Chapter XI.The Gardener SpeaksMy glance at the window had been but a casual thing and the appearance of the face had lasted only a second. As the face vanished, I uttered a sudden cry—one which caused Bartley to give me a quick look. Briefly I told what I had seen, and pointed at the window; then we turned and rushed for the door and out into the open air.The library stood upon the top of a small hill, and there were no trees within a short distance. At the bottom of the hill, however, the lawn was covered with trees and shrubbery. It was dark, yet not so dark but that we should have been able to have seen any figure which ran across our vision. But save for the trees in the distance, which loomed a darker shadow against the blackness, we saw nothing. Bartley motioned with his hand and we followed him to the rear of the house.Here, too, there was a close-cropped lawn with the trees commencing on the far edge. The trees were thicker and the shrubbery far more dense than in the front. It needed but a look to realize that it was absurd to expect to discover any one in the darkness. The huge lawn, together with the many trees, offered many opportunities for hiding. Just as I was about to say this there came a sharp exclamation of surprise and the sound of two people tumbling through the hedge far to our left.The path to the library ran between two rows of a high hedge. As we rushed across the grass, the sounds of the struggle came louder to our ears. Two people were thrashing back and forth upon the ground slightly ahead of us. As we reached the path and turned past the slight bend, we almost stumbled over two men—two men rolling to and fro on the gravel.We could dimly distinguish their figures as they struggled. Save for the crunching of the gravel in the path and their hurried breathing, they made no sound. Over and over, first one on top and then the other, they rolled. The chief and Bartley rushed in to separate them. As Bartley's hand reached the man who for the moment was on top there came Ranville's voice.“Just grab hold of this chap under me, will you?”The chief pulled the other man to his feet as Ranville stood erect. I heard him brushing the dirt from his clothes and then he laughed:“I was coming up this confounded path when that blighter ran smash into me; almost knocked me off my feet. And when I asked him what the rush was, he tried to knock me down. Naturally enough, I decided we'd better have a look at him.”Pushing the man ahead of him, the chief started back to the library, we following him. No one said anything, and whoever the man might be, he kept his mouth shut. Up the steps to the piazza and then through the open door we marched. When we were in the room, the chief whirled the man around to get a look at his face. It needed but one glance to tell who he was. The heavy, dull face turned toward us and filled with fear was that of the man who worked around Warren's grounds.He was a thick-set man whose features at the inquest had not impressed me very highly. No one, looking at him at any time, would have said he was very imposing, either in intelligence or physique; now, with his face streaked with dirt from the path in which he had rolled, and with the blood trickling from a slight cut above his eye, he made a rather sinister appearance. The dark hair was a tangled mass, and his eyes glared at us as he half yelled:“What are you trying to do to me? I ain't done nothing.”“What were you looking through the window for?” growled the chief.Though I was pretty sure that the gardener was the man whose face I had seen at the window a few moments before, yet I was not positive; his next words, however, were a confession:“Suppose I was?” he snarled. “There is no harm in that.”“Maybe not,” retorted the chief. “But you were pretty anxious to get away without being seen.”“You're right there, Officer,” laughed Ranville. “He was running as fast as he could when he banged into me.”Ranville was wearing a light summer suit—a suit remarkable, not only for the fineness of the cloth, but also for the way it was pressed; now it was a mass of wrinkles, stained and soiled from the dirt. But though the face of the Englishman had a dark streak which ran from his eyes to his lips, yet from his manner one would never have thought that only a moment or so before he had been struggling with the gardener.His remark caused the chief to make a vain attempt to wring from the man the reason why he had been looking in the window, and also why he had run away. But the gardener refused to make any explanations. He would simply shrug his shoulders, or else growl out that he had done nothing. In the end the chief, by this time a very angry man, announced he would lock him up in the jail for the night.