 CHAPTER XII. THE GOLD BAG. I have always smiled at those cases of spontaneous combustion which, like fusing the component parts of a zytlitz powder, unite two people in a bubbling and ephemeral ecstasy. But surely there is possible, but with a single meeting, an attraction so great, a community of mind and interest so strong, that between the first meeting and the next the bond may grow into something stronger. This is, especially true, I fancy, of people with temperament, the modern substitute for imagination. It is a nice question whether lovers begin to love when they are together or when they are apart. Not that I followed any such line of reasoning at the time. I would not even admit my folly to myself. But during the restless hours of that first night after the accident, when my back ached with lying on it, and any other position was torture, I found my thoughts constantly going back to Alice and West. I dropped into a dose, to dream of touching her fingers again to comfort her, and awoke to find that I had patted a teaspoonful of medicine out of Mrs. Clopton's indignant hand. What was it McKnight had said about making an egregious ass of myself? And that brought me back to Richie, and I fancy I groaned. There is no use expatiating on the friendship between two men who have gone together through college, have quarreled and made up, fussed together over politics and debated creeds for years. Men don't need to be told, and women cannot understand. Nevertheless I groaned. If it had been anyone but rich. Some things were mine, however, and I would hold them. The house and breakfast, and the queer hat, the pebble in her small shoe, the gold bag with the broken chain, the bag, why it was in my pocket at that moment. I got up painfully and found my coat. Yes, there was the purse, bulging with an opulent suggestion of wealth inside. I went back to bed again, somewhat dizzy, between effort and the touch of the trinket, so lately hers. I held it up by its broken chain and gloated over it. My careful attention to orders I ought to be out in a day or so. Then I could return it to her. I really ought to do that. It was valuable and I wouldn't care to trust it to the male. I could run down to Richmond and see her once. There was no disloyalty to rich in that. I had no intention of opening the bag. I put it under my pillow, which was my reason for refusing to have the linen slips changed, to Mrs. Clopton's dismay. And some time during the morning, when I lay under a virgin field of white, ornamented with strange flowers, my cigarettes hidden beyond discovery, and science and health, on a table by my elbow, as if by the nearest accident I slid my hand under my pillow and touched it reverently. McKnight came in about eleven. I heard his car at the curb, followed almost immediately by his slam at the front door, and his usual clamor on the stairs. He had a bottle under his arm, brightly surmising that I had been forbidden stimulant, and a large box of cigarettes in his pocket, suspecting my deprivation. Well, he said cheerfully, how did you sleep after keeping me up half the night? I slid my hand around, the purse was well covered. Have it now, or wait till I get the cork out, he rattled on. I don't want anything, I protested. I wish you wouldn't be so darned cheerful, Richie. He stopped whistling to stare at me. I am saddest when I sing, he quoted unctuously. It's pure reaction, Lolly. Yesterday the sky was low, I was digging for my best friend. Today he lies before me, his peevish self. Yesterday I thought the notes were burned, today I look forward to a good cross-country chase, and with luck we will draw. His voice changed suddenly. Yesterday she was in Seal Harbor. Today she is here. Here in Washington, I asked as naturally as I could. Yes, going to stay a week or two. Oh, I had a little hen and she had a wooden leg, and nearly every morning she used to lay an egg. Will you stop that ragged, Rich? It's the real thing this time, I suppose. She's the best little chicken that we have on the farm, and another little drink won't do us any harm. He finished, twisting out the corkscrew. Then he came over and sat down on the bed. Well, he said judiciously, since you drag it from me, I think perhaps it is. You, you're such a confirmed woman-hater that I hardly knew how you would take it. Nothing of the sort, I denied, testily, because a man reaches the age of thirty without making modled love to everything. I've taken to long country rides, he went on reflectively without listening to me, and yesterday I ran over a sheep, nearly went into the ditch, but there's a providence that watches over fools and lovers, and just now I know darned well that I'm one, and I have a sneaking idea I'm both. You are both, I said with disgust. If you can be rational for one moment I wish you would tell me why that man Sullivan called me over the telephone yesterday morning. Probably hadn't yet discovered the Bronson notes, providing you hold to your theory that the theft was incidental to the murder. May have wanted his own clothes again, or to thank you for yours. Search me, I can't think of anything else. The doctor came in just then. As I said before, I think a lot of my doctor, when I am ill. He is a young man, with an air breezy self-confidence and good humor. He looked directly past the bottle, which is a very valuable accomplishment, and shook hands with McKnight until I could put the cigarettes under the bedclothes. He had interdicted tobacco. Then he sat down beside the bed, and felt around the bandages with hands as gentle as a baby's. Pretty good shape, he said. How did you sleep? Oh, occasionally, I replied. I would like to sit up, doctor. Bronson, take a rest while you have an excuse for it. I wished a thunder I could stay in bed for a day or two. I was up all night. Have a drink, McKnight said, pushing over the bottle. Twins, the doctor grinned. Have two drinks! But the medical man refused. I wouldn't even wear a champagne- colored necktie during business hours, he explained. By the way, I had another case from your accident, Mr. Blakely, late yesterday afternoon, under the tongue, please. He stuck a thermometer in my mouth. I had a sudden terrible vision of the amateur detective coming to light, notebook, cheerful impertinence, and incriminating data. A small man, I demanded, gray hair. Keep your mouth closed, the doctor said preemptively. No, a woman with a fractured skull. Beautiful case. Van Kirk was up to his eyes and sent for me, hemorrhage, right-sided paralysis, irregular pupils, all the trimmings, worked for two hours. Did she recover? McKnight put in. He was examining the doctor with new awe. She lifted her right arm before I left, the doctor finished cheerfully, so the operation was a success, even if she should die. Good heavens! McKnight broke in, and I thought you were just an ordinary mortal like the rest of us. Let me touch you for luck. Was she pretty? Yes, and young. Had a wealth of bronze-colored hair. Upon my soul I hated to cut it. McKnight and I exchanged glances. Do you know her name, doctor? I asked. No. The nurses said her clothing came from a Pittsburgh tailor. She is not conscious, I suppose. No. She may be. Tomorrow, or in a week. He looked at the thermometer, murmured something about liquid diet, avoiding my eye. Mrs. Clopton was broiling a chop at the time, and took his departure, humming cheerfully as he went downstairs. McKnight looked after him wistfully. Jove! I wish I had his constitution, he exclaimed. Neither nerves nor heart. What a chauffeur he would make! But I was serious. I have an idea, I said grimly, that this small matter of the murder is going to come up again, and that your uncle will be in the deuce of a fix if it does. If that woman is going to die, somebody ought to be around to take her deposition. She knows a lot, if she didn't do it herself. I wish she would go down to the telephone and get the hospital, find out her name and if she is conscious. McKnight went under protest. I haven't much time, he said, looking at his watch. I'm to meet Miss West and Allison at one. I want you to know them, Lolly. You would like the mother. Why not the daughter? I inquired. I touched the little gold bag under my pillow. Well, he said judiciously, you've always declared against the immaturity and romantic nonsense of very young women. I never said anything of the sort, I retorted furiously. There is more satisfaction to be had out of a good saddle horse, he quoted me. More excitement out of a polo pony, and as for the eternal matrimonial chase, give me instead a good stubble, a fox, some decent dogs, and a hunter, and I'll show you the real joys of the chase. For heaven's sake, go down to the telephone you make my head ache, I said savagely. I hardly know what prompted me to take out the gold purse and look at it. It was an imbecile thing to do, call it impure, sentimental, what you wish. I brought it out, one eye on the door, for Mrs. Clopton had a ready eye and a noiseless shoe, but the house was quiet. Downstairs McKnight was flirting with the telephone central, and there was an odor of Boneset tea in the air. I think Mrs. Clopton was fascinated, out of her theories, by the Boneset, in connection with the fractured arm. Anyhow, I held up the bag and looked at it. It must have unfastened for the next instant there was an avalanche on the snow field of the counterpane, some money, a wisp of handkerchief, a tiny booklet with thin leaves, covered with a pottery substance, and a necklace. I drew myself up slowly and stared at the necklace. It was one of the semi-barbaric affairs that women are wearing now. A heavy pendant of gold chains and carved cameos swung from a thin chain of the same metal. The necklace was broken. In three places the links were pulled apart and the cameos swung loose and partly detached. But it was the supporting chain that held my eye and fascinated with its sinister suggestion. Three inches of it had been snapped off, and as well as I knew anything on earth, I knew that the bit of chain that the amateur detective had found, bloodstain and all, belonged just there. And there was no one I could talk to about it, no one to tell me how hideously absurd it was, no one to give me a slap and tell me there are tons of fine gold chains made every year, or to point out the long arm of coincidence. With my one useful hand I fumbled the things back into the bag and thrust it deep out of sight under the pillows. Then I lay back in a cold perspiration. What connection had Alice and West with this crime? Why had she stared so at the gun-metal cigarette case that morning on the train? What had alarmed her so at the farmhouse? What had she taken back to the gate? Why did she wish she had not escaped from the wreck? And last, in Heaven's name, how did a part of her necklace become torn off and covered with blood? Downstairs McKnight was still at the telephone and amusing himself with Mrs. Clopton in the interval of waiting. Why did he come home in a gray suit when he went away in a blue, he repeated? Well, wrecks are queer things, Mrs. Clopton. The suit may have turned gray with fright, or perhaps wrecks do as queer stunts as lightning. Friend of mine once was struck by lightning. He and the caddy had taken refuge under a tree. After the flash when they recovered consciousness there was my friend in the caddy's clothes and the caddy in his. And as my friend was a large man in the caddy a very small boy, McKnight's story was interrupted by the indignant slam of the dining-room door. He was obliged to wait some time, and even his eternal cheerfulness was ebbing when he finally got the hospital. Is Dr. Van Kirk there? he asked. Not there. Well, can you tell me how the patient is, whom Dr. Williams from Washington operated on last night? Well, I'm glad of that. Is she conscious? Do you happen to know her name? Yes, I'll hold the line. There was a long pause, then McKnight's voice. Hello? Yes? Thank you very much. Goodbye. He came upstairs, two steps at a time. Look here, he said, bursting into the room. There may be something in your theory, after all. The woman's name. It may be a coincidence, but it's curious. Her name is Sullivan. What did I tell you? I said, sitting up suddenly in bed. She's probably a sister of that scoundrel in Lower Seven, and she was afraid of what he might do. Well, I'll go there some day soon. She's not conscious yet. In the meantime the only thing I can do is keep an eye, through a detective, on the people who try to approach Bronson. We'll have the case continued, anyhow, in the hope that the stolen notes will sooner or later turn up. Can found this arm, I said, paying for my energy with some excruciating throms. There's so much to be looked after, and here I am, bandaged, splinted, and generally useless. It's a beastly shame. Don't forget that I am here, said McKnight pompously. And another thing. When you feel that way, just remember there are two less desirable places where you might be. One is jail, and the other is—he's strung down an imaginary harp, with devotional eyes. But McKnight's light-heartedness jarred on me that morning. I lay and frowned under my helplessness. When by chance I touched the little gold bag, it seemed to scorch my fingers. Richie, finding me unresponsive, left to keep his lunch in engagement with Alice in West. As he clattered down the stairs, I turned my back to the morning sunshine and abandoned myself to misery. By what strain on her frayed nerves was Alice in West keeping up, I wondered. Under