It was nearing midnight when Burton left his room and strolled out with a cigar. His objective point was Watson's house, and it was by no means necessary to go by Rowan Street to get there. Indeed, it was distinctly out of his way. Nevertheless, that was the way he took. He stopped at the farthest corner of the grounds for a moment, and looked up at the great house hidden among the trees. If he were foolishly indulging in mere dreams, his fancies were suddenly and unexpectedly scattered, for while he looked, one of the windows on the second floor was pushed softly up and a man's form appeared in it for a moment. It was the window to Henry's room. Burton was instantly alert. Henry was to be kept under strict guard. Was it possible that he was trying to make an escape? A moment resolved the doubt, for Henry came again to the window, let himself out with obvious precautions to go softly, and then swung himself into the branches of the oak from which Burton himself had once looked into that room. With a vivid realization of what Henry's escape on this night of all nights might mean, Burton vaulted the fence and ran to the tree. He reached it just as Henry touched the ground.
"See here, this won't do," he began argumentatively.
But Henry was in no mood for argument. With an exclamation of surprise and impatience, he started for the street. But Burton sprang after him and caught his arm.
"I say, Underwood!" he panted.
"Confound your meddling, I wish you would let me alone," Henry answered between his teeth, and with a sudden effort he wrenched himself free and darted off. Burton was staggered for a moment, then he set out in pursuit. Whatever happened, Henry's alibi must be clear! Henry vaulted the fence, and Burton went over a minute later. He was congratulating himself, with some surprise over it, that he was able to keep so nearly up with a young fellow who must be about ten years his junior, when Henry disappeared. When Burton came up to the spot he saw that Henry must have gone between two close-set buildings; but there was little use in trying to follow. Henry probably knew his way through the town as well as through his own garden. If he wanted to elude Burton, it was a very easy feat. And it was quite clear to the dullest understanding that this was what he wanted to do. Certainly the gods must have set their seal upon the man for early destruction. Burton shrugged his shoulders, put his hat back at the customary angle, and set off for Watson's.
He had not wished to arrive at Watson's too early, but now he suddenly had a panic fear that he might be too late. He hurried on, trying to guess his way through an unfamiliar part of the town, and wondering what Henry had done with the watchman who was supposed to keep him in sight. Had he drugged him or tied him up as Hadley had been tied, or merely and effectively killed him? Nothing less would excuse the man's failure to keep the watch set. If he had any influence with Watson, that man would have justice measured out to him.
Presently he realized that he was in so unfamiliar a part of the town that he had practically lost his bearings. He knew the general direction he wished to take, but what with turnings and twistings he had no idea of the most direct way to get there. There seemed to be no street names on the corners here, and the streets were entirely deserted. He knew he wanted to go to his right, but he had got upon a winding street that ran along the edge of a bluff and seemed to have no opening to the right. In order to get out of the pocket into which he had dropped, he decided to cut through the yard of the house by which he had stopped to reconnoiter. It would, at any rate, enable him to get on another street, and perhaps then he would see his way clear. Accordingly he jumped the low garden fence and picked his way among the vegetable beds and across the debris of a disorderly back yard. Apparently the owner of the house was having some repairs done, for he stumbled over an empty paint bucket in the yard, and a painter's ladder was resting against the house. There was only a narrow walk between the house and the fence, but Burton slipped past quietly, and thankfully saw that the way on the front was perfectly open and clear.
As he stepped out into the street, he thought he heard a cry. He stopped on the instant and listened intently, but it was not repeated. There had been some quality of terror in the cry that startled him,--or it might simply have been the effect of any sudden cry on the still night. He could not be sure whether it came from the house he had passed or elsewhere. If any one were in trouble, surely he would call again. Burton felt that it would prove exceedingly embarrassing if he rang up the owner of the house only to find that he bad been waking himself up from a wholly personal and private nightmare.
After waiting a minute to make sure that there was no further call or sound of any kind, he hurried on. He knew that he was late for his appointment, and he might spoil the whole scheme by coming upon the scene at the wrong moment. At the next lamppost he found the name of the street,--Larch. He knew now where he was. Also, he suddenly remembered that Selby lived on Larch Street.
Watson lived in a modest frame house set well back in its grounds and shaded by some fine old trees. Burton was thankful to find that he had, after all, come with reasonable directness to the place. There was no light in the windows to show that any one was up, but he went to the front door and tapped softly in a preconcerted fashion. The door was opened at once by Watson himself, who drew him into the hall, and then guided him through the darkness into an inner room. Here he removed the hood from a small lamp, and revealed the fact that there was another man in the room. It proved to be Ralston. He looked at Burton with a quizzical smile.