“Maybe by morning you will feel like talking,” was the statement he hurled at the gardener.We waited until after the chief had called the police station and asked them to send a car for his prisoner. Then bidding him good night, we left the library and started for our car. As we walked down the path, Ranville told us that though we had said we would walk back to the house, yet it had taken so little time to reach the secretary's home that he had come back to pick us up. He had just started up the path to the library when he heard running footsteps and the next second the man had plunged against him. The two men had rolled over and over and as the man seemed determined to get away, Ranville had decided that he had better discover who he might be.All the way back to the house we discussed the matter, reaching no conclusion. How long the gardener had been watching us or for what reason we could not say. Ranville was more interested in endeavoring to find out why the man had attempted to get away without being seen. To him that was the suspicious thing. Otherwise he would have seen no reason to become excited over the fact the man had looked in the window. Curiosity could explain that action. It would not, however, explain his effort to escape without being seen. We were still talking about it when we drove into the yard.Telling Bartley that I would place the car in the garage, I let the two men out by the drive, noticing as I did so that the lights were turned on in the house. The dog leaped with a bark to greet me as I opened the garage door and followed me when I went into the house. Hearing the sound of voices in the living room, I entered to find Bartley talking with Carter's neighbor, the minister.Seating myself in a chair, I listened to the conversation. I could tell the clergyman did not have the slightest idea who Bartley might be. I judged also that he was a little surprised at not finding Carter at home. There was a great contrast between the two men. The minister was very tall and thin and extremely nervous. His eyes looked tired, and there was a certain condescension in his voice which I have noticed in other men of his profession. Bartley, on the other hand, leaned back in his chair with the restful air which he always wore. His keen, intellectual face had not a single line, and though I judged the two men were about the same age, Bartley looked at least ten years younger.For a while they talked in the idle fashion men do when they are strangers. Then for a time they spoke about certain books. In the end, naturally enough, they came to Warren's death. It was the clergyman who brought up the subject by saying that he judged they would never find the murderer. Bartley made no response to this, but went on to say that the death of the scientist was a very deplorable thing for the intellectual world. And to my surprise the minister promptly said that he did not agree with this. And then suddenly he began to talk very earnestly.Long before he had finished I discovered that the man was very narrow to say the least. He informed us that though he was sorry to have heard of Mr. Warren's being murdered, yet, after all, he considered it an act of God. I gave a start at this, for they were the very words Bartley had told us had been used in the editorial he had read in a religious journal. As the minister uttered them, I saw a rather dismayed smile flit over Bartley's face, and he half protested.The face of the minister lightened with strange intensity. His face flushed with eagerness as he leaned forward to say:“I know, of course, the phrase does not sound well. But you do not know as I do how the materialistic teachings of the scientists are undermining the faith of our young people. These men are destroying the very word of God. Mr. Warren said that his new book would settle for all time the question of evolution.”He paused to give a scornful laugh.“Of course, he was wrong there. Evolution is simply a guess of man and can never be proven to be right. But his book might have caused much confusion among the unthinking people. Now it can never be written.”Bartley started to say something but checked himself and slumped far down in his chair. At this moment Ranville came into the room. He had changed his suit and with a nod to the minister took a chair near me. The minister eyed the Englishman for a second, then turned to carry on the strange argument. He bent forward with an intensity of feeling and swept on:“You men do not realize as some of we clergymen do just how evil have become the times in which we are living. The young people of to-day have no interest in sacred things. Pleasure and materialism are sweeping over us; if it is not checked, God will blot us out just as he did in the time of Noah.”I saw Ranville's eyes open wide in astonishment. He gave the excited man in the chair a look and drawled out:“Really now, you can't mean all that.”The minister brought his thin hand down upon the arm of his chair. His voice rose a little and became sharper as he replied:“But I do, I do. There is a wave of irreligion sweeping over the world. Most of it is due to the materialistic teaching of the so-called ‘men of science.’ Their absurd theory of evolution, which teaches that man is a brute instead of a son of God, is responsible for a good deal of it.”Ranville gave a little puzzled shake of his head and looked at the minister as though he was studying a new sort of animal. Then he asked:“Well, how do you expect to stop all the scientific teaching?”The minister almost jumped from his chair as he cried:“We are going to stop it! We must! We have millions of God-fearing people behind us. Before we are through, we will prevent the teaching of evolution by law. Make it a crime to put materialistic theories in the minds of the young.”Bartley's eyes met those of Ranville and the two men faintly smiled. I looked at the minister, hardly thinking he believed what he was saying. It needed, however, but a glance at the thin face and the fixed determined lips to see that he was in earnest. There was a certain look in his eyes that I did not like—the look of the fanatic. But just when I had thought of that his expression changed and there came a smile around his lips—a smile which made his face almost attractive. He half laughed as he said:“Well, I was getting started on my hobby. It is all true what I have said. Religion is dying out under the sweep of materialistic things. Why in the ten churches in this town—churches which will seat around four thousand people—there were only 540 in them all last Sunday. But—” He hesitated, and then went on: “But I don't want you to take what I said amiss. I am very sorry Mr. Warren was killed. But in a sense to me it seems that if such a thing had to happen, it was good it came when it did.”“What do you mean by that?” came Ranville's surprised question.“Why now that book of his will never be published,” was the retort.There came Bartley's cool voice:“Oh, yes, it will. Niles Patton, who was Warren's assistant on the trip into China, is to arrive to-morrow. He will finish editing Warren's notes. The book will be out all right.”I saw a very surprised look sweep across the minister's face, and there came a slight frown. But he said nothing for a minute, and when he did speak, it was to ask if we thought the Chinaman who had been mentioned at the inquest, had anything to do with the murder. He was told we did not know, and then for some reason the conversation died away. Inviting us to call at his house, he bade us good night and went out.After his footsteps had died away, Ranville turned to Bartley with a little laugh and asked:“Do you have many like him?”“Far more than you think,” was the serious reply. “In fact, Ranville, he told the truth. There are millions in this country who are trying to have laws passed which will prevent the teaching of science. We have three great religious denominations that maintain great political lobbies in Washington. They may be narrow, uncultured and all that, but they are also sincere—the sincerity of the uneducated, and those who from the standpoint of the psychologist fear the newer knowledge. They want Sunday blue laws, censorship and, above all, to prevent by law all things in which they do not believe. He was right when he said that many of those people think Warren's death was an act of God.”Ranville shook his head as if saying that such things were beyond his comprehension. He laughed a bit, and had a little fun with us by saying that it was time we became civilized; then lapsed into silence. For a time we sat quietly thinking, the smoke from our cigars curling above our heads. It was Ranville who spoke first, turning to Bartley:“What do you think was back of this murder?”“It is going to be pretty hard to discover. I suppose you Scotland Yard men always do the same thing I do, try first to find the motive for a crime.”The Inspector nodded, replying:“We do. But of course we have an extensive system which covers the whole of England. Even at that it would be rather difficult to find any apparent motive for this murder. There is none on the surface.”“None that we usually find. Warren had no relative except his brother in the south. He is a very wealthy man, and the property will go to him. No family troubles. It seems from all we have heard he was not killed for money. There was nothing of any value taken. On the other hand, he had no enemies so far as I ever heard; in fact, the more you look at it the greater becomes the mystery. Just why a man like Warren should have been killed is the question we must answer first. Until that is answered there can be no chance of answering the second—who killed him.”The Englishman was thoughtful for a while, and then sinking back in his chair said slowly:“That is true. The only thing we do not know about is what might have taken place in China.”“I know about that,” commented Bartley, and as we both looked at him in surprise, he added:“I ran into Niles Patton at the University Club yesterday. I have known Patton for a long time. He was with Warren in China. He says that they had no trouble at all on their expedition. The only reason they were delayed in returning was not because they were molested by outlaws, but on account of the great discoveries of fossils Warren made. He says that so far as he knows Warren did not have an enemy in the whole of China. You will meet him when he comes up here to finish Warren's notes, and he will tell you the same thing.”