 Book 2, Chapter 7 of The Four Straglers, by Frank L. Packard. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The fight. For a moment, grim-lipped, Locke stood there at the door. He had accomplished exactly the opposite to what he had intended. The old man, the money, were both in infinitely greater peril now than under almost any other circumstances of which he could conceive. He did not blame himself, the vagaries, the impulses, the irrational promptings of an insane mind were beyond his control or guidance. It was the last thing he had expected the old maniac to do. But it was done now. It was too late to consider that phase of it. There was work for his own brain to do, he hoped more logically. He turned sharply now and began to make his way as best he could in the darkness toward the window at the end of that aisle of tanks outside of which he knew the masked man had stood. He dared not show any light here, though by so doing he would have been able to move more swiftly. The man who had been at the window was almost certainly gone now to watch for the old maniac's appearance outside the house. And Mr. Marlin would assuredly, and as quickly as he could, scurry outside to hide his money again. And even if the man in the mask had had no previous knowledge of the old madman's strange nightly movements, which would be a very unsafe assumption on which to depend, he would have heard enough at the window, if not to know then, at least, to expect that the old maniac's one thought now would be to secrete his money, and that the hiding place, this timelock that God had made, as the old man had called it, was somewhere outside the house. But the watcher's new lurking place might still embrace a view of the window, and if he, Locke, climbed out with the light behind him, he was at the window now. He smiled grimly. He was pitted against no fool. But then he never had been fool enough himself ever to place Captain Francis Newcomb in that category. The man in the mask had left no tell-tale evidence of his presence behind him. The shade was drawn down, the window closed. Locke lifted the shade now, raised the window quietly, and stood for an instant listening, staring out. He could see little or nothing other than the swaying branches of trees against the skyline. And there was no sound, save the sweep of the wind which was still blowing half a gale. And now he swung himself over the window sill, dropped the few feet to the ground, and crouched against the wall, listening, staring again into the blackness. Nothing, the moon, burrowing deeper under the clouds, made it even blacker than it had been a moment ago. He straightened up and began to run toward the front of the house. It was perhaps a case of blind man's bluff, but there was not an instant to lose, and, deprived of any aid from the sense of either sight or hearing, he was left with only one thing to do. From the living-room window a little while ago, he had seen Mr. Marlin coming toward the house from across the lawn, after having presumably just unearthed his money from its hiding-place. The chances were that it was by the same route the old maniac would return now. Locke ran on, stumbling, half groping his way through what seemed a veritable maze of outbuildings, here at the rear of the house. The minutes seemed to be flying, wasted. The old maniac, if he had left the house the moment he had run from the aquarium, must by now have had a good three minutes' start, and if the man in the mask had had once picked up the trail, then... No, he was not too late. He had reached the front corner of the house now, and across the lawn, where in the open space it was a little lighter, something, a blacker thing than the darkness, moved swiftly, caught his eye. It was the figure of a man running toward the trees in the direction of the path that led to the shore, and from which old Mr. Marlin had emerged earlier in the evening, and now the figure was gone, lost in the trees. But he, Locke, too, was running now, sprinting for all he knew across the lawn. It was perhaps sixty yards. There was no time to use caution and circuit warily around the edge of the woods. He might be seen. But he had to take that chance. He would not be heard. The soft grass and the wine of the wind guaranteed him against that. It was a little better than an even break. The figure he had seen was not, he was sure, that of the old maniac. The long, flapping dressing-gown wood, even in a shadowy way, have been distinguishable. If he were right, then, in his supposition, the figure he had seen was the man in the mask, and old Mr. Marlin was already in there on the path leading through the woods to the shore. A cry, sudden, like a scream that was strangled, came with the gusting wind. It came again. From the edge of the lawn now, Locke leaped forward along the path. The black, twisted shapes loomed up just ahead of him. He flung himself upon them. A low, startled, vicious snarl answered his attack. After that there was no sound while perhaps a minute passed. Saved the rustle of leaves and foliage, the snip of broken twigs under swiftly moving, straining feet. Locke was fighting now with merciless, exultant ferocity. It was the man in the mask he was at grips with. It was not the dressing-gown alone, the feel of it that distinguished one from the other. He had even in that first plunging rush in the darkness felt his hand brush against the mask on the man's cheek. It was all shadow, all blackness, to this side and that, close locked together, he and his antagonist now swayed madly. The man's one evident desire was to break away from his Locke's encircling arms. Locke's purpose not only to prevent escape, but to unmask the other, the moon might come out again at any instant, filter through the branches, just enough light to see the other's face if the mask were off. A peel of laughter rang out. It was the old madman. Locke, as he fought, more sensed than saw the old man's form close to the ground, as though the other were groping around on his hands and knees. The peel of laughter came again, and then the old Maniac's voice in a triumphant scream, I've got it! I've got it! Money! Money! Money! Millions! Millions! Millions! It's all here! I've got it! It's all— The voice was dying away in the distance. Locke laughed a little with grim panting breath. Whether it had been dropped or had been snatched from him in the first attack, old Marlin had now obviously recovered his package of banknotes. He was gone now, running to hide it again, of course. In any event, the old Maniac and his money were safe, and— His antagonist had wrenched free an arm. Locke's head jolted back suddenly from a wicked short arm blow that caught the point of his chin. A sensation of numbness seemed to be trying insidiously to creep upward to his brain, but it did not reach that far—not quite that far. Suddenly it loosened his grip for an instant, and the shadowy form that he had held appeared to be floating away from him. And then, as his brain cleared, he shot his body forward in a low, lunging tackle. The other almost eluded him, but his hands caught and clung to the Man's arm, both around one of the other's arms. The Man wrenched and squirmed in a savage frenzy to tear himself free. There was a sound of the ripping and rending of cloth. Everything showed white in the darkness. The other's sleeve had torn away at the armpit. A white shirt sleeve. It was a beacon in the blackness. The Man would not get away now. There was something more tangible than a shadow—something to see. In a flash Locke shifted his hold, and his arms swept around the other, pinioning the Man's hands to his sides, tighter, tighter. Neither spoke. The only sounds were horse-rasping gasps for breath—tighter. He was bending the Man backward now, slowly, surely, a little more. No, the Man was too strong. The pinioned arms were free again, and Locke felt him grip together like a vice around the small of his back. They lurched now, swaying from side to side like drunken men. The mask! To get at the mask! They were locked together, the chin of one on the other's shoulder, straining until the muscles cracked. Locke began to raise his head a little. The hot breath of the other was on his cheek now, and now his cheek rubbed against the other's mask. An oath broke suddenly from the Man. Quick muttered, the voice unrecognizable in its labored breathing, and the other, seeming to sense his, Locke's intention, suddenly relinquished his grip, snatched for a throat hold instead, and, missing, began to tear at Locke's arms in an effort to break away. And then Locke laughed again grimly. It would avail nothing to snatch at the mask and get it off in the darkness here, if by so doing, with his own hold on the other gone, the Man should get away. There was another way to get the mask off, and still maintain his grip upon the other. They were holding now, seemingly as motionless as statues. The strength of one matched against the other in a supreme effort. The sweat broke out in great beads on Locke's forehead. His arms seemed to be tearing away from their sockets. He could feel the muscles in the other's neck as it hugged against his own, swell and stand out like great steel ridges. And then slowly, inch by inch, he forced his own head around until his face was against the other's cheek. He could just feel the mask now with his lips. Another inch. Yes. Now he had it. His teeth closed on the lower edge of the mask, chewed at it until he had a still firmer grip. And then he suddenly wrenched his head backward. The mask came away in Locke's teeth. He spat it out. The other was a man gone mad with fury now, and with a new strength that fury brought, he strove only to strike and strike again, but Locke only closed his hold the tighter. To strike back was to take the chance of the other breaking loose. It was too dark to see the man's face, though the mask was off now. But it could only be a few yards along the path to the open space of the lawn out there, and the moon would not always be fickle. It would break through the clouds, and they were rocking, lurching, twisting, swaying in their mad struggle, and now they circled more widely, and branches snatched and tore at them, and broke and fell from the trees at the sides of the path. And here Locke gave a step, and there another, working nearer and nearer to the edge of the lawn. And then suddenly there came a half-choked cry from the other. The man had tripped in the undergrowth. Locke swung his way to complete the fall, tripped himself, and both, with their balance gone, but grappling the fiercer at each other, pitched headlong with terrific force into the trees at the side of the path. And Locke was for an instant conscious of a great blow, of streaks of fiery light that smote at his eyeballs with excruciating pain. And then utter blackness came. When he opened his eyes again, a moonbeam lay along the path, and a figure in a long dressing gown was passing by. He was dreaming, wasn't he? There was a sick sensation in his head, a giddiness, and besides that it gave him great pain. He raised himself up cautiously on his elbow, fighting to clear his mind, and suddenly his lips tightened grimly. There was something ironical in that moonbeam, something that mocked him in disclosing a figure in a dressing gown, instead of a face that had been unmasked, yet still could not be seen. He looked around him now. He was lying a few feet in from the edge of the path, and against the trunk of a large tree. Yes, he remembered now. His head had struck against the tree, and he had been knocked unconscious, and the man who had been masked was gone. He rose to his feet. He was very groggy, and for a moment he leaned against the tree trunk for support. The giddiness began to pass away. That was old Mr. Marlin who had just gone by. Well, neither the old man nor his money had come to any harm anyway. He stepped out on the path, and from there to the edge of the lawn. The old madman was just disappearing around the corner of the veranda. Locke put his hands to his