 Book 2, Chapter 3 of The Four Straglers, by Frank L. Packard. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. THE MAD MILLIONAIRE "'It's an amazing place,' said Howard Locke. "'Yes, isn't it?' said Polly Wicks. "'But come along, you haven't seen it all yet.' "'Is there more?' Howard Locke asked, with pretended incredulity. "'I've seen a private power-plant, an aquarium that contains more varieties of fish than I ever imagined swam in the sea, a house as magnificent and spacious as a palace, stables, gardens, flowers, bowers of Eden. "'More? Really?' "'I think Gardie was right,' observed Polly Wicks naively. "'Yes,' inquired Howard Locke. Polly Wicks arched her eyebrows. "'He said you weren't a lady's man.' "'Oh!' said Howard Locke with a grin. "'So he's been talking behind my back, has he?' "'I'm afraid so,' she admitted. "'And may I ask why you agree with him, why I am condemned?' "'Because,' said Polly Wicks, "'it would have been ever so much nicer, instead of saying what you did, to have expressed delight that the tour of inspection wasn't over, something about charming company, you know, even if everything you saw bored you to death.' "'Unfair!' Locke frowned with mock severity. Most unfair. I was going to say something like that, and now I can't because you'll swear you put the words into my mouth, and I simply parroted them.' "'Sir,' she said eerily, "'will you see the bungalows and the piccaninies next, or the boathouse?' "'I am contrite and humble,' he said meekly.' Polly Wicks' laughter rippled out on the air. "'Come on, then!' she cried, and turning began to run along the path through the grove of trees where they had been walking. Locke followed. She ran like a young fawn. He stumbled once awkwardly, and she turned and laughed at him. He felt the color amount into his cheeks, felt a tinge of chagrin. As she vamping him, did she know that if his eyes had been occupied with where he was going, and not with her, he would not have stumbled, or was she just a little sprite of nature, full to overflowing with life, buoyant, and the more glorious for an unconscious expression of the joy of living? Amazing! he had called what he had seen on this island, since he had been installed here as a guest that morning. But most amazing of all was Newcombe's Ward. Newcombe's Ward! It was rather strange. Who was she? How had a girl like this come to be Captain Newcombe's Ward? Newcombe had not been communicative, save only on the point that since she had gone to America to school, Newcombe had not seen her. Rather strange that, too. He was conscious that she peaked him one moment, while the next found him possessed of a mad desire to touch, for instance, those truant wisps of hair, that now, as she stood waiting for him on the edge of the shore, a little out of breath, the color glowing in her cheeks, she retrieved with deft little movements of her fingers. Her color deepened suddenly. That's the boathouse over there, she said. I beg your pardon, said Locke in confusion, and then deliberately, No, I don't. Polly Wicks stared. Again the color in her cheeks came and went swiftly. Oh, she gasped. Then hurriedly. Well, perhaps that is better. Don't you think those two little bridges from the rocks up to the boathouse are awfully pretty? Offly, laughed Locke. You're not looking at them at all, said Polly Wicks severely. Yes, I am, asserted Locke. And just to prove it, I was going to ask why that amazing structure, you see, I said amazing again. That looks more like the home of a yacht-club than a private boathouse, is built out into the water like that, and requires those bridges at all. Is it on account of the tide? I see there's no beach here. I'm sure I don't know, said Polly Wicks, but they are pretty, aren't they? And the place does look like a clubhouse, and it looks more like one inside. There's a lovely little lounging room with an open fireplace, and I can't begin to tell you what else. Shall we go in? Yes, rather, said Locke. He was studying the place now with the yachtsman's eye. It was built out from the rocky shore a considerable distance and rested on an outer series of small, concrete piers, placed a few feet apart, while, by stooping down, he could see beneath the overhang of the veranda a massive center pier, wide and long, obviously the main foundation of the building, at the two corners facing the shore, were the little bridges, built in shape like a curving ramp, and ornamented with rustic railings that she had referred to. These led from a point well above High Watermark, on the shore to the veranda of the boathouse itself. Mr. Marlin must be an enthusiast, he said, as he followed his guide across one of the bridges. Polly Wicks did not answer at once, and they began to make the circuit of the veranda. Howard Locke glanced at her. Her face had become suddenly sobered, the dark eyes somehow deeper, a sensitive quiver now, around the corners of her lips. His glance lengthened into an unconscious stare. She could be serious, then, and, yes, equally attractive in that mood. It became her. He wondered if she knew it became her. That was cynical on his part. Was he trying to arm himself with cynicism? Well, it was easily pierced, then, that armor. It was a very wonderful face, not merely beautiful, but fine in the sense of steadfastness, self-reliance and sincerity. He was a poor cynic. Why not admit that she attracted him as no woman had ever attracted him before? They had reached the seaward side of the veranda. Here a short dock was built out to meet a sort of sea-wall that gave protection to any craft that might be birthed there, but the slip was empty of boats. She looked up at him now, as she answered his observation. He was, she said slowly, but all the boats are stowed away inside now. Poor Mr. Marlin, she turned away abruptly, her eyes suddenly moist. Let's go inside. They found a cozy corner in the little lounging room of which she had spoken, and seated themselves. Locke picked up the thread of their conversation. You're very fond of him, aren't you, Miss Wicks, he said gently. Yes, she said simply. It's a very strange case, said Howard Locke. And a very, very sad one, said Polly Wicks. I don't know how much Dora, Miss Marlin, has said to you, or perhaps even Mr. Marlin himself, for he is sometimes just like, like anybody else, so I don't. I hardly think it could be a case of trespassing on confidences in any event, Locke interrupted quietly. It's rather well known outside, that is, in what might be called the financial world, you know. What I can't understand, though, is that, having lost all his money, a place like this could still be kept up. Polly Wicks shook her head thoughtfully. Guardie was speaking about the same thing, she said, but I don't think it costs so very much now. You see, it is almost in a way self-supporting, the vegetables and fruit and fuel and all that, and the servants all have their little homes, and have lived on the island for years, and the wages are not very high, and anyway Dora has a fortune in her own name, from her mother, you know, and, besides, thank goodness, dear old Mr. Marlin hasn't lost all his money, anyway. Not lost it? ejaculated Locke. Why, that was the cause of his mind breaking. Polly Wicks looked up in confusion. Oh, perhaps I shouldn't have said that, she said nervously. But, but after all, I don't see why I shouldn't, for you could not help but know about it before very long. Indeed, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if Mr. Marlin showed it to you himself, just as he did to me, for he seems to have taken a great fancy to you. He hardly let you out of his sight this morning. He knows my father in a business way, said Locke. I suppose that's it. Do you mean that he showed you a sum of money here on this island? Yes, said Polly Wicks slowly, after I had been here a little while. A very large sum, half a million, he said. Good heavens! exclaimed Locke. That's hardly safe, is it? I know the peculiar form his disease has taken is an antipathy to all investments, but can't Miss Marlin persuade him to deposit it somewhere? That's exactly what Gardy said, not at Polly Wicks. But it's quite useless, Dora has tried, but her father won't even tell her where he keeps it. Howard Locke rose from his chair, walked over to the empty fireplace, and, standing with his back to Polly Wicks, opened his cigarette case. When Newcombe, of course, is quite old-fate with the conditions, he observed casually. Of course, said Polly Wicks ingenuously, I naturally wrote him all about it. Naturally, agreed Howard Locke. He stooped over and, striking a match on the edge of the fireplace, lighted his cigarette. So Captain Francis Newcombe had known all about it had he even before he had left England? And yet Captain Francis Newcombe in the smoking room of the liner on the way across had been densely in ignorance, and even alarmed for his ward's safety at the first intimation that her host was a monomaniac. It was rather peculiar, more than peculiar. Locke turned and, leaning against the mantle over the fireplace, faced Polly Wicks. His mind was working swiftly, piecing together strange and apparently irrelevant fragments that, irrelevant as they appeared, seemed to make a most suggestive whole. Captain Newcombe had lied that night on board the liner. Why? Who was it that had invaded his Locke's state room and had searched through his belongings? And why? Why was it that now, for the first time in four years, Captain Newcombe should have come to visit his ward in America? He had more than Newcombe's word for that. Polly here had said so herself, and Miss Marlin had referred to it in the most natural way when welcoming Newcombe that morning. What had an insane old man, who hid half a million dollars on a little island in the Florida Keys, got to do with the letter received in London and containing those facts that Polly Wicks had just admitted she had written? What did it mean? Was it a certain insistent deduction to be carried to a logical conclusion, or was he hunting a mare's nest in his mind? Was it a mere coincidence in life, where far stranger coincidences were daily happenings, or was it a half million dollars? And Polly Wicks here, Captain Francis Newcombe, and his ward. Was it a bird of paradise in cahoots with a vulture? No, he wouldn't believe that. It was preposterous. There weren't any grounds for it anyway. He was an irresponsible fool. He became angry with himself. He was worse than a fool. He was a cad. The girl's very ingenuousness in what she had said put to route any