the circumstances would I dare to return the bag? Knowing that I had it, would she hate me for my knowledge? Or had I exaggerated the importance of the necklace, and in that case she had forgotten me already? But McKnight had not gone, after all, and I heard him coming back, his voice preceding him, and I groaned with irritation. Wake up, he called. Somebody sent you a lot of flowers. Please hold the box, Mrs. Clopton. I'm going to be run down by an automobile. I roused my feeble entrance. My brother's wife is punctilious about such things. All the new babies in the family have silver rattles and all the sick people flowers. McKnight pulled up an armful of roses and held them out to me. Wonder who they're from, he said, thumbling in the box for a card. There's no name. Yes, here's one. He held it up and read it with exasperating slowness. Best wishes for an early recovery. A companion in misfortune. Well, what do you know about that? he exclaimed. There's something he didn't tell me, Lolly. It was hardly worth mentioning, I said mendaciously, with my heart beating until I could hear it. She had not forgotten, after all. McKnight took a bud and fastened it in his buttonhole. I'm afraid I was not especially pleasant about it. They were her roses, and anyhow they were meant for me. Richie left very soon, with an irritating final grin at the box. Good-bye, sir woman-hater, he jeered at me from the door. So he wore one of the roses she had sent me to luncheon with her, and I lay back among my pillows and tried to remember that it was his game, anyhow, and that I wasn't even drawing cards. To remember that and to forget the broken necklace under my head. CHAPTER XIII. FATED ROSES. I was in the house for a week. Much of that time I spent in composing and destroying letters of thanks to Miss West and in growling of the doctor. McKnight dropped in daily, but he was less cheerful than usual. Now and then I caught him eyeing me as if he had something to say, but whatever it was he kept it to himself. Once during the week he went to Baltimore and saw the woman in the hospital there. From the description I had little difficulty in recognizing the young woman who had been with the murdered man in Pittsburgh, but she was still unconscious. An elderly aunt had appeared, a gaunt person in black, who sat around like a buzzard on a fence, according to McKnight, and wept in a mixed figure into a damp handkerchief. On the last day of my imprisonment he stopped in to thrash out a case that was coming up in court the next day and to play a game of double solitaire with me. "'Who won the ball game?' I asked. "'We were licked. Ask me something pleasant. Oh, by the way, Bronson's out today. I'm glad I'm not on his bond,' I said pessimistically. He'll clear out. "'Not he,' McKnight pounced on my ace. "'He's no fool. Don't you suppose he knows you took the notes to Pittsburgh? The papers were full of it. And he knows you escaped with your life and a broken arm from the wreck. "'What do we do next?' The Commonwealth continues the case. A deaf man on a dark night would know those notes are missing. "'Don't play so fast,' I remonstrated. "'I have only one arm to your two. "'Who is trailing Bronson? Did you try to get Johnson?' I asked for him, but he had some work on hand. "'The murder's evidently a dead issue,' I reflected. "'No, I'm not joking. The wreck destroyed all the evidence, but I'm firmly convinced those notes will be offered, either to us or to Bronson very soon. Johnson's a black guard, but he's a good detective. He could make his fortune as a game-dog. What's he doing?' McKnight put down his cards and Rising went to the window. As he held the curtain back, his customary grin looked a little forced. "'To tell you the truth, Lolly,' he said. "'For the last two days he's been watching a well-known Washington attorney, named Lawrence Blakely. He's across the street now.' It took a moment for me to grasp what he meant. "'Why, it's ridiculous,' I asserted. "'What would they trail me for? Go over and tell Johnson to get out of there, or I'll pot at him with my revolver. "'You can tell him that yourself,' McKnight paused and bent forward. "'Hello, here's a visitor, a little man with a string halt.' "'I won't see him,' I said firmly. "'I've been bothered enough with reporters.' We listened together to Mrs. Clopton's expostulating tones in the lower hall and the Creek of the Boards as she came heavily up the stairs. She had a piece of paper in her hand torn from a pocket account book and on it was the name, Mr. Wilson Bud Hodgkis, Important Business. "'Oh, well, show him up,' I said resignedly. "'You'd better put those cards away, Richie. I fancy it's the rector of the church around the corner.' But when the door opened to admit a curiously alert little man, adjusting his glasses with nervous fingers, my face must have shown my dismay. It was the amateur detective of the Ontario. I shook hands without enthusiasm. He was the one survivor of the wrecked car who could do me any amount of harm. There was no hope that he had forgotten any of the incriminating details. In fact, he held them in his hand, the very notebook which contained them. His manner was restrained, but it was evident he was highly excited. I introduced him to McKnight, who has the imagination I lack, and who placed him at once, mentally. I only learned yesterday that you had been—or saved, he said rapidly. Terrible accident, unspeakable. Dream about it all night and think about it all day. Broken arm. No, he just wears the splint to be different from other people. McKnight drawled lazily. I glared at him. There was nothing to be gained by antagonizing the little man. Yes, a fractured humerus, which isn't as funny as it sounds. Humerus, humerus, pretty good, he cackled. I must say you keep up your spirits pretty well, considering everything. You seem to have escaped injury, I parried. He was fumbling for something in his pockets. Yes, I escaped, he replied abstractly. Remarkable thing, too. I haven't a doubt I would have broken my neck, but I landed on—you'll never guess what. I landed head first on the very pillow which was under inspection at the time of the wreck. You remember, don't you? Where did I put that package? He found it finally and opened it on a table, displaying with some theatricalism a rectangular piece of muslin and a similar patch of striped ticking. You recognize it, he said. The stains, you see, and the hole made by the dirk. I tried to bring away the entire pillow, but they thought I was stealing it and made me give it up. Richie touched the pieces gingerly. By George, he said, and you carry that around in your pocket? What if you should mistake it for your handkerchief? But Mr. Hodgkis was not listening. He stood bent somewhat forward, leaning over the table, and fixed me with his ferret-like eyes. Have you seen the evening papers, Mr. Blakely? He inquired. I glanced to where they lay unopened and took my head. Then I have a disagreeable task, he said, with evident relish. Of course, you had considered the matter of the man Herrington's death closed, after the wreck. I did myself. As far as I was concerned, I meant to let it remain so. There were no other survivors, at least none that I knew of, and in spite of circumstances there were a number of points in your favor. Thank you, I put him with a sarcasm that was lost on him. I verified your identity, for instance, as soon as I recovered from the shock. Also, I found an inquiring of your tailor that you invariably wore dark clothing. McKnight came forward threateningly. Who are you, anyhow, he demanded, and how is this any business of yours? Mr. Hodgkis was entirely unruffled. I have a minor position here, he said, reaching for a visiting card. I'm a very small patch on the seat of government, sir. McKnight muttered something about certain offensive designs against the said patch, and retired grumblingly to the window. Our visitor was opening the paper with a tremendous expenditure of energy. Here it is, listen, he read, rapidly aloud. The Pittsburgh police have sent to Baltimore two detectives who are looking up the survivors of the ill-fated Washington Flyer. It has transpired that Simon Harrington, the Wood Street merchant of that city, was not killed in the wreck, but was murdered in his birth the night preceding the accident. Shortly before the collision, John Flanders, the conductor of the Flyer, sent this telegram to the chief of police. Body of Simon Harrington found stabbed in his birth, lower 10, Ontario, at 6.30 this morning. John Flanders, conductor. It is hope that the survivors of the wrecked car Ontario will be found to tell what they know of the discovery of the crime. Mr. John Gilmore, head of the steel company for which Mr. Harrington was purchasing agent, has signified his intention of sifting the matter to the bottom. So you see, Hotchkiss continued, there's trouble brewing. You and I are the only survivors of that unfortunate car. I did not contradict him, but I knew of two others at least, Alice in West, and the woman we had left beside the road that morning, babbling incoherently, her black hair tumbling over her white face. Unless we can find the man who occupied Lower Seven, I suggested. I have already tried and failed. To find him would not clear you, of course, unless we could establish some connection between him and the murdered man. It is the only thing I see, however. I have learned this much, Hotchkiss concluded. Lower Seven was reserved from Crescent. Crescent? Where Alice in West and Mrs. Curtis had taken the train? McKnight came forward and suddenly held out his hand. Mr. Hotchkiss, he said, I—I'm sorry if I have been offensive. I thought when you came in that, like the Irishman and the government, you were forenanced us. If you will put those cheerful relics out of sight somewhere, I should be glad to have you dine with me at the incubator—his name for his bachelor apartment. Compared with Johnson, you are the great original protoplasm. The strength of this was lost on Hotchkiss, but the invitation was clear. They went out together and from my window I watched them get into McKnight's car. It was raining and at the corner the cannonballs skidded. Across the street my detective, Johnson, looked after them with his crooked smile. As he turned up his collar he saw me and lifted his hat. I left the window and sat down in the growing dusk. So the occupant of Lower Seven had got on the car at Crescent, probably with Alice in West and her companion. There was someone she cared about enough to shield. I went irritably to the door and summoned Mrs. Clopton. You may throw out those roses, I said without looking at her. They are quite dead. They have been quite dead for three days, she retorted spitefully. Euphemia said you threatened to dismiss her if she touched them. CHAPTER 14 THE TRAP DOOR By Sunday evening, a week after the wreck, my force in action had goaded me to Frenzy. The very sight of Johnson across the street or lurking, always within sight of the house, kept me constantly exasperated. It was on that day that things began to come to a focus, a burning glass of events that seemed to center on me. I dined alone that evening in no cheerful frame of mind. There had been a polo game the day before and I had lent a pony, which is always a bad thing to do, and she had wrenched her shoulder besides helping to lose the game. There was no one in town, the temperature was ninety and climbing, and my left hand persistently cramped under its bandage. Mrs. Clopton herself saw me served, my bread buttered and cut in tidbits, my meat ready for my fork. She hovered around me maternally, obviously trying to cheer me. The paper says still warmer, she ventured, the thermometer is ninety-two now. And this coffee is two hundred and fifty, I said, putting down my cup. Where's Euphemia? I haven't seen her around, or heard a dish smash all day. Euphemia is in bed, Mrs. Clopton said gravely. Is your meat cut small enough, Mr. Lawrence? Mrs. Clopton can throw more mystery into an ordinary sentence than anyone I know. She can say, are your sheets damp, sir? And I can tell from her tone that the house across the street has been robbed, or that my left hand neighbor has appendicitis. So now I looked up and asked the question she was waiting for. What's the matter with Euphemia? I inquired idly. Frightened into her bed, Mrs. Clopton said in a stage whisper, she's had three hot water bottles and she hasn't done a thing all day but moan. She oughtn't to take hot water bottles, I said in my severest tone. One would make me moan. You need not wait. I'll ring if I need anything. Mrs. Clopton sailed to the door, where she stopped and wheeled indignantly. I only hope you won't laugh on the wrong side of your face some morning, Mr. Lawrence, she declared with Christian fortitude. But I warn you, I'm going to have the police watch that house next door. I was half inclined to tell her that both it and we were under police surveillance at that moment. But I like Mrs. Clopton, in spite of the fact that I make her life a torment for her, so I refrained. Last night, when the paper said it was going to storm, I sent Euphemia to the roof to bring the rugs in. Eliza had slipped out, although it was her evening in. Eliza went up to the roof, it was eleven o'clock, and soon I heard her running downstairs, crying. When she got to my room she just folded up on the floor. She said there was a black figure sitting on the parapet to the house next door, the empty house, and