“But, John,” I ventured. “How about that Chinaman who visited us and the story he told?”Bartley threw out his hands in a gesture of hopelessness and said that he could not answer the question. For a while we commented about his visit, and agreed with Bartley the man had lied to us when he spoke about a box which contained the ashes of Buddha. It was Ranville's opinion that the Chinaman had come more to discover what we knew than any other reason. He was rather insistent that the man should have been held by the police. And then I remembered that I had not told Bartley of my visit to the swamp and of the attack which had been made on me at the church tower.He listened soberly, smiled once or twice as something struck him as being humorous, and opened his eyes when I narrated how I was thrown over the tower. He laughed when I told him of the amazed look upon the minister's face as he heard my voice and opened the trap door. But he did not make any comment, saying that it was rather an odd thing to have taken place.As Bartley did not comment on my accident, Ranville after a pause asked him if he had any kind of a theory about the case. I saw Bartley's lips melt into a firm line, and he turned to the Englishman.“I have no theory at all, Ranville. It seems to me that there is something we do not know—some little thing, perhaps, which might give the light we need. What it is I cannot even guess. You know that our work is one-third brains and perhaps two-thirds luck. As this case now stands, all the brains we may use upon it will not aid us unless luck plays a little part. Plays it by giving that little clew—the hint which would cause us to discover what the motive might be or find the type of a person who might have killed Warren.”The telephone bell interrupted him. It was a long, incessant ring. I went into the hall, and in a moment there came the voice of the chief asking for Bartley. Telling him to wait, I returned to the living room and said that the chief was calling. With a half smile Bartley rose to his feet and went out into the hall. We heard the low murmur of his voice, and the conversation was rather long. When it ceased, he came slowly back and dropped into a chair. There was a rather perplexed look on his face as he turned to us.“The chief called up to tell me he has succeeded in getting the gardener to talk. And the chief, I might add, although he promised to let the man go, has decided to hold him longer.”“What for?” we both cried.“Well,” came the slow reply, “the gardener says that he was asked to go into Warren's library and take one of those three caskets which I noticed on the stands. He was to take the one nearest the safe; for doing this he would receive one hundred dollars.”“Who asked him to do that?” came Ranville's eager question.Bartley shrugged his shoulders in a gesture which might express anything.“He says your Chinese visitor was the one who made the proposal.”
My glance at the window had been but a casual thing and the appearance of the face had lasted only a second. As the face vanished, I uttered a sudden cry—one which caused Bartley to give me a quick look. Briefly I told what I had seen, and pointed at the window; then we turned and rushed for the door and out into the open air.
The library stood upon the top of a small hill, and there were no trees within a short distance. At the bottom of the hill, however, the lawn was covered with trees and shrubbery. It was dark, yet not so dark but that we should have been able to have seen any figure which ran across our vision. But save for the trees in the distance, which loomed a darker shadow against the blackness, we saw nothing. Bartley motioned with his hand and we followed him to the rear of the house.
Here, too, there was a close-cropped lawn with the trees commencing on the far edge. The trees were thicker and the shrubbery far more dense than in the front. It needed but a look to realize that it was absurd to expect to discover any one in the darkness. The huge lawn, together with the many trees, offered many opportunities for hiding. Just as I was about to say this there came a sharp exclamation of surprise and the sound of two people tumbling through the hedge far to our left.
The path to the library ran between two rows of a high hedge. As we rushed across the grass, the sounds of the struggle came louder to our ears. Two people were thrashing back and forth upon the ground slightly ahead of us. As we reached the path and turned past the slight bend, we almost stumbled over two men—two men rolling to and fro on the gravel.
We could dimly distinguish their figures as they struggled. Save for the crunching of the gravel in the path and their hurried breathing, they made no sound. Over and over, first one on top and then the other, they rolled. The chief and Bartley rushed in to separate them. As Bartley's hand reached the man who for the moment was on top there came Ranville's voice.
“Just grab hold of this chap under me, will you?”
The chief pulled the other man to his feet as Ranville stood erect. I heard him brushing the dirt from his clothes and then he laughed:
“I was coming up this confounded path when that blighter ran smash into me; almost knocked me off my feet. And when I asked him what the rush was, he tried to knock me down. Naturally enough, I decided we'd better have a look at him.”