"Watson thought it would be best to let me in on this," he said, in a low voice. "He knew that I would never have forgiven him if he hadn't."
"That's all right. I'm glad you are here," said Burton. He guessed that Watson, at the last moment, had needed some confirmation of this irregular project, and he was glad that he had been inspired to appeal to Ralston rather than to any one else. Ralston had imagination, and therefore was better equipped for seeing a truth that is not yet revealed.
"I was afraid I might be late," he added. And then he told of his explorations in unknown territory and of the outcry he had heard from the house on Larch Street.
Watson listened with professional attention. "Did it sound like a cry for help?" he asked.
"It sounded like the cry of some one in terror. It might have been some one in a nightmare. There was no other sound and no disturbance."
"You don't know the house?"
"No. It was a two-story frame house, narrow and high, with a porch in front. It was on the west side of Larch, and the next cross-street this way from it is James. I noticed that as I came along."
"Why, that's Selby's house!" exclaimed Ralston. "The plot thickens. I don't know why Selby shouldn't have a nightmare if he wants to, as well as any other man, but it looks rather significant that he should have a nightmare on this particular night, doesn't it, now?"
Watson was looking at Burton with a puzzled air.
"If anything has happened to Selby, we might as well know it," said Burton, answering his look.
"I'll telephone to the station," said Watson, and stepped out of the room.
"What made you saytoSelby, instead of of, by, for, or from Selby?" asked Ralston curiously. "What makes you think anything could have happened to Selby?"
"I hope nothing has," said Burton abruptly, "--but--"
"But what?"
"Don't tell Watson yet. He'll feel that he ought to investigate, and I want to keep him still for an hour or two. But the truth is, I'm uncomfortable over that cry, now that I come to think of it, because Henry Underwood is loose somewhere in town tonight."
"I thought Watson said he was under special guard."
"He was. He got away--through the window. I was passing the house and was just in time to see him escaping, but could not stop him. Of course it doesn't necessarily follow--"
"No, of course it doesn't," said Ralston, though he looked serious. "Henry wasn't in love with Selby, but it doesn't follow that he would--use violence in any way."
"Of course not," echoed Burton. In his own mind he was pushing away the thought of Selby's newly announced engagement as though he would force himself to ignore its significance. It was like the final bit in a puzzle which so obviously solves the whole mystery that no argument about its fitness is needed.
Watson returned softly. "I've sent a man out to look Selby's place over," he said quietly. "He won't let himself be seen unless he is satisfied something is wrong. Now, if you please, I'll take you upstairs. You'll have to follow me without a light."
He guided them to a rear room on the second floor with an open window looking out into the darkness of the night.
"The woodshed roof is just below this window," said Watson, "and there's a ladder against the shed. If any one really wanted to break into this house, he would have an easy job of it tonight."
"Houses burgled while you wait," laughed Ralston, excitedly.
"It looks all right," said Burton. "Now, if anything is to happen, we'd better keep quiet."
They settled into convenient chairs to wait.
To set a trap is one thing. To catch the quarry is quite another. It does not always follow the setting of the trap, even when there are tracks enough on the ground to warrant some confidence. Burton realized keenly that there were a thousand chances for his failure to one for success. And yet something that was more like the intuition of the hunter than plain reason kept him quietly hopeful through the draggingly slow minutes. He had set the day as the limit of their vigil, and though he could not read the face of his watch he knew that they must have been sitting quiet for something like an hour when there was the sudden tinkle of the telephone bell downstairs.
"Don't answer it," he murmured, as Watson rose softly.
"I must," Watson answered, in the same undertone. "No one outside can either see or hear me. It may be something important."
He went softly down the stairs and they heard him close the door of the room below before he answered the call.
"I'll bet you somethinghashappened to Selby," said Ralston, a quiver of excitement in his guarded voice. "Take me up? Come, now, before Watson gets back! I'll make it two to one! In anything you like. Three to one! Five to one!"
"Cut that out," said Burton impatiently. "Keep still." He fancied he had heard a sound outside, and every nerve was strained to make sure of it.
But at that moment the door below opened abruptly, and Watson came up the stairs in a hurry.