that when she appeared it rose and waved long black arms at her and spit like a cat. I had finished my dinner and was lighting a cigarette. If there was anyone up there, which I doubt, they probably sneezed, I suggested. But if you feel uneasy, I'll take a look around the roof tonight before I turn in. As far as Euphemia goes, I wouldn't be uneasy about her. Doesn't she always have an attack of some sort when Eliza rings in an extra evening on her? So I made a superficial examination of the window locks that night, visiting parts of the house that I had not seen since I bought it. Then I went to the roof. Evidently, it had not been intended for any purpose saved to cover the house. For unlike the houses around, there was no staircase. A ladder and a trap door led to it, and it required some nice balancing on my part to get up with my useless arm. I made it, however, and found this unexplored part of my domain rather attractive. It was cooler than downstairs, and I sat on the brick parapet and smoked my final cigarette. The roof of the empty house adjoined mine along the back wing, but investigations showed that the trap door across the low dividing wall was bolted underneath. There was nothing out of the ordinary anywhere, and so I assured Mrs. Clopton. Needless to say, I did not tell her that I had left the trap door open to see if it would improve the temperature of the house. I went to bed at midnight, merely because there was nothing else to do. I turned on the lamp at the head of my bed, and picked up a volume of Shaw at random. It was arms and the man, and I remember thinking grimly that I was a good bit of a chocolate cream soldier myself. And prepared to go to sleep. Shaw always puts me to sleep. I have no apologies to make for what occurred that night, and not even an explanation that I am sure of. I did a foolish thing under impulse, and I have not been sorry. It was something after two when the doorbell rang. It rang quickly, twice. I got up drowsily, for the maids and Mrs. Clopton always locked themselves beyond reach of the bell at night, and put on a dressing-gown. The bell rang again on my way downstairs. I lit the hall light and opened the door. I was wide awake now, and I saw that it was Johnson. His bald head shone in the light. His crooked mouth was twisted in a smile. Good heavens, man, I said irritably. Don't you ever go home and go to bed? He closed the vestibule door behind him, and cavalierly turned out the light. Our dialogue was sharp, staccato. Have you got a key to the empty house next door? he demanded. Somebody's in there, and the latch is caught. The houses are alike. The key to this door may fit. Did you see them go in? No. There's a light moving up from room to room. I saw something like it last night, and I have been watching. The patrolmen reported queer doings there a week or so ago. A light, I exclaimed. Do you mean that you? Very likely, he said grimly. Have you a revolver? All kinds in the gun-rack, I replied. And going to the den, I came back with a smith and wesson. I'm not much use, I explained. But I'll do what I can. There may be somebody there. The servants here have been uneasy. Johnson planned the campaign. He suggested, on account of my familiarity with the roof, that I go there and cut off escape in that direction. I have Robinson out there now, the patrolman on the beat, he said. He'll watch below and you above while I search the house. Be as quiet as possible. I was rather amused. I put on some clothes and felt my way carefully up the stairs, the revolver swinging free in my pocket, my hand on the rail. At the foot of the ladder I stopped and looked up. Above me was a gray rectangle of sky dotted with stars. It occurred to me that with my one serviceable hand holding the ladder, I was hardly in a position to defend myself. That I was about to hoist a body that I am rather careful of into a danger I couldn't see and wasn't particularly keen about, anyhow. I don't mind saying that the seconds it took me to scramble up the ladder were among the most unpleasant that I recall. I got to the top, however, without incident. I could see fairly well after the darkness of the house beneath, but there was nothing suspicious in sight. The roofs, separated by two feet of brick wall, stretched about me, unbroken saved by an occasional chimney. I went very softly over to the other trap, the one belonging to the suspected house. It was closed, but I imagined I could hear Johnson's footsteps ascending heavily. Then even that was gone. A nearby clock struck three as I stood waiting. I examined my revolver, then, for the first time, and found it was empty. I had been rather skeptical until now. I had the usual tolerant attitude of the man who was summoned from his bed to search for burglars, combined with the artificial courage of firearms. With the discovery of my empty gun, I felt like a man on the top of a volcano in lively eruption. Suddenly I found myself staring incredulously at the trap door at my feet. I had examined it early in the evening and found it bolted. Did I imagine it, or had it raised about an inch? Wasn't it moving slowly as I looked? No, I'm not a hero. I was startled almost into a panic. I had one arm, and whoever was raising that trap door had two. My knees had a queer inclination to bend the wrong way. Johnson's footsteps were distinct enough, but he was evidently far below. The trap, raised perhaps two inches now, remained stationary. There was no sound from beneath it. Once I thought I heard two or three gasping respirations, but I am not sure they were not my own. I wanted desperately to stand on one leg at a time and hold the other up out of focus of a possible revolver. I did not see the hand appear. There was nothing there, and then it was there, clutching the frame of the trap. I did the only thing I could think of. I put my foot on it. There was not a sound from beneath. The next moment I was kneeling, and I clutched the wrist just above the hand. After a second struggle the arm was still. With something real to face, I was myself again. Don't move, or I'll stand on the trap and break your arm, I panted. What else could I threaten? I couldn't shoot, and I couldn't even fight. Johnson, I called. And then I realized the thing that stayed with me for a month, the thing I can now think of even without a shutter. The hand lay ice cold, strangely quiescent. Under my fingers an artery was beating feebly. The wrist was as slender as, I held it to the light. Then I let it drop. Good Lord, I muttered, and remained on my knees, standing at the spot where the hand had been. It was gone now. There was a faint rustle in the darkness below, and then silence. I held up my own hand in the starlight and stared at a long scratch in the palm. A woman, I said to myself stupidly, but all that's ridiculous, a woman. Johnson was striking manches below and swearing softly to himself. How the devil do you get to the roof? he called. I think I've broken my nose. He found the ladder after a short search and stood at the bottom, looking up at me. Well, I suppose you haven't seen him, he inquired. There are enough darned cubby-holes in this house to hide a patrol-wagon load of thieves. He lighted a fresh match. Hello, here's another door. By the sound of his diminishing footsteps, I supposed it was a real staircase. He came up again in 10 minutes or so, this time with the policeman. He's gone all right, he said ruefully. If you'd been attending to your business, Robinson, you would have watched the back door. I'm not twins, Robinson was surly. Well, I broke in as cheerfully as I could. If you are through with this jolly little affair, and can get down the ladder without having my housekeeper ring the burglar alarm, I have some good monaga halo whiskey, eh? They came without a second invitation across the roof, and with them safely away from the house I breathed more freely. Down in the den I fulfilled my promise, which Johnson drank to the toast, coming through the rye. He examined my gun rack with the eye of a connoisseur, and even when he was about to go, he cast a loving eye back at the weapons. Ever been in the army, he inquired? No, I said with a bitterness that he noticed, but failed to comprehend. I'm a chocolate-cream soldier. You don't read Shaw, I suppose, Johnson? Never heard of him, the detective said indifferently. Well, good night, Mr. Blakely, much obliged. At the door he hesitated and coughed. I suppose you understand, Mr. Blakely, he said awkwardly, that this, sir, surveillance is all in a day's work? I don't like it, but it's duty. Every man to his duty, sir. Sometime when you are in an open mind, Johnson, I returned. You can explain why I am being watched at all. End of chapter 14. Chapter 15 of The Man in Lower 10. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Mary Ann. The Man in Lower 10 by Mary Roberts Reinhardt. Chapter 15 The Cinematograph On Monday I went out for the first time. I did not go to the office. I wanted to walk. I thought fresh air and exercise would drive away the blue devils that had me by the throat. McKnight insisted on a long day in his car, but I refused. I don't know why not, he said, sulkily. I can't walk. I haven't walked two consecutive blocks in three years. Devils have made legs mere ornaments, and some not even that. But we could have Johnson out there chasing us over the country at five dollars an hour. He can chase us just as well at five miles an hour, I said. But what gets me, McKnight, is why I am under surveillance at all. How did the police know I was accused of that thing? The young lady who sent the flowers. She isn't likely to talk, is she? No. That is, I didn't say it was a lady. I groaned as I tried to get my splendid arm into a coat. Anyhow, she didn't tell. I finished with conviction, and McKnight laughed. It had rained in the early morning, and Mrs. Clopton predicted more showers. In fact, so firm was her belief, and so determined her eye that I took the umbrella she proffered me. Never mind, I said, we can leave it next door. I have a story to tell you, Richie, and it requires proper setting. It was puzzled, but he followed me immediately around to the kitchen entrance of the empty house. It was unlocked, as I had expected. While we climbed to the upper floor, I retailed the events of the previous night. It's the finest thing I ever heard of, McKnight said, staring up at the ladder and the trap. What a vaudeville skid it would make. Only, you ought not to have put your foot on her hand. They don't do that in the best circles. I wheeled on him impatiently. You don't understand the situation at all, Richie, I exclaimed. What would you say if I tell you it was the hand of a lady? It was covered with rings. A lady, he repeated. Why, I'd say it was a darned compromising situation, and that the less you say of it, the better. Look here, Lawrence, I think you dreamed it. You've been in the house too much. I'll take it all back. You do need exercise. She escaped through this door, I suppose. I said it as patiently as I could, evidently down the back staircase. We might as well go down that way. According to the best precedents in these affairs we should find a glove about here, he said as we started down, but he was more impressed than he cared to own. He examined the dusty steps carefully, and once, when a bit of loose plaster fell just behind him, he started like a nervous woman. I don't understand is why you let her go, he said, stopping once, puzzled. You're not usually kiotek. When we get out into the country, Richie, I reply gravely. I'm going to tell you another story, and if you don't tell me I'm a fool and a craven on the strength of it, you are no friend of mine. We stumbled through the twilight of the staircase into the blackness of the shuttered kitchen. The house had the moldy smell of closed buildings. Even on that warm September morning it was damp and chilly. As we stepped into the sunshine, McKnight gave a shiver. Now that we're out, he said, I don't mind telling you that I have been there before. Do you remember the night you left, and the face of the window? When you speak of it, yes. Well, I was curious about that thing. He went on, as we started up the street, and I went back. The street door was unlocked, and I examined every room. I was Mrs. Clupton's ghost that carried a light and clumb. Did you find anything? Only a clean place rubbed on the window opposite your dressing-room. Splendid view of an untidy interior. If that house is ever occupied, you better put stained glass in that window of yours. As we turned the corner I glanced back. Half a block between us, Johnson was moving our way slowly. When he saw me he stopped and proceeded with great deliberation to light a cigar. By hurrying, however, he caught the car that we took and stood unobtrusively on the rear platform. He looked fagged and absentmindedly paid our fares to McKnight's delight. We will give him a run for his money, he declared, as the car moved countryward. Conductor, let us off at the muddiest lane you can find. At one o'clock, after a six-mile ramble, we entered a small country hotel. We had seen nothing of Johnson for a half hour. At that time he was a quarter of a mile behind us and losing rapidly. Before we had finished our luncheon he staggered into the inn. One of his boots was under his arm and his whole appearance was deplorable. He was coated with mud, streaked with perspiration, and he limped as he walked. He chose a table not far from us and ordered scotch. Beyond touching