possibility of connivance. But damn it! Captain Newcombe's ward? How? What was the explanation of that? And if? Polly Wicks' small foot beat the floor in a sharp little tattoo. Locks straightened up with a start. In his fit of abstraction he had been gazing at the girl with abominable rudeness. I forgot to say, said Polly Wicks severely, that besides saying you were not a lady's man, Gardie said something else about you. No, surely not. Lock forced a mock dismay into his voice. What was it? Polly Wicks took a critical survey of the toe of her spotless white shoe. He said he didn't know whether I would like you or not. Lock took a step forward from the fireplace. And do you? He demanded. I do not, she said promptly, at least not when I am utterly ignored for a whole five minutes, except to be stared at as though I were a specimen under a microscope. I'm awfully sorry, said Lock contritely. Really I am. I was thinking of what we had been saying about Mr. Marlin, and she suddenly lifted a warning finger. There he is now, she said in a low voice. Lock turned around. His back had been to the door, leading to the seaward side of the veranda, which they had left open behind them. Mr. Marlin was peering cautiously around the jam of the door, and now, as the blue eyes under the silvered hair, which was rumpled and astray, caught his, Lock's, the old man thrust a beckoning finger into view. Lock glanced at Polly Wicks. I think, she said in a whisper, that he has been acting more strangely just of late than ever before. He wants you for something. Of course you must go and see what it is. All right, said Lock. He walked quietly across the room and out onto the veranda. You wanted to speak to me, Mr. Marlin? He said pleasantly. It was a queer, strangely contradictory figure that of the little stoop-shouldered old man, who now seized his arm in feverish haste, and let him hurriedly away from the door, and quite a different figure from the Mr. Marlin of the morning. The white clothes were spruce and immaculate, but he wore no hat, and as Lock had already noted, his hair was dishevelled. The thin, almost gaunt face, a rather fine old face, had lost the calm and composure that had marked it, for instance, a few hours ago at lunch, and there was now a furtive, hunted look in the eyes, a spasmodic twitching of the facial muscles, a sort of pathetic tearing aside of the veil that he had so jealously striven to hide the man's affliction, and yet, too, and perhaps even more pathetic in this particular, there seemed to cling intangibly about the old financier a certain dignity of manner and bearing, the one heritage, possibly of the days when he had been a power, his name a talisman in the money markets of the world. "'I don't want to hear,' said Mr. Marlin mysteriously. "'I can't trust her, Lock.' "'Can't trust her?' repeated Lock. "'You can't trust Miss Wicks? Why, surely, Mr. Marlin, you are making a mistake. "'Why can't you trust her?' "'Because,' said the old man sharply, "'she is the ward of Captain Newcombe.' Lock stared into the other's face. A half angry, half yes, that was it, cunning gleam, had come into the blue eyes. "'What is the matter with Captain Newcombe?' he asked bluntly. "'He's a philanthropist,' snapped Mr. Marlin, "'and all philanthropists are fools with money.' "'Oh!' said Lock a little helplessly. "'So that's it, is it?' "'Yes, of course. But I did not know Captain Newcombe was a philanthropist.' "'What else is he?' demanded Mr. Marlin fiercely. "'Polly Wicks herself proves it. "'Do you know who Polly Wicks is?' "'No, you don't. "'I'll tell you.' I heard her tell Dora. She was a poor girl, sold flowers on the street corners in London. Newcombe spends his money like water on her, education, clothes, thousands. He is a philanthropist. That is enough.' "'Good Lord!' muttered Lock to himself. The man hadn't been anything like this, during the several hours that off and on. He had been in the other's company that morning. The man had seemed almost, if not wholly, rational then. It was one of the idiosyncratic phases of the disease, of course. There was nothing to do but humour him. Captain Francis Newcombe, a philanthropist. Five minutes ago he had come to quite another conclusion. "'Yes, I see,' he said seriously. They had walked around the corner of the veranda, and now, halfway down the side, he halted. But there was something you wanted to speak to me about, Mr. Marlin. Wasn't there?' "'Yes,' said the old man, eagerly. He looked cautiously around him in all directions. I put great faith in you as your father's son. I have never met your father, but I know of him. I know a great deal about him. He is a power. You must influence him. The world is facing a crisis, but we may yet save it from ruin. I must have a conference with you, where no one can hear or see. No one must see. Do you understand? That is most important. Some people think I am a little touched in the head, but they are fools. I shall show you, my boy, for I shall have with me the proof that I am in earnest, and the evidence that I practice what I preach. You shall see for yourself who is the fool. Tomorrow night,' he fumbled in the pocket of his coat and drew out a little book. What day is today, and what is the date? Yes, yes. Of course. This is Tuesday, isn't it? Yes, said Locke Gravely. Today is Tuesday. Tuesday, the twenty-fifth, mumbled the old man as he consulted the book. Yes, yes. He returned the book to his pocket. Very well then. Tomorrow night. Meet me in the aquarium. Tomorrow night at a quarter past two. Locke, for the sake of nonchalance, carefully selected another cigarette from his case and lighted it. A quarter past two tomorrow night. If it were not pitiable, it would be absurd that the old man should have come down here in this manner to the boathouse to make an appointment for tomorrow night when in the natural course of events he would have been afforded an endless number of infinitely more convenient opportunities to make the same request. And why tomorrow night, other than tonight, or this afternoon, or even now, and why at such an hour? It was useless to ask the question, for it found its answer simply in the workings of a poor unhinged mind, and yet Locke found himself asking the question mechanically. That's a rather unusual hour, isn't it, Mr. Marlin? And why tomorrow night? Why not tonight, for instance? The old man came close, and gripped Locke's arm again with feverish intensity. He looked all around him, then placed his lips to Locke's ear. I'll tell you why, he whispered. Since last night I have been watched and followed, watched and followed all the time, all the time, all the time. They think I am mad that my reason is gone. Can you imagine that, young man? Well, they will see. And so it cannot be tonight, for I must be very careful, and I must have time to prepare. And the hour? You do not understand that? Well, I will tell you something else. The hour is fixed. It cannot be altered. It cannot be changed. It is fixed. He gripped suddenly with a fiercer pressure on Locke's arm. Ha! Did I not tell you I was always being watched and followed? He breathed excitedly. Listen, listen! There is someone coming now! The old man was trembling violently. Locke laid his hand reassuringly upon the other's shoulder. It was quite true that there was distinctly the sound of someone's footsteps coming across one of the little bridges from the shore. The one on the far side of the boathouse, from where they stood obviously. For the one on this side was in plain view. Why, Mr. Marlin? Locke smiled. It's only someone coming to the boathouse. That's quite natural. There's nothing to cause you alarm in that. But just to set your mind at rest, we'll go and see who it is. No, no! whispered Mr. Marlin fiercely. No one must know that I suspect anything. I can elude them. They're around on the other side now. You stay here. Don't move. I'm going now. But remember, tomorrow night you will remember. Yes, of course, Mr. Marlin. Locke replied soothingly. The old man laid his finger to his lips. Not a word about it. No one must know. Keep silent. You will see. You will see. But I must be quick now. I will elude them. Keep silent. Not a word. The old man was running at top speed along the veranda. Locke leaned against the railing, his face strangely set, as he watched the flying figure cross the bridge, and, with head constantly jerking around, to peer first over one shoulder and then the other, disappear finally along the shore. Good Lord! muttered Locke to himself again. And this morning he appeared to be as sane as I am. He frowned suddenly. Queer obsession that, of being constantly watched, since last night, I wonder. He straightened up abruptly and drew a letter from his pocket. He read it slowly, carefully, several times, as though almost he were memorizing it, and then he began to tear it into little pieces. I guess it's safer, he confided to himself, and then, with a grim smile, perhaps it's just as well I didn't have anything like this with me that night on board ship. He threw the pieces over into the water, but one fluttered back through the railing. And, staring at this, he laughed a little shortly, as his eyes deciphered the typewritten fragment on the veranda floor. L. L. reports approved. Use W. Scotland Yard, fully pre. He picked it up, tore it into minute shreds, searched carefully to make sure there were no other wayward scraps, and then started slowly back along the veranda to rejoin Polly Wicks. His mind seemed in confusion, coherence smothered in a multitude of thoughts that impinged one upon the other, each vociferating its right to soul consideration. There was nukem and that smoking-room scene on the liner, and a letter advising about a half million dollars, and a madman, and, no, there was something else, something that was gradually gaining priority over the rest. Yes. Polly Wicks. Well, Polly Wicks, then. A flower girl in London. A lady four years later in America. How old had she been when this had happened? How old had she been? Conn found it. What did he mean by that? What did he mean? She couldn't have been more than a child. A mere child. He halted abruptly at the sound of his own name. Unconsciously he had almost reached the door, leading into the lounging-room of the boathouse. Polly Wicks was talking to someone. To whoever it was, of course, whose arrival at the boathouse had frightened old Mr. Marlin away a few minutes ago. Ah, yes, nukem. That was nukem laughing now. But just the same, said Polly Wicks. It does seem a little strange to