"You may as well drop this tomfoolery," he said, at the door, speaking without precaution or care. "Selby is dead,--stabbed through the heart. My men have found Henry Underwood's cuff-button beside the bed, and they'll soon have him. That's what comes of your theatrical plans, Mr. Burton, and of my cursed foolishness in letting Henry out of jail. This is a pretty night's work."
"Oh, why didn't you take me up?" exclaimed Ralston, in a rapture of excitement.
"Hush!" said Burton suddenly. He thought again that he heard that faint sound outside. Unconsciously he caught each of the other men by the arm, and drew them back against the wall.
Was it a shadow that darkened against the sky,--a shadow in the shape of a man that swung up over the window-ledge in light swift silence, and was poised for an instant against the patch of light that marked the place of the window? Something had dropped into the room as softly as a cat. There was a moment of absolute stillness. Burton held his breath and tried to hush the noisy beating of his heart. Then there came the soft scratch of a safety match, and a point of light marked a spot in the darkness. Then a candle wick caught the point and nursed it into a light, and a man's face was revealed.
Watson's muscles had been tense under Burton's detaining hand. Now he whistled shrilly and at the same instant leaped forward and closed with the intruder. There was a moment's struggle, and then the room was suddenly lit as two men who had been stationed outside rushed in with lights. The chief was down on the floor with the man he had assailed. For a moment they all fought in a furious mêlée, but the policemen met brute strength with brute strength, and the click of the handcuffs told the end. Then they lifted the man to his feet, and Watson held the lamp close to his sullen face. After a long look he turned to Burton.
"You were right," he said, and set the lamp upon the table. His hand was not quite steady.
"You don't mean it!" exclaimed Ralston, staring hard at the unknown face of the man. "Is it possible that it really is--Ben Bussey?"
"No one else," said Watson, stooping to pick up a bundle that had fallen on the floor. It was a loosely tied package of rags, soaked in kerosene.
"That's the way the Sprigg house was fired," he said.
Ben parted his lips, but it was not to speak. His teeth were locked tight behind his snarling lips. His eyes were set on Burton.
"How long have you been doing this sort of thing?" persisted Ralston, studying Ben with a curiosity that could not be satisfied. "Those old tricks that we all laid up against Henry,--did you do that, too?"
Ben turned his head at that and looked at his questioner. The look of triumph that flashed into his eyes was as plain as any words could have been, but he did not answer otherwise.
"Take him to the station," Watson said to his men.
But Burton interposed. He had been watching Ben, and he saw that if they were to get anything from him in the way of an admission, he must be goaded into speech before he had time to fully realize the advantages of standing persistently mute.
"No hurry about that," he said, with a slight sign to the chief. "I want to tell you something about how I got on this trail, and Ben may as well hear it."
"There are important matters waiting," Watson reminded him, in a significant aside.
"Nothing more important than this--now," said Burton. Watson hesitated, but drew back, leaving Ben, with a policeman on either side of him, where the light fell on his somber face.
"I was first positively convinced that Henry Underwood was not the man on the night of the Hadley assault," Burton began, with deliberation. "That knotting of the rope was too neat for a man with a forefinger as stiff as a wooden peg. You made a mistake that time, Ben. Didn't your mother tell you that Henry had cut his finger?"
But Ben refused to be drawn. He lifted his upper lip over his closed teeth, but gave no other sign of attending.
"Of course it was clear from the first that the person who was making the trouble had easy access to the Underwood house and very up-to-date information about everything that went on in the house. At first I, too, thought it must be Henry. Then, when I satisfied myself that it wasn't, I began to keep a watch on Selby."
"Poor old Selby," said Ralston, with sudden recollection.
"Poor old Henry," said Burton sternly. "He has been goaded past endurance. Selby's slate was by no means clear, though I acquit him of many of my suspicions. But I am telling you now why I suspected him. He hated Henry and was jealous of him. He was a party to the discovery of Henry's knife near the Sprigg house, and I thought I had reason to believe he had himself dropped it there. He had access to the Red House through his business relations with Ben, and Mrs. Bussey was an eavesdropper and spy who could easily have given him the inside information required. Finally he had in his possession a number of Indian baskets and was known to have been much among the Indians as a boy. I was certain that the strong and supple fingers that had twisted the lilac bushes into a net to hold the Sprigg baby and that had knotted the cords into a snare about Mr. Hadley had learned the trick of Indian weaving when they were young."
