two other men on the way, and, thus reënforced, they made their way to Rowan street. It was away past midnight and as they went through the silent streets, Burton had a queer feeling that he was taking a part in some strange melodrama in an alien world. Never before had he come into direct personal contact with the world where policemen were important people, and where the primitive affairs he had supposed represented the dregs of human nature were matters of every-day occurrence. Why hadn't Henry Underwood had sense enough to be satisfied with his narrow escape of the night before?
There was a light burning in the surgery as they approached the house,--a fact to which Higgins, the first policeman, called attention.
"That light sometimes burns all night," he said, pursing up his lips.
"Any city ordinance against it?" asked Burton.
Higgins looked up with a slow question in his eyes.
"You will stay with me, Mr. Burton," he said quietly. "O'Meara and Hanna, you go to the rear of the house and see that he doesn't make a get-away."
He rang the bell at the front door, and stepped instantly back, so that he could keep an eye on the whole front of the house. In a minute the door was opened wide and Dr. Underwood, in a dressing-gown, stood there peering out into the dark.
"Who wants me?" he asked.
Higgins stepped quickly inside, and as soon as Burton, who followed in his wake, had entered, he closed the front door, turned the key and slipped it into his pocket.
"Excuse me," he said, in a brisk undertone. "No one wants you, Doctor. I want Mr. Henry Underwood."
"Youwant him, Higgins? What for?"
"Assault."
"Assault? Henry? You're crazy. Henry hasn't spirit enough to assault any one. I'd bail him out with the greatest joy in the world, if he did. Whom did he assault, in the name of Goshen?"
"Mr. Hadley."
"Hadley! Well, there may be something to the boy, after all. When did this happen?"
"Just now, tonight. I don't want any trouble, but I don't want any foolishness, either. I've got to arrest him, you know, Doctor. It ain't what I may choose to do about it. So will you take me up to his room at once, before he hears me or takes an alarm?"
"You always were an unfortunate man, Higgins, but it is mighty hard luck that you should have to show the whole community what an idiot you are. It is kind of hard to be made a fool of in such a public way. Henry is abed and asleep and has been for hours."
"Then I'll have to wake him and if you'll excuse me, Doctor, I can't let you give him any more time by this palaver. Will you take me to his room, or shall I hunt for it myself?"
Underwood glanced at Burton and wrinkled his face into an unbetraying mask, but as he led the way upstairs he walked more slowly and draggingly than he had done in the afternoon, and Burton's heart ached for him.
"That's his room," he said, pointing to a closed door. The gleam of light along the lower edge showed plainly that the occupant was still up.
Higgins went to the door with a catlike silence and swiftness and laid his hand on the knob. It turned without resistance and he burst in upon Henry Underwood, half undressed. The bed had not been disturbed. The scattered clothing on the chairs showed that he had just come in from outdoors.
"What does this mean?" Henry demanded, with a look of amazement.
"You are under arrest," said Higgins. "Don't try any tricks. My men are about the house."
"What am I arrested for?"
"For assault on Mr. Hadley. And I warn you that anything you may say will be used against you."
"This is all foolishness, you know," Henry said, but his voice was spiritless and unconvincing, and Dr. Underwood groaned involuntarily.
"I haven't anything to do with that. All I have to do is to carry out orders. And I'll have to ask you to change your shoes. No, you don't!" He sprang forward and caught Henry roughly as the latter, at the word, rubbed his muddy shoe upon the rug on which he was standing. "We want your shoes, fresh mud and all. Just take them off, will you?"
"Take them off yourself," growled Henry, with a black look.
Higgins whistled and the two other men answered, one by melodramatically dropping in through the open window, and the other by appearing at the door. "Take off his shoes,--carefully, mind you. We want that mud on them. And get another pair for him, if you can find them."
He motioned Henry to sit down, but instead of dropping obligingly into the nearest chair, Henry stalked indignantly across the room and threw himself down on an upholstered lounge. Then he thrust out both feet before him with an arrogant air, and the two policemen, who had followed him closely, dropped on their knees and unfastened and removed his shoes. Higgins, who was proud of himself for thinking of a detail which might prove important, watched the process so closely that he paid no attention to anything else. Underwood, who leaned heavily against the door-casing, watched his son's face with a look that was something like despair. But Burton, who stood silently at one side, watched Henry, and so saw an apparently casual motion that took his right hand from the vicinity of his breast pocket to the inner edge of the upholstered seat of the lounge.
"Well, what next?" Henry asked brusquely, when the men had shod him.
"You will come with us," said Higgins.
He rose without a word, and reached for his hat and coat.
"Henry!" The word broke from Dr. Underwood like a cry. "Have you anything to say to me?"
Henry gave him one look, and then dropped his eyelids.
"I think not," he said, with a curious air of deliberation.
"I'll come and see you to-morrow, my boy."