Pushing the man ahead of him, the chief started back to the library, we following him. No one said anything, and whoever the man might be, he kept his mouth shut. Up the steps to the piazza and then through the open door we marched. When we were in the room, the chief whirled the man around to get a look at his face. It needed but one glance to tell who he was. The heavy, dull face turned toward us and filled with fear was that of the man who worked around Warren's grounds.
He was a thick-set man whose features at the inquest had not impressed me very highly. No one, looking at him at any time, would have said he was very imposing, either in intelligence or physique; now, with his face streaked with dirt from the path in which he had rolled, and with the blood trickling from a slight cut above his eye, he made a rather sinister appearance. The dark hair was a tangled mass, and his eyes glared at us as he half yelled:
“What are you trying to do to me? I ain't done nothing.”
“What were you looking through the window for?” growled the chief.
Though I was pretty sure that the gardener was the man whose face I had seen at the window a few moments before, yet I was not positive; his next words, however, were a confession:
“Suppose I was?” he snarled. “There is no harm in that.”
“Maybe not,” retorted the chief. “But you were pretty anxious to get away without being seen.”
“You're right there, Officer,” laughed Ranville. “He was running as fast as he could when he banged into me.”
Ranville was wearing a light summer suit—a suit remarkable, not only for the fineness of the cloth, but also for the way it was pressed; now it was a mass of wrinkles, stained and soiled from the dirt. But though the face of the Englishman had a dark streak which ran from his eyes to his lips, yet from his manner one would never have thought that only a moment or so before he had been struggling with the gardener.
His remark caused the chief to make a vain attempt to wring from the man the reason why he had been looking in the window, and also why he had run away. But the gardener refused to make any explanations. He would simply shrug his shoulders, or else growl out that he had done nothing. In the end the chief, by this time a very angry man, announced he would lock him up in the jail for the night.
“Maybe by morning you will feel like talking,” was the statement he hurled at the gardener.
We waited until after the chief had called the police station and asked them to send a car for his prisoner. Then bidding him good night, we left the library and started for our car. As we walked down the path, Ranville told us that though we had said we would walk back to the house, yet it had taken so little time to reach the secretary's home that he had come back to pick us up. He had just started up the path to the library when he heard running footsteps and the next second the man had plunged against him. The two men had rolled over and over and as the man seemed determined to get away, Ranville had decided that he had better discover who he might be.
All the way back to the house we discussed the matter, reaching no conclusion. How long the gardener had been watching us or for what reason we could not say. Ranville was more interested in endeavoring to find out why the man had attempted to get away without being seen. To him that was the suspicious thing. Otherwise he would have seen no reason to become excited over the fact the man had looked in the window. Curiosity could explain that action. It would not, however, explain his effort to escape without being seen. We were still talking about it when we drove into the yard.
Telling Bartley that I would place the car in the garage, I let the two men out by the drive, noticing as I did so that the lights were turned on in the house. The dog leaped with a bark to greet me as I opened the garage door and followed me when I went into the house. Hearing the sound of voices in the living room, I entered to find Bartley talking with Carter's neighbor, the minister.
Seating myself in a chair, I listened to the conversation. I could tell the clergyman did not have the slightest idea who Bartley might be. I judged also that he was a little surprised at not finding Carter at home. There was a great contrast between the two men. The minister was very tall and thin and extremely nervous. His eyes looked tired, and there was a certain condescension in his voice which I have noticed in other men of his profession. Bartley, on the other hand, leaned back in his chair with the restful air which he always wore. His keen, intellectual face had not a single line, and though I judged the two men were about the same age, Bartley looked at least ten years younger.
For a while they talked in the idle fashion men do when they are strangers. Then for a time they spoke about certain books. In the end, naturally enough, they came to Warren's death. It was the clergyman who brought up the subject by saying that he judged they would never find the murderer. Bartley made no response to this, but went on to say that the death of the scientist was a very deplorable thing for the intellectual world. And to my surprise the minister promptly said that he did not agree with this. And then suddenly he began to talk very earnestly.
Long before he had finished I discovered that the man was very narrow to say the least. He informed us that though he was sorry to have heard of Mr. Warren's being murdered, yet, after all, he considered it an act of God. I gave a start at this, for they were the very words Bartley had told us had been used in the editorial he had read in a religious journal. As the minister uttered them, I saw a rather dismayed smile flit over Bartley's face, and he half protested.