Ben's chest heaved. He was looking at Burton with a look that made Watson glance warningly at the officers who stood beside him. Burton went on with his nerve-trying deliberation.
"I went up to the Reservation with the hope of finding some one who would remember teaching young Selby how to tie the peculiar and unusual knot I had noticed. I found Ehimmeshunka, who makes the baskets, and the old chief Washitonka, who knew Ben's father, but I could not get them to talk about the old times. How did you get word to them to hold their tongue, Ben?"
Ben affected not to hear. Watson looked up in quick surprise as though he would have spoken, and then checked himself. The others, who understood by this time Burton's plan of exasperating Ben into speech, said nothing.
"Finally, just as I was leaving, Pahrunta, who sells the baskets to travellers at the station, gave me a clue. By the way," he added, turning to Ralston, "there was a bit of poetic justice in that. The first day I was in High Ridge, I saw Selby rudely strike away her arm, when she tried to stop him to speak to him. It was in revenge for that blow that she gave me the information I wanted and which I could not get from the others. She showed me an old daguerreotype with Selby's portrait in it. It must have been an old keepsake given by him in the early days when they were friends. There was another portrait in it also,--Ben's. Then it occurred to me that Ben was more likely to have learned basket making than Selby, because he had an aptitude for handicrafts. He had all the opportunities Selby had,--provided he could walk. In order to find out whether his paralysis was a sham, I arranged with Watson to have an alarm of fire given at such a time that I should have an opportunity of observing Ben immediately before and immediately after. I spilled a red powder over his clothing just as the alarm sounded. I left him alone in the room, and when I went back, five minutes later, I saw by the marks of the powder that he had left his chair, walked to the head of the stairs to look and listen, and gone back to his chair. That was all I needed to know."
Ben broke silence at last. "I should have killed you first," he said simply.
"All that was necessary after that was to catch him in the act," continued Burton. "Of course that was now merely a question of time and watchfulness, since we knew his secret, but he walked into the first trap we set. I told him Henry was to be free for one day only, and hinted that it would be bad for his reputation if anything happened to Watson, who was opposed to letting him out,--which was a fact! It was the old situation; an opportunity to throw suspicion on Henry. He took the bait."
"And all these years he has been able to walk!" exclaimed Ralston. "The cunning of it! And the patience! How did you always know so surely how to strike, Ben?"
Still Ben did not speak. It was Burton who answered for him.
"Mrs. Bussey kept him informed of the gossip of the town. If you will recall the several instances, I think you will find there was no single case where her prying and spying and his activity will not sufficiently supply the answer."
"But the Hadley case! There were so many things that pointed to Henry,--the cord he had bought,--"
"And which of course Mrs. Bussey could get hold of. It was well thought out."
"And Selby's watch-chain! Did you rob Selby, Ben?"
"Whether he robbed Selby or not, he certainly concealed his watch-chain and the other things in the surgery," said Burton.
"And did you tamper with my medicines, Ben?" a grave voice asked from the door,--a voice full of infinite sadness and pity. Dr. Underwood had entered from the unlit hall and now stood fronting Ben with searching eyes. "Did you touch the bottle I had prepared for old man Means?"
If those in the room were startled by the doctor's unexpected appearance, they were still less prepared for the effect on Ben. The determined silence which had been proof against Burton's taunts was dropped. His eyes glittered with excitement.
"You thought I didn't know where the strychnine was," he said, with an air of careless triumph. "I tried it on old Means just for a joke. It was a good thing to know where it was, because sometime, when I was tired of playing with you, I meant to kill you,--all,--all,--all! You thought Ben was lying there like a log,--tied up--and you didn't know that he could get out when you were asleep and tie things up in a hard, tight knot,--like string,--tie you all up till you couldn't get free!--not kill you at first,--have fun with you first,--" His voice sank into a monotonous monotone, and all at once he seemed to have forgotten his audience. He lifted his hands and looked curiously at the handcuffs that fastened his wrists.
"He's put my hands to sleep," he said, with a childish laugh. Then his laugh turned into a snarl, malevolent and sinister.
"I'm tired of playing with you. Now I'm going to kill you and be done with it," he cried, lunging toward the doctor. The two policemen held him, and he turned upon them furiously, trying to strike them with his manacled hands. His face had grown suddenly malignant.