me that Mr. Locke would make such a trip with you on so short acquaintance. Nonsense, replied Captain Francis Nukem. There's nothing strange about it. You don't know that type of young American, that's all. The short acquaintance, end of it, is purely the insular English viewpoint. He had a holiday on his hands, as I told you, and he meant to spend it on his boat somewhere. We hit it off splendidly together, coming over, and, well, we've hit it off splendidly ever since. That's all. Let's change the subject, then, said Polly Wicks. Captain Francis Nukem laughed complacently. I was going to, he said. I want to speak to you about last night. I don't care for your choice, said Polly Wicks, in what seemed to Locke like sudden agitation. I haven't been able to get that horrible cry out of my mind all day, and I hardly slept at all when I went to bed. But, my dear, that is utterly absurd. Captain Francis Nukem returned, with another laugh. I can only repeat what I said to you this morning, that it must have been some boatman out on the water, cat-calling to each other. I was startled myself at first, and a bit angry, I'll admit, at the thought that someone was taking liberties with us. But I am quite sure now it was nothing of the kind. You mustn't give it another thought, really. It isn't worth it. But I wasn't going to refer to that again. What I wanted to know was whether or not you told Miss Marlon about seeing her father out there at that hour of night. Yes, said Polly Wicks. I told her, and she said she knew he sometimes went out night after night for a number of nights, and that, strangely enough, he'd go out later each night until finally it would be just before daybreak when he left the house. And then, after that, for a long while, he wouldn't go out at all. She said she had never given her father an inkling that she knew, and had never put any restraint upon him. As I have told you what the doctors have warned her about, and what she is more afraid of than anything else, is arousing any suspicion in her father's mind that he requires watching, or is being watched. There is the danger that he might become violent. In fact, it is almost certain that he would, under such conditions, Dr. Dahmer said. Hmm! commented Captain Francis Newcomb. A chair creaked within, a footsteps sounded on the floor approaching the door, and Howard Locke retreated quietly around the corner of the boathouse. It was dark in the room, save where the moonlight stole in through the window, and stretched a filmy path across the floor until, in a strange nebulous way, it threw into relief a chivalr glass that stood against the opposite wall, and in the glass a shadowy picture showed. The reflection of a man's figure seated in a chair, but curiously crouched, as though about to spring, the shoulders bent a little forward, the head out thrust, the elbows outward, strained with weight, the hands clenched upon the arms of the chair. And then suddenly, with a low, snarling oath, the more vicious for its repression, the figure sprang from the chair, and stood with face thrust close against the mirror. It was Captain Francis Newcomb. He stared into the glass, his fists knotted at his sides. It was as though the two faces flung a challenge, one at the other, each mocking the other, in a sort of hideous imitation of every muscular movement. They were distorted, the lips drawn back, displaying teeth as beasts might do, and in the shadows the eyes were lost, only the sockets showing, like small, black, ugly, cavernous things. The minutes passed, long minutes. A metamorphosis was taking place. The faces became more composed. They became debonair, suave, and finally they smiled at one another, as though a truce had been proclaimed. Captain Francis Newcomb swung back to the chair, and flung himself down in it again. It was over for the moment, for the moment, yes, that was it, for the moment, but it would come again. Last night, in his bunk on the telophah, he had lain awake, and lived through hell. Today, behind the mask of complacence, fear had gnawed, fear, and it had been his boast that fear and he were strangers. His lips grew tight. Well, his boast still held good. What man had ever stood before him and taunted him with fear. This was fear in a different sense. It was a fear of the intangible, of what he could not reach, or see, of what he could not materialize into actual form. It was the fear of the unknown. He was on his feet again. Damn you, he snarled, come out into the open and fight, you hellhound, you spawn of the devil, come out and show your face. No, quiet, that would not do. He was in control of himself again, wasn't he? It was a game of wits against wits, of cunning matched against cunning, but against whom, and what was the stake this unknown who had come to plague and torment him, played for? Revenge, the law, a nemesis rising up out of forgotten things? His mind prodded and sifted and strove, and in its striving seemed to jar and tangle and crunch like the parts of some machinery in motion, which, out of gear, threatened at any moment to demolish itself. If he went mad, like Mr. Marlin, by God, he muttered grimly, this is bad, a bad bit of nerves. If it was the same blighter who fired at me on shipboard, and it must have been, why didn't he fire at me again last night when he had an even better chance, instead of yowling through the darkness? That was better. It was the one trump card in his hand, the card that as he had watched the daylight creep in through the tiny portholes of the telophah that morning, had determined him, not only to carry on, but to make it serve as a trap, to put an end to this skulking familiar who had fastened itself upon his trail. That wasn't fear, was it? Shadow Varn, who was the fool who dared to challenge Shadow Varn? He was smiling now, but his lips were thin and merciless. It could no longer be held attributable to some crazed, irresponsible act, that shot on shipboard, which Chance had elected, should be fired through his stateroom window, rather than through any other. Logic now denied that. The man who had fired that shot, and the man who had screamed out in taunting mockery at him last night, were one and the same. Well, who was it, then, who had been on the liner and was now on Manwa Island? There were only two. Reynolds and Locke. Had Reynolds had enough time to change his shoes, or, granting the time, had cunning enough to have thought of doing so? No, the chances were a thousand to one against it. Locke, then? But Reynolds had said that Locke hadn't left the telophah. Were Reynolds and Locke in cahoots together? They had been extremely friendly on the way down. But Locke, it was preposterous. He knew who Locke was, a young American businessman of good family. It was curious, though, that Polly should have made that remark today about a trip like this on such short acquaintance. No, there was nothing in that. It had happened too naturally. Locke had a good many pairs of shoes. Like Reynolds, none of them had been wet. But he was not sure he had found all of them in the darkness in the cabin with Locke. Supposedly, at least, asleep there on the opposite bunk. Locke could easily have hidden a telltale pair, and Locke was decidedly the kind of man who would have had the intelligence to do so. But how could Locke know him as Shadow Vaarn? Well, there was, Reynolds. His jaws set with a snap. Was it, Reynolds? There was one way to find out. Within the next ten minutes, with his hands at Reynolds' throat— No, that would not do. Not yet. Save as a last resort. If it were not Reynolds, then any act like that on his part would disclose his hand, arouse Reynolds' suspicions that this trip to Manoa Island was, perhaps after all, not entirely a holiday jaunt. He began to pace up and down the room, but noiselessly, without sound. His subconscious mind imposed the necessity for silence. His hands clenched until the nails fit into the palms. Who was it? What did it mean? What was at the bottom of it? There was no answer that solved the question even to the satisfaction of a tormented brain that would have grasped with eager relief and even a plausible conclusion. The law? If the law had proof that he was Shadow Vaarn, he would not be an instant at liberty, though he would never be taken alive again, not even under the helpless condition that had done him down in Paris for the first and only time, as that old busybody, Sir Harris Greaves, the fool who loved to play with lighted matches over a powder-cask, had so unctuously set forth. But perhaps the law did not have proof, had only suspicion, was only playing a game to trip him into disclosing his identity. Revenge? Then why not another shot last night, as on the liner? Why the cycle? The infernal and accursed cycle again. Well, whoever it was, they would play with Shadow Vaarn, would they? Fools! Did they think he was one, too, that he could not see the weak spot in their attack? Something was holding them back here on the island, from a shot, as on the liner. Here, for some reason, an attempt to inspire fear was evidently being resorted to instead. Something kept them from coming out into the open. Something necessitated this cat-and-mouse game. Something, if exposure were actually within their power, prevented them from exposing him. That was it. That was it exactly. The one point on which he would stake everything and play out the game. Cursed them and their childish tricks to frighten him. Exposure was the only thing he feared, because that would ruin every chance of success here. But if he was safe from exposure, or if exposure were only delayed long enough, and it need not be very long delayed at that, he would have got, as he meant to get, in spite of God or man or the devil, what he had come for. There was another angle. What had transpired might not have anything to do with what had brought him here. Of course not. Why should it, essentially? But it was a menace, a hideous thing. It made him think of a picture he had seen somewhere, a gibbet at a bleak, windswept, dark-skied cross-road, with a figure dangling from it. One of those damned steel-plate engravings of the highway-men days in England. The unknown. For a moment he stood still, and then suddenly both fists were raised above his head. That was a reason, above all others, why he should go on. The stakes were on the table. It was not merely a question of old Marlin's money. Win or lose here, the menace of that voice that shrieked the name of Shadow Vaarn for all to hear now hung over his whole future. It must either