his hat he paid no attention to us. I'm just getting my second wind, McKnight declared. How do you feel, Mr. Johnson? Six or eight miles more and we'll all enjoy our dinners. Johnson put down the glass he raised to his lips without replying. The fact was, however, that I was like Johnson. I was soft for my weeks in action and I was pretty well done up. McKnight, who was a wellspring of vitality and high spirits, ordered a strange concoction made of nearly everything in the bar and sent it over to the detective, but Johnson refused it. I hate that kind of person, McKnight said pettishly. Find a fellow that thinks you're going to poison his dog if you offer him a bone. When we got back to the car-line, with Johnson adraggled and drooping tail to the kite, I was in better spirits. I had told McKnight the story of the three hours just after the wreck. I had not named the girl, of course. She had my promise of secrecy. But I told him everything else. It was a relief to have a fresh mind on it. I had puzzled so much over the incident at the farmhouse and the necklace in the gold bag that I had lost perspective. He had been interested, but inclined to be amused, until I came to the broken chain. Then he had whistled softly. But there are tons of fine gold chains made every year, he said. Why in the world do you think that the, er, smeary piece came from that necklace? I had looked around. Johnson was far behind, scraping the mud off his feet with a piece of stick. I have the short end of the chain in the Sealskin bag, I reminded him. When I couldn't sleep this morning, I thought I would settle it one way or the other. It was hell to go along the way I had been doing, and there's no doubt about it, Rich. It's the same chain. We walked along in silence until we caught the car back to town. Well, he said finally, you know the girl, of course, and I don't. But if you like her, and I think myself your rather hard-hit old man, I wouldn't give a whoop about the chain in the gold purse. It's just one of the little coincidences that hang people now and then. And as for last night, if she's the kind of girl you say she is, and you think she had anything to do with that, your, your adult, that's all, you can depend on it. The lady of the empty house last week is the lady of last night. And yet your train acquaintance was in Altoona at that time. Just before we got off the car, I reverted to the subject again. It was never far back in my mind. About the young lady of the train, Rich, I said, with what I suppose was elaborate carefulness. I do not want you to get the wrong impression. I'm rather unlikely to see her again, but even if I do, I, I believe she has already bespoke, or the next thing to it. He made no reply, but as I opened the door with my latch-key, he stood looking up at me from the pavement with his quizzical smile. Love is like the measles, he orated. The older you get, the worse the attack. Johnson did not appear again that day. A small man in a raincoat took his place. The next morning I made my initial trip to the office, the raincoat still in hand. I had a short conference with Miller, the district attorney, at eleven. Bronson was under surveillance, he said, and any attempt to sell the notes to him would probably result in their recovery. In the meantime, as I knew, the Commonwealth had continued the case, in hope of such contingency. At noon I left the office and took a veterinarian to see Candida, the injured pony. By one o'clock my first day's duties were performed, and a long Sahara of hot afternoon stretched ahead. McKnight, always glad to escape from the grind, suggested a vaudeville, and in sheer emu I consented. I could neither ride, drive nor golf, and my own company bored me to distraction. Coolest place in town these days, he declared, electric fans, breezy songs, airy costumes, and there's Johnson just behind, the coldest proposition in Washington. He gravely bought three tickets and presented the detective with one. Then we went in. Having lived a normal, busy life, the theater in the afternoon is about on par with ice cream for breakfast. Up on the stage, a very stout woman in short pink skirts, with a smile that McKnight declared looked like a slash and a roll of butter, was singing nasally with a laborious kick at the end of each verse. Johnson, two rows ahead, went to sleep. McKnight prodded me with his elbow. Look at the first box to the right, he said, in a stage whisper. I want you to come over at the end of this act. It was the first time I had seen her since I put her in the cab in Baltimore, outwardly I presume I was calm, for no one turned to stare at me, but every atom of me cried out at the sight of her. She was leaning, bent forward, lips slightly parted, gazing raptally at the Japanese conjurer, who had replaced what McKnight disrespectfully called the columns of Hercules. Compared with the draggled lady of the farmhouse, she was radiant. For that first moment there was nothing but joy at the sight of her. McKnight's touch on my arm brought me back to reality. Come over and meet them, he said. That's the cousin Miss West is visiting, Mrs. Dallas. But I would not go. After he went I sat there alone, painfully conscious that I was being pointed out and stared at from the box. The abominable Japanese gave way to yet more atrocious performing dogs. How many offers of marriage will the young lady in the box have? The dog stopped sagely at none, and then pulled out a car that said eight. Wild shouts of glee by the audience. The fools I muttered. After a little I glanced over. Mrs. Dallas was talking to McKnight, but she was looking straight at me. She was flushed, but more calm than I, and she did not bow. I fumbled for my hat, but the next moment I saw that they were going, and I sat still. When McKnight came back he was triumphant. I've made an engagement for you, he said. Mrs. Dallas asked me to bring you to dinner tonight, and I said I knew you would fall all over yourself to go. You are requested to bring along the broken arm and any other souvenirs of the wreck that you may possess. I'll do nothing of the sort, I declared, struggling against my inclination. I can't even tie my necktie, and I have to have my food cut for me. Oh, that's all right, he said easily. I'll send Stogie over to fix you up, and Mrs. Dahl knows all about the arm, I told her. Stogie is his Japanese factotum, so-called because he is lean, a yellowish-brown in color, and because he claims to have been shipped into this country in a box. The cinematograph was finishing the program. The house was dark and the music had stopped, as it does in the circus just before somebody risks his neck at so much a neck in the dip of death, or the hundred-foot dive. Then, with a sort of shock, I saw on the white curtain the announcement. The next picture is the doomed Washington flyer taken a short distance from the scene of the wreck on the fatal morning of September 10. Two miles farther on it met with almost complete annihilation. I confessed to a return of some of the sickening sensations of the wreck. People around me were leaning forward with tense faces. Then the letters were gone, and I saw a long level stretch of track, even the broken stone between the ties standing out distinctly. Far off, under a cloud of smoke, a small object was rushing toward us and growing larger as it came. Now it was on us, a mammoth in size, with huge drivers and a colossal tender. The engines leaped aside, as if just in time to save us from destruction, with a glimpse of a stooping fireman and a grimy engineer. The long train of sleepers followed. From a ford vestibule, a porter in a white coat waved his hand. The rest of the cars seemed still wrapped in slumber. With mixed sensations, I saw my own car, Ontario, fly past, and then I rose to my feet and gripped McKnight's shoulder. On the lowest step of the last car, one foot hanging free, was a man. His black derby hat was pulled well down to keep it from blowing away, and his coat was flying open in the wind. He was swung well out from the car, his free hand gripping a small valise, every muscle tense for a jump. Good God, that's my man, I said hoarsely as the audience broke into applause. McKnight half rose. In his seat ahead, Johnson stifled a yawn and turned to eye me. I dropped into my chair limply and tried to control my excitement. The man on the last platform of the train, I said, he was just about to leave, I swear, that was my bag. Could you see his face, McKnight asked in an undertone? Could you know him again? No, his hat was pulled down and his head was bent. I'm going back to find out where that picture was taken. They say two miles, but it may have been forty. The audience, busy with its wraps, had not noticed. Mrs. Dallas and Allison West had gone. In front of us Johnson had dropped his hat and was stooping for it. This way, I motioned to McKnight, and we wheeled into the narrow passage beside us, back of the boxes. At the end there was a door leading into the wings, and as we went boldly through, I turned the key. The final set was being struck, and no one paid any attention to us. Luckily they were similarly indifferent to a banging at the door I had locked, a banging witch, I judged, signified Johnson. I guess we've broken up his interference, McKnight chuckled. Stage hands were hurrying in every direction, pieces of the sidewall of the last drawing room menaced us. A switchboard behind us was singing like a tea kettle. Everywhere we stepped we were in somebody's way. At last we were across, confronting a man in his shirt sleeves, who by dots and dashes of profanity seemed to be directing the chaos. Well, he said, wheeling on us, what can I do for you? I would like to ask, I replied, if you have any idea just where the last cinematograph picture was taken. Broken boards? Picknickers? Lake? No. The Washington Flyer. He glanced at my bandaged arm. The announcement says two miles, McKnight put in, but we should like to know whether it was railroad miles, automobile miles, or policeman miles. I'm sorry I can't tell you, he replied more civilly. We get those pictures by contract, we don't take them ourselves. Where are the company's offices? New York. He stepped forward and grasped a super by the shoulder. What in blazes are you doing with that gold chair in a kitchen set? Take that piece of pink plush there and throw it over a soap box if you haven't got a kitchen chair. I had not realized the extent of the shock, but now I dropped into a chair and wiped my forehead. The unexpected glimpse of Alice in West, followed almost immediately by the revelation of the picture, had left me limp and unnerved. McKnight was looking at his watch. He says the moving picture people have an office downtown. We can make it if we go now. So he called a cab and we started at a gallop. There was no sign of the detective. Upon my word, Richie said, I feel lonely without him. The people at the downtown office of the cinematograph company were very obliging. The picture had been taken, they said, at M, just two miles beyond the scene of the rack. It was not much, but it was something to work on. I decided not to go home, but to send McKnight's jet for my clothes and to dress at the incubator. I was determined, if possible, to make my next day's investigations without Johnson. In the meantime, even if it was for the last time, I would see her that night. I gave Stogia a note for Mrs. Clopton, and with my dinner clothes there came back the gold bag wrapped in tissue paper. CHAPTER XVI Certain things about the dinner at the Dallas house will always be obscure to me. Dallas was something in the Fish Commission, and I remember his reeling off fish eggs and billions while we ate our caviar. He had some particular stunt he had been urging the government to for years, something about forbidding the establishment of mills and factories on river banks. It seems they killed the fish, either the smoker, the noise, or something they pour into the water. Mrs. Dallas was there, I think. Of course I suppose she must have been, and there was a woman in yellow. I took her in to dinner, and I remember she loosened my clams for me so I could get them. But the only real person at the table was a girl across in white. A sublimated young woman who was as brilliant as I was stupid, who never by any chance looked directly at me, and who appeared and disappeared across the candles and orchids in a sort of halo of radiance. When the dinner had progressed from salmon to roast, the conversation had done the same thing, from fish to scandal, the yellow gown turned to me. "'We have been awfully good, haven't we, Mr. Blakely?' she asked. Although I am crazy to hear, I have not said rec once. I'm sure you must feel like the survivor of Waterloo or something of the sort. "'If you want me to tell you about the rec,' I said, glancing across the table. I'm sorry to be disappointing, but I don't remember anything. You are fortunate to be able to forget it. It was the first word Miss West had spoken directly to me, and it went to my head. "'There are some things I have not forgotten,' I said over the candles. I recall coming to myself some time after, and that a girl—a beautiful girl—' "'Ah!' said the lady in yellow, leaning forward breathlessly. Miss West was staring at me coldly, but once started I had to stumble on. That a girl was trying to rouse me, and that she told me I had been on fire twice already. A shutter went around the table. "'But surely that isn't the end of this story,' Mrs. Dallas