"Let me go. I will kill you all. Let me go. You can't keep me tied up. I will get away in the night,--I can fool you all,--"
Watson nodded to his men and they took Ben from the room, still shouting his curious mechanical curses at them, like a violent talking machine that is running down. When the door closed behind him, every man in the room realized that he had been unconsciously holding his breath. Burton went up to the doctor and put his hand on his shoulder.
"How much did you hear?"
"I heard your story," he said wearily. "I--wanted to speak to Watson. The door was open, and I heard voices, so I came in and saw the light up here. I heard what you said from the hall there."
"I can quite understand that this has been a shock to you," said Burton, "but it completely clears Henry." He suddenly bit his lip as he realized that Henry was more deeply involved than ever before, and hurried on. "It is quite obvious that Ben must be insane. He is dangerous, and would not long have been content with the minor crimes that have amused him so far. The taint must have been long latent. Probably hereditary."
"That reminds me," said Watson quickly. "You were wondering why the Indians wouldn't talk to you. I believe it was old Bussey. I saw him here one evening in that little park opposite the hotel. I haven't seen him for years and years, but I knew him at once. I told my men to look out for him, but he hasn't been seen since. He's a slim old man,--lively as a youngster. Runs like an Indian, with his knees up and his head down."
"Then I believe I have seen him, myself," said Burton. "Twice. Once the first day I was here, talking to Mrs. Bussey back of your house, Doctor, and again up at the Reservation. That explains. He had been hanging around High Ridge long enough to know me by sight, and he guessed that I was of the other party, and so he warned his friends simply to tell me nothing that I wanted to know. I wonder how far he was in with Ben's schemes."
"He hasn't been hanging around High Ridge very much since I've been in office, I'll swear to that," said Watson. "I know old Bussey pretty well, and he knows me. He never would come into a town if he could help it. You never saw him hanging about your house, did you, Doctor?"
"No, I thought he was dead," said Underwood. He spoke absently as though he were keeping his mind on their talk with something of an effort. Now he turned to Watson with the simple directness that had endeared him to Burton from the first.
"What's this about Henry's escape?" he asked.
"Why,--Henryhasgot away, hasn't he?" Watson answered evasively.
"It seems so. One of your men woke me up an hour ago to see if Henry were in the house, and when we went to his room we found Mason sleeping across the door, but Henry's window was open and he was gone. How did you happen to send to inquire?"
"Selby has been killed," said Watson.
The doctor drew a quick breath, but said nothing. The silence in the room was so keen that the scratching of Ralston's pencil (he was scribbling like mad at the edge of the table) was like an affront. Burton moved restlessly over to the open window and looked down the way by which Ben had climbed up.
Watson cleared his throat.
"Of course he'll have a chance to explain things," he said, with laborious carelessness.
A sharp exclamation came from Burton, who was leaning out of the window.
"Watson! Look here!"
Watson was getting nervous. He jumped to Burton's side as though he expected an attack from the open window.
"Look here, on the window-sill,--it's fresh paint," said Burton quickly. "I put my hand on it. Get a better light. See there,--and below there. Those marks must have been made by Ben when he climbed in. There must have been paint on his clothes somewhere."
"Perhaps," said Watson, looking carefully at the faint traces on the window-sill. "What of it?"
"When I was stumbling through Selby's back yard this evening, I noticed a painter's ladder there and an empty paint bucket on the ground. There must have been fresh paint on Selby's house tonight."
"My God!" said Ralston, and his tone was not irreverent. "Ben came here from Selby's! It was he who stabbed Selby. And he left Henry's cuff-button in the room to throw suspicion, as usual, on Henry. It was his last coup."
"Perhaps," Watson repeated slowly. "But--where is Henry?"
Like an answer, there was a sharp ring at the door-bell, and before any one could move, the house door was flung open and Henry himself stood in the hall below.
"I say, Watson!" he called aloud.
"Oh, yes, I'm coming," said Watson, in patient amaze, as he hurried down the stairs. The others were at his heels, and all four men faced Henry,--if this were Henry who awaited them. There was a sparkle of laughter in his eye and a flush of energy and happiness on his face that transformed him almost past recognition.
"Hope I don't disturb a secret midnight meeting of any sort," he said, glancing around at the group with obvious surprise. "I only wanted Watson. Mason let me get lost, and I was afraid Watson would be worried about me, so I came around to let him know that I am safe. Do you want me to go back home, or would you rather send some one to show me the way to jail?"
While Watson hunted for an answer, the doctor pushed in front of him.
"Henry, where have you been tonight? What have you been doing?"