eyes. How his head throbbed! How long had he lain there unconscious? He took out his watch. His eyes seemed blurred. Or was it the meagerness of the moonlight? He was not quite sure, but it seemed to be ten minutes after three. It wasn't very easy to figure backward. He did not know how long he and the old maniac had been together in the aquarium, but, say, half an hour. Starting then at the hour of the rendezvous, which had been at a quarter past two, that would bring it to a quarter of three. Then say ten minutes for what had happened afterward, including the fight, and that would make it five minutes of three. He must, therefore, have been lying in there unconscious for at least fifteen minutes. The man who had worn the mask was gone now, naturally. But perhaps it would not be so difficult to pick up the trail. Captain Francis Newcombe's room offered very promising possibilities, and there was a torn coat sleeve that would not readily be replaced in fifteen minutes. He made his way now across the lawn and up the steps to the veranda. He tried the front door. It was locked, of course. He had forgotten that he had left the house by crawling out of the aquarium window. There was no use going back that way because the old madman had locked the aquarium door. Mr. Marlin, though, had some means of entrance, and if that door through which the man had so suddenly appeared in the back hall meant anything, the entrance the old man used was likely to be somewhere in the rear. Mr. Marlin would probably have locked that too behind him. He looked up and down the now moon-flecked veranda and began to try the French windows that opened upon it from the front rooms of the house. The first two were locked as he had expected. It was only a chance, but he might as well begin here as anywhere else. He tried the third one almost refunctorily. It opened at a touch. I'm in luck, lock-muttered, and stepped inside. He turned the knob to lock the French window behind him and found the bolt already thrown, queer. He stood frowning for an instant, then stooped and felt along the inside edge of the threshold. The socket that ordinarily housed the bolt-bar was gone. The same condition, therefore, obviously existed at the top as the long bar had a double throw. He straightened up, a curious smile twitching at his lips now, and making his way silently to the stairs, he reached the upper hall, stole along it to the door of his own room, and entered. Here from one of his bags he procured a revolver, and a moment later, his ear to the panel, listening, he stood outside Captain Francis Newcomb's door. There was no sound from within. Softly he began to turn the door handle. The door would hardly be locked. That would be a misplay. One didn't lock one's bedroom door when a guest in a private house. No, it was not locked. He had the door ajar now. Again he listened. There was still no sound from within. Was the man back yet or not? The absence of any sound meant nothing, save that Newcomb was probably not in the sitting-room of his suite. He might easily, however, be in either the bathroom or the bedroom beyond. Locke swung the door a little wider open, stepped through, and closed it noiselessly behind him. Again he stood still, his revolver now outthrust a little before him. The moonlight played across the floor. It disclosed an open door beyond. Still no sound. Locke moved forward. He could see into the bedroom now. The bed was not only empty, but had not been slept in. He turned quickly and opened the bathroom door. The bathroom, too, was empty. Captain Francis Newcomb had not, then, as yet returned. With a grim smile, Locke thrust his revolver into his pocket. It was perhaps just as well. The time while he waited might possibly be used to very good advantage. Captain Francis Newcomb's baggage was invitingly at one's disposal. The telophah, with its confined quarters, and where, on the little vessel, it was always crowded, as it were, had offered no such opportunity. Locke opened one of the bags. His smile now had changed to one of irony. Barring any other justification, turnabout was no more than fair play, was it? He possessed a moral certainty, if he lacked the actual proof, that Captain Francis Newcomb had not hesitated to invade his lox cabin on the liner and go through his lox effects. He laughed a little now in low, grim mirth. He wondered which of the two Newcomb or himself would be the better rewarded for his efforts. There was little light, but Locke worked swiftly by the sense of touch, with fingers that ignored the general contents and that sought dexterously for hidden things. His fingers traversed every inch of the lining of the bag, top, bottom, and sides. He disturbed nothing. Presently he laid the bag aside and started on another, and suddenly he knotted his head sharply in satisfaction. This one was what was generally known as a Gladstone bag, and under the lining, at one side, his fingers felt what seemed like a folded paper that moved under his touch. The lining was intact, of course, but there must be some way of getting in underneath it. Yes, here it was. Rather clever and ordinarily quite safe, unless one were actually looking for something of the sort. There was a flap, or pocket, at the side of the bag, the ordinary sort of thing, and at the bottom of the flap, Locke's fingers, working deftly, found that the edges of the lining, while apparently fastened together, were made, in reality, into a double fold, the lining being stiff enough, even when the edges were displaced, to fall back of its own accord, into place again. He separated the edges now, worked his fingers into the opening, and drew out an envelope. It had been torn open at one end, and there was a superscription of some sort on it in faded writing, which, in the semi-darkness, he could not make out. He stood up, and went quickly to the window, to obtain the full benefit of the moonlight. He could just decipher the writing now. For a moment he stood there motionless, but his eyes had lifted from the envelope now, and were fixed on the lawn below. The window here gave on the side of the lawn with the trees at the rear of the house in view. A man had just stepped out from the shadow of the trees, and was coming toward the house. Doc stared, even the envelope in his hand, temporarily forgotten, as a frown of perplexity that deepened into amazed chagrin gathered on his forehead. The figure was quite recognisable, even minutely so. It was Captain Francis Newcomb. It accounted for the missing sockets on that French window perhaps, but the man was as perfectly and immaculately dressed as he had been that night at dinner. There was no torn coat on missing coat-sleeve. The man he had fought with, the man in the mask, had not been Captain Francis Newcomb. He laughed now, not pleasantly. He had obviously been waiting here for the wrong man. There was no need of waiting any longer unless he desired to be caught himself, queer, strange. But there was the envelope, Polly's papers. What was it that was God's truth? At least he would find that out. He thrust the envelope into his pocket, closed the bag, and returned to his own room. He switched on the light, hurriedly took the envelope from his pocket again, and from it drew out two documents. He studied them, while minute after minute passed, then dropping them on the table before him, he stood with drawn face and clenched fists, staring across the room. Polly's birth certificate. He married certificate of her parents. He saw again the agony in the dark eyes. He heard again the agony in the voice that had proclaimed a parentage outside the pail. And a great oath came now from Locke's white lips. He flung himself into a chair beside the table. He fought for cool, contained reasoning. These papers, Newcomb, did it change anything? Place Newcomb in any better light, because it was some other man who had worn that mask to-night? He shook his head in quick emphatic dissent. It did not. He was sure, certain of that. The trail led too far back, was too well defined, too conclusive. And even to-night, what was Newcomb doing out of the house at three o'clock in the morning? Ah, yes, he had it. The old maniac's words came back, with sudden and sure significance. Digging, digging, digging, the wrong scent, the hut in the woods at the rear of the house. Locke nods savagely at his lips. That was where Newcomb had come from, the woods at the rear of the house. It meant that Newcomb was the one who had been tricked by the old madman's cunning, which could never have happened if Newcomb had not been stealthily trying to find the hidden money. It simply meant that Newcomb was the one who had been on the wrong scent, and that someone else had been on the right one. His face was set in lines like chiseled marble now. Who was this someone else? Was the question very hard to answer? The field was very limited, significantly limited now. He wasn't wrong, was he? He couldn't be wrong. And there was always the torn sleeve. Locke's eyes fixed upon the two documents on the table again. Captain Francis Newcomb. No, it did not make Newcomb any the less a guilty man, because it was not he who had worn the mask tonight. Newcomb stood out sharply defined against the light of evidence, which, if only circumstantial, was strong enough to dam the man a thousand times over for what he was. And here, adding to that evidence, was the proof that Polly's identity had been, and was being, deliberately concealed from her. It opened a vista to uglier and still more evil things, things that only a soul dead to decency, black as the pit of hell, could have conceived and patiently put into execution. A child, a gutter snipe, Polly had called herself, rescued from naked poverty and the slums of white chapel by a man such as Newcomb, whose only promptings were the promptings of a fiend. Why? Was there room to question further why Captain Francis Newcomb had years ago adopted such a ward, when now before one's eyes those years were bearing their poison fruit? Polly's introduction into this family here was even at this moment being traded upon to effect the theft of half a million dollars. That was too obvious now to permit denial. Newcomb was making of a girl, high-minded, pure-sold, a hideous cat's paw. Yes, yes. All that was clear enough. But why should Polly have been deprived of her rightful name, her claim to honest parentage? Was it to weld a stronger bond of gratitude, or make her the more helpless, and therefore the more dependent upon her guardian? Where were these parents, dead or living? There was Mrs. Wicks, Mrs. Wicks, who had posed as the mother. Well, there were certain quarters in London, where those who strayed outside the law could be made to talk. Mrs. Wicks should be able to furnish very interesting information. It was not far to Whitechapel in London, by cable. His mind, his brain, worked on. But now suddenly in turmoil and misery, despite all effort of his to hold himself in check. Polly, Polly Gray! She loved this monster, that she thought a man, and called her guardian. Not the love of a maid for lover, but with the love, the honour, the respect and gratitude that she would give a cherished father. The truth would break her heart. The love her friends had given her turned to their own undoing. The shame would be torture, the self-degradation, the abasement that she would know would be beyond the bearing. Her faith would be a shattered thing. Locks clenched hands lay out spread across the table. He drew them suddenly together, and dropped his head upon them. And you love her, he whispered to himself. Do you know what that is going to mean? You did not count on that, did you? Do you know where that will lead? Do you know the consequences? He answered his own questions. No, he said numbly. I don't know what it is going to mean. I know I love her. End of Book 2, Chapter 7 Book 2, Chapter 8 of The Four Straglers by Frank L. Packard. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. THE MESSAGE Polly Wicks from her pillow stared into the darkness. There had been no thought of sleep. It did not seem as though there ever could be again. She had undressed and gone to bed. But she had done this mechanically, because at night one went to bed, because she had always gone to bed. Not to sleep. The tears blinded her eyes. She had groped her way up the stairs from the living room where she had left our lock, and somehow she had reached her room. That was hours and hours ago. Surely the daylight would come soon now. Surely it would soon be morning. She wanted the daylight. She wanted the morning, because the darkness and the stillness seemed to accentuate a terrible and merciless sense of isolation that had come so swiftly, so suddenly into her life, to overturn, to dominate, to stupefie, to cast contemptuously aside the dreams and thoughts and hopes of happiness and contentment. And yet, though she yearned for the morning, she even dreaded it more. How could she meet Howard Locke at breakfast? She couldn't. She wouldn't go down to breakfast. The small hands came from under the coverings and clasped themselves tightly above the aching head, and she turned and buried her face in the pillow. She might easily, very easily evade breakfast, and postpone the inevitable for a few minutes even a few hours. Why did she grasp at pitiful subterfuges such as that? She was nameless. That phrase had come hours ago. It had scorched itself upon her brain, as a branding iron at white heat sears its imprint upon quivering flesh, always to endure. She was nameless. It wasn't that she had not always known it, she always had. But it meant now what it had never meant before. Until now it had been as something that, since it must be born, she had striven to bear with what courage was hers, and, denying its right to embed her life, had sought to imprison it in the dim recesses of her mind. But now, in an instant, it had broken its bonds to stand forth exposed in all its ugliness, no longer captive but a vengeful captor claiming its miserable right from now on to control and dominate her life. She had thought of love. It would have been unnatural if she had not, but she had never loved, and therefore she had thought of it only in an abstract way. Dream love, fancies. But she loved now. She loved this man who had so suddenly come into her life. She loved Howard Locke. And happiness, greater than she realized happiness could ever be, had unfolded itself to her gaze, and love had become a vibrant, personal thing, so wonderful, so tender and so glad a thing, that beside it all the world was little and insignificant and empty. But even as the glory of it and the joy of it had burst upon her, she had been obliged to turn away from it, not very bravely, for the tears had scalded her as she had run from the living-room, because there was no other thing to do, because it was something that was not hers to have. She could never be the wife of any man. She was nameless. Why had she ever found it out? It might so easily have been that she would have never known, that no one need ever have known. She was sure that even her guardian did not know. She smothered her face deeper in the pillow as she cried out in anguish. She could have had happiness then, and it would have been honourable for her to have taken it, wouldn't it? She lay quiet for a little while. No, that was cowardly, selfish. If she really loved this man, she should be glad for his sake that she knew the truth, glad now of the day when she had found it out. She remembered that day. It seemed to live more vividly before her now than it had ever before. Mrs. Wicks, her mother, had been drinking. The words had been a slip of the tongue, a slip that her mother, owing to her condition at the time, had not even been conscious of. Mrs. Wicks had been garylessly recounting some sordid crime that had remained famous even among its many fellows in Whitechapel, and, in placing the date, had stated it was two years after Mr. Wicks had died. Later on, in the same garyless account, she had again referred to the date, but had placed it this time by saying that she, Polly, was a baby not more than a month old when it had happened. In that day, when she had listened to her mother's tale, she had still been but a child, in years. She could not have been more than twelve, but she was very old for twelve. The slums of London had seen to that. And so, the next day, when her mother had been more herself, she had asked Mrs. Wicks more out of a precocious curiosity perhaps than anything else, for an explanation. Mrs. Wicks had flown into a furious rage. Mind your own business! Mrs. Wicks had screamed at her. The likes of you, a sling, and muddled your mother. What you got to complain of! Ain't I taken care of you? If ever you say another word, I'll break your back!" She had never said another word. In one sense, she had not been different from any other child of twelve then, and it had not naturally caused any change in her feelings toward her mother. More in the after-years, with their fuller light of understanding, had it ever changed or abated her love for her mother, with whom she had shared hardship and distress and want. She thanked God for that now. Her mother might have been one to inspire little love and little of respect in others, but to her, Polly, when she had parted from her mother to come here to America, she had parted from the only human being in all the world she had ever loved, or who, in turn, had ever showed affection for her. She had never ceased to love her mother. Instead, she had perhaps been the better able to understand, and even to add sympathy to love, than to know a great pity, where bitterness and resentment and unforgiveness might otherwise have been, because she, too, had lived in those drab places where the urge of self-preservation alone was the standard that measured ethics, where one fought and snatched at anything, no matter from where or by what means it came, that kept soul and body together, because she could look out on that life not as one apart, but with the eyes of one who once had been a gutter snipe. And now? Now that this crisis in her life had come, what now? She did not know. She had been trying to think calmly, but her brain would not obey her. It was crushed, stunned. It ached even in a physical way, frightfully, and... She raised her head suddenly from the pillow, in a sort of incredulous amazement, and immediately afterward sat bolt upright in bed. The telephone here in her room was ringing, at this hour. Her heart suddenly seemed to stop beating. Something, something must be wrong. Something must have happened. Dora, Mr. Marlin! It was still ringing, ringing insistently. She sprang from the bed, and, running to the phone, snatched the receiver from its hook. Yes, yes! She answered breathlessly. What is it? A voice came over the wire, a man's voice, rising and falling creepily in a sing-song, mocking sort of way. Is that you, Polly? Polly wicks? Polly wicks? Polly wicks? Wicks! P-O-L-L-Y-W-I-C-K-E-S? It frightened her. She felt the blood ebb from her cheeks. There was something horribly familiar in the voice, but she could not place it. Her hand reached out to the wall for support. Yes, she tried to hold her voice in control, to answer steadily. Yes, I am Polly wicks. Who are you? What do you want? She heard the sound as of a gust of wind from a door that was suddenly blown open, the beat of the sea, then the slam of a door, and then the voice again. Polly! Polly wicks! The words seemed to be choked now, with malicious laughter. Why don't you dress in black, Polly wicks? Polly wicks? For your mother, Polly wicks? What do you mean? She cried frantically. Who are you? Who are you? What do you mean? There was no answer. She kept calling into the phone. Nothing, no reply. The voice was gone. She stood there, staring wildly through the darkness. Black, for her mother. Dead! No, no, it couldn't be true. That voice, yes, it was like the horrible voice that had called out the other night. She knew now why it was familiar. Her stricken, the receiver dropped from her hand. Dead! Her mother, dead! It couldn't be true. She began to grope around her, the chair, her dressing-gown. Her hands felt the garment. She snatched it up, flung it around her, and stumbled to the door, and along the hall to Captain Francis Newcomb's room. And here she knocked mechanically, but without listening for response, opened the door, and stumbling still in a blind way, crossed the threshold. Guardie, guardie, oh, guardie! She sobbed out. Captain Francis Newcomb was not asleep. Quite apart from the fact that he had only got to bed but a very short while before, the cards that night had gone too badly against him, and there was a savage sense of fury upon him that would not quiet down. And now, as he heard his door open and heard Polly call, he was out of bed and into a dressing-gown in an instant. Polly out there in his sitting-room at half-past four in the morning, and she was sobbing. She sobbed now as he heard her call again. Guardie, guardie, oh, guardie! This was queer, damned queer. His face was suddenly set in the darkness as he crossed the bedroom floor, but his voice was quiet, cool, reassuring, as he answered her. Right, oh, Polly, I'm coming! He switched on the light as he entered the sitting-room. It brought a quick startled cry over the sobs. Oh, please, guardie! She faltered out. I—I—please turn off the light! Of course, he said quietly, and it was dark in the room again. He had caught a glimpse of a little figure crouching just inside the door, a little figure with white strained face, with great wondrous masses of hair tumbling about her shoulders, with hands that clasped some filmy drapery tightly across her bosom, and small, dainty feet that were bare of covering. And as he moved toward her now, across the room, another mood took precedence over the savagery he had just been nursing, a mood no holier. It might be queer this visit of hers, but that glimpse of her, alluring, intimate, of a moment gone, had set his blood of fire again, and far more violently than it had on that first occasion when he had seen her here on the island two nights ago. It brought again to the fore the question that, through a cursed nightmare of happenings, had almost since that time lain dormant. Was he going to let Locke have her, or was he going to keep her for himself? How far had she gone with Locke? They had been a lot together. Well, that mattered little. If he wanted her for himself, he would make the way to get her. Locke and Hell combined to the contrary. The woman, against her potential value as someone else's wife, damn it, that was the wonder of her, that she could even hold her own when weighed on such scales. There were lots of women. He had reached her now, and touched her, found her hand, and taken it in his own. What is it, Polly? He asked gently, What's the matter? It's, it's mother. She whispered brokenly. The telephone in my room rang a few minutes ago, and someone, a man, and, oh, Gardi, I'm sure it was the same voice that we heard when we were in the woods the night before last, asked me why I didn't wear black for my mother. It couldn't mean anything else, but, but that mother is dead. Oh, Gardi, Gardi, how could he know, Gardi? How could he know? Captain Francis Newcomb made no movement, saved to place his arm around the thinly clad shoulders, and draw the little figure closer to him. It was dark here, she could not have seen his face anyway, but it was composed, calm, tranquil. Perhaps the lip straightened a little at the corners, nothing more, but the brain of the man was working at lightning speed. Here was disaster, ruin, exposure if he made the slightest slip. Again, eh? This was the fourth time this devil from the pit had shown his hand. The reckoning would be adequate, but how was he to answer Polly? Quick, she must not notice any hesitation. Tell her that Mrs. Wicks was dead? He had a ready explanation on his tongue, formulated days ago, to account for having withheld that information. Seize this opportunity to tell her that Mrs. Wicks