put in aggrievedly. "'Why, that's the most tantalizing thing I ever heard.' "'I'm afraid that's all,' I said. She went her way, and I went mine. If she recalls me at all she probably thinks of me as a weak-need individual who faints like a woman when everything is over.' "'What did I tell you?' Mrs. Dallas asserted triumphantly. He fainted. Did you hear? When everything was over, he hadn't begun to tell it.' "'I would have given a lot by that time if I had not mentioned the girl, but Mcknight took it up and carried it on.' "'Blakely is a regular geyser,' he said. He never spouts until he reaches the boiling-point. And by that same token, although he hasn't said much about the lady of the wreck, I think he's crazy about her. In fact, I am sure of it. He thinks he has locked his secret in the caves of his soul. But I call you to witness that he has it nailed to his face. Look at him.' I squirmed miserably and tried to avoid the startled eyes of the girl across the table. I wanted to choke Mcknight and murder the rest of the party. "'It isn't fair,' I said, as coolly as I could. I have my fingers crossed, and you are five against one.' And to think that there was a murder on that very train broke in the lady in yellow. It was a perfect crescendo of horrors, wasn't it? And what became of the murdered man, Mr. Blakely? Mcknight had the sense to jump into the conversation and save my reply. They say good Pittsburghers go to Atlantic City when they die, he said. So we are reasonably certain the gentleman did not go to the seashore. The meal was over at last, and once in the drawing-room it was clear we hung heavy on the hostess's hands. "'It is so hard to get people for bridge in September,' she wailed. "'There's absolutely nobody in town. Six is a dreadful number.' "'It's a good poker number,' her husband suggested. The matter settled itself, however. I was hopeless, save as a dummy. Miss West said that it was too hot for cards, and went out on a balcony that overlooked the mall. With obvious relief Mrs. Dallas had the card-table brought, and I was face to face with the minute I had dreaded and hoped for, for a week. Now it had come it was more difficult than I had anticipated. I did not know if there was a moon, but there was the urban substitute for it, the arc-light. It threw the shadow of the balcony railing in long black bars against her white gown, and as it swung sometimes her face was in the light. I drew a chair close so that I could watch her. "'Do you know,' I said, when she made no effort at speech, that you are a much more formidable person to-night in that gown than you were the last time I saw you?' The light swung on her face. She was smiling faintly. "'The hat with the green ribbons,' she said, I must take it back. I had almost forgotten. I had not forgotten—anything.' I pulled myself up short. This was hardly loyalty to Richie. His voice came through the window just then, and perhaps I was wrong, but I thought she raised her head to listen. "'Look at this hand,' he was saying, regular pianola. You could play it with your feet.' "'He's a deer, isn't he?' Allison said unexpectedly. "'No matter how depressed and downhearted I am, I always cheer up when I see Richie.' "'He's more than that,' I returned warmly. "'He's the most honorable fellow I know. If he wasn't so much that way, he would have a career before him. He wanted to put on the doors of our offices Blakely and McKnight, P.B.H., which is poor but honest. From my comparative poverty to the wealth of the girl beside me was a single mental leap. From that wealth to the grandfather who was responsible for it was another. I wonder if you know that I had been to Pittsburgh to see your grandfather when I met you,' I said. "'You?' she was surprised. "'Yes, and you remember the alligator bag that I told you was exchanged for the one you cut off my arm?' She nodded expectantly. "'Well, in that valise were the forged Andy Bronson notes and Mr. Gilmore's deposition that they were forged.' She was on her feet in an instant. "'In that bag?' she cried. "'Oh, why didn't you tell me that before? "'Oh, it's so ridiculous, so—so hopeless. Why, I could—' She stopped suddenly and sat down again. "'I do not know that I am sorry. After all,' she said after a pause. Mr. Bronson was a friend of my father's. I—I suppose it was a bad thing for you, losing the papers. "'Well, it was not a good thing,' I conceded. "'While we are on the subject of losing things, do you remember? Do you know that I still have your gold purse?' She did not reply at once. The shadow of a column was over her face, but I guessed that she was staring at me. "'You have it?' she almost whispered. "'I picked it up in the streetcar,' I said, with a cheerfulness I did not feel. It looks like a very opulent little purse. "'Why didn't she speak about the necklace? For just a careless word to make me sane again.' "'You,' she repeated, horror-stricken, and then I produced the purse and held it out on my palm. I should have sent it to you before, I suppose, but, as you know, I've been laid up since the wreck.' We both saw McKnight at the same moment. He had pulled the curtains aside and was standing, looking out at us. The tabloo of give and take was unmistakable. The gold purse, her outstretched hand, my own attitude. It was over in a second. Then he came out and lounged on the balcony railing. "'They're mad at me in there,' he said eerily. So I came out. I suppose the reason they call it bridge is because so many people get cross over it. The heat broke up the card-group soon after, and they all came out for the night breeze. I had no more words alone with Allison. I went back to the incubator for the night. We said almost nothing on the way home. There was a constraint between us for the first time that I could remember. It was too early for bed, and so we smoked in the living-room and tried to talk of trivial things. After a time even those failed, and we sat silent. It was McKnight who finally broached the subject. And so she wasn't at Seal Harbor at all. No. Do you know where she was, Lolly? Somewhere near Crescent. And that was the purse, her purse, with the broken necklace in it. Yes, it was. You understand, don't you, Rich, that having given her my word, I couldn't tell you. I understand a lot of things, he said, without bitterness. We sat for some time and smoked. Then Richie got up and stretched himself. I'm off to bed, old man, he said. Need any help with that game arm of yours? No. Thanks. I returned. I heard him go into his room and lock the door. It was a bad hour for me. The first shadow between us, and the shadow of a girl at that. End of CHAPTER XVI. CHAPTER XVII. OF THE MAN IN LOWER TEN. This Librivant's recording is in the public domain, recording by Marianne. THE MAN IN LOWER TEN by Mary Roberts Reinhardt. CHAPTER XVII. AT THE FARM HOUSE AGAIN. McKnight is always a sympathiser with the early worm. It was late when he appeared. Perhaps like myself he had not slept well. But he was apparently cheerful enough and he made a better breakfast than I did. It was one o'clock before we got to Baltimore. After a half hour's wait we took a local for M. The station near which the cinematograph picture had been taken. We passed the scene of the wreck, McKnight with curiosity, I with a sickening sense of horror. Back in the fields was the little farmhouse where Alice and West and I had intended getting coffee, and winding away from the track, maple trees shading it on either side, was the lane where we had stopped to rest, and where I had, it seemed presumption beyond belief now, where I had tried to comfort her by patting her hand. We got out at M, a small place with two or three houses and a general store. The station was a one-roomed affair, with a railed-off place at the end, where a scale, a telegraph instrument, and a chair constituted the entire furnishing. The station agent was a young man with a shrewd face. He stopped hammering a piece of wood over a hole in the floor to ask where we wanted to go. We're not going, said McKnight. We're coming. Have a cigar. The agent took it with an inquiring glance, first at it, and then at us. We want to ask you a few questions, began McKnight, perching himself on the railing and kicking the chair forward for me, or rather, this gentleman does. Wait a minute, said the agent, glancing through the window. There's a hen in that crate choking herself to death. He was back in a minute and took up his position near a sawdust-filled box that did duty as a cuspador. Now, far away, he said. In the first place, I began. Do you remember the day the Washington Flyer was wrecked below here? Do I, he said. Did Jonah remember the whale? Were you on the platform here when the first section passed? I was. Do you recall seeing a man hanging to the platform of the last car? There was no one hanging there when she passed here, he said, with conviction. I watched her out of sight. Did you see anything that morning of a man about my size, carrying a small grip and wearing dark clothes and a derby hat? I asked eagerly. McKnight was trying to look unconcerned, but I was frankly anxious. It was clear that the man had jumped somewhere in the mile of track just beyond. Well, yes, I did. The agent cleared his throat. When the smash came, the operator at M.X sent word along the wire, both ways. I got it here, and I was pretty near crazy, though I knew it wasn't any fault of mine. I was standing on the track looking down, for I couldn't leave the office, when a young fellow with light hair limped up to me and asked me what that smoke was over there. That's what's left of the Washington Flyer, I said, and I guess there's souls going up in that smoke. Do you mean the first section, he said, getting kind of greenish-yellow? That's what I mean, I said, split to kindling wood because rafferty, on the second section, didn't want to be late. He put his hand out in front of him, and the satchel fell with a bang. My God, he said, and dropped right on the track in a heap. I got him into the station and he came around, but he kept on groaning something awful. He'd sprained his ankle, and when he got a little better I drove him over in Carter's milk wagon to the Carter Place, and I reckon he stayed there a spell. That's all, is it, I asked? That's all. Or? No. There's something else. About noon that day one of the Carter twins came down with a note from him, asking me to send a long-distance message to someone in Washington. To whom, I asked eagerly. I reckon I forgot the name, but the message was that this fellow, Sullivan was his name, was at M, and if the man had escaped from the wreck he would come to see him. He wouldn't have sent that message to me, I said to McKnight, rather crestfallen. He'd have every object in keeping out of my way. There might be reasons, McKnight observed judiciously. He might not have found the papers, then. Was the name Blakely, I asked? It might have been, I can't say. But the man wasn't there, and there was a lot of noise. I couldn't hear well. Then in half an hour down came the other twin to say the gentleman was taking on awful and didn't want the message sent. He's gone, of course. Yes, limped down here in about three days and took the noon train for the city. It seemed a certainty now that our man, having hurt himself somewhat in his jump, had stayed quietly in the farmhouse until he was able to travel. But to be positive we decided to visit the Carter Place. I gave the station agent a five dollar bill, which he rolled up with a couple of others and stuck in his pocket. I turned as we got to a bend in the road, and he was looking curiously after us. It was not until we had climbed the hill and turned onto the road to the Carter Place that I realized where we were going. Although we approached it from the other direction, I knew the farmhouse at once. It was the one where Alice and West and I had breakfast nine days before. With the new restraint between us I did not tell McKnight. I wondered afterward if he had suspected it. I saw him looking hard at the gate post which had figured in one of our mysteries, but he asked no questions. Afterward he grew almost tacheturn for him and let me do most of the talking. We opened the front gate of the Carter Place and went slowly up the walk. Two ragged youngsters, alike even to freckles and squints, were playing in the yard. Is your mother around? I asked. In the front room, walk in, they answered in identical tones. As we got to the porch we heard voices and stopped. I knocked, but the people within, engaged in animated, rather one-sided conversation, did not answer. In the front room, walk in, quoted McKnight, and did so. In the stuffy farm parlor two people were sitting, one, a pleasant- faced woman with a checked apron, Rose, somewhat embarrassed, to meet us. She did not know me and I was thankful, but our attention was riveted on a little man who was sitting before a table, riding busily. It was Hodgkiss. He got up when he saw us and had the grace to look uncomfortable. Such an interesting case, he said nervously. I took the liberty. Look here, said McKnight suddenly. Did you make any inquiries at the station? A few, he confessed. I went to the theatre last night. I felt the need of a little relaxation, and the sight of a picture there, a cinematograph affair, started a new line of thought. Probably the same clue brought you, gentlemen. I learned a good bit from the station agent. The son of a gun, said McKnight. And you paid him, I suppose. I gave him five dollars, was