Henry nodded carelessly, and turned to Higgins.
"I'm ready," he said briefly.
"One moment," said Burton. "How is your cut finger? I think I'd better look at it before you go." And without waiting for permission, he picked up Henry's hand and examined the forefinger which had been cut the evening before. Henry had dressed it carelessly with court-plaster, but it was evident that the finger was both stiff and sore.
But Henry was far from being a model patient. He pulled his hand away with a look of surprise and resentment at Burton's touch. "That's nothing," he said impatiently. "What are you waiting for, Higgins?"
"You," replied Higgins succinctly, slipping his hand under Henry's elbow.
Dr. Underwood followed the little procession downstairs and did not notice that Burton lingered for a moment in the room. He lingered without moving until Henry was out of eyeshot, and then jumped to the sofa and ran his long fingers between the upholstered back and seat. It did not take more than a minute to satisfy his curiosity. Then he hurried downstairs, where he found a forlorn group.
Mrs. Underwood, tragically calm, sat like a classic statue of despair in a large armchair, while the doctor, who had evidently been explaining the situation to his family, limped painfully and restlessly about the room. Leslie, erect, and with hands clenched and head thrown back, followed him with her eyes.
"I think Henry is insane," she said deliberately.
Dr. Underwood glanced apprehensively at Burton, who just then appeared in the doorway. Then he dropped into a chair with a groan.
"I forgot my confounded ankle," he said, in lame explanation.
Mrs. Underwood turned her gaze slowly upon him. "Don't prevaricate, Roger," she said coldly. "You did not groan because of your ankle, but because Henry's sin has found him out. I should think that you would at least see the importance of keeping clear of future sin."
"May I come in?" asked Burton. There was something strange in his voice,--a quality that made every one turn toward him expectantly, as though he brought a message. "May I venture a word? Of course you know that I know what has happened. I came here with the officer because I felt that my interest in everything touching the honor of your family warranted me in seeing this unfortunate affair through as far as possible. I say unfortunate, because of course it must add to your annoyance temporarily. But I do not think it will do more than that. In fact, I think it may be the means of really getting at the truth that lies under this mass of misunderstanding. I do not think that Henry Underwood is insane,--or that he had anything to do with Mr. Hadley's plight. I believe him innocent and honorable, and I am going to bend every energy I possess to proving him so."
He had spoken to all, but his eyes rested eagerly on Leslie, and at his last words she sprang impulsively forward and caught his hand in both her own.
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" she cried.
"Leslie, control yourself," said Mrs. Underwood, in calm reproof.
Dr. Underwood got upon his feet, with entire disregard of his ankle, and crossed the room to Burton.
"Have you any ground for that opinion, beyond an optimistic disposition and a natural desire to spare the family of your patient?" he demanded. "God knows I want to believe you,--but--" He broke off and shook his head.
Burton hastily realized that he was hardly justified, at this point, in making his own grounds for assurance public.
"Well,--his cut finger is sufficient. He couldn't tie all the knots that bound Hadley with that stiff finger," he said, with a would-be astute air.
Underwood could not conceal his disappointment. "You have nothing definite, then, to go upon?"
"Perhaps my evidence, in the present stage, would not be conclusive in court. But that is what I hope to make it. That is what I am definitely undertaking to do. And I believe I shall succeed." He smiled at Leslie, and though she did not repeat her impulsive demonstration of gratitude, he was satisfied with the look in her eyes.
On his way back to the hotel, he suddenly stopped under the trees and spoke to himself impatiently. What difference did it make to him what sort of a look there was in the eyes of Philip's betrothed? He would be better employed in considering the situation of the Underwoods in the light of this new revelation about the silent Henry. If Henry was in love with Miss Hadley--and why else should he carry a locket with her portrait in his breast pocket and think first of all of concealing this trinket when threatened with arrest and fearing a search?--then there was a reasonable explanation of his prowling in the neighborhood of the Hadley house. Burton had thrust the locket back into its hiding-place in the upholstered lounge, but he could not be mistaken. It was the same face that he had seen looking up at Selby,--Hello! No need to hunt further for an explanation of the antagonism between the two men! The look on Selby's face when he talked so earnestly to Miss Hadley was one of the few human expressions that can neither be concealed nor counterfeited. And since nothing could be more reckless, hopeless and bitter, than love between the daughter of the pompous banker and the scapegoat of the town, why, of course, that was the mine that Cupid would fire.
But if Henry was innocent, who was the man who was so bent on making him appear guilty? Who really was behind the High Ridge mystery? The problem was not solved. It was merely made more complicated. And Burton had to acknowledge that his guess was not evidence that would convince the public. Indeed, now that he was half an hour away from it, he began to wonder at his own confidence. It had come to him like a revelation, but it needed verification.
Very well, he said doggedly, he would verify a part of it at once. He would call on Miss Hadley to-morrow.