was not her mother? No, impossible. He had meant to use all this to his advantage, and in his own good time. It was too late now. He was left holding the bag. If he admitted that Mrs. Wicks was dead, he admitted that there was someone on this island whose mysterious presence, whose mysterious knowledge, must cause a furor, a search, with possible results that at any hazard he dared not risk. Polly would tell Locke, Dora, everybody. It was impossible, but against this, sooner or later, Polly must know of Mrs. Wicks's death, and, bah! Was he become a child, the old cunning gone? He would keep her for a while from England, travel, anything, and, months on, the word would come that Mrs. Wicks was dead, and found in the old haggs effects would be Polly's papers. The one safe play, the only play, was not alone to reassure the girl now, but to keep her mouth shut. Above all, to keep her mouth shut. But how? How? Yes, he had it now. His soul began to laugh in unholy glee. His voice was grave, earnest, tender, sympathetic. He couldn't have known, Polly, he said. That is at once evident on the face of it. How could anyone on this little out-of-the-way island possibly know a thing like that when I, who am the only one who could know, and who have just come direct from England, know it to be untrue? Don't you see, Polly? He had drawn her head against his shoulder, stroking back the hair from her forehead. She raised it now quickly. Yes, guardie, she said eagerly, I see, and I'm so glad I came to you at once, but it is so strange, and it still frightens me terribly. I don't understand. I can't understand. Why should anyone ring the telephone in my room at this hour, and tell me a thing like that if it were not true? Or even if it were true, at such an hour, or in such a manner? He injected quietly. Tell me exactly what happened, Polly. I think I've told you everything, she said. I don't think there was anything else. When I answered the phone, the voice asked if I were Polly Wicks, and kept on repeating my name over and over again in a horrible, crazy, sing-songy way, and then I heard a sound as though a door had been blown open by the wind, and I could hear the waves pounding, and then the door was evidently slammed shut again, and the voice said what I have told you about wearing black for my mother, and then I couldn't hear anything more, and I couldn't get any answer, though I called again and again into the phone. Oh, Gardie, I can't understand! I'm sure it was the same voice as that other night. What does it mean? Gardie, what should we do? Who could it be? A door blown open by the wind, the pound of the waves. Where was there a telephone that would measure up to those requirements? Not in the house. Captain Francis Newcomb smiled grimly in the darkness. The private installation was restricted to the house and its immediate surroundings. Therefore the boat-house. The boat-house had a phone connection, and there was still an hour or more to daybreak. But first to shut Polly's mouth. Polly, he said gravely, measuring his words. I haven't the slightest doubt but that it was the same voice we heard in the woods. In fact, I'm quite sure of it, and I'm equally sure now that I know who it is. She drew back from him in a quick startled way. But, Gardie, you said it was only someone cat-calling too. Yes, I know, he interrupted seriously, but I did not tell you what I was really suspicious of all along. With what I had to go on then, it did not seem that I had any right to do so. It's quite a different matter now, however, after what has happened to-night. Yes, she prompted anxiously. There can be only two possible explanations, he said. Either someone is playing a cruel hoax, or it is the work of an unhinged mind, an irrational act, a phase of insanity that— Gardie, she cried out sharply, you mean? Yes, he said steadily. I do, Polly, and there can really be no question about it at all. Can you imagine any one doing such a thing merely from a perverted sense of humour? Any one of us here? For it must have been some one of us who was connected with the household in order to have had access to a telephone. It is unthinkable, absurd, isn't it? On the other hand, the hour, the irresponsible words, their crazy motive expression, as you yourself said, the motiveless declaration of a palpable untruth, all stamp it as the work of one who is not accountable for his actions, of one who is literally insane. And then the fact that you recognize the voice as one we heard two nights ago is additional proof, if such were needed, which it very obviously is not. You remember that we had seen Mr. Marlin in his dressing-gown disappear under the veranda a few minutes before we heard the calls and cries and wild, insane laughter. My first thought then was that it was Mr. Marlin, and I was afraid that either harm had or might come to him. I sent you at once back to the house, and I ran into the woods to look for him. I did not find him, and therefore, as there was always the possibility then, that I had been mistaken, I felt that I should not alarm any of you here, and particularly Miss Marlin, by suggesting that Mr. Marlin's condition was decidedly worse than even it was supposed to be. Is it quite plain, Polly? I do not think we have very far to look for the one who telephoned you to-night. He could just see her in the darkness, a little white shadowy form as she stood slightly away from him now. One of her hands was pressed in an agitated way to her face and eyes. The other still held tightly to the throat of her dressing-gown. Oh, yes, it's plain, Guardie! She whispered miserably, It's, it's too plain. Poor, poor Mr. Marlin! What are we to do? It would hurt Dora terribly if she knew her father had done this. I, I can't tell her. Of course you can't, said Captain Francis Newcomb gravely. Your position is even more delicate than mine was the other night. I do not see that you can do anything, except to say nothing about it to anyone for the present. Yes, she agreed, numbly. She began to move toward the door. It's not likely to happen again, said Captain Francis Newcomb reassuringly, and, anyway, you can make sure it won't by just leaving the receiver off the hook. Do that, Polly, and then solicitously. But you're not frightened any more now, are you, Polly? A mystery explained loses its terror, doesn't it? And besides, the main thing was to know that your mother was all right. My mother! He thought he heard her catch her breath in a quick, sudden half-sob. It's all right, Polly, he said hastily. Don't think of that part of it any more. Everything's all right. Yes, I, I know. Her voice was very low. It's all right. I—Good night, Guardi. She had opened the door. I'll see you to your room, he said. No, she answered, I'm not frightened any more. Good—good night, Guardi. Good night, Polly, he said. The door closed. Captain Francis Newcomb stood in the darkness. And for a moment he did not move. But the mask was gone now, and the laughter that came low from his lips was a mirthless sound, and the working face was black with fury. And then he turned, and with a bound was back in the bedroom, and snatching at his clothes began to dress. There was still an hour to daybreak. CHAPTER VIII an hour to daybreak. Passion, unchecked and unrestrained, was stamped on Captain Francis Newcomb's face as he dressed now with savage ferocious haste. He swore and snarled, making low venomous sounds in the fury that possessed him. There was no longer room for the fear that last night, here in his rooms, had gnawed at his soul itself. The fear of the unknown. There was no longer room for fear in any sense, whether born of the intangible, or whether it knew its source in man or god or devil. There was only murder, that alone in his heart. The blows were coming nearer and nearer home, too near, and his efforts to strike one in return had resulted in little to boast about so far. Disaster, ruin, that dangling jibbit chain, were inevitable if this went on. He had been too cautious, perhaps. Well, that was ended now. He swore again, bitter, sacrilegious in his rage. The luck had been running against him. Even an old fool had tricked him, even a maniac, a cracked brain idiot, and one almost in his dotage besides, had tricked him. Last night, after he had read that infernal message at the hut, he had made no effort to uncover the madman's hoard. He had lain there waiting. Hours of waiting, patient waiting, listening, his revolver in his hand. The one chance that the unknown might not have gone away, might have lingered, hidden in the foliage, to gloat, and die. He had waited in vain. Tonight he had gone back to the hut, only to find after hours of search that the old madman's money, wherever else it might be, was not there. And then he had returned here. And again the unknown had struck swiftly, viciously, cunningly. When? Where? How would the next blow fall? As he could now strike the quicker, and strike surely. How much farther was it to the abyss of exposure? Tonight he had stood perilously close to its edge, hadn't he? If he had not been able to pull the wool over Polly's eyes with the specious explanation that it was old Marlin who had telephoned, he would. He stood suddenly motionless, tense, with his coat half on, his working lips drawn for the moment tight together. Had it been, after all, merely a specious explanation? Was he so sure that it wasn't old Marlin, after all, who had telephoned? The old madman was cunning, and, granting that fact as a premise, his act last night in pretending to go to his money in the hut must have been prompted by suspicion of some sort. The money had never been in that hut. The bit of flooring that was loose was flush with the ground beneath, and the ground had never been disturbed, and this was true of everywhere else in the hut. The old maniac then was suspicious that he was being followed by somebody, and had set a false trail. Of whom would he be suspicious? The question answered itself. The newcomers on the island, of course. And, being suspicious of them, he would want to drive them away. To frighten Polly into the belief that her mother was dead might very easily appeal to an insane brain, and even to one that wasn't, as a very clever and effective means of accomplishing this end surreptitiously. Polly might very logically be expected, in her grief, to wish to bring her visit here to an end, even if she did not, indeed, insist on returning to England at once, and the result would be that all who had come here, Locke, Reynolds, and himself, would naturally leave with her. Why not? Bad man was certainly cunning enough. He could have telephoned, and the motive was there. No! With an angry self-contemptuous snarl, Captain Francis Newcomb jerked on his coat. Was he trying to qualify for an insane asylum himself? The old maniac could have done this tonight, otherwise the explanation made to Polly would have been merely an absurdity. But old Marlin had not been on the liner, and could not have fired that shot through the cabin window. Nor could the old man have known, as instanced by that voice in the woods, that he, Newcomb, was Shadow Varn, or known anything of the murder of Sir Harris Greaves. The man who had telephoned tonight, making the fourth mysterious blow that had been struck, was the man who had showed his hand on those three former occasions. This was so blatantly obvious that to have allowed his brain to shoot off at a tangent so idiotic, but increased his anger now. He sneered at himself, as he finished dressing. There was only one man on the island who could be made to fit into each and every one of the four niches, Runnels. Runnels had been on board ship, even though at the time Runnels had apparently been asleep. Runnels was in a position to know, and to know what now appeared to be certainly too much about Shadow Varn. And Runnels, though the man could prove nothing, more than anyone else was in a position to entertain suspicions in reference to the murder of the Baronet, who meddled so gratuitously with the affairs of others. Captain