The face of the minister lightened with strange intensity. His face flushed with eagerness as he leaned forward to say:
“I know, of course, the phrase does not sound well. But you do not know as I do how the materialistic teachings of the scientists are undermining the faith of our young people. These men are destroying the very word of God. Mr. Warren said that his new book would settle for all time the question of evolution.”
He paused to give a scornful laugh.
“Of course, he was wrong there. Evolution is simply a guess of man and can never be proven to be right. But his book might have caused much confusion among the unthinking people. Now it can never be written.”
Bartley started to say something but checked himself and slumped far down in his chair. At this moment Ranville came into the room. He had changed his suit and with a nod to the minister took a chair near me. The minister eyed the Englishman for a second, then turned to carry on the strange argument. He bent forward with an intensity of feeling and swept on:
“You men do not realize as some of we clergymen do just how evil have become the times in which we are living. The young people of to-day have no interest in sacred things. Pleasure and materialism are sweeping over us; if it is not checked, God will blot us out just as he did in the time of Noah.”
I saw Ranville's eyes open wide in astonishment. He gave the excited man in the chair a look and drawled out:
“Really now, you can't mean all that.”
The minister brought his thin hand down upon the arm of his chair. His voice rose a little and became sharper as he replied:
“But I do, I do. There is a wave of irreligion sweeping over the world. Most of it is due to the materialistic teaching of the so-called ‘men of science.’ Their absurd theory of evolution, which teaches that man is a brute instead of a son of God, is responsible for a good deal of it.”
Ranville gave a little puzzled shake of his head and looked at the minister as though he was studying a new sort of animal. Then he asked:
“Well, how do you expect to stop all the scientific teaching?”
The minister almost jumped from his chair as he cried:
“We are going to stop it! We must! We have millions of God-fearing people behind us. Before we are through, we will prevent the teaching of evolution by law. Make it a crime to put materialistic theories in the minds of the young.”
Bartley's eyes met those of Ranville and the two men faintly smiled. I looked at the minister, hardly thinking he believed what he was saying. It needed, however, but a glance at the thin face and the fixed determined lips to see that he was in earnest. There was a certain look in his eyes that I did not like—the look of the fanatic. But just when I had thought of that his expression changed and there came a smile around his lips—a smile which made his face almost attractive. He half laughed as he said:
“Well, I was getting started on my hobby. It is all true what I have said. Religion is dying out under the sweep of materialistic things. Why in the ten churches in this town—churches which will seat around four thousand people—there were only 540 in them all last Sunday. But—” He hesitated, and then went on: “But I don't want you to take what I said amiss. I am very sorry Mr. Warren was killed. But in a sense to me it seems that if such a thing had to happen, it was good it came when it did.”
“What do you mean by that?” came Ranville's surprised question.
“Why now that book of his will never be published,” was the retort.
There came Bartley's cool voice:
“Oh, yes, it will. Niles Patton, who was Warren's assistant on the trip into China, is to arrive to-morrow. He will finish editing Warren's notes. The book will be out all right.”
I saw a very surprised look sweep across the minister's face, and there came a slight frown. But he said nothing for a minute, and when he did speak, it was to ask if we thought the Chinaman who had been mentioned at the inquest, had anything to do with the murder. He was told we did not know, and then for some reason the conversation died away. Inviting us to call at his house, he bade us good night and went out.
After his footsteps had died away, Ranville turned to Bartley with a little laugh and asked:
“Do you have many like him?”
“Far more than you think,” was the serious reply. “In fact, Ranville, he told the truth. There are millions in this country who are trying to have laws passed which will prevent the teaching of science. We have three great religious denominations that maintain great political lobbies in Washington. They may be narrow, uncultured and all that, but they are also sincere—the sincerity of the uneducated, and those who from the standpoint of the psychologist fear the newer knowledge. They want Sunday blue laws, censorship and, above all, to prevent by law all things in which they do not believe. He was right when he said that many of those people think Warren's death was an act of God.”