the apologetic answer. Mrs. Carter, hearing sounds of strife in the yard, went out, and Hodgkiss folded up his papers. I think the identity of the man is established, he said. What number of hat do you wear, Mr. Blakely? Seven and a quarter, I replied. Well, it's only piling up evidence, he said cheerfully. On the night of the murder you wore light gray silk under-clothing. With the second button of the shirt missing, your hat had L.B. in gilt letters inside, and there was a very renewed hole in the toe of one black sock. Hush, McKnight protested. If word gets to Mrs. Clopton that Mr. Blakely was wrecked, or robbed, or whatever it was, with a button missing and a hole in one sock, she'll retire to the old lady's home. I've heard her threaten it. Mr. Hodgkiss was without a sense of humor. He regarded McKnight gravely and went on. I've been up in the room where the man lay while he was unable to get away, and there is nothing there. But I found what may be a possible clue in the dust-heath. Mrs. Carter tells me that in unpacking his grip the other day, she shook out of the coat of the pajamas some pieces of a telegram. As I figure it, the pajamas were his own. He probably had them on when he affected the exchange. I nodded ascent. All I had retained of my own clothing was the suit of pajamas I was wearing and my bathrobe. Therefore the telegram was his, not yours. I have pieces here, but some are missing. I'm not discouraged, however. He spread out some bits of yellow paper, and we bent over them curiously. It was something like this. Man with P something, get something, be our something. We spelled it out slowly. Now, Hodgkiss announced, I make it something like this. The P whatever is one of two things. Pistol, you remember the little pearl-handled affair belonging to the murdered man? Or it is pocketbook. I am inclined to the latter view as the pocketbook had been disturbed and the pistol had not. I took the piece of paper from the table and scrawled four words on it. Now, I said, rearranging them. It happens, Mr. Hodgkiss, that I found one of these pieces of the telegram on the train. I thought it had been dropped by someone else, you see, but that's immaterial. Arranged this way, it almost makes sense. Fill out that P something with the rest of the word as I imagine it, and it makes papers. And add this grab and you have, man with papers, in, lower 10, car seven, get them. McKnight slapped Hodgkiss on the back. You're a Trump, he said. BR is Bronson, of course. It's almost too easy. You see, Mr. Blakely here engaged lower 10, but found it occupied by the man who was later murdered there. The man who did the thing was a friend of Bronson's, evidently, and in trying to get the papers we have the motive for the crime. There's still some things to be explained, Mr. Hodgkiss wiped his glasses and put them on. For one thing, Mr. Blakely, I am puzzled by that bit of chain. I did not glance at McKnight. I felt that the hands with which I was gathering up the bits of torn paper were shaking. It seemed to me that this astute little man was going to drag in the girl in spite of me. End of Chapter 17 CHAPTER 18 A NEW WORLD Hodgkiss jotted down the bits of telegram and rose. Well, he said, we've done something. We've found where the murderer left the train. We know what day he went to Baltimore, and, most important of all, we have a motive for the crime. It seems the irony of fate, said McKnight, getting up, that a man should kill another man for certain papers he is supposed to be carrying. Find he hasn't got them after all, and decide to throw suspicion on another man by changing burs and getting out, bag and baggage. And then, by the nearest fluke of chance, take with him, in the release he changed for his own, the very notes he was after. It was a bit of luck for him. Then why, put in Hodgkiss doubtfully, why did he collapse when he heard of the wreck? And what about the telephone message the station agent sent? You remember they tried to countermand it, and with some excitement. We will ask him those questions when we get him, McKnight said. We were on the unrailed front porch by that time, and Hodgkiss had put away his notebook. The mother of the twins followed us to the steps. Dear me, she exclaimed volubly, and to think I was forgetting to tell you, I put the young man to bed, with a spice poultice on his ankle. My mother always was a firm believer in spice poultices. It's wonderful what they will do in croup. And then I took the children and went down to see the wreck. It was Sunday, and the mister had gone to church. Has it missed a day since he took the pledge nine years ago? And on the way I met two people, a man and a woman. They looked half-dead, so I sent them right here for breakfast and some soap and water. I always say soap is better than liquor after a shock. Hodgkiss was listening absently. McKnight was whistling under his breath, staring down across the field to where a break in the woods showed half a dozen telegraph poles, the line of the railroad. It must have been twelve o'clock when we got back. I wanted the children to see everything, because it isn't likely they'll ever see another wreck like that. Because of about twelve o'clock I broke in. And what then? The young man upstairs was awake, she went on, and hammering at his door like all possessed, and it was locked on the outside. She paused to enjoy her sensation. I would like to see that lock, Hodgkiss said promptly, but for some reason the woman demurred. I will bring the key down, she said, and disappeared. When she returned she held out an ordinary door key of the cheapest variety. She had to break the lock, she volunteered, and the key didn't turn up for two days, then one of the twins found the turkey gobbler trying to swallow it. It has been washed since. She hastened to assure Hodgkiss, who showed an inclination to drop it. You don't think he locked the door himself and threw the key out the window, the little man asked. The windows are covered with mosquito netting, nailed on. The mister blamed it on the children, and it might have been Obadiah. He's the quiet kind, and you never know what he's about. He's about to strangle, isn't he, McKnight remarked lazily? Or is that Obadiah? Mrs. Carter picked the boy up and inverted him, talking amiously all the time. He's always doing it, she said, giving him a shake. Whenever we miss anything we look to see if Obadiah's black in the face. She gave another shake, and the quarter I had given him shot out as if blown from a gun. Then we prepared to go back to the station. From where I stood I could look into the cheery farm kitchen, where Alice and West and I had eaten our alfresco breakfast. I looked at the table with mixed emotions, and then, gradually, the meaning of something on it penetrated my mind. Still in its papers, evidently just opened, was a hat-box, and protruding over the edge of the box was a streamer of vivid green ribbon. On the plea that I wished to ask Mrs. Carter a few more questions I let the others go on. I watched them down the flag-stone walk, saw McKnight stop and examine the gate-posts, and saw, too, the quick glancy through back at the house. Then I turned to Mrs. Carter. I would like to speak to the young lady upstairs, I said. She threw up her hands, with a quick gesture of surrender. I've done all I could, she exclaimed. She won't like it very well, but she's in the room over the parlor. I went eagerly up the ladder-like stairs to the rag-carpeted hall. Two doors were open, showing interiors of four poster beds and high bureaus. The door of the room over the parlor was almost closed. I hesitated in the hallway. After all, what right had I to intrude on her? But she settled my difficulty by throwing open the door and facing me. I—I beg your pardon, Miss West, I stammered. It has just occurred to me that I am unpardonably rude. I saw the hat downstairs, and I—I guessed— The hat, she said, I might have known. Does Richie know I am here? I don't think so. I turned to go down the stairs again, then I halted. The fact is, I said, in an attempt at justification. I'm in rather a mess these days, and I'm apt to do irresponsible things. It's not impossible that I shall be arrested, in a day or so, for the murder of Simon Harrington. She drew in her breath sharply. Murder! She echoed. Then they have found you after all. I don't regard it as anything more than— Inconvenient, I lied. They can't convict me, you know. Almost all the witnesses are dead. She was not deceived for a moment. She came over to me and stood, both hands on the rail of the stair. I know just how grave it is, she said quietly. My grandfather will not leave one stone unturned, and he can be terrible, terrible. But she looked directly into my eyes as I stood below her on the stairs. The time may come, soon, when I can help you. I'm afraid I shall not want to. I'm a dreadful coward, Mr. Blakely. But I will, she tried to smile. I wish you would let me help you, I said unsteadily. Let us make it a bargain, each help the other. The girl shook her head with a sad little smile. I am only as unhappy as I deserve to be, she said. And when I protested and took a step toward her, she retreated, with her hands out before her. Why don't you ask me all the questions you are thinking, she demanded, with a catch in her voice. Oh, I know them, or are you afraid to ask? I looked at her, at the lines around her eyes, at the drawn look about her mouth. Then I held out my hand. Afraid, I said, as she gave me hers. There is nothing in God's green earth that I am afraid of, save of trouble for you. To ask questions would be to imply a lack of faith. I ask you nothing. Someday perhaps you will come to me yourself and let me help you. The next moment I was out in the golden sunshine, the birds were singing carols of joy. I walked dizzily through rainbow-colored clouds, past the twins, cherubs now, swinging on the gate. It was a new world into which I stepped from the Carter-Farmhouse that morning, for I had kissed her. CHAPTER XIX AT THE TABLE NEXT McKnight and Hodgkiss were sauntering slowly down the road as I caught up with them. As usual, the little man was busy with some abtruse mental problem. The idea is this, he was saying, his brows knitted in thought. If a left-handed man, standing in the position of the man in the picture, should jump from a car, would he be likely to spray in his right ankle? When a right-handed man prepares for a leap of that kind, my theory is that he would hold on with his right hand, and a light at the proper time on his right foot. Of course. I imagine, although I don't know, interrupted McKnight, that a man either ambidextrous, or one-armed, jumping from the Washington flyer, would be more likely to land on his head. Anyhow I interposed. What difference does it make, whether Sullivan used one hand or the other? One pair of handcuffs will put both hands out of commission. As usual, when one of his pet theories was attacked, Hodgkiss looked aggrieved. My dear sir, he expostulated, don't you understand what bearing this has on the case? How was the murdered man lying when he was found? On his back, I said promptly, head toward the engine. Very well, he retorted, and what then? Your heart lies under your fifth intercoastal space, and to reach it a right-handed blow would have struck either down or directly in. But, gentlemen, the point of entrance for the stiletto was below the heart striking up. As Harrington lay with his head toward the engine, a person in the aisle must have used the left hand. McKnight's eyes saw mine, and he winked at me solemnly, as I unaustentatiously transferred the hat I was carrying to my right hand. Long training has largely counterbalanced heredity in my case, but I still pitch-ball, play tennis, and carve with my left hand. But Hodgkiss was too busy with his theories to notice me. We were only just in time for our train back to Baltimore, but McKnight took advantage of a second's delay to shake the station agent warmly by the hand. I want to express my admiration for you, he said beamingly. Ability of your order is thrown away here. You should have been a city policeman, my friend. The agent looked a trifle uncertain. The young lady was the one who told me to keep still, he said. McKnight glanced at me, gave the agent's hand a final shake and climbed on board, but I knew perfectly well that he had guessed the reason for my delay. He was very silent on the way home. Hodgkiss, too, had little to say. He was reading over his notes intently, stopping now and then to make a penciled addition. Just before we left the train, Richie turned on me. I suppose it was the key to the door that she tied to the gate. Probably, I did not ask her. Curious, her locking that fellow in, he reflected. You may depend on it. There was a good reason for it all, and I wish you wouldn't be so suspicious of Mota's, Rich, I said warmly. Only yesterday you were the suspicious one, he retorted, and we lapsed into strained silence. It was late when we got to Washington. One of Mrs. Clopton's small tyrannies was exacting punctuality at meals and, like several other things, I respected it. There are always some concessions that should be made in return for faithful service. So, as my dinner-hour of seven was long past, McKnight and I went to a little restaurant downtown where they have a very decent way of fixing chicken a la king. Hodgkiss had departed, economically bent, for a small hotel where he lived on the American plan. I want to think some things over, he