Francis Newcomb slipped a flashlight and a revolver into his pocket, and made for the door of his room. Quite so! All this was nothing new, no new angle. He had mulled this over a hundred times before. But up to now he had held his hand, and for two very good reasons. In the first place he had not been able to bring himself to believe that it was Runnels, for he could not see where Runnels would profit by any such game. And secondly, as he had already argued with himself, should it not prove to be Runnels, he almost inevitably disclosed his own hand and his real purpose in coming here to Manoa Island, and it would in that case make a partner of Runnels and partners shared in the profits. But the time for hesitation on any such score as that was gone now. Not only because the ice he was treading on, already thin, had nearly broken through to-night, and the promise of imminent and final disaster was forcing his hand, but because, in respect of Runnels, the absence of apparent motive, Runnels would be made to explain that. And it for nothing now, in view of the fact that he, Newcombe, had more to go on to-night than he had had before. Not only was Runnels one who fitted into the role of the unknown, on each of the four occasions, but Runnels, as though to clear the matter of all doubt, knew what surely no one else on the island could possibly know, that Mrs. Wicks actually was dead. He, Newcombe, had himself to blame for that, and it appeared now that he had trusted Runnels too far, but somebody had to bury the old hag, not Captain Francis Newcombe, to have left her in the status of a pauper for the authorities or the mission boards, or any of that ilk to have taken care of, and in view of the fact that it must have been known amongst her neighbors that she had for a long time received money from somewhere, talk, comment, investigation, official this and unofficial that, would have been invited. It might have amounted to nothing, but if a rock that is held in one's hand is not thrown into the calm waters of a pool, the placid surface is not disturbed. He had delegated Runnels to interview the undertaker, and arrange for the quiet and unaustentatious disposal of Mrs. Wicks's mortal remains. Runnels, for the time being, did very well as a nephew of the deceased, who, though in neither close nor loving touch with his somewhat questionable relation, at least recognized the family tie to the extent of paying for her very modest and unpretentious obsequies. Captain Francis Newcombe crept quietly along the hall now. Runnels' room, thanks to the hospitable thoughtfulness of Miss Marlin, in order that the man might be nearer at hand and therefore better able to serve his master, was not in the servants' quarters, but was at the extreme end of the hall here, just at the head of the stairs. Captain Francis Newcombe's hand fell along the wall to guide him in the darkness. He had no desire to stumble over anything and arouse anybody, lock or door of Marlin, for instance, and he had not forgotten that Polly was probably lying wide awake. The only one to be aroused was Runnels, and that very quietly. Runnels was a professional criminal, not a particularly clever one, but possessed where a question of self-preservation was concerned, of a certain low cunning born of his hazardous career, a cunning that was not to be ignored. Cornered here in his room, for instance, Runnels, though quite well aware that he, Captain Francis Newcombe, would have no more hesitation about putting an end to him, than an end to an obnoxious fly, would be equally well aware that here in the house he was possessed of a defense that rendered him invulnerable, because no threat could be put into execution in silence, and that a cry, a shout, and if necessary to those who came to his succor, a confession of his own past misdeeds in order to prove his alliance with and implicate his master, in criminal intrigue, would protect him for the moment utterly. But he, Captain Francis Newcombe, had no intention of making any such unpardonable misplay as that. Runnels would never look down the barrel of a revolver with the confidence born of the fact that the trigger dared not be pulled. Runnels would never feel a grip upon his throat, and still be able to defy the clutching fingers, because he knew they feared the cry, the gasp, the noise of strangulation. It would not be in Runnels room that the man would lay bare his soul through fear to-night. Runnels would be played as a fish is played. Captain Francis Newcombe was half-way along the hall now. His mind, despite the fury that from smoldering rage had broken into flaming heat, was logical, measured, precise. That telephone message could have come from nowhere else but from the boathouse. That was self-evident. If Runnels then was at the bottom of this, the question now was whether Runnels had got back to his room yet or not. And if he were back, how long he had been back? The man must be allowed to undress and get into bed. To discover Runnels fully dressed at this hour was to force the issue then and there in Runnels room, for Runnels, caught like that, while he might be valuable with explanations, would have necessity, at the same time, been thrown instantly upon his guard, and would not be full enough to be enticed into any trap. No matter how apparently genuine the pretense of accepting his explanations might be made to appear. Captain Francis Newcombe was at the door now, listening. Runnels would have had time by now to have got to bed. Certainly there was no sound from within, and he drew back from the door suddenly but as silently as a shadow. There was no sound from within, but someone was creeping, though with every attempt at silence, up the staircase. Captain Francis Newcombe retreated still a little farther back along the hall, and, with body hugged now close against the wall, waited in the darkness. He could see nothing, not even across the hall, and therefore he was quite secure from being observed himself, but his hand, in his pocket now, was closed over the butt of his revolver. The sounds were very faint, but they were equally unmistakable. Now the muffled, protesting, creak of a stair-tread. Now that sound, like no other sound so much as the padded footfall of an animal, as weight was cautiously placed on the carpeted stairs. The footsteps came nearer and nearer to the upper landing, slow, laborious in their caution and stealth, and then another sound, equally faint and equally unmistakable, the opening and closing of the door at the head of the stairs. Captain Francis Newcombe relaxed. His lips twisted into a smile of malignant satisfaction. So it was Runnels, who had indulged in that little telephone conversation, Runnels, the pitiful, foolhardy moth, and the flame. Runnels, instead of being already in bed, was just getting back. So much the better it would tax Runnels ingenuity, a little beyond its limitations, to explain this unseemly hour. It made it perhaps just a little easier to handle and break the man. Captain Francis Newcombe moved silently back again to the door of Runnels' room, and again listened at the panels. The sound of movement from within was distinctly audible. Runnels was preparing to go to bed. Two minutes passed, five, ten of them. It was quiet inside the room now, and then Captain Francis Newcombe knocked softly with his knuckles on the door, two wraps in quick succession, then a single one followed by two more. There was a sound almost on the instant, as of the sudden creaking of the bed, and then the hurry of feet across the floor to the door. Then silence again. Captain Francis Newcombe smiled thinly to himself. Runnels was cautioned itself. He repeated the knocks, precisely as before. The door opened. Runnels showed as a white, vague figure in his nightclothes. What's up? whispered Runnels anxiously. I'm afraid we've been spotted, said Captain Francis Newcombe tersely. Spotted? Runnels echoed the word with a gulp. Who by? Some swine from the yard, I suppose, replied Captain Francis Newcombe as tersely as before. Do you remember Detective Sergeant Mullins? Him? gasped Runnels. My God! He ain't followed us here. Has he? Strike me pink! My God! I said all along it was damned queer, him showing up at the rooms that night. Are you sure? Not yet, and I never will be if you stand there gawking, said Captain Francis Newcombe sharply. Go and get your clothes on, and hurry up about it. It'll soon be daylight. Every minute counts. Meet me on the veranda. He did not wait for Runnels' reply. It was not necessary. Runnels had swallowed bait, hook, and line. Captain Francis Newcombe indulged in a low, savage chuckle, as, descending the stairs, he unlocked the front door and stepped quietly out on the veranda. He had not lunged in the dark, nor was it chance that had prompted him to endow his bogey with the personality of Detective Sergeant Mullins. He had not forgotten Runnels' white face on the occasion when the man from Scotland Yard had sent in his card. And now as he waited on the veranda, the low, savage chuckle came again. The boathouse would serve admirably, since Runnels seemed to have a penchant for it. It was far enough away to obviate the possibility of any sound carrying to the house, and inside it possessed light. He wanted light when he handled Runnels. Quite apart from the fact that darkness in itself afforded too many chances for a lucky escape, he could not read Runnels in the darkness. Also affording him a malicious delight there was exquisite irony in the thought that the setting for what was to come should be the one that Runnels himself had chosen to-night, for quite another purpose than that it should be the scene of his own undoing. The front door opened, and Runnels emerged. What's the game? Runnels asked Horsley. Do you know where he is? It was quite unnecessary to be anything but frank with Runnels as to their destination. Runnels safeened the belief that he had been mistaken for one Detective Sergeant Mullins, and that his master was wide of the mark and astray would also enjoy the irony to be found in a trip to the boathouse. It would be a pity to deprive Runnels of anything like that. Captain Francis Newcomb nodded curtly, as, motioning the other to follow, he led the way across the lawn. Yes, I think so, he said. I've reasoned to believe he's been using the boathouse to hide and live in. Strike me pink! That's what I always said to myself after that night. I says, look out for that bird, and I was bloody well right. I fancy you were, agreed Captain Francis Newcomb coolly, though I didn't think so at the time. But hurry up! There's no time to lose if we want to trap him. They had entered the wooded path leading to the shore, and curiously enough, Runnels was now in front and in the darkness as it swung at his side. Captain Francis Newcomb's hand held a revolver. How'd he get here? Runnels jerked back over his shoulder. How'd you twig it? And when did he come? About the same time we did, I imagine, replied Captain Francis Newcomb shortly, Don't talk so loud, or any more at all, for that matter. The wind has died down a bit, and we might be heard. Make straight for one of those little bridges at the boathouse, the one on this side, the nearer one. Stand, and look out for yourself, the man's no fool, I'll say that for him. Right, said Runnels, in a muffled voice, as they came out of the woods and the boathouse loomed up, shadowy and indistinct, some fifty yards away. There was laughter in Captain Francis Newcomb's soul now, a mirth parented out of savagery and vindictiveness, a laugh at the blind fool treading so warily and cautiously across the sandy beach here in order that he should not be denied the shambles. The laugh seemed to demand physical, audible expression. He choked it back. In a moment or so more he could laugh to his heart's content. The boathouse was only a few yards away now. He rubbed close against Runnels' side, as though to preserve touch with the other in the darkness. Runnels' revolver was in the right-hand coat pocket, and both men had halted