be removed, or he, Shadow Vaarn, promised with ghastly certainty to take the place of that dangling, swaying thing upon the gibbet chain. The menace was here. What better chance was there to fight it than here and now? Who was the more cunning? Who would misplay a card? Not Shadow Vaarn. A grim and cold composure came. He had two birds to kill with one stone now. That was all. Frightened Shadow Vaarn away? Bah! They did not know Shadow Vaarn. Save only as a name to be screeched out from some safe retreat in the darkness. What might transpire in the secret recesses of his heart? The purely human fact, that dismay and fear, might pray at ugly moments upon him, was one thing. To halt him, to make him even hesitate, was another. He had never hesitated. He had but moved the more quickly, speeded up his plans, for time was a greater object now. He was at work at this very moment, waiting until the house was quiet for the night. Well, it was time now, wasn't it? A small flashlight played on the dial of his wristwatch. Just midnight. He nodded his head sharply, slipped across the room, and, with the door ajar, stood listening. A minute passed, another. There was no sound. He stepped out into the great wide hall, and closed his door behind him. It was like a shadow moving now. That was Locke's room, there. Polly's here, Dora Marlin's opposite. He passed them by, silently descending the great staircase, made his way along another wide hallway, then finally halted before a door. This was Mr. Marlin's room. He listened intently. The sound of regular breathing, as of one asleep, was distinctly audible from within. He smiled grimly as he turned away, and cautiously let himself out through a French window in the living room which opened on the veranda. From here he dropped lightly to the lawn. The money was not hidden in the house. He was spared from the start any loss of time in an abortive search of that kind. There was too much significance attached to the old Maniac's act of creeping stealthily in and out under his own veranda in the dead of night, especially when added to this had been the information gleaned from Polly that Mr. Marlin was in the habit of stealing out of the house and intervals for a succession of nights on end, though at a later hour each night. It was the obvious, but why a later hour each night? Rather queer, but the man's brain was queer. Why try to square insanity with the rational? It was the secret under the veranda that interested him. But his mind, as he made his way noiselessly along the edge of the bushes that fringed the veranda, reverted with a certain disturbing insistence to Polly. The girl hadn't stopped talking about going back to England. She said he had promised her she should when her education was finished. Well, perhaps he had, as one makes a promise to quiet a child. She wanted to be with her mother, quite natural. But she hadn't any mother, and if things went right here he was rather inclined to believe that hereafter he preferred America to England as a permanent place of residence. He had reiterated his promise, of course. He couldn't afford to do anything else, yet. Sooner or later he would have to explain to Polly. But when that time came, unless he had lost a certain facility in explanations that had never failed him yet, he should be able to turn even the fact that he had kept Mrs. Wick's death from her to his own account. And tell the truth, even if some would invert it at that. Solicitude would be the keynote. That, since Mrs. Wick's was not really her mother, her visit here need not be spoiled by ill news that would keep. Solicitude, and all that sort of idea. It was a good thing Mrs. Wick's was dead. Polly wouldn't want to live in England now. Mrs. Wick's death settled that problem. Which, otherwise, he would have had to find some other way of settling. A minor matter, very minor. Why should it even have crossed his mind? There was first the money, then, as a corollary, when that was found the distressingly fatal accident that would overtake poor old Mr. Marlin. And, woven into the warp and woof of this, the twisting of a certain windpipe that would screech its indiscretions for the last time to a far different tune. Ah, that was more like Shadow Vaarn. He parted the bushes and slipped in under the veranda. This was the spot where the old madman had disappeared from view last night. His flashlight was switched on now. It showed a well-defined path, if it could be called a path, where, through much usage, the earth and gravel had been pressed down close up against the side of the house. It led toward the rear. He followed it. It took him around the corner of the house, and here, under a flight of steps that led to the veranda above, he found himself confronted with a basement door. Captain Francis Newcomb smiled. He had never ranked the task of probing the old fool's actions as one that demanded much ingenuity, or as presenting any particular difficulty. It was simply a question of watching the other without being seen himself. And with the man's mode of exit and entry from and into the house already known, the rest would almost automatically take care of itself. He opened the door and stepped inside. The flashlight disclosed an ordinary basement storeroom, and, at one side, a flight of stairs. Captain Francis Newcomb moved quickly, but without sound now. He crossed the basement and crept up the stairs. Here, at the top, another door confronted him. With the flashlight out, he opened this door cautiously, and again a smile touched his lips. He had rather expected it. The door opened on the lower hall, and almost directly opposite Mr. Marlin's room. He stepped across the hall and listened again at the old man's door. There still came from within the sounds of occupancy, but instead now of the regular breathing as of one asleep, it was the sound as of one moving softly around within. Captain Francis Newcomb retreated to the stairs, closed the door behind him, descended the stairs, left the basement, and selected a spot among the trees at the edge of the lawn, where he could command a view of the shrubbery bordering the veranda. It was still a little earlier than the hour last night when, according to Polly, Mr. Marlin had gone out, and if, in the bizarre workings of a warped brain, a later hour each night added to secretness and security, Mr. Marlin was not yet to be expected for a little while. Quite so, he, Captain Francis Newcomb, had formulated his own timetable on that basis. There was nothing to do now but wait. He frowned suddenly. Suppose, though, Mr. Marlin did not come out at all. This might well be one of the nights when, no, he shook his head decisively. To begin with, he had just heard the man moving around in his room after having previously been, or pretended, that he had been, asleep. And if Polly's report was based on fact, as it undoubtedly was, the old maniac, once started on his period of peregrinations, kept it up until, on the basis of a later hour each night, his final sortie was made just before daybreak, and, taking into account the hour at which the old man had been out last night, Mr. Marlin ought at present to be in the thick of one of those periods of nocturnal activity that would endure for a number of consecutive nights to come. In a sort of grim mirth he laughed softly now to himself. One night, not a number of nights, would be all that was required. It did not entail any distressingly labored mental effort to understand why the old man went out. It was simply a question of where he went. The minutes dragged along. A quarter of an hour went by. It became half an hour, and then Captain Francis Newcomb drew back silently, a little deeper in among the trees. Yes, there was the old maniac now, dressing down and all, and cocking his head to and fro in all directions, as he parted the bushes in emerging from under the veranda. A moment later the old man scurried across the lawn to a spot not far from where he, Captain Francis Newcomb, was standing. The woods here surrounding the house were full of little paths and walks, and the grotesque figure with the flapping gown now disappeared along one of these paths a few yards away. Captain Francis Newcomb's lips twisted a little ironically, as he took up the chase. The head that kept cocking itself around so idiotically would avail its owner little in the shape of protection. Apart from it being too dark to see more than a few feet in any direction, now in the wooded path, he, Captain Francis Newcomb, had not the slightest intention of trying to keep the other in sight, much less run any risk of being seen himself. The sense of sound was quite sufficient, entirely adequate, twigs and dried pine needles snapped eloquently under Mr. Marlin's feet. Captain Francis Newcomb's ironical smile deepened. His own rubber-soled yachting shoes, combined with a little precaution, might be relied upon to cause the old maniac no alarm. The chase led on, following the turnings and twistings of the path, for perhaps three hundred yards, and then turned into a narrow intersecting by-path at the right. Here again Captain Francis Newcomb followed the sound of the other's footsteps for perhaps another hundred yards, and then suddenly he halted. The footsteps had ceased abruptly. For a moment Captain Francis Newcomb remained motionless, listening. Then with extreme caution he went forward again. He came presently to where the path ended at the edge of a small clearing, and here, though shadowy and indistinct, he could make out, just in front of him, the outline of what looked like a little cabin, or hut. He nodded his head complacently. From inside the hut he caught the sound of movement again. So this was where Mr. Marlin went at night, was it? He crept forward on hands and knees now, careful to make not the slightest noise, made the circuit of the little hut and halted again. This time on the side opposite from the door, and beneath the single window that the place possessed. From what he had been able to make out in the darkness, the hut appeared to be in a more or less tumbledown and neglected condition. It was probably an old tool-house or something of the sort. Well, that mattered very little. With his head well at one side of the window frame, to guard against any possibility of being seen within, he brought his eyes to a level with the sill and peered in. At first he could distinguish nothing. Then gradually a shadowy figure took form in one corner, and kept moving up and down with a motion which, more than anything else that suggested itself to