said, in response to my invitation to dinner, and, anyhow, there's no use dining out when I pay the same dinner or no dinner where I am stopping. The day had been hot, and the first floor dining-room was sultry, in spite of the palms and fans, which attempted to simulate the verdue and breezes of the country. It was crowded, too, with a typical summer night crowd, and, after sitting for a few minutes in a sweltering corner, we got up and went to the smaller dining-room upstairs. Here it was not so warm, and we settled ourselves comfortably by the window. Over in a corner, half a dozen boys on their way back to school, were ragging a perspiring waiter, a proceeding so exactly to McKnight's taste that he insisted on going over to join them. But their table was full, and somehow that kind of fun had lost its point for me. Not very far from us, a very stout, middle-aged man, with a plectic with the heat, was elephant-tinely jolly for the benefit of a bored-looking girl across the table from him. And at the next table, a newspaper-woman ate alone, the last addition propped against the water-bottle before her, her hat, for coolness on the corner of the table. It was a mothly, bohemian crowd. I looked over the room, casually, while McKnight ordered the meal. Then my attention was attracted to the table next to ours. Two people were sitting there, so deep in conversation that they did not notice us. The woman's vase was hidden under her hat, as she traced the pattern of the cloth mechanically with her fork. But the man's features stood out clear in the light of the candles on the table. It was Bronson. He shows the strain, doesn't he, McKnight said, holding up the wine-list as if he read from it. Who's the woman? Search me, I replied in the same way. When the chicken came I still found myself gazing now and then at the abstracted couple near me, evidently the subject of conversation was unpleasant. Bronson was eating little, the woman not at all. Finally he got up, pushed his chair back noisily, thrust a bill at the waiter and stalked out. The woman sat still for a moment. Then, with an apparent resolution to make the best of it, she began slowly to eat the meal before her. But the quarrel had taken away her appetite, for the mixture in our chafing-dish was hardly ready to serve before she pushed her chair back a little and looked around the room. I caught my first glimpse of her face then, and I confess it startled me. It was the tall, stately woman of the Ontario, the woman I had last seen cowering beside the road, rolling pebbles in her hand, blood streaming from a cut over her eye. I could see the scar now, a little affair, about an inch long, gleaming red through its layers of powder. And then, quite unexpectedly, she turned and looked directly at me. After a minute's uncertainty, she bowed, letting her eyes rest on mine with a calmly insolent stare. She glanced at McKnight for a moment, then back at me. When she looked away again I breathed easier. Who is it? asked McKnight under his breath. Ontario, I formed it with my lips rather than said it. McKnight's eyebrows went up, and he looked with increased interest at the black-gowned figure. I ate little after that. The situation was rather bad for me, I began to see. Here was a woman who could, if she wished, and had any motive for so doing, put me in jail under a capital charge. A word from her to the police and polite surveillance would become active interference. Then, too, she could say that she had seen me, just after the wreck, with a young woman from the murdered man's car, and thus probably bring Alice and West into the case. It is not surprising, then, that I ate little. The woman across seemed in no hurry to go. She loitered over a demi-tasse, and that finished, sat with her elbow on the table, her chin in her hand, looking darkly at the changing groups in the room. The fun at the table where the college boys sat began to grow a little noisy, the fat man, now a purplish shade, ambled away behind his slim companion. The newspaper woman pinned on her business-like hat and stalked out. Still, the woman at the next table waited. It was a relief when the meal was over. We got our hats and were about to leave the room when a waiter touched me on the arm. I beg your pardon, sir, he said, but the lady at the table near the window, the lady in black, sir, would like to speak to you. I looked down between the rows of tables to where the woman sat alone, her chin still resting on her hand, her black eyes still insolently staring, this time at me. I'll have to go, I said to McKnight hurdly. She knows all about that affair, and she'd be a bad enemy. I don't like her lamps, McKnight observed, after a glance at her. Bet her jolly her a little. Good-bye. I went back slowly to where the woman sat alone. She smiled rather oddly as I drew near and pointed to the chair Bronson had vacated. Sit down, Mr. Blakely, she said. I'm going to take a few minutes of your valuable time. Certainly. I sat down opposite her and glanced at a cuckoo clock on the wall. I am sorry, but I have only a few minutes, if you— She laughed a little, not very pleasantly, and opening a small black fan covered with spangles waved it slowly. The fact is, she said, I think we are about to make a bargain. A bargain, I asked incredulously. You have a second advantage of me. You know my name. I paused suggestively, and she took the cue. I am Mrs. Conway, she said, and flicked the crumb off the table with an overmanicured finger. The name was scarcely a surprise. I had already surmised that this might be the woman whom Rumor credited as being Bronson's common-law wife. Rumor, I remembered, had said other things even less pleasant—things which had been brought out at Bronson's arrest for forgery. We met last under less fortunate circumstances, she was saying. I have been fit for nothing since that terrible day. And you? You had a broken arm, I think. I still have it, I said, with a lame attempt at jocularity. But to have escaped at all was a miracle. We have much, indeed, to be thankful for. I suppose we have, she said carelessly, although sometimes I doubt it. She was looking somberly toward the door through which her late companion had made his exit. You sent for me, I said. Yes, I sent for you. She roused herself and sat erect. Now, Mr. Blakely, have you found those papers? The papers? What papers, I parried. I needed time to think. Mr. Blakely, she said quietly, I think we can lay aside all subterfuge. In the first place, let me refresh your mind about a few things. The Pittsburgh police are looking for the survivors of the car Ontario. There are three that I know of, yourself, the young woman with whom you left the scene of the wreck, and myself. The wreck, you will admit, was a fortunate one for you. I nodded without speaking. At the time of the collision you were in rather a hole, she went on looking at me with a disagreeable smile. You were, if I remember, accused of a rather atrocious crime. There was a lot of corroborative evidence, was there not? I seemed to remember a dirk and the murdered man's pocketbook in your possession and a few other things that were, well, rather unpleasant. I was thrown a bit off my guard. You remember also, I said quickly, that a man disappeared from the car, taking my clothes, papers and everything. I remember that you said so. Her tome was quietly insulting and I bit my lip at having been caught. It was no time to make a defence. You have missed one calculation, I said coldly, and that is the discovery of the man who left the train. You have found him? She bent forward and again I regretted my hasty speech. I knew it. I said so. We are going to find him, I asserted, with a confidence I did not feel. We can produce at any time proof that a man left the flier a few miles beyond the wreck, and we can find him, I am positive. But you have not found him yet. She was clearly disappointed. Well, so be it. Now, for our bargain, you will admit that I am no fool. I made no such admission, and she smiled mockingly. How flattering you are, she said, very well. Now for the premises. You take to Pittsburgh four notes held by the Mechanics National Bank, to have Mr. Gilmore, who is ill, declare his endorsement of them forged. On the journey back to Pittsburgh two things happened to you. You lose your clothing, your valise, and your papers, including the notes, and you are accused of murder. In fact, Mr. Blakely, the circumstances were most singular, and the evidence, well, almost conclusive. I was completely at her mercy, but I gnawed my lip with irritation. Now for the bargain, she leaned over and lowered her voice. A fair exchange, you know. The minute you put those four notes in my hand, that minute the blow to my head has caused complete forgetfulness as to the events of that awful morning. I am the only witness, and I will be silent. Do you understand? They will call off their dogs. My head was buzzing with the strangeness of the idea. But, I said, striving to gain time. I haven't the notes. I can't give you what I haven't got. You have had the case continued, she said sharply. You expect to find them. Another thing, she added slowly, watching my face. If you don't get them soon, Bronson will have them. They have been offered to him already, but at a prohibitive price. But, I said bewildered, what is your object in coming to me, if Bronson will get them anyhow? She shut her fan with a click, and her face was not particularly pleasant to look at. You are dense, she said insolently. I want those papers, for myself, not for Andy Bronson. Then the idea is, I said, ignoring her tone, that you think you have me in a hole, and that if I find those papers and give them to you, you will let me out. As I understand it, our friend Bronson, under those circumstances, will also be in a hole. She nodded. The notes would be of no use to you for a limited length of time, I went on, watching her narrowly. If they are not turned over to the state's attorney within a reasonable time, there will have to be a no-le-prose. That is, the case will simply be dropped for lack of evidence. A week would answer, I think, she said slowly. You will do it, then. I laughed, although I was not especially cheerful. No, I'll not do it. I expect to come across the notes any time now, and I expect just as certainly to turn them over to the state's attorney when I get them. She got up suddenly, pushing her chair back with a noisy grating sound that turned many eyes toward us. You are more of a fool than I thought you, she sneered and left me at the table. CHAPTER XXI. MCH. THEORY. I confess I was staggered. The people at the surrounding tables, after glancing curiously in my direction, looked away again. I got my hat and went out in a very uncomfortable frame of mind. That she would inform the police at once of what she knew I never doubted unless possibly she would give a day or two's grace in the hope that I would change my mind. I reviewed the situation as I waited for a car. Two passed me going in the opposite direction, and on the first one I saw Bronson, his hat over his eyes, his arms folded, looking moodily ahead. Was it imagination, or was the small man huddled in the corner of the rear seat, Hodgkis? As the car rolled on I found myself smiling. The alert little man was for all the world like a terrier, ever on the scent, and scouring about in every direction. I found McKnight at the incubator, with his coat off, working with enthusiasm and a manicure file over the horn of his auto. It's the worst horn I ever ran across, he groaned without looking up as I came in. The blankety-blank thing won't blow. He punched it savagely, finally eliciting a faint, throaty croak. Sounds like the croop, I suggested. My sister-in-law uses campfire and goose-grease for it. Or how about a spice poultice? But McKnight never sees any jokes but his own. He flung the horn clattering into a corner and collapsed soggily into a chair. Now, I said, if you're through manicuring that horn I will tell you about my talk with the lady in black. What's wrong? asked McKnight languidly, police watching her too. Not exactly. The fact is rich. There's the mischief to pay. Stokey came in, bringing a few additions to our comfort. When he went out I told my story. You must remember, I said, that I had seen this woman before the morning of the wreck. She was buying her Pullman ticket when I did. Then the next morning, when the murder was discovered, she grew hysterical and I gave her some whiskey. The third and last time I saw her, until to-night, was when she crouched beside the road after the wreck. McKnight slid down in his chair until his weight rested on the small of his back and put his feet on the big reading-table. It's rather a facer, he said. It's really too good a situation for a common-place lawyer. It ought to be dramatized. You can't agree, of course, and by refusing you run the chance of jail, at least, and of having Allison brought into publicity, which is out of the question. You say she was at the Pullman window when you were? Yes, I bought her ticket for her, gave her lower eleven. And you took ten? Lower ten. McKnight straightened up and looked at me. Then she thought you were in lower ten. I suppose she did, if she thought it all. But listen, man, McKnight was growing excited. What do you figure out of this? The Conway woman knows you have taken the notes to Pittsburgh. The probabilities are that she follows you there, on the chance of an opportunity to get them, either for Bronson or