simultaneously. Close to the boathouse now, and in its lee, the sound of the breaking waves was somewhat deadened. But from under the overhang of the veranda, there had come another sound, as though a vicious slapping were being given the comparatively smooth water under the boathouse, and then a sudden floundering and splashing, and then the slapping again. Runnels' hand went to his side pocket, but as it came out again with his revolver, Captain Francis Newcomb's hand closed upon it like a vice, and with a quick twist and wrench secured the weapon. What did you do that for? Runnels stammered in a low, startled way. Didn't you hear that in under the boathouse? There's someone there. Maybe it's him. Captain Francis Newcomb laughed now, aloud. So you think there's someone in under there, do you, Runnels? He drawled. Yes, said Runnels, and drew away a little. You heard it just the same as I did, but I don't understand what you... You will in a minute. Captain Francis Newcomb's voice was still a drawl. But meanwhile we'll see whether you're right or not. You don't mind going first, do you, Runnels? His revolver muzzle was suddenly pressed against the small of Runnels' back. I've known you to be a bit tricky at times. Go on. Something like a whimper came from Runnels. He stood irresolute. Go on, in under there. We'll see this someone of yours, first of all. Captain Francis Newcomb's voice snapped now. Move. A push from the revolver muzzle sent Runnels forward. What, what are you doing this to me for? The man burst out in a shaken voice again. Captain Francis Newcomb made no answer. He, too, had heard the sounds in under here. But if Runnels were up to some more of his games, it would avail Runnels very little now. Runnels' body, if there were by any chance, someone ahead here in the darkness, made a most excellent and effective shield. It was inky black in here, and now underfoot, as they went forward, in place of the pure sand, there were rocks in a slightly muddy bottom. His left hand deposited the surplus revolver in his pocket, and in exchange drew out his flashlight. He thrust the flashlight out beyond Runnels' side, in front of them both, and switched it on. A cry broke on the instant from Runnels' lips. A cry of terror. Look, look, Runnels cried. Let me go. Let me get out of here. This is a horrible, slimy, ghastly hole. Let me go. Let me go. It's a dead man. Captain Francis Newcomb's jaws had clamped. Into the focus of the round white ray had come the big concrete pier that supported the building in the center, slime-draped, green and oozy now, with the tide still low, and, nearer in again, a black ribbon of water, strangely like silk in its rippling under the light, for the seawall way out beyond had lulled it here, into the quiet almost of a pond, lapped at the shore, lapped and lapped, as those striving with hideous patience to creep yet another inch onward, and yet another, and always another, that it might reach a huddled thing that lay still several yards away. A huddled thing. Captain Francis Newcomb pushed Runnels ruthlessly forward until they both stood over it. And now the flashlight's ray played upon it. Upon a twisted, crumpled form, a dead thing, a man whose clothes and places were in ribbons as though the very body had been mangled, the man in a white shirt sleeve, where the sleeve of the coat had been torn away at the armpit, the man around whose neck and across whose face were long, horribly regular lines of round, lurid marks, near purple now against the bloodless skin. And Runnels, with a scream, shrank back, and covered his face with his hands. My God! he screamed out in terror. It's Paul! he screamed. It's Paul Cremar! End of Part 3, Chapter 1. Book 3, Chapter 2 of The Four Straglers, by Frank L. Packard. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Bronze Key Paul Cremar, and the man was not a pleasant sight. The slime, the water, and the mud, the stigian blackness that seemed to mock and jeer at the puny ray of the flashlight. The lap, lap, lap of the wavelets that echoed back in hollow, ghostly whispers from the flooring of the boathouse above. And Runnels, groveling, drawing in his breath with loud, sucking sounds, noises of sea and air, indefinable, all discordant, like imps in jubilee. It was a ghoul's hole. But Captain Francis Newcomb smiled, with a thin parting of the lips. He knew a sudden elation, a stupendous uplift. He found joy in each of those abominable marks on the face of the thing that lay at the end of his flashlight's ray. They were not pretty, but they were all too few. Got your wind up, has it, Runnels? He sneered. And thereafter for a moment, though he never let Runnels entirely out of the light's focus, gave his full attention to Paul Cremar. The man was dead, wasn't he? It was a matter that could not be left in doubt, even where doubt seemed to be dispelled at a glance. He bent down over the other. An instant's examination satisfied him. The man was dead. His eyes roved over the body, and held suddenly on one of the man's hands. Rather peculiar that, the hand was tightly clenched. One did not ordinarily die, with one hand clenched and the other open. He forced the hand open. Something fell to the ground. He picked it up. It was a large bronze key, about three inches in length. Cupping it in his hand so that Runnels might not inadvertently see it, he stared at it speculatively for a moment, then dropped it into his pocket. This was interesting, decidedly interesting, and suggestive. His flashlight became more inquisitive than respect of the immediate surroundings. Those footprints, for instance, in the half mud and sand, deep, irregular, which, leading up from the edge of the water, some four or five yards away, ended where Paul Cremar now lay, and another series of footprints, a little to the right, quite regular, which, though they also started from the water's edge, lost themselves in the direction of the beach in front of the boathouse. Captain Francis Newcomb worked swiftly now. He searched through the dead man's pockets, transferring the contents, without stopping to examine them, to his own pockets, and then abruptly and without ceremony swung upon Runnels. We'll finish this up in the boathouse, he snapped. Runnels' reply was inarticulate. Captain Francis Newcomb, with his revolver again at the small of Runnels' back, drove the man before him, out from under the veranda, up one of the ramp-like bridges, and into the little lounge room of the boathouse. Here he switched on the light, and with a sudden savage grip around Runnels' throat, flung the man sprawling into one of the big easy-chairs. Now, my man, he said, we'll have our little settlement, since Paul has already had his. I congratulate you, both. And perhaps you may have a very early opportunity of letting him know that I did not overlook him in my felicitations. Very neat, very clever of you, too, to play the game like this. I must confess that I did not think of Paul Cremar in connection with what has been going on. I fancy that the very fact of you being here, the three divided as it were, must have helped to act as a sort of mental blanket upon me in that respect. And even you I was forced to eliminate until tonight, because I could not arrive at any logical reason that would explain your motive. For if I left the island here, you would leave, too. The combination, however, would be very effective. Paul Cremar would be left behind with a free hand, eh? Captain Francis Newcombe's voice rasped suddenly. Now then, you cur! What happened under the boathouse here tonight? What killed Paul? Runnels' face was a pasty white. He shrank back into the farthest recesses of the chair, and licked nervously at his lips. He tried twice to speak, ineffectually. His eyes seemed fascinated, not by the revolver that Captain Francis Newcombe had transferred to his left hand, but by Captain Francis Newcombe's right hand, that came creeping now with menacing, half-curled fingers toward his throat. Answer me, and answer quick, snarled Captain Francis Newcombe. I—I don't know! Runnels forced a shaken whisper, so help me God, I don't! I don't know who killed him! I didn't say who, I said what! Captain Francis Newcombe's hand crept still closer to Runnels' throat. Don't try any of that kind of game. You're not grainy enough. It wasn't anything human that killed Paul Cremar. No, mumbled, Runnels. No, it wasn't anything human. Oh, my God, the look of it! It made me sick! Those round red things on his face, and the eyes, the eyes, I ain't afraid of a dead man, but I was afraid in there. Runnels, said Captain Francis Newcombe evenly, at bottom you are a stinking coward, a spineless thing, you always were. But you've never really known fear, not yet. I'm going to teach you what fear is. No, Runnels screamed out, and pawed at the other's hand that was now tight around his throat. I'm telling the truth, I swear to God I am. I don't know what happened. I didn't know Paul was here. I never saw him since we left London. Don't lie. Captain Francis Newcombe coolly and viciously twisted at the flesh in which his fingers were enmeshed. I'm going to have the whole story now, or else you'll follow Paul Cremar. You've seen enough in the last three years to know that I never make an idle threat. It will be quite simple. You will disappear. I, myself, will be the most solicitous of all about your disappearance. It would never be attributed to me. Is it quite plain, Runnels? You deserve it anyway. Perhaps it's a waste of time to do anything but get rid of you now before daylight. I'd rather like to do it, Runnels. It's rather bad policy to give a man a chance to stab you a second time in the back. The man was almost in a state of collapse. Captain Francis Newcombe loosened his hold, and, standing back a little and toying with caressing fingers at his revolver's mechanism, surveyed the other with eyes that, in meditation now, were utterly callous. I know you'd do it. Runnels, gasping for his breath, blurted out his words wildly. I know it wouldn't do me any good to lie. But I ain't lying. Can't you believe me? I wasn't in it at all. I never knew Paul was on the island until just now. Go on, encouraged Captain Francis Newcombe ironically. So it wasn't you who telephoned Polly from the boathouse here a little while ago. Runnels' eyes widened. Me? No. He cried out vehemently. I haven't been near here. Captain Francis Newcombe frowned. He knew Runnels and Runnels' caliber intimately and well. The man's surprise was genuine. Another angle. It was possible, of course, that Paul Cremar had been playing a lone hand. But against that was Runnels' own actions tonight. Well, as it stood now, it was a very simple matter to put Runnels' sincerity, or insincerity, to the proof. No, of course not, he observed costically. I didn't expect you to admit it. Why don't you tell me you spent the evening playing solitaire, then went to bed and slept like a child until I wrapped on your door. Runnels lifted miserable, hunted eyes to Captain Francis Newcombe's face. Because I'm only telling you the truth, he said with frantic insistence in his voice. And that wouldn't be the truth. I'll tell you everything, everything. You can see for yourself it's God's fact. I wasn't asleep when you knocked. I had been out of my room, but I hadn't been out of the house, and I hadn't been in bed more than ten minutes when I heard you at the door. You rather surprised me, Runnels, said Captain Francis Newcombe Cooley. Not at what you say, for I was standing in the hall when you entered your room. But that for once you are guilty of an honest statement. Go on. What were you doing around the house? Runnels gulped, nervously massaging his pinched throat. I got to go back to before we left London, if I'm going to make a clean breast of it. He said, searching Captain Francis Newcombe's face anxiously. I knew then about the money out here. There was a letter under your pillow the day you got back from Cloverleys, and when I propped you up in bed for your lunch I took it and read it while I