 CHAPTER VII THE MAN ON THE WALL I was so thoroughly angry with myself that after idling along the shores for an hour, I lost my way in the dark wood when I landed, and brought up at the rear door used by Bates for communication with the villagers who supplied us with Provender. I readily found my way to the kitchen and to a flight of stairs beyond, which connected the first and second floors. The house was dark, and my good spirits were not increased as I stumbled up the unfamiliar way in the dark, with, I fear, a malediction upon my grandfather, who had built and left incomplete a house so utterly preposterous. My unpardonable fling at the girl still rankled, and I was cold from the quick descent of the night chill on the water, and anxious to get into more comfortable clothes. Once on the second floor I felt that I knew the way to my room, and I was feeling my way toward it over the rough floor when I heard low voices rising apparently from my sitting-room. It was pitch-dark in the hall. I stopped short and listened. The door of my room was open, and a faint light flashed once into the hall and disappeared. I heard now a sound as of a hammer tapping upon woodwork. Then it ceased, and a voice whispered, He'll kill me if he finds me here. I'll try again to-morrow. I swear to God I'll help you, but no more now. Then the sound of a scuffle, and again the tapping of the hammer. After several minutes more of this there was a whispered dialogue, which I could not hear. Whatever was occurring, two or three points struck me on the instant. One of the conspirators was an unwilling party to enact as yet unknown. Second, they had been unsuccessful and must wait for another opportunity. And third, the business, whatever it was, was clearly of some importance to myself, as my own apartments in my grandfather's strange house had been chosen for the investigation. Clearly I was not prepared to close the incident, but the idea of frightening my visitors appealed to my sense of humor. I tiptoed to the front stairway, ran lightly down, found the front door, and from the inside opened and slammed it. I heard instantly a hurried scamper above, and the heavy fall of one who had stumbled in the dark. I grinned with real pleasure at the sound of this mishap, hurried into the great library, which was as dark as a well, and opening one of the long windows stepped out on the balcony. At once from the rear of the house came the sound of a stealthy step, which increased to a run at the ravine bridge. I listened to the flight of the fugitive through the wood until the sounds died away toward the lake. Then, turning to the library windows, I saw Bates, with a candle held above his head, peering about. Hello, Bates! I called cheerfully. I just got home and stepped out to see if the moon had risen. I don't believe I know where to look for it in this country. He began letting the tapers with his usual deliberation. It's a trifle early, I think, sir. About seven o'clock, I should say, was the hour, Mr. Glenarm. There was, of course, no doubt whatever, that Bates had been one of the men I heard in my room. It was wholly possible that he had been compelled to assist in some lawless act against his will. But why, if he had been forced into aiding a criminal, should he not invoke my own aid to protect himself? I kicked the logs in the fireplace impatiently in my uncertainty. The man slowly lighted the many candles in the great apartment. He was certainly a deep one, and his case grew more puzzling as I studied it in relation to the rifle shot of the night before, his collision with Morgan in the wood, which I had witnessed, and now the house itself had been invaded, by someone with his connivance. The shot through the refectory window might have been innocent enough, but these other matters in connection with it could hardly be brushed aside. Bates lighted me to the stairway, and said as I passed him, there's a baked ham for dinner. I should call it extra delicate, Mr. Glenarm. I suppose there's no change in the dinner hour, sir? Certainly not, I said with asperity, for I am not a person to inaugurate a dinner hour one day and change it the next. Bates wished to make conversation, the sure sign of a guilty conscience in a servant, and I was not disposed to encourage him. I closed the doors carefully, and began a thorough examination of both the sitting room and the little bed-chamber. I was quite sure that my own effects could not have attracted the two men who had taken advantage of my absence to visit my quarters. Bates had helped unpack my trunk and undoubtedly knew every item of my simple wardrobe. I threw open the doors of the three closets in the rooms, and found them all in the good order established by Bates. He had carried