Ranville shook his head as if saying that such things were beyond his comprehension. He laughed a bit, and had a little fun with us by saying that it was time we became civilized; then lapsed into silence. For a time we sat quietly thinking, the smoke from our cigars curling above our heads. It was Ranville who spoke first, turning to Bartley:
“What do you think was back of this murder?”
“It is going to be pretty hard to discover. I suppose you Scotland Yard men always do the same thing I do, try first to find the motive for a crime.”
The Inspector nodded, replying:
“We do. But of course we have an extensive system which covers the whole of England. Even at that it would be rather difficult to find any apparent motive for this murder. There is none on the surface.”
“None that we usually find. Warren had no relative except his brother in the south. He is a very wealthy man, and the property will go to him. No family troubles. It seems from all we have heard he was not killed for money. There was nothing of any value taken. On the other hand, he had no enemies so far as I ever heard; in fact, the more you look at it the greater becomes the mystery. Just why a man like Warren should have been killed is the question we must answer first. Until that is answered there can be no chance of answering the second—who killed him.”
The Englishman was thoughtful for a while, and then sinking back in his chair said slowly:
“That is true. The only thing we do not know about is what might have taken place in China.”
“I know about that,” commented Bartley, and as we both looked at him in surprise, he added:
“I ran into Niles Patton at the University Club yesterday. I have known Patton for a long time. He was with Warren in China. He says that they had no trouble at all on their expedition. The only reason they were delayed in returning was not because they were molested by outlaws, but on account of the great discoveries of fossils Warren made. He says that so far as he knows Warren did not have an enemy in the whole of China. You will meet him when he comes up here to finish Warren's notes, and he will tell you the same thing.”
“But, John,” I ventured. “How about that Chinaman who visited us and the story he told?”
Bartley threw out his hands in a gesture of hopelessness and said that he could not answer the question. For a while we commented about his visit, and agreed with Bartley the man had lied to us when he spoke about a box which contained the ashes of Buddha. It was Ranville's opinion that the Chinaman had come more to discover what we knew than any other reason. He was rather insistent that the man should have been held by the police. And then I remembered that I had not told Bartley of my visit to the swamp and of the attack which had been made on me at the church tower.
He listened soberly, smiled once or twice as something struck him as being humorous, and opened his eyes when I narrated how I was thrown over the tower. He laughed when I told him of the amazed look upon the minister's face as he heard my voice and opened the trap door. But he did not make any comment, saying that it was rather an odd thing to have taken place.
As Bartley did not comment on my accident, Ranville after a pause asked him if he had any kind of a theory about the case. I saw Bartley's lips melt into a firm line, and he turned to the Englishman.
“I have no theory at all, Ranville. It seems to me that there is something we do not know—some little thing, perhaps, which might give the light we need. What it is I cannot even guess. You know that our work is one-third brains and perhaps two-thirds luck. As this case now stands, all the brains we may use upon it will not aid us unless luck plays a little part. Plays it by giving that little clew—the hint which would cause us to discover what the motive might be or find the type of a person who might have killed Warren.”
The telephone bell interrupted him. It was a long, incessant ring. I went into the hall, and in a moment there came the voice of the chief asking for Bartley. Telling him to wait, I returned to the living room and said that the chief was calling. With a half smile Bartley rose to his feet and went out into the hall. We heard the low murmur of his voice, and the conversation was rather long. When it ceased, he came slowly back and dropped into a chair. There was a rather perplexed look on his face as he turned to us.
“The chief called up to tell me he has succeeded in getting the gardener to talk. And the chief, I might add, although he promised to let the man go, has decided to hold him longer.”
“What for?” we both cried.
“Well,” came the slow reply, “the gardener says that he was asked to go into Warren's library and take one of those three caskets which I noticed on the stands. He was to take the one nearest the safe; for doing this he would receive one hundred dollars.”
“Who asked him to do that?” came Ranville's eager question.
Bartley shrugged his shoulders in a gesture which might express anything.
“He says your Chinese visitor was the one who made the proposal.”