There was an appeal in his voice that no one could have heard with indifference, and Burton was thankful that Henry answered at once and with none of his old cynical mockery.
"I have been getting married," he said.
"Oh, joy!" murmured Ralston, in the background.
Henry turned to Watson as he explained.
"I heard today, or yesterday, I suppose it is now, that Selby was engaged,--that is, that he said he was engaged,--to Minnie Hadley. I wanted to speak to her about it, and I didn't see any chance of doing it without the whole town knowing it unless I gave Mason the slip. So I waited till he was asleep and then I shinned down the tree. Burton here tried to stop me, but I didn't have time to explain. I got Minnie down by throwing pebbles on her window, and when we had talked things over we decided that the best way to make things safe for the future was to be married right away. So we went over to Mr. Domat's house,--he's Minnie's minister,--and he married us, and I guess it's legal all right, even if I am in the custody of the law. Then I took her home,--I took her back to Mr. Hadley's house. I was on my way back home when I ran across old Higgins, who said the whole force was out looking for me. I preferred to come by myself rather than to be brought like a runaway schoolboy, so I gave him the slip, and I came here instead of going to the station, because I thought this was your personal affair, Watson. You put me on my word, and you might have known that I was going to keep it. What made you stir up such a hullaballoo about my merely temporary absence?"
"Because," said Watson dryly, "during your merely temporary absence Selby was killed. Your cuff-button was found in his room. It seemed advisable to find the rest of you as soon as possible."
Henry looked so startled and so guilty that Burton interposed. He could not bear to see for even a moment the old look of sullen defiance on Henry's face.
"Go on, Watson. Tell him the rest."
"Ben Bussey is under arrest. We caught him in an attempt to fire this house, but from certain indications, it looks as though the charge against him now would be for the murder of Selby rather than arson. But if your alibi isn't good--!"
"Ben, you say? Ben Bussey?" Henry repeated, in a bewildered manner.
The doctor went up to Henry and threw his arm across his shoulders.
"Ben has been able to walk for years, my boy. He concealed the fact and pretended to be helpless, but it seems clear that it is he who has been working all this mischief in High Ridge, and that he has now ended by killing Selby. Whether he had any grudge against Selby, or whether it was merely another attempt to involve you circumstantially, I don't know."
Henry did not speak. His face was hard set to hide the emotions that must have surged within.
"You go home with your father, Henry," said Watson gruffly. "You are still on parole,--that's all the guard I'll ask for. You will hear from me when I want anything more. Now it's so near daylight that if you don't mind, I am going to say good morning to you. I have a lot of work to do."
The four men shook hands with him and went out. The cool breeze of the early dawn was blowing freshly through the streets of the village and it struck their faces with a pleasant little tang.
"A great night," said the doctor thoughtfully, looking about.
"And a new day," said Burton, with a smile. "Good night, Mr. Underwood, and my congratulations. Good night, Doctor. I shall see you to-morrow,--or later in the day, I should say, rather."
"Good night," said Henry.
"Come early," said the doctor. They turned away together, and Burton saw with keen satisfaction that they had not gone half a dozen steps before they were arm in arm.
"It's good to see that," he said to Ralston, nodding toward the two departing.
"Yes," said Ralston. Then he laughed a little. "I wonder if there isn't one fly in Henry's ointment tonight,--Selby didn't hear of his elopement!"
When Burton parted from Ralston at the latter's office, the day was beginning to break. He went to his hotel, where only a surprised and solitary watchman saw him enter. He walked up to the second floor instead of taking the elevator, and went at once to his room. To his surprise, the door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open,--and faced Mrs. Bussey.
"How did you get into my room?" he demanded in his first surprise.
She did not answer that,--but no other answer than the ring of chambermaid's keys in her hand was necessary. She cowered away from him in the blinking timidity that she had always shown, and then she suddenly bristled up like a wrathful squirrel.
"What have you done with Ben?"
"Did you come here to look for him?"
"He should be home before this! Have they found him out? Have they found him out?"
"Yes, they have found him out. They have taken him to the police station." He spoke as gently as possible. Nothing could make the facts less than tragic to her, poor thing.
She wrung her hands. "I wish you had never come here! It would have been all right if you had never come!"
Burton could not blame her for her point of view, since wiser philosophers than she had held before this that right and wrong are merely a way of looking at things. Instead, he asked abruptly:
"What made you take that letter out of my room?"