him, resembled the motion of a woman at work over a washboard. This was accompanied by a scraping sound. Mr. Marlin was digging. Captain Francis Newcomb quietly sat down on the ground beneath the window. It was quite hopeless to expect to see anything more than he had seen, for the present. One would have asked a good deal to have asked more. The spot where the old maniac was at work was close up against the wall at the right of the door and almost directly opposite the window. The digging ceased. Another sound took its place. A sort of crooning, a sing-song droning sound. Words, snatches of sentences, became audible. All, all here, in the darkness, where no one can see, and I do not need to see, I feel. Night after night I feel, and my fingers count. Money, money, ha-ha, and they do not understand. Fools, all fools, you will multiply yourself a hundred, a thousandfold. Fools, blind fools, they would not listen. They called me mad. The crooning went on. Captain Francis Newcomb, with cool nonchalance, made himself more comfortable now, by propping his back against the side of the hut. When the old fool was through with his pooling, and the fondling of that half-million in bank notes that he imagined was so safely hidden, the next move would be in order. Until then there was nothing to do except to exercise what degree of patience he could. Patience. He stirred suddenly. Why exercise patience? Was it, after all, absolutely necessary that he should? No moment's work would do away with that senile old idiot now. Mr. Marlin would be found, but the money would not be found. That was the plan in its actual essence, wasn't it? He snarled then, angrily at himself under his breath. That was the method of the cusher, which, on a certain occasion, he had branded with so much contempt. The record of shadow-varn was marred by no such crudeness as that. A cusher without art. It brought him a sense of intense irritation, that the thought should even have entered his mind. Why had it? He shook his head. Was it impatience, or, perhaps, rather, oppressions prompting him to be through and done with this with the least possible delay? Were the events that had happened since he had left England insidiously taking effect upon him, to the detriment of his customary cold and measured judgment? Well, he would see to it that nothing of that sort should happen. Crime was a science, its procedure was calculated, methodical, orderly, denying scruples. He had always approached it as a science. He proposed never to approach it in any other way. The case in point, for instance, once he knew exactly where this hidden half-million was, where he could lay his hands on it whenever he desired at an instant's notice, and he would locate its precise position inside the hut there as soon as the old maniac returned home to his bed. Mr. Marlin would be removed. But that must be accomplished apparently through an accident, and the accident must be such as to serve as proof, so to speak, that Captain Francis Newcomb could not possibly have had any part in it. This became the more essential now, in view of that infernal voice last night. The nature of the accident itself was a mere detail. The choice was legion. There had been others who, becoming encumbrances in the path of shadow-varn, had met with accidents. What folly to go in there now, and have the whole island aroused by the crime of murder and invaded by the police? With the crime itself proclaiming the fact that the murder had been done for the money the old man was known to have had somewhere, but which was now obviously in the possession of someone to wit the murderer. Bah! What was the matter with him? Did he need to rehearse the obvious? Mr. Marlin's secret would die with him, and, being unable to find the money, they would give the old maniac more credit for cunning and originality than was due the moss-eaten method of selecting a hiding place under the floor of an old hut. The pitiful fool, under the floor, that was where the treasure was always hidden, in every book he had ever read. The crooning continued. It began to get a little on his nerves. It was interminable. Would the man stay here until daylight? No, that was hardly likely, not if he ran true to form. Old Marlin hadn't stayed out until daybreak last night, when Polly and he, Captain Francis Newcomb, had watched the other go in under the veranda. It might have been an hour, though it seemed two, when at last Captain Francis Newcomb rose silently to his feet. The crooning had finally ceased, and in its place there came now a series of low, thudding sounds, as though soft earth were being tamped into place. And then he heard the door creak a little, as it was opened and closed. An instant later the footsteps of the old man died away along the path by which he had come. Captain Francis Newcomb stepped quickly around to the other side of the hut, and tried the door. It was unlocked. He smiled in a sort of grim humor as he pushed it open, and, entering, closed it again behind him. That was the first sign of intelligence. No, applied to a maniac, it could hardly be termed intelligence. Well, then, craftiness, that measured up in at least a little way to the intensive order of cunning, with which the insane in general were popularly credited. An unlocked door was no mean safeguard. The last place one would expect to find, or look for, a half million dollars would be behind an unlocked door. His flashlight threw an inquisitive circle of light around the interior. Whatever the place had been used for at one time, it was decidedly neglected and in disuse now. The flooring was in an advanced state of decay. His eyes followed the ray of the flashlight as it held on a spot on the flooring near the door. Yes, knowing beforehand that some pieces of the flooring there had been lifted, he could see that such was the case in spite of the fact that the pieces had been very neatly replaced. The flashlight continued its tour of inspection. There was a pile of rubbish and some old barrels over in the far corner. He stepped quickly across to these and knotted his head sharply in satisfaction, as, tucked in behind the barrels, he found what he had been looking for. Mr. Marlin had been digging. Exactly! Here was the spade. He lifted it up and examined it. Particles of fresh earth still clung to it. Captain Francis Newcomb stood still now for an instant to listen. And as he listened, his brows gathered in a savage frown of annoyance. Why this exaggerated precaution? What did he expect to hear? What sound could there be? The old fool was finished for the night. There wasn't the slightest chance that he would return. Why should he, Captain Francis Newcomb, waste time now, when, with a moment's work, he could satisfy himself that the half-million-dollars that brought him to Manoa Island was definitely within his reach? Was that it? Was it psychological? Was it that voice he was listening for again? He swore fiercely under his breath in a sudden flood of blind rage at himself, and, crossing the hut, stood the spade up against the wall within reach, and knelt down on the floor with the flashlight playing on the two or three sections of board that the old man had removed. Yes, they were quite loose. His fingers worked their way into a crack between two of them. The old maniac's half-million, hidden under the flooring, it was child's—what was that? He was on his feet, the flashlight out, every muscle tense, his revolver outflung before him. In God's name what was that? It seemed to crash and thunder through the stillness. Only a knock upon the door? Again! Once more, sharp, imperative! He stood motionless. His jaws clamped like iron. What was he to do? If he answered the summons, what then? How explain the presence here of Captain Francis Newcomb, the guest, who at this hour should be peacefully asleep in his bed? Who was it out there who had knocked upon the door? Not the old fool himself who might have come back. Old Marlin wouldn't have knocked. Who then? Strange. A full minute must have passed. Why were the knocks not repeated? There was no sound from without. He had heard no one approach. He had heard no one go away. Only the knocks upon the door. He was listening now, every faculty alert. Was someone standing outside there, as tense, as silent, waiting, as he stood, tense, and silent, waiting, here within? If so, then, that was another angle to the situation. It must be so. There was not a sound out there. There had not been a sound. He had heard no one go away. Well, two could play at a game like that, and it would be the other who would show his hand. He moved softly toward the door. In the darkness he felt out with his hand. He touched the panel of the door, crept down until it clasped the knob. And then suddenly, even as he moved swiftly to one side out of the direct line, he flung the door wide back upon its hinges. And where the door had stood, there showed now, but an oblong of filmy, hazy murk, scarcely more penetrable to the eye than the black interior of the hut. Nothing more. No, that was not true. There was something else, something white, a small white fluttering thing that seemed to drift and flutter downward to the ground. No sound from without saved the night sounds of the woods, the leaves talking to one another, the stirrer in the grasses, the low, faint, never-ending chatter of insects. The watch ticking on Captain Francis Newcomb's wrist became a loud, discordant thing. It ticked away the minutes before he moved again. His eyes became accustomed to the murk outside the open door. There was no one there. That white thing lying by the threshold was an envelope. It had been stuck in the door. He reached out now and picked it up. And now he closed the door again, and, with the flashlight on, he tore the envelope open. He stared at the sheet of paper it contained. The single line of crude, printed letters seemed to leap out at him from the white sheet, scorching, burning, searing its message into his consciousness. He raised his hand and drew it across his forehead. It came away wet with sweat. He looked around him, snarling like a beast at bay. A thousand minions of hell here in the hut were screeching in his ears the words he had just read. Who murdered Sir Harris Greaves? End of Book 2, Chapter 4 Book 2, Chapter 5 OF THE FORCE DRAGGLERS by Frank L. Packard This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. THE GUTTER SNIPE A clock somewhere in the house chimed the hour. MIDNIGHT Polly Wicks rose hastily from the corner of the big leather upholstered