my trunks and bags to a storeroom, so that everything I owned must have passed under his eye. My money even, the remnant of my fortune that I had drawn from the New York bank, I had placed carelessly enough in the drawer of a chiffoniere, otherwise piled with collars. It took but a moment to satisfy myself that this had not been touched, and, to be sure, a hammer was not necessary to open a drawer that had, from its appearance, never been locked. The game was deeper than I had imagined. I had scratched the crust without result, and my wits were busy with speculations as I changed my clothes, pausing frequently to examine the furniture, even the bricks on the hearth. One thing only I found, the slight scar of a hammerhead on the oak paneling that ran around the bedroom. The wood had been struck near the base and at the top of every panel, for though the mark was not perceptible on all, a test had evidently been made systematically. With this as a beginning I found a moment later a spot of tallow under a heavy table in one corner. Evidently the furniture had been moved to permit the closest scrutiny of the paneling. Even behind the bed I found the same impress of the hammerhead. The test had undoubtedly been thorough. For a pretty smart tap on oak is necessary to leave an impression. My visitors had undoubtedly been making soundings in search of a recess of some kind in the wall, and as they had failed of their purpose they were likely, I assumed, to pursue their researches further. I pondered these things with a thoroughly awakened interest in life. Glenarm House really promised to prove exciting. I took from a drawer a small revolver, filled its chambers with cartridges, and thrust it into my hip pocket, whistling meanwhile Larry Doniffin's favorite air, the March Finarere Dunmerionette. My heart went out to Larry as I sent an adventure, and I wished him with me. But speculations as to Larry's whereabouts were always profitless, and quite likely he was in jail somewhere. The ham of whose excellence Bates had hinted was no disappointment. There is, I have always held, nothing better in this world than a baked ham, and the specimen Bates placed before me was a delight to the eye. So adorned was it with spices, so crispy browned its outer coat, and a taste, that first tentative taste, before the sauce was added, was like a dream of Lucilus come true. I could forgive a good deal in a cook with that touch, anything short of arson and assassination. Bates, I said, as he stood forth where I could see him. You cook amazingly well. Where did you learn the business? Your grandfather grew very capcious, Mr. Glenarm. I had to learn to satisfy him, and I believe I did it, sir. If you'll pardon the conceit. He didn't die of gout, did he? I can readily imagine it. No, Mr. Glenarm. It was his heart. He had his warning of it. Ah, yes, to be sure. The heart of the stomach. One may as well fail as the other. I believe I prefer to keep my digestion going as long as possible. Those grilled sweet potatoes again, if you please, Bates. The game that he and I were playing appealed to me strongly. It was altogether worthwhile, and as I ate guava jelly with cheese and toasted crackers, and then lighted one of my own cigars over a cup of Bates' unfailing coffee, my spirit was livelier than at any time since a certain evening in which Larry and I had escaped from Tangier with our lives and the curses of the police. It is a melancholy commentary on life that contentment comes more easily through the stomach than along any other avenue. In the great library with its rich store of books and its eternal candles I sprawled upon a divan before the fire and smoked and indulged in pleasant speculations. The day had offered much material for fireside reflection, and I reviewed its history calmly. There was, however, one incident that I found unpleasant in the retrospect. I had been guilty of most unshivalrous conduct toward one of the girls of St. Agatha's. It had certainly been unbecoming of me to sit on the wall, however unwillingly, and listen to the words, few though they were, that passed between her and the chaplain. I forgot the shot through the window, I forgot Bates and the interest my room possessed for him and his unknown accomplice. But the sudden distrust and contempt I had awakened in the girl, by my clownish behavior, annoyed me increasingly. I rose presently, found my cap in a closet under the stairs, and went out into the moon-flooded wood toward the lake. The tangle was not so great when you knew the way, and there was indeed, as I had found, the faint suggestion of a path. The moon glorified a broad highway across the water, the air was sharp and still. The houses in the summer colony were vaguely defined, but the sight