She stopped her whimpering cry, and with a look of terror darted suddenly past Burton, who did not try to check her, and so out of the room.
So that matter was also explained. She it was who had brought him that note of threat, and afterwards had abstracted it from his room. She probably helped the maids at times, and so had the pass-keys to the rooms, and she was a sufficiently familiar figure to excite no comment by her comings and goings. The whole thing had been a combination of cunning and chance, and Mrs. Bussey's low mentality and Ben's insane shrewdness might have kept the whole town in hot water for years longer if Burton had not come upon the scene. The police had been too committed to the Henry Underwood theory to see anything else, until it was actually forced upon them.
A soldier forgets his personal wound in the heat of battle, but when the excitement is past, the smart comes again to his consciousness. As Burton's mind calmed from the excitement of the night, he grew more and more vividly conscious of the exceedingly disagreeable task yet before him,--to give Miss Underwood an account of Mrs. Overman's visit yesterday. It was so inexpressibly irksome a commission that he was almost tempted to repeat Mrs. Bussey's wail. Why had he ever come? Now that the condition which she had set had been fulfilled, she would of course expect a certain urgency on his part for her promise. To tell her that his principal had reconsidered the matter and would not ask anything further at her hands was so near an insult, under all the circumstances, that in his perplexity as to how he was to manage the matter he almost forgot to be angry.
As he stood by the window waiting and trying to collect his thoughts, he saw Mr. Hadley walking down the street, producing, quite by himself, all the effect of a procession. The man was funny, but he wasn't half a bad sort! Burton hated to think he should never see him again. He glanced over at the Hadley house, and had a glimpse of Miss Hadley--no, of Mrs. Henry Underwood, to be sure!--running down the stairs and past a window. The haste was explained when he saw Henry himself crossing the street diagonally toward the house. She had seen him from an upper window! Burton turned from his own window, with a throb of interest so keen that it surprised him. He wanted tremendously to know how that experiment was going to work out. Henry was a babe in the wood,--and the featherheaded Minnie! It would be mighty interesting to see how they "found" themselves. And the doctor--and Leslie-- He whistled softly and picked up his hat. One might as well have the thing over.
The doctor was waiting at the door to receive him, and leaned on his arm as they walked to the surgery with a weight that Burton felt was more affection than need of support.
"I should have to read up in Oriental literature to get a vocabulary to properly express my feelings," he said. "You are the roof-tree of my house and the door-sill of my granary, the protector of the poor and the defender of the right. All of which means, in plain English, that I don't know how to say what I want to."
"I am only too glad that I had a chance to have a hand in the matter," said Burton, "but the chances are that the mystery would soon have been solved, in any event. Ben was getting too confident, and therefore reckless."
"It was the check you gave him that made him reckless. Of course he is insane. Such a long, brooding course of revenge for a boyish quarrel is clear proof of insanity. But the insanity might have remained latent for years if he had not been crossed. No, you can't get out of it. You will have to reconcile yourself to being regarded as a benefactor."
"Well, perhaps I can stand it, mixed in with some other memories I shall have to take away with me," said Burton grimly. Leslie had not appeared, and he knew what was yet before him. "I had a bad time getting away from you yesterday when you wanted to make me stay and tell you what I was doing. I wasn't sure I was doing anything! I felt like a boy who is speculating whether the Fourth-of-July mud can which he is watching is really dead or only sleeping. If my mud can should go off, I could see that the effect would be wholly satisfying. On the other hand, it might be a mud can, only that and nothing more, and nothing could be more humiliating than to be sedulously watching a mud can which might safely be given to children who cry for it."
The doctor laughed. "The explosion was fully up to the claims of the prospectus."
"There's another matter that I am still somewhat in doubt about," said Burton seriously. "That's Selby's death. I said to Miss Underwood yesterday that I hoped Henry wouldn't shoot Selby when he heard of his engagement to Miss Hadley. I am fairly certain that Mrs. Bussey heard me and repeated the remark to Ben. Also, it seems that I precipitated a quarrel between Ben and Selby about the price of his work. Taking these things together, how far am I responsible for Selby's death?"
The doctor turned to look at him questioningly. "Don't blame yourself for things you only touch at that distance," he said abruptly. "If the little gods use us as instruments to carry out their plans, we have to take that lot with the rest. Perhaps there is justice in their schemes. We all have to take our chances in this skirmishing that we call life,--and death isn't the worst that might happen."
"No," said Burton, with a sigh.