Chesterfield, in which her small figure had been tucked away. Oh! she exclaimed. I had no idea it was so late. Everyone else has been in bed ages ago. I think, said Locke Gravely, that it is our duty to stand by that last log. It's been a rather jolly fire, you know. I... That is the second one you have put on after having made the same remark twice before. She accused him severely. I know, said Locke. I'm guilty, but think of the extenuating circumstances. Polly Wicks laughed. No, she said. This is positively the last, pleaded Locke. There may not be any excuse for a great fire tomorrow night. Have you thought of that? The wind is still howling, but the rain has stopped, and the moon is coming out, and his tongue was running away with him innately. He stopped short. Yes, inquired Polly Wicks demurely. The great dark eyes were laughing at him, teasing a little. Well, confounded, he blurted out, I don't want you to go. This has been a day and an evening that I shall never forget. Very wonderful ones for me. I don't want them to be only memories, yet. He met the dark eyes steadily now. The laughter had gone from them. He found them studying him for an instant in an almost startled way, and then the eyelids drooped and covered them, and she turned her head a little, facing the portiered window beside the fireplace of the living room, in which they stood, and the color crept softly up from the full bare throat and stole into her cheeks. He caught his breath. He felt his pulse stir in a quicker beat. She was very lovely as she stood there with the soft mellow glow of the rose-shaded lamp, and with the flicker of the flames from the firelight playing upon her. Just this last one, he pleaded again. She hesitated for an instant, then sat down slowly on the chester field once more, and as he watched her, there seemed to have come a curious quiet upon her. She did not look at him now. She was staring at her hands, which were tightly clasped together in her lap. Very well, she said in a low voice, I think that I too would like to have that last log. There is something that I want to say, that I meant to say this afternoon on the yacht. I, Mr. Locke, do you know who I am? She would not look up. He could not see her face. He knew what she meant. Mr. Marlin's words of the day before flashed upon him. There was something of dreariness in her voice, something that strove to be very bravely defiant, but was only wistful, and an almost uncontrollable impulse fell upon him to touch her face and lift it gently, and make her eyes meet his again. There would be an answer there, an answer that he had not yet dared put in words. What right had he to do so? A day of dreams on the yacht today, that and yesterday. Two days. He had known her longer than that. He found himself answering her question automatically. What a strange question! He was laughing, speaking lightly. Of course I know who you are. Yes, she said gravely. You know that my name is Polly Wicks, but do you know anything about me? He came and stood a little closer to her. I think I know you. His voice had lost its lighter tone. A little flood of color came as she shook her head. Did Guardi tell you anything about me on your trip down here? No, he said. I didn't think he had, she said. He has always been opposed to either of us sing anything about it to anyone. Dear Guardi, I know it is for my sake, and that he believes it makes it easier for me, and generally it does, but sometimes it doesn't. She stopped and looked up suddenly. But I do think it is more than likely that Mr. Marlin, in his queer way, has said something. Has he? Look here, said Locke impulsively. Does it really matter? Does it even matter at all? Mr. Marlin did say something, as a matter of fact. Yesterday, down at the boathouse, you know. What did he say? She demanded. Why? Locke smiled. Something about London, and selling flowers. Well, it is quite true, she said slowly. That is exactly what I was, a flower girl in London, on the street corners. I sell bonds, when I can, and wherever I can. Locke was laughing again. He was not quite sure whether he was striving the more to put her or himself at ease. I can't see any difference on the basis of pure commerce between the two, except perhaps that the flowers are the more honest offering of the two. Bonds sometimes are not always what they seem. She shook her head. That's very nice of you, Mr. Locke, she said. She was studying her clasp tans again. But, but of course, as you quite well know, that has nothing whatever to do with what I am saying. You know London, don't you? Why, yes, a bit, he answered. Yes, she said. I think you do. Indeed, from what you have said today, I am sure you know it better than any American I have ever met before. And indeed, far better than most people who live there all their lives. And so, and so... Her voice broke a little, then studied instantly. It is not necessary to go into any details, for you will understand quite well when I say that I lived in Whitechapel, and even there, where only the cheapest room was to be found, and that when I sold flowers, I did not have any shoes. And to the police, I was known as a gutter snipe. He was beside her, bending over her. My God, Miss Wicks! Polly! he burst out. Why do you hurt yourself like this? He had called her Polly. The name had come unbidden to his tongue. It had brought no rebuke, or was it that she had not noticed it? I would hurt myself more, she said steadily, if I felt that those around me could have any justification in believing that I was purposely masquerading in order to deceive. That would be hypocrisy, and I hate that. She flung out her hands suddenly with a queer little helpless gesture. Oh, I wonder if you understand what I mean. I wonder if I am explaining myself, and if you won't at once think that I am utterly inconsistent when I say that at school no one knew anything about my former life. But, you see, I have never felt that I was called upon to make the intimate things in my life a matter of public knowledge, and in that respect I can quite understand Garty's attitude in wishing me to say nothing about it, for in so many cases, and especially at school, it would have just supplied a fund for gossip, and that would have been abominable. Of course it would. There was savage assent in Locke's voice. It's nobody's business but your own. Oh, yes, it is, she answered instantly. It's Miss Marlin's business if I came here as a guest. Yes, said Locke quickly, but you have told her, and— Wait, she interrupted. Yes, I have told her, and now I have told you. But your two cases are entirely different, and I am not altogether sure that my reason for telling you is entirely to my credit, because it is perhaps like the child who confesses when he knows he is sure to be found out. You couldn't be here with poor Mr. Marlin very long before you knew. Do you understand? I couldn't bear the thought of you, or anyone, thinking I was deliberately trying to hide the truth, or that, where there was reason to do so, I was afraid or ashamed to speak out myself. I wish you hadn't added that, anyone, he said in a low voice. She did not answer. She was staring now into the fire, and he too stared into it. It was full of pictures, strange drab pictures. He knew Whitechapel, its stark, hopeless realism. He knew its children, without shoes. Was that what she saw there now? The fire was dying. Beneath the one remaining log, almost burned through now, there were only embers. They glowed here and there, and went out, black, like some memories. He looked at her again. Her face, that he could see now, seemed strangely pinched and drawn. Her hand toyed nervously with a frill of her dress, and something seemed suddenly to choke in his throat, and a great yearning came, and it would not be denied. Polly, he whispered, and, leaning over, caught her hand in his, with a quick, sharp in-drawing of her breath, as one in sudden pain. She rose to her feet, and drew her hand away. Oh, why did you do that? She cried out. Because, he said, I love—no, no! She cried again. Don't answer me. I didn't mean that you should answer. It is only that now there is something else that I must say. I—I— Her voice broke suddenly. Don't, he said huskily. Polly, there is nothing to take to heart. What could it ever matter those days? They are gone now forever. You exaggerate any possible bearing they could have on today. Suppose you were a flower girl, that you have known poverty in its bitterest sense. Would that matter? Could it possibly matter to anyone who is not a contemptible snob, or to— There is something else now that I must say. She was repeating her own words, almost as though she were unconscious of any interruption. You—you make me say it. I—I never knew who my father was. She was gone. He had had a glimpse of a face pitifully white, of dark eyes that fought bravely against a mist that sought to blind them. And then, before he could move or speak, she had run from the room, and he stood alone before the fireplace. And in the fireplace, the last log fell spluttering, throwing out its dying rain of sparks, and lay a broken thing between the dogs. THE MAN IN THE MASK Again, a clock somewhere in the house chimed the hour. And again. One o'clock. Two o'clock. The embers in the fireplace had long since turned to black charred things. Locke raised his head. Two o'clock! He had not been conscious of it when the last little glow had died away. He had turned out the light when Polly had gone, and had sat there staring at the dying fire. He had not put on another log. The fire was dead now, quite dead. He had been staring into a black fireplace that was as black as the room itself. Two o'clock! He stood up and, going to the windows, flung back the portiers. It was blowing hard, but the moon was beginning to show through the scutting clouds. He brushed his hand heavily across his eyes. It was very still in the house, but the stillness itself seemed a disquiet, untranquil, chaotic thing. Polly. Yes, Polly had filled his thoughts during those two hours. Polly and Captain Francis Newcomb. But he had not forgotten with all the bizarre appointment he was to keep with Mr. Marlin in the Aquarium at quarter past two. One would not be likely to forget so extraordinary a thing in any case. No matter what might meanwhile have intervened, even if Mr. Marlin had not been so grotesquely persistent in his reminders. A dozen times that day the old man had plucked significantly at his locks coat sleeve, or had signaled mysteriously with his finger to his lips, and twice with