of them gave me no cheer. The tilt of her tamashanter as she paddled away into the sunset had conveyed an impression of spirit and dignity, that I could not adjust to any imaginable expiation. These reflections carried me to the borders of St. Agathas, and I followed the wall to the gate, climbed up, and sat down in the shadow of the pillar farthest from the lake, light shone scatteringly in the buildings of St. Agathas, but the place was wholly silent. I drew out a cigarette, and was about to light it when I heard a sound as of a tread on stone. There was, as I knew, no stone pavement at hand, but peering toward the lake, I saw a man walking boldly along the top of the wall toward me. The moonlight threw his figure into clear relief. Several times he paused, bent down and wrapped on the wall with an object he carried in his hand. Only a few hours before, I had heard a similar sound rising from the wainscoting of my own room in Glenar House. Evidently the stone wall, too, was under suspicion. Tap, tap, tap. The man with the hammer was examining the farther side of the gate, and very likely he would carry his investigations beyond it. I drew up my legs and crouched in the shadow of the pillar, revolver in hand. I was not anxious for an encounter. I much preferred to wait for a disclosure of the purpose that lay behind this mysterious tapping upon walls on my grandfather's estate. But the matter was taken out of my own hands before I had a chance to debate it. The man dropped to the ground, sounded the stone base under the gate, likewise the pillars, evidently without results, struck a spiteful crack upon the iron bars, then stood up abruptly and looked me straight in the eyes. It was Morgan, the caretaker of the summer colony. Good evening, Mr. Morgan, I said, settling the revolver into my hand. There was no doubt about his surprise. He fell back, staring at me hard, and instinctively drawing the hammer over his shoulder as though to fling it at me. Just stay where you are a moment, Morgan, I said pleasantly, and dropped to a sitting position on the wall, for greater ease in talking to him. He stood sullenly, the hammer dangling at arm's length, while my revolver covered his head. Now, if you please, I'd like to know what you mean by prowling about here and rummaging my house. Oh, it's you, is it, Mr. Glenarm? Well, you certainly gave me a bad scare. His air was one of relief, and his teeth showed pleasantly through his beard. It certainly is I. But you haven't answered my question. What were you doing in my house today? He smiled again, shaking his head. You are really full in, Mr. Glenarm. I wasn't in your house today. I never was in it in my life. His white teeth gleamed in his light beard. His hat was pushed back from his forehead so that I saw his eyes, and he were unmistakably the air of a man whose conscience is perfectly clear. I was confident that he lied, but without appealing to baits, I was not prepared to prove it. But you can't deny that you're on my grounds now, can you? I had dropped the revolver to my knee, but I raised it again. Certainly not, Mr. Glenarm, if you'll allow me to explain. That's precisely what I want you to do. Well, it may seem strange. He laughed, and I felt the least bit foolish to be pointing a pistol at the head of a fellow so amiable a spirit. Hurry, I commanded. Well, as I was saying, it may seem strange. But I was just examined in the wall to determine the character of the work. One of the cottagers on the lake left me with the job of building a fence on his place, and I'd been expected to come over to look at this all fall. You see, Mr. Glenarm, your honoured grandfather was a master in such matters, as you may know, and I didn't see any harm in getting the benefit, to put it so, of his experience. I laughed. He had denied having entered the house with so much assurance that I had been prepared for some really plausible explanation of his interest in the wall. Morgan, you said it was Morgan, didn't you? You are undoubtedly a scoundrel of the first water. I make the remark with pleasure. Men have been killed for saying less, he said, and for doing less than firing through windows at a man's head. It wasn't friendly of you. I don't see why you center all your suspicions on me. You exaggerate my importance, Mr. Glenarm. I'm only the man of all work at a summer resort. I wouldn't believe you, Morgan, if you swore on a stack of bibles as high as this wall. Thanks! he ejaculated mockingly. Like a flash, he swung the hammer over his head, and drove it at me, and at the same moment I fired. The hammerhead struck the pillar near the outer edge, and in such a manner that the handle flew round and smote me smartly in the face. By the time I reached the ground the man