herself. Nothing doing during the trip over, or during the day in Pittsburgh. But she learns the number of your birth as you buy it at the Pullman ticket office in Pittsburgh, and she thinks she sees her chance. No one could have foreseen that that drunken fellow would have crawled into your birth. Now I figure it out this way. She wanted those notes desperately, does still, not for Bronson, but to hold over his head for some purpose. In the night, when everything is quiet, she slips behind the curtains of lower ten, where the man's breathing shows he's asleep. Didn't you say he snored? He did, I affirmed. But I tell you, now keep still and listen. She gropes cautiously around in the darkness, finally discovering the wallet under the pillow. Can't you see it yourself? He was leaning forward, excitedly, and I could almost see the gruesome tragedy he was depicting. She draws out the wallet. Then perhaps she remembers the alligator bag, and on the possibility that the notes are there, instead of in the pocketbook, she gropes around for it. Suddenly the man awakes and clutches at the nearest object, perhaps her neck chain, which breaks. She drops the pocketbook and tries to escape, but he has caught her right hand. It is all in silence the man is still stupidly drunk, but he holds her in a tight grip. Then the tragedy, she must get away, in a minute the car will be aroused. Such a woman, on such an errand, does not go without some sort of a weapon, in this case a dagger, which, unlike a revolver, is noiseless. With a quick thrust, she's a big woman and a bold one, she strikes. Possibly Hotchkiss is right about the left-handed blow. And may have held her right hand, or perhaps she held the dirk in her left as she groped with her right. Then as the man falls back and his grasp relaxes, she straightens in attempts to get away. The swaying of the car throws her almost into your birth, and, trembling with terror, she crutches behind the curtains of lower ten until everything is still. Then she goes noiselessly back to her birth. I nodded. It seems to fit partly, at least, I said. In the morning when she found that the crime had been not only fruitless, but that she had searched the wrong birth and killed the wrong man, when she saw me emerge, unhurt, just as she was bracing herself for the discovery of my dead body, then she went into hysterics. You remember, I gave her some whiskey. It really seems a tenable theory, but, like the Sullivan theory, there are one or two things that don't agree with the rest. For one thing, how did the remainder of that chain get into Alice and Wes's possession? She may have picked it up on the floor. Will admit that, I said, and I'm sure I hope so. Then how did the murdered man's pocket-book get into the seal-skin bag, and the dirk? How account for that, and the blood-stains? Now what's the use, asked McKnight, aggrievedly, of my building up beautiful theories for you to pull down? We'll take it to Hodgkis. Maybe he can tell from the blood-stains if the murderer's fingernails were square or pointed. Hodgkis is no fool, I said warmly. Under all his theories there's a good hard layer of common sense. And we must remember, Rich, that neither of our theories includes the woman at Dr. Van Kirk's hospital, that the charming picture you have just drawn does not account for Alice and Wes's connection with the case, or for the bits of telegram in the Sullivan Fellow's pajama pocket. You are like the man who put the clock together. You've got half the works left over. Oh, go home, said McKnight disgustedly. I'm no Edgar Allen Poe. What's the use of coming here and asking me things if you're so particular? With one of his quick changes of mood he picked up his guitar. Listen to this, he said. It is a Hawaiian song about a fat lady, oh ignorant one, and how she fell off her mule. But for all the lightness of the words the voice that followed me down the stairs was anything but cheery. There was a Kanaka in Baloo did dwell, who had for his daughter a monstrous fat girl. He sang in his clear tenor voice. I paused on the lower floor and listened. He had stopped singing as abruptly as he had begun. End of Chapter 21. Chapter 22 of The Man in Lower Ten. The slipper box recording is in the public domain, recording by Mary Ann. The Man in Lower Ten by Mary Roberts Reinhardt. Chapter 22 At the Boarding House. I had not been home for thirty-six hours, since the morning of the preceding day. Johnson was not in sight, and I let myself in quietly with my latch-key. It was almost midnight, and I had hardly settled myself in the library when the bell rang and I was surprised to find Hodgkis much out of breath in the vestibule. Why, come in, Mr. Hodgkis, I said. I thought you were going home to go to bed. So I was, so I was. He dropped into a chair beside my reading-lamp and mopped his face. And here it is almost midnight, and I'm wider awake than ever. I've seen Sullivan, Mr. Blakely. You have? I have, he said impressively. You were following Bronson at eight o'clock. Was that when it happened? Something of the sort. When I left you at the door of the restaurant, I turned and almost ran into a plain clothesman from the central office. I know him pretty well. Once or twice he has taken me with him on interesting bits of work. He knows my hobby. You know him too, probably. It was the man Arnold, the detective whom the state's attorney has had watching Bronson. Johnson being otherwise occupied, I had asked for Arnold myself. I nodded. Well, he stopped me at once, said he'd been on the fellow's track since early morning, and had had no time for luncheon. Bronson, it seemed, isn't eating much these days. I at once jotted down the fact, because it argued that he was being bothered by the man with the notes. It might point to other things, I suggested. Indigestion, you know. Hodges ignored me. Well, Arnold had some reason for thinking that Bronson would try to give him the slip that night, so he asked me to stay around the private entrance there while he ran across the street and got something to eat. It seemed a fair presumption that, as he had gone there with the lady, they would dine leisurely, and Arnold would have plenty of time to get back. What about your own dinner, I asked curiously. Sir, he said pompously, I have given you a wrong estimate of Wilson Budd Hodges if you think that a question of dinner would even uptrude itself on his mind at such a time as this. He was a frail little man, and tonight he looked pale with heat and overexertion. Did you have any luncheon, I asked. He was somewhat embarrassed at that. I, really, Mr. Blakely, the events of the day were so engrossing. Well, I said, I'm not going to see you drop on the floor from exhaustion. Just wait a minute. I went back to the pantry, only to be confronted with rows of locked doors and empty dishes. Downstairs, in the basement kitchen, however, I found two unattractive-looking cold chops, some dry bread and a piece of cake, wrapped in a napkin, and from its surreptitious and generally hangdog appearance, destined for the coachmen in the stable at the rear. Trace there were none, everything but the chairs and tables seemed under lock and key, and there was neither napkin, knife nor fork to be found. The luncheon was not attractive in appearance, but Hodges ate his cold chops and nodded at his crusts as though he had been famished while he told his story. I had been there only a few minutes, he said, with a chop in one hand and the cake in the other, when Bronson rushed out and cut across the street. He's a tall man, Mr. Blakely, and I had hard work keeping close. It was a relief when he jumped on a passing car, although being well behind it was a hard run for me to catch him. He had left the lady. Once on the car we simply rode from one end of the line to the other and back again. I suppose he was passing the time, for he looked at his watch now and then, and when I did once get a look at his face it made me—er, uncomfortable—he could have crushed me like a fly, sir. I had brought Mr. Hodges a glass of wine, and he was looking better. He stopped to finish it, declining with a wave of his hand to have it refilled and continued. About nine o'clock, or a little later, he got off somewhere near Washington Circle. He went along one of the residence streets there, turned to his left a square or two, and rang a bell. He had been admitted when I got there, but I guessed from the appearance of the place that it was a boarding-house. I waited a few minutes and rang the bell. When it made answer to it I asked for Mr. Sullivan. Of course there was no Mr. Sullivan there. I said I was sorry that the man I was looking for was a new border. She was sure there was no such border in the house. The only new arrival was a man on the third floor. She thought his name was Steward. My friend has a cousin by that name, I said. I'll just go up and see. She wanted to show me up, but I said it was unnecessary. So after telling me it was the bedroom and sitting-room on the third floor front, I went up. I met a couple of men on the stairs, but neither of them paid any attention to me. A boarding-house is the easiest place in the world to enter. They're not always so easy to leave, I put in, to his evident irritation. When I got to the third story I took out a bunch of keys and posted myself by a door near the ones the girl had indicated. I could hear voices in one of the front rooms, but could not understand what they said. There was no violent dispute, but a steady hum. Then Bronson jerked the door open. If he had stepped into the hall he would have seen me fitting a key into the door before me, but he spoke before he came out. You're acting like a maniac, he said. You know I can get those things some way. I'm not going to threaten you. It isn't necessary. You know me. It would be no use, the other man said. I tell you I haven't seen the notes for ten days. But you will, Bronson said savagely. You're standing in your own way, that's all. If you're holding out expecting me to raise my figure you're making a mistake. It's my last offer. I couldn't take it if it was for a million, said the man inside the room. I'd do it, I expect, if I could. The best of us have our price. Bronson slammed the door then and flung past me down the hall. After a couple of minutes I knocked at the door and a tall man about your size Mr. Blakely opened it. He was very blond, with a smooth face and blue eyes, what I think you would call a handsome man. I beg your pardon for disturbing you, I said. Can you tell me which is Mr. Johnson's room, Mr. Francis Johnson? I cannot say, he replied civilly. I've only been here a few days. I thanked him and left, but I had had a good look at him and I think I'd know him readily any place. I sat for a few minutes, thinking it over. But what did he mean by saying he hadn't seen the notes for ten days, and why is Bronson making the overtures? I think he was lying, Hodgkis reflected. Bronson hasn't reached his figure. It's a big advance, Mr. Hodgkis, and I appreciate what you have done more than I can tell you, I said. And now, if you can locate any of my property in this fellow's room, we'll send him up for larceny, and at least we'll have him where we can get at him. I'm going to Crescent tomorrow to try and trace him a little from there, but I'll be back in a couple of days, and we'll begin to gather in these scattered threads. Hodgkis rubbed his hands together delightedly. That's it, he said. That's what we want to do, Mr. Blakely. We'll gather up the threads ourselves. If we let the police in too soon, they'll tangle it up again. I'm not vindictive by nature, but when a fellow like Sullivan not only commits a murder, but goes to all sorts of trouble to put the burden of guilt on an innocent man, I say, hunt him down, sir. You are convinced, of course, that Sullivan did it? Who else? He looked over his glasses at me with the air of a man whose mental attitude is unassailable. Well, listen to this, I said. When I told him at length of my encounter with Bronson in the restaurant, of the bargain proposed by Mrs. Conway, and finally of McKnight's new theory, but, although he was impressed, he was far from convinced. It's a very vivid piece of imagination, he said, dryly, but while it fits the evidence as far as it goes, it doesn't go far enough. How about the stains in Lower Seven, the Dirk, and the Wallet? Didn't we even got motive in that telegram from Bronson? Yes, I admitted, but that bit of chain. Pah! He said shortly. Perhaps, like yourself, Sullivan wore glasses with a chain. Our not finding them does not prove they did not exist. And there I made an error. Half-confidences are always mistakes. I could not tell at the broken chain in Alice and West's gold purse. It was one o'clock when Hodgkes finally left. We had by that time arranged a definite course of action. Hodgkes to search Sullivan's rooms and, if possible, find evidence to have him held for larceny, while I went to Crescent. Strangely enough, however, when I entered the train the following morning, Hodgkes was already there. He had bought a new notebook and was sharpening a fresh pencil. I changed my plans, you see, he said, bustling his newspaper aside for me. It is no discredit to your intelligence, Mr. Blakely, but you lack the professional eye, the analytical mind. You legal gentlemen call a spade a spade, although it may be a shovel. A primrose by the river's brim, a yellow primrose was to him, and nothing more, I quoted as the train pulled out. End of CHAPTER XXII