a childish titter the old man had come upon him unexpectedly and had said exactly the same thing on each occasion. The old man had tittered. It's all right for tonight, my boy. You will see, you will see. And they thought I was a fool. Do not say a word. Keep quiet, keep quiet. You will see. What would he see? What would he learn? Much or little? Would it be only the babble of a sick brain? Queer, strange, almost impossible conditions in this house. Where would they climax? And how? Whose hand held the trumps? His eyes fixed suddenly on a spot across the lawn. Something seemed to have moved there. Fancy, perhaps, or a shadow cast by the swaying branches. The moon was just coming out from under the edge of a cloud. Another moment, and he would be able to tell if anything were there. Yes, a woman emerging from the path that led to the shore. The figure began to cross the lawn, approaching the house. And then Locke's eyes narrowed suddenly in astonishment. It wasn't a woman at all. It was a man wearing a long gown, a dressing gown. It was Mr. Marlin. And the man kept cocking his head from side to side. And he appeared to be carrying something under the dressing gown. At least his arm was crooked up as though he held a bundle there. Locke smiled now a little grimly, as the old man finally disappeared around the corner of the house. It was almost a quarter past two. He would find Mr. Marlin in the aquarium. He drew the portiers together again, and, leaving the room, went out into the reception hall beyond. There was no light showing anywhere, and he was obliged to feel his way along. The aquarium was in, or rather composed in itself, a little wing built at the rear of the house, but connected therewith by a short covered passageway. He knew the way quite well. He had been there with Polly on that first day. That first day. That was only yesterday. It was incredible, impossible. His mind was running riot, as he groped his way to the rear of the main staircase, and into the wide passage that ran parallel with the length of the house. But then the whole place was incredible. The house itself was like a great hotel, with its carters and its endless number of rooms. This was Mr. Marlin's room here at his right, and... He stood still. A door on his left had opened. It shut again instantly, and then he could hear it being cautiously reopened a little way. Don't you move! said a voice in a fierce whisper. Don't you move! I can see you. If you move I will shoot you. Locke found his muscles that had suddenly grown tense and strained, and had suddenly relaxed. He could see nothing. The door wasn't wide enough. Open. But it was the old madman's voice. Strange, though. How had the man got there? That wasn't Mr. Marlin's room. Mr. Marlin's room was on the other side of the hall. Yes, of course. There must be an entrance into the house there, of some sort. It's Locke, he announced quietly. That's you, Mr. Marlin, isn't it? Ha! ejaculated the other. You, my boy, eh? Well, that's quite different. Of course, it's you. You know the value of being prompt. Excellent, excellent. Be very quiet. But hurry. Follow me. We have only a little time. Locke could just make out the old man's form now, as the other came through the door. And then, in the darkness, it was lost again. But the patter of footsteps ahead of him, hurrying along, served as a guide. He followed the other to the end of the hall, turned into the covered passageway, and was halted again by the old man, this time at the door of the aquarium. Tee hee! Tittered the maniac. They think they are dealing with a fool. Wait! Wait, young man! I will see that the window shades are all down before we turn on the light, though there will be no one here tonight except ourselves. They will be somewhere else. The old man opened the door and disappeared. And now Locke, as he waited, and though he listened, could not hear the other moving around inside. What sound the old man made was drowned by the noise of running water through the pipes that fed the tanks, and added to this the low constant drip and trickle that pervaded the place. Presently the lights went on. Here, cried the old man, come over here! Locke blinked a little in the light as he stepped forward. He'd reflected bewilderingly from the glass faces of the tanks that were everywhere about. He joined the old man in the center of the aquarium. Here there was an open space from which the tanks radiated off much after the manner of the spokes of a wheel, and this space was utilized as a sort of luxurious observation point, so to speak, for a heavy oriental rug was on the tiled floor, and ranged around a table were a number of big easy chairs. From under his dressing-gown now, the old man took a package that was wrapped in oiled silk and laid it on the table. Money! he cried out abruptly. We know it's power, young man, you and I. He began to fumble with the cord that was tied around the package, and then suddenly commenced to titter again. Did I not tell you I was being followed, always being followed? Well, last night they followed a wrong scent. I told you you would see who was the fool. They are here tonight, digging, digging, digging. They will dig the place all up before they are sure it is not there. Money! that package! Locke's lips tightened a little. Was this, as he had more than half expected, what he was to see? The half million dollars at last that Polly had seen? And what did the man mean by wrong scent and digging? Yes, of course, Mr. Marlin, said Locke quietly. Of course they will. But who is it that is following you? The old man dropped the package from his hands and leaned across the table. His eyes suddenly ablaze. If I knew I would kill them, he whispered, It is everybody, everybody! Perhaps you are mistaken, Locke spoke in a soothing tone. Did you see anybody following you last night? It is not necessary to see. The old man's whisper had become suddenly confidential. I know. They were there. They are always there, watching. Eyes are always watching. He broke into his insane titter once more. Yes, yes. And we are being watched by thousands of eyes tonight. Look at them. Look at them. The pretty things. See them swimming all around you. But they look and they say nothing. And they do not follow me. His voice was rising shrilly. He began to gesticulate with his hands, pointing with darting little motions at one tank after another. Do you hear? You need not be afraid because they watch. They will not follow us. Locke sat leisurely in a chair facing the other across the table. He was rather curious about this mysterious digging of last night, a little more than curious. But also it was necessary to calm the old maniac's growing excitement. I am quite sure of that, Mr. Marlin. He agreed heartily. We should be perfectly safe here, especially as you say that you have succeeded in making whoever was following you watch somewhere else. That was very clever of you, Mr. Marlin. The old man put his finger to his lips. I'll tell you where it was, young man, he said. The old hut in the woods behind the house. They think it's there. They think that's where I hide the money. And they'll keep on looking there. It will take them a long while. They will be looking there tonight and perhaps tomorrow night too. And then they will begin to follow me again. But it will be too late. Too late for many, many days because the time lock will be set. God supplies the time lock, young man. Do you not understand that? But can you imagine anyone opening a time lock that God has made? Lock took refuge in a cigarette. Apart from some mare's nest in an old hut, it was quite hopeless. The old maniac's condition was growing steadily worse. There was a marked change in even the last 24 hours. It did not require any professional eye to discern that. I think, suggested lock conversationally, that you were going to show me something in that package, Mr. Marlin. Yes, said the old man instantly, and as though quite oblivious of any digression. That is why you are here. Listen. You will tell your father about it. I do not ask others to do what I do not do myself. Your father must do the same. He must get all the great capitalists of America to do likewise. It is the only thing that will save the country from ruin and disaster. Look. The old man ripped off the cord and wrapper, and there tumbled out upon the table, each held together with two or three elastic bands, a half dozen or more small bundles of bank notes. See. See. Do you see, young man? Lock with difficulty maintained an impassive countenance. He had expected something of the sort, but it seemed somehow incredible that a sum so great as Polly had named should be represented by those few little bundles scattered there on the table in front of him. He picked one of them up and riffled the notes through his fingers. It contained perhaps a hundred bills, each one of the denomination of a thousand dollars. One hundred thousand dollars. He laid the bundle back on the table. Others were of like denomination. Others again of five hundred. The full amount was undoubtedly there. Do you know how much is there? Demanded the old madman sharply. Lock regarded the money thoughtfully. To name the exact amount offhand might aggravate the old maniac's already suspicious frame of mind. I can see that there is a very large sum, he answered cautiously. A large sum, echoed the madman aggressively. And what do you call a large sum, young man? Well, at a guess, said Lock quietly, and basing it on that package I have just examined, I should say in the neighborhood of half a million dollars. The old maniac thrust his head forward across the table, stared for an instant, and then suddenly burst into a peel of wild, ironical laughter. Half a million? He rocked upon his feet, his peals of laughter punctuating his words. Bah! There are five millions, ten millions, fifty millions there! He shook his finger under Lock's nose. Do you hear what I say, young man? The blue eyes had become a light with a mad blaze. Hectic spots began to burn in the old man's cheeks. Lock nodded his head in a slow, deliberate manner, as the most effective thing he could think of to do by way of calming the other. The whole place, the surroundings, the grotesque shapes swimming around in the tanks everywhere he looked. The eyes of the queer sea creatures, that all seemed to be fascinated by that fortune, which lay upon the table. The constant drip and trickle of water, the crazed old man who rocked upon his feet and laughed, were eerily unreal. That sea horse in the tank, that faced