was feeding you your— His words were blotted out in a sudden cry of fear. He was staring into a revolver muzzle, thrust close to his face, and behind the revolver were a pair of eyes that burned like living coals. For God's sake, he shrieked out, Captain, don't! Captain Francis Newcombe dropped the revolver to his side again. You are quite right, Runnels, he said whimsically. It would be inexcusable to stem any tide of veracity flowing from you. Well— I got to make you believe I'm telling the truth, choked, Runnels, and—and I know now I have. I didn't say anything to Paul about it. I was keeping it to myself. And Paul didn't say anything to me. I didn't know he knew about it, and I don't know how he found out, but I suppose he must have somehow, for I suppose that's what brought him here. As for me, what I read in that letter didn't make any difference after all, because the minute I got here I knew what everybody else knew—that the dippy old bird had got half a million dollars hidden away somewhere. He hesitated a moment, drawing the back of his hand several times to and fro across his lips. Well, that's what I was doing tonight, and that's what I was doing last night. I was searching the house, trying to find out where he'd hidden the money, but I didn't find it. No, said Captain Francis Newcomb Grimly. I'm quite sure you didn't. But if you had, Runnels, what then? I—I'm not sure. Runnels licked at his lips again. I know what you mean. It would have depended on you. You told me before we left London that on account of the girl being your ward, we weren't to do anything slippery in America. And if I'd made sure of that and was sure you wouldn't come in on the job, then I'd have copped the swag and got away with it if I could. But if you would have come in, then I'd have told you where it was. Anything more? inquired Captain Francis Newcomb laconically. Runnels shook his head. I've told you straight the whole thing, he said, numbly. It was a moment before Captain Francis Newcomb spoke again. Even on your own say so. You were prepared to double-cross me. Once I let a man toss a coin to see whether I shot him or not, for less than that. But you are not even entitled to that much chance, except for the fact that perhaps after tonight, you'll be less likely to stick your filthy hands into my affairs. But even that is not what is outweighing my inclination to have done with you here and now. The fact is that, though I regret to admit it, you are, for the moment at least, more valuable alive. Runnels straightened up a little in his chair. He swept his hand over wet brow. I'll play fair after this, he said hoarsely. I take my oath to God, I will. Or turn at the first chance like the dog who has been whipped by his master, observed Captain Francis Newcomb indifferently. Very good, Runnels. I never prolong discussions. The matter has ended. Unless you are unfortunate enough to cause the subject to be reopened at some future date, it is near daylight. And before daylight, Paul Cremar, what is left of him, must be disposed of. If the man is found here the victim of a violent death, it means an inquest, the influx of authorities, the possible discovery of Cremar's identity, and ours. We could tie something heavy on him, said Runnels thickly, and drop him in the water. We could, but we won't, said Captain Francis Newcomb curtly. One never feels at ease with bodies disposed of in that fashion. They have been known to come to the surface. It might be the easiest way, but it's not the safest. I think you've heard me say before, Runnels, that chance is the playground of fools. Besides, our close and intimate friendship with Paul demands a little more reverent and circumspect consideration at our hands. What? Paul shall have a decent burial. We'll dig a hole for him back there among the trees. He thrust his hand suddenly into his pocket, brought out his flashlight, and tossed it into Runnels' lap. Go up to the house and get a spade, a couple of them, if you can. There ought to be plenty somewhere in the outhouses at the back. And hurry! Yes, right! Runnels stammered as he rose to his feet and stood hesitant, as though trying to say something more. I said, hurry! Damn you! snarled Captain Francis Newcomb. Yes, right, said Runnels mechanically again, and stumbled, half-running, across the room and out of the door. Captain Francis Newcomb flung himself into the chair Runnels had vacated. His mind was on Paul Cremar now. What was it that had caused the man's death? As Runnels had said, it was a sickening sight. Well, no matter. The motor cause of death was an incident, wasn't it? Paul Cremar, found here on the island, whether dead or alive, was what mattered. It meant that the menace, that hellish nightmare of the unknown that had been hanging over him, Shadow Varn, was gone now. That the way was clear ahead, a fortune here, America once more an open sesame, riches, luxury, all he had built for, his again, to take at his leisure without fear now of any interference from any source. And yet he seemed to hate the man the more because he was dead. Cremar had done what no other man had ever done to Shadow Varn, those black hours, last night, the night before. His hands clenched fiercely. He knew a sudden unbridled rush of anger directed against the agency, be what it might, that had caused Paul Cremar's death, that had forever removed the man beyond his reach, and had robbed him of a right that alone was his to settle with the man. He had owed the other a debt that he could never now repay, the sort of debt that Shadow Varn, until now, had never failed to pay. It was all clear enough now. Paul Cremar, if not from the moment he had read Polly's letter that morning in London, had finally at any rate yielded to the temptation that the opportunity of securing so great a sum of money had dangled before his eyes. Cremar, like Runnels, had very possibly, and perhaps not unwarrantably, been skeptical about his Captain Francis Newcomb's statement that the money here was to be held inviolable, but whether he had or not made very little difference in the last analysis. For either way, it would be obvious to Paul Cremar that he would get none of the money unless he got it through his own secret endeavors, since, even if he, Captain Francis Newcomb, were after it for himself, Cremar would realize that he was not to share in the spoils. It was quite plain. It was Paul Cremar who had fired that shot through the cabin window in the storm on the liner that night, in order to possess for himself a free hand on the island here. The man, in disguise, of course, had sailed on the same ship, because he would not have dared to have left London before he, Newcomb, left, for fear of arousing suspicions, since he was known to be acquainted with the contents of the letter. And he would not have dared risk a later vessel, for fear of arriving too late, and only to find the money gone should he, Newcomb, proved to be after it for himself. It was Paul Cremar here on the island, who had on those three occasions ending with to-night, sought through the medium of fear, no, more than that, through an appeal to the impulse for self-preservation, to drive him, Newcomb, away, and leave Paul Cremar in sole possession of the field. And it was quite plain now, too, why the man had not, here on the island, attempted murder again, as he had done on the liner. It was not that the chances of discovery were less on board the ship, but that here a murder would cause an invasion of the island by police and detectives, which would automatically hamper Cremar and his efforts to find the money, if, indeed, it would not force him to leave the island entirely in order to make his own escape. Captain Francis Newcomb's hand was groping tentatively in his pocket now. It was not at all unnatural that the thought of Paul Cremar had not entered his head. To begin with, he had trusted the hound, and again he had sailed immediately on the first ship after leaving the man in London. But now, yes, that was where the crux of the whole thing lay. The time spent on that yachting trip of locks down the coast. Paul Cremar had probably been on the island for several days before the telofa arrived, and his hand came out of his pocket. In its palm lay the bronze key. He stared at it thoughtfully. No, Paul Cremar had not succeeded in getting the madman's money prior to tonight, for in that case old Marlin would have discovered his loss and raised a wild fuss. And besides, if successful, Cremar would have left the island without loss of time, nor had Cremar been quite successful tonight, for the money was not on his person. But he had been what? Captain Francis Newcomb stared for another long minute at the bronze key. Then jumping suddenly up from the chair, he crossed over to the table and began to divest his pockets of the articles he had taken from Paul Cremar. He tumbled them out on the table, a roll of bills, a passport made out under an assumed name, to one André Belial, a few papers, such as railroad folders, a small map of the Florida keys, some descriptive matter pertaining thereto, and among these a little book. Captain Francis Newcomb snatched up the book, and suddenly he began to laugh, a strange laugh, hoarse with elation, a laugh that even found expression in the quick triumphant glitter in his eyes. Several times in the short period during which he had been here on the island, he had seen this little book, and more than once he had endeavored, unastentatiously, to obtain a closer look at it, but without success. It was the old madman's little book, the little buff-colored, paper-covered little book that the old fool, he had noticed, would frequently pull out of his pocket and consult for no reason apparently other than it had become a habit with him. It was a common book, a very common book, an innocent book. When its title was on the cover, it was a Book of Tide Tables. And again and again now, Captain Francis Newcomb laughed. The bronze key and the Book of Tide Tables, the pieces of the puzzle, aligned themselves of their own accord into a complete hole. An hour later, every night, the old madman went out an hour later every night. So did the tide. Those footprints there under the boathouse, not Paul Kramar's, the other ones. The succession of nights during which the old maniac went out, until the hour just before daybreak was reached. And then the period of inaction, at low water, like tonight, eh? Yes, yes. He did not go out when the tide was low too early in the evening, or too late in the morning. In the former case, for fear of being seen. In the latter, because it would be full daylight before the tide would creep in to wash away the tell-tale footprints. Paul Kramar's presence there, his footmarks leading away from the water to the spot where he had collapsed and died. Kramar, with a bronze key in his hand, in the old maniac's Book of Tide Tables, Kramar had made an attempt to get the money after the old man had been there, and something, God knew what, had done him down instead. It must have been subsequent to the old man's visit, for Marlin was now in his room. He, Captain Francis Newcombe, had listened at the fool's door when he had returned long after three o'clock from that trip to the old hut in the woods. And three o'clock was past the hour of low water, and old Marlin had appeared to be quietly asleep, which under no circumstances would he have been, had he been conscious of the loss of his key and book. There were a dozen theories that would logically reconstruct the scene, but none of them mattered. It was the existing fact that mattered. Kramar, hidden himself, might, and very probably had, watched the old maniac at work. Afterwards, whether the old man had lost the key and book from the pocket of his dressing-gown, as it flapped around him and Kramar had found them, or Paul Kramar, than whom there was no craftier thief in Christendom, had succeeded in perloining them, again mattered not a whit. What mattered was that there was only one place now where the old maniac's secret depository