The doctor continued to observe him scrutinizingly, but he spoke lightly. "Henry gave me a bad quarter of an hour last night," he said, wrinkling his face in his old, funny grimace. "When I found he had disappeared I thought for a while that my worst nightmares of these past years had come true. That brilliant watch of Watson's didn't even know he was gone. The boy may be--well, a problem, but no one ever suggested he didn't have spirit enough to climb a tree."
"He will be all right after this. He has been worried by the surrounding atmosphere of suspicion into appearing as a problem, that's all. If that little fool--I beg a thousand pardons. That isn't what I was going to talk about. I intended to say that if your new daughter-in-law, who is a very beautiful girl with a sweet nature, will only praise him enough,--and I think that is likely to be her role,--he will probably be not only happy but good. The poor boy needs coddling."
The doctor listened with the glimmer of a smile under his seriousness.
"We all do. It is the great human need." He twisted his face up inscrutably as he added: "I hope you will get your share."
"Thank you," said Burton. His heart sank suddenly. He hadn't wanted to be reminded of his own needs. "Am I to see Miss Underwood this morning?" he asked, facing the inevitable.
"She wishes to see you," said the doctor, somewhat hesitatingly, and a troubled look crossed his face. "She asked me to keep you; I'll tell her you are here." He rose, polishing his glasses painstakingly. He adjusted them carefully on his nose, and then looked over them at Burton. "You saw--I understand that Mrs. Overman was in town yesterday," he said.
"Yes," said Burton uncomfortably. "She was here between trains only. There was no time--"
The doctor raised his hand deprecatingly. "You can tell Leslie about it," he said. At the door he paused. "When the little gods take a hand in any game, there is no use for any of us to borrow responsibility," he said enigmatically, and hastily departed, leaving Burton feeling far from at ease.
He looked about the familiar room with a silent farewell. Here it was that he had seen Leslie fired with generous anger at the attack on her father. By this curtain she had hidden herself away on the evening when that absurd committee came to "investigate," and he had thought of her as a jewel whose beauty could never be concealed. Here he had stood when the sound of her music came to him--
There was a faint sound behind him, and he turned swiftly to face her. She had entered so softly that he had not heard her, and she stood by the door looking at him with a shrinking dread that gave him a pang. She was very pale, and if the dark circles about her eyes did not mean tears, he was at a loss to interpret them.
"What is it? What troubles you?" he asked quickly.
"I am not--" she began. Then she interrupted herself. "Yes, I am troubled and unhappy and wretched and ashamed,--oh, so ashamed! You will despise me!"
"You are wrong there, at least. Can you tell me--?"
"Yes. I told father I wanted to see you alone. Oh, you mustn't think I am not grateful for what you have done, and thankful beyond words to have Henry cleared and all the truth of things made known. I am. I am so thankful that I shall go softly all my days to remember it. That only makes it worse!"
"Makes what worse?"
"My--defaulting! You did it all because of--of a promise I made you. And I can't keep that promise. I can't. I thought while it was far off that I could, and I didn't let myself think much about it, because I was so anxious to have your help, and nothing,nothing, would be too much to pay for it,--and it wouldn't be, only--I simply can't!"
"Do you mean your promise to Philip?" asked Burton, a light that made him giddy coming over him.
"Yes. I--can't!"
"Why can't you?" he asked.
She caught her breath, and something flashed into her face that went to his head. It was gone in an instant, but in that instant all the wavering lights and shadows and uncertainties through which he had been groping were crystallized into white light.
"Then you don't love Philip?" he said tyrannously.
"No!"
"Didn't you ever love him?"
"No."
"In that case, of course you can't marry him," he smiled.
"I--don't--want--to marry him!"
"Then how about me? Do you loveme?"
The crimson tide flooded her face, and she flashed on him a look of surprised reproach, but she did not leave the room with the haughty air that would have been the proper sequel to such a look, for the simple but sufficient reason that by this time he was holding both her hands.
"Is there any least possibility of your caring for me? I have been fathoms deep in love with you for--for ages! I don't know when it began! It has always been! Oh, if you have hated the idea of marrying Philip half as much as I have hated the idea that you would!Leslie!" The way in which he spoke her name really left nothing more to be said.
Somewhat later they came back into the story. She drew a little away to look into Burton's face with dismay on her own.
"But poor Philip! Howcanwe ever tell him?"
"Leave that to me," said Burton, with a queer laugh.