him from just beyond the other side of the table, for instance, seemed to be a most bizarre and unnatural creature, both in shape and actions, even for one of his own species. Half past two in the morning, in an aquarium with a madman, and half a million dollars. Again, by way of appeasing the other, he nodded his head. Listen, cried the old maniac fiercely, you must help me. Men are blind, blind, blind. Europe is crumbling. Nations are bankrupt. Chaos, chaos, chaos is everywhere. Everything else is decreasing in value. Only the American dollar climbs up and up and up. Sell, sell, sell while there is time. Commercial houses are tottering. Dividends are not being paid. The employment of labor becomes less and less. The end is near. And fools cling to their business enterprises, and their capital shrinks, and is swallowed up and lost, lost. The man was working himself into a frenzy. His voice rose in a shriek, lost. Do you not see? Do you not understand? Money alone has any value. And the less money there is left in the world, and the more that is lost, the greater will be the value of what remains. It will multiply itself by the thousand fold. Look, look what is on the table here. It will become a wealth beyond counting in any case. And if no one will believe me, then the more it will be worth, because there will be the less money to compete against it. Millions, millions, hundreds of millions. But I am not selfish. I do not wish to see the ruin of the world. And you, you, you will now be responsible. They will not listen to me because they say I am mad. I, who alone have the vision to see, and the courage to act. But your father will listen to you, and he will believe you. And the great financiers of America will follow your father. And subconsciously Locke was aware that the old maniac was still talking, the crazed words rising in shrieks of passionate intensity, but he was no longer paying any attention to the other. He was staring again at the glass tank, behind and a little to one side of the old madman that contained the seahorse. The creature was most strange. It was only a small and diminutive thing. But unless he were the victim of a hallucination, it had taken on an extraordinary appearance. It seemed to possess human eyes to assume almost the shape of a face. Only there was a shadow across it. The water rippled a little. The seahorse moved to the opposite corner of the tank. But the eyes remained in exactly the same original spot. Locke leaned nonchalantly back in his chair, though his lips were compressed now into a thin, grim line. They were human eyes, and the shadow across the face was a mask. Where did it come from? He began to figure out the angle of reflection. The face of each glass tank, of course, with the deeper, huge water behind it, was nothing more or less than a reflecting mirror. What was that dark straight line above the eyes? To begin with, the reflection must come from somewhere behind him, and well to one side of him. Taking into consideration the position in which Mr. Marlon stood, it must be the left-hand side. The tanks, then, that would seem to answer that requirement, became instantly limited in number. It must be either the first or second tank of those that formed the left-hand side of the alleyway, nearest to where he sat, and that, like the spoke of the wheel, led obliquely to the wall. He could not see the wall, but, yes, he had it now. There was a window there. That dark line above the eyes was the window shade, raised six inches or so from the sill. It could easily have been accomplished, even if the old madman had carefully drawn every shade and shut every window in the place, as presumably he had. The drip and trickle, the running water, would have deadened any little sound made in forcing the window, and after that, to reach in and manipulate the shade, would have been but child's play. Locke's eyes shifted now to the old man. What was to be done? The other, still rocking and swaying upon his feet, still flinging his arms about in mad gestures, his facial muscles twitching violently as he shrieked out his words, was already verging on a state of acute hysteria. Even to hint at the possibility that they were being watched would not only have probably been very dangerous effect upon the maniac, but would in itself defeat any chance of turning the tables on that watcher outside the window. Whose eyes were those? Whose face was that behind the mask? Intuitively he felt he knew. The trail went back, broad and well-defined, to London. Newcomb, Captain Francis Newcomb, who else could it be? His jaws clamped hard together now. How turn intuition into a practical visible certainty by stripping that mask from the other's face? The eyes were still there in the tank. His mind was working keenly, swiftly now. Suppose he made some excuse to leave the aquarium and stroll around outside to that window. No, that would not do. In the first place he probably could not get away from the old madman, and if he could, he dared not, for the length of time it would take him to accomplish any such purpose, leave the other alone with that money on the table and subject to an attack from an open window only a few feet away. There was only one thing to do. The man outside the window there, unaware that his presence was known, would naturally not consider that he, Locke, was a factor to be reckoned with when, say, the old madman left the aquarium here to return the money to its hiding-place wherever that might be. And therefore, if he, Locke, could manage to keep ward over Mr. Marlin without being seen himself, the man out there would almost certainly rise to the bait and bring about his own downfall. The money was in evidence for the first time. It's whereabouts known, and the man in the mask would be illogical indeed if he allowed it to be restored to the security of a secret hiding-place without making an attempt to get it when an opportunity such as this apparently presented itself. But against this was a certain risk to which the old man would be subjected. If not a physical risk, then a mental one, which latter, to one in Mr. Marlin's condition, would probably be the more dangerous of the two. And then there was the chance, too, that if Locke turned an ugly trick, the money itself might be in jeopardy. The old maniac's unconscious cooperation must be secured. The hiding-place was somewhere outside the house. That was obvious, both from Mr. Marlin's nocturnal habits and from the even more significant fact that the old madman, in coming to this appointment here tonight, had brought the money with him from somewhere outdoors. Also it seemed to be no secret that Mr. Marlin roamed abroad at night. Polly had spoken of it without reserve. It was therefore but fair to presume that one as interested as was the man outside the window, and particularly if it were Newcombe, was in possession of this knowledge, and being in possession of it, was equally capable of putting two and two together, and would expect the old maniac to go out again tonight with the money. If then, without unduly alarming him, Mr. Marlin could be persuaded to remain in the house with his money tonight, it would not only be the safest thing the old madman could do, but would afford him, Locke, if he were right in his supposition, an excellent chance to trap the man in the mask while the latter waited for his prey to come out. Locke, leaning forward now, crossed his arms on the table, and nodded his head earnestly at the old maniac. One corner of the table, at least, was distinctly visible from where the window would be along that little alleyway between the rows of tanks, but he was careful not to glance in that direction. The reflection of the masked face still showed in the same place. What was the old madman saying? Well, it didn't matter, did it? He interrupted the other now. You are right, Mr. Marlin, he said gravely. I agree with everything you have said. It is a most serious situation. I had no idea there existed any such vital and immediate necessity of realizing cash for every description of asset that we can lay our hands upon. And I had no idea of the immense potential value that this money here on the table, for instance, possesses. As you say, when the crash comes it will be worth untold millions, a fabulous amount. Yes, yes, agreed the old man excitedly. He began to pat and fondle the bundles of banknotes. Millions, millions, hundreds of millions! The amount is so vast, said Locke, still earnestly, that I cannot help thinking about what you said in reference to being followed out there in the woods last night. I don't think you should risk any chance of being followed tonight when you have all this great wealth with you, even though you are quite sure you have put whoever it may be off the scent, and that he, or they, will be busy somewhere else. I don't think, if I were you, I would go out of the house again tonight. The old madman straightened up, and for a moment stared at Locke. And as he stared the red spots began to overspread his cheeks, and the pupils of the blue eyes seemed to enlarge and darken. And then, with a sudden sweep of his arms, he gathered the bundles of banknotes together, wrapped them up frantically in the oiled silk covering, and thrust the package under his dressing-gown. Ha! his voice rose in a wild and savage scream. You think I should stay in the house, do you? Ha! I see, I see. That is what you want me to do, is it? You want to trick me. You are one of them, one of them, one of them. You could never find the money where I hide it. You could never open God's time lock. So you want me to keep it in the house tonight where you can get it. And you think that I am a madman and cannot see what you are after. You are one of them, one of them that follows, follows everywhere, and watches, and watches. He burst into a wild peel of laughter, another and another. He clutched fiercely at the package under his dressing-gown. His face was distorted. His free hand pounded the table. Saliva showed at the corners of his lips. For God's sake, Mr. Marlin, cried, Lock, listen! One of them, one of them, screamed the old man, and, turning, suddenly, dashed for the door. Lock's chair overturned with a crash as he sprang to his feet, and darting around the table started to follow. But the old maniac by now was already at the door. He saw the other's hand snatch at the electric light switch. The aquarium was in sudden darkness. He heard the door slam. He groped his way to it and wrenched at it. The old madman had locked it on the outside.