could be. Only one. And he, Captain Francis Newcomb, now knew where that place was. And yet again he laughed, loud in his evil joy, vauntingly in his triumph. It was his now. There was no longer anything to mar his plans. Nemesis was dead. No haunting thing to strike any more out of the darkness and drive him back, with bare teeth, against the wall, to make of him little better than a cornered rat. Why shouldn't he laugh now, at man, or devil, or heaven, or hell? He was master, as Shadow Varn had always been master. He tossed the bronze key up in the air and caught it again, with deft, yet savage grasp. The hiding place was found. There was only a keyhole to look for now. A keyhole. A keyhole. Mad Merth caught up the words and flung them in jocular song hither and thither within his reign. A keyhole. A keyhole. You'd raise your cursed voice to ball at Shadow Varn, would you, Paul Cremar? He cried, well, damn you, thanks. Just the turning of a key and a lock. But the water was too high now, the tide was coming in. The key wasn't any good tonight. The place wasn't locked only by a key. It was time locked by the tide. He snatched up the little book and consulted it hurriedly. It would be low tide tomorrow morning at a quarter past three. Well, tomorrow morning, then, since he couldn't have a look at the place tonight. He could well afford the time now. And meanwhile, with the key gone, the old maniac couldn't do anything except raise an infernal row, and become even a little more maniacal, if that were possible. Too bad. But then the old man probably wouldn't live very long anyhow. And then, besides, quite apart from the tide tonight, there was Runnels, who— He swept the articles from the table suddenly back into his pockets. Where was Runnels? What the devil was keeping the man? He should have been back by now. Captain Francis Newcomb switched off the light, and, walking quickly from the room now, closed the door behind him. And now he frowned in impatient irritation as he made his way along the veranda of the boathouse and down to the shore. Con found Runnels anyway. Where was he? It was already beginning to show color in the east, and the darkness was giving way to a gray, shadowy half-light. In another quarter of an hour the dawn would have broken. There was no time to spare. He stood for a moment, staring toward the fringe of trees that hid the path to the house. There was still no sign of Runnels. With a quick muttered execration at the man's tardiness, he turned abruptly and began to make his way in under the boathouse. At the spot where Paul Cremar's body lay, the slope of the shore was very gentle, and the incoming tide would therefore cover the ground the more rapidly. He had forgotten that. Paul Cremar had only been four or five yards away from what was then the water's edge when he had left him, and unless he wanted to find the body floating around now, he had better... He halted short in his tracks, but close to the water now. His heart had stopped. What was that? And voluntarily now he staggered back apace. It wasn't light enough to see distinctly. It was only light enough to see shadowy things, things that suddenly moved in the gloom. Before him. Things that, from the water, waved sinuously in the air, like slimy, monstrous, snake-like tentacles that reached out and crept and wriggled upon the shore itself. The place was alive with them, swarming with them. They were tentacles. They were feeling out, feeling out everywhere, and, God! They were feeling out for him! He sprang sharply backward as a light breath of air seemed to have fanned his cheek. He heard a faint pat upon the earth as of something soft striking there. He saw a slithering thing, like a reptile in shape and movement, swaying this way and that, as though in search of something upon the spot where he had stood. He felt his face blanch. He drew back still farther. A dark blotch lay near the water's edge. That was Paul Cremar's body. And now one of those sinuous creeping tentacles, a gray viscous, clutching arm, fell a thwart the body, and the body seemed to move slowly, jerkily, as though it struggled itself to escape from some foul and loathsome touch toward the water. Captain Francis Newcomb gazed now, a fascination of horror seizing upon him. Two curious spots showed out there in the water. Not lights. They weren't lights, but they were in a sense luminous. They seemed to stare, full of insatiable lust, gibbous, protuberant, from out of the midst of that waving, feeling, slithering forest of tentacle darms. He swept his hand across his eyes. Was he mad? Was this some ugly fantasy that he was dreaming? And that in his sleep was making his blood run cold? Look! Those two luminous spots were coming nearer and nearer. Eyes, baleful, hungry, eyes, that's what they were. They were coming closer to the shore, to the body of Paul Cremar. A dripping tentacle, waving in the air, swayed forward and dropped and curled, and fastened around the body. That was the second one there. It was too light now. The sight was horror. But the fascination of horror held him motionless. There was no head to the thing, just a monstrous, formless continuation of abhorrent bulk, from which were thrust out those huge repulsive tentacles, from which was thrust out another now, to fasten itself for purchase upon one of the small, outer concrete piers that rose from the deeper water beyond. And again the body of Paul Cremar moved, and there was a sound, the gurgling of water. It had a beak like a parrot's beak, and the mandibles opened now, applied apart to uncover a cavernous mouth, and the eyes and the tentacles of the thing began to retreat from the shore. The gurgle of water again. A white shirt sleeve showed for an instant, and was gone. A splashing, a commotion, a swirl, an eddy. Then in the shadowy light a placid surface, the looming central pier of the boat-house, the little piers, the roof above, the common place. A voice spoke at his side. Runnels. Where's Paul Cremar? Captain Francis Newcomb's handkerchief, with apparent nonchalance, went to his face. It wiped away beads of sweat. I don't know what you'd call the thing, he said casually. The scientists seem to refer to the species under a variety of names. You may take your choice, Runnels, between pulpe, devilfish, and octopus. It's a bit of an unpleasant specimen. Whatever name you choose. It's gone now, and so has Paul Cremar. An octopus. Runnels stared through the dim light toward the water. You mean it got Paul? Yes, said Captain Francis Newcomb. He returned the handkerchief to his pocket. God, said Runnels, in a shaky whisper, an octopus. I know what that is. The things got suckers that would tear the flesh off you. That's where those marks on Paul's face must have come from. He must have had a fight with it before we found him. Yes, said Captain Francis Newcomb, he undoubtedly did. It's rather obvious now that he had just managed in a dying effort to break loose and reach the shore. And the brute was crafty enough to know, I fancy, and waited for the tide to come farther in to bag its prey. Anyway, you won't need those spades you've got there now. And incidentally, Runnels, where the devil have you been all this time? Runnels was swabbing his brow. It knocked me flat, that did, he said, with a sudden wild rush of words. But it ain't any worse than what's happened up there. Hell's broke loose. Just hell, that's what. The old bird's gone and done it. Shot himself, he has. Captain Francis Newcomb's hand reached out and closed in a quick tight grip on the other's shoulder. Come out of here, he said abruptly. He led Runnels out beyond the overhang of the veranda and in the better light stared into the man's face. Now then, what's this, you say? Old Marlin's shot himself? By accident, said Runnels, nodding his head excitedly. Least wise, that's what I suppose you'd call it. Dead, demanded Captain Francis Newcomb. Runnels laughed nervously. You're bloody well right, he's dead. He said gruffly, dead as a herring. That's what the row's all about. Tell your story, ordered Captain Francis Newcomb shortly. Well, when I went up there from here, said Runnels, I saw the house all lit up and the blacks all running around and the whole place humming. And they spotted me, some of the servants did, and all began to talking at once about the old bird having shot himself, and they seemed to take it for granted that I knew too. Do you twig? That I'd been in the house, of course, and had got up and dressed having heard the shots. The only play I had was to keep my mouth shut and let him think so and listen to them. It seems, as near as they knew, that his nibs had been asleep and suddenly wakes up and goes blind off his top and runs upstairs with a revolver and goes to Locke's room and opens the door and begins shooting. And all the time, he's screaming out at the top of his lungs, you're one of them, you're one of them, but I'll kill you before you open it. Locke must have had his nerve with him. Anyway, he jumped out of bed and tried to get the revolver away from the old fool. By this time, the whole house was up, and some of the black servants took a hand by trying to collar his nibs. But Marlon breaks away from them somehow, and runs for the stairs like a mad bull. He must have tripped going down or knocked his arm or something. Anyway, his revolver goes off, and when they got to him, he was at the bottom of the stairs with a hole in his head. Runnels paused for a moment, but, eliciting no comment, went on again. Well, while I was getting all this information that I was supposed to know, Locke comes out on the veranda and spots me. I've just been to your room, Runnels. He says, do you know where Captain Newcomb is? And I says, no, sir, I don't. Least wise, I says, I've been too excited to notice. Then he says I'd better try and find you. And that gave me the first chance to get away and cop these spades. I sneaked around through the woods at the back of the house with them. Captain Francis Newcomb lighted a cigarette. Sneak back with them then, the same way, he said calmly. Right, said Runnels. Now, said Captain Francis Newcomb, and you haven't been able to find me. Right, said Runnels again, and started off at a run. Captain Francis Newcomb began to walk leisurely across the beach toward the path leading to the house. He puffed leisurely and with immense content at his cigarette. In the light of certain knowledge possessed by himself alone, the whole thing was as clear as daylight. The old maniac had wakened up, and in some way had discovered for the first time that his key and book were gone. That had set him off. It was rather rough on Locke to have been selected as the thief, but there was no accounting for what a lunatic would do. He was chuckling to himself now, an explanation of his absence from the house at this hour. It was too simple. Polly would substantiate it. Polly's scruples about keeping silent were now useless to him. He had thought the old madman must have telephoned from the boathouse. He had got up and dressed, and gone down to sea, and, of course, had seen nothing. He flicked his cigarette away, and now he laughed, laughed with the same evil joy, the same savage triumph, but magnified a hundredfold now, with which he had laughed a little while ago in the boathouse, back there. Only the laugh was silent now. It was his soul that rocked with mirth. The gods were very good. The black of the night had brought a dawn of incomparable radiance. That was poetic. Ha! Ha! Well, why not poetry? He was an exquisite humor. It was like wine in his head. That too was poetry, wasn't it? Somebody had said it was, or something like it. Nor God, nor man, nor the devil could stay him now. He had only to be circumspect in the house of death, and help himself. Almost poetry again. Excellent! The old fool dead. Even the trouble and annoyance of staging an accident was now removed. The old fool dead with his secret. They would hunt a long time, and it would forever be a secret. Except to shadow varn. End of book 3, chapter 2.