was already running rapidly through the park, darting in and out among the trees, and I made after him at hot speed. The hammerhandle had struck slantingly across my forehead and my head ached from the blow. I abused myself roundly for managing the encounter so stupidly, and in my rage fired twice with no aim whatever after the flying figure of the caretaker. He clearly had the advantage of familiarity with the wood, striking off boldly into the heart of it, and quickly widening the distance between us. But I kept on, even after I ceased to hear him threshing through the undergrowth, and came out presently at the margin of the lake about fifty feet from the boathouse. I waited in the shadow for some time, expecting to see the fellow again, but he did not appear. I found the wall with difficulty and followed it back to the gate. It would be just as well, I thought, to possess myself of the hammer, and I dropped down on the St. Agatha side of the wall and groped about among the leaves until I found it. Then I walked home, went into the library, a light with its many candles just as I had left it, and sat down before the fire to meditate. I had been absent from the house only forty five minutes. CHAPTER VIII. A String of Gold Beads. A moment later Bates entered with a fresh supply of wood. I watched him narrowly for some sign of perturbation, but he was not to be caught off guard. Possibly he had not heard the shots in the wood. At any rate, he tended the fire with his usual gravity, and after brushing the hearth, paused respectfully. IS THERE ANYTHING FATHER, SIR? I BELIEVE NOT BATES. Oh, here's a hammer I picked up out in the grounds a bit ago. I wish you'd see if it belongs to the house. He examined the implement with care and took his head. It doesn't belong here, I think, SIR. But we sometimes find tools left by the carpenters that worked on the house. Shall I put this in the tool, chess, SIR? Never mind. I need such a thing now and then, and I'll keep it handy. Very good, Mr. Glenarm. It's a bit sharper tonight, but we're likely to have sudden changes at this season. I dare say, we were not getting anywhere. The fellow was certainly an incomparable actor. You must find it pretty lonely here, Bates. Don't hesitate to go to the village when you like. I thank you, Mr. Glenarm, but I'm not much for idling. I keep a few books by me for the evenings. An andale is not what you would exactly call a diverting village. I fancy not, but the caretaker over at the summer resort has an even lonelier time, I suppose. That's what I'd call a pretty cheerless job, watching summer cottages in the winter. That's Morgan, SIR. I meet him occasionally when I go to the village, a very worthy person, I should call him, on slight acquaintance. No doubt of it, Bates. Any time through the winter you want to have him in for a social glass, it's all right with me. He met my gaze without flinching, and lighted me to the stir with our established ceremony. I voted him an interesting nave, and really admired the cool way in which he carried off difficult situations. I had no intention of being killed, and now that I had due warning of danger, I resolved to protect myself from foes without and within. Both Bates and Morgan the caretaker were liars of high attainment. Morgan was, moreover, a cheerful scoundrel, an experience taught me long ago that a nave with humor is doubly dangerous. Before going to bed I wrote a long letter to Larry Donovan, giving him a full account of my arrival at Glenarm House. The thought of Larry always cheered me, and as the pages slipped from my pen I could feel his sympathy and hear him chuckling over the lively beginning of my year at Glenarm. The idea of being fired upon by an unseen foe would, I knew, give Larry a real lift of the spirit. The next morning I walked into the village, mailed my letter, visited the railway station with a true rustic instinct, and watched the cutting out of a freight car for Annandale with a pleasure I had not before taken in that proceeding. The villagers stared at me blankly as on my first visit. A group of idle laborers stopped talking to watch me, and when I was a few yards past them they laughed at a remark by one of the number which I could not overhear. But I am not a particularly sensitive person. I did not care what my huesier neighbors said of me. All I asked was that they should refrain from shooting at the back of my head through the windows of my own house. On this day I really began to work. I mapped out a course of reading, set up a draftsman's table I found put away in the closet, and convinced myself that I was beginning a year of devotion to architecture. Such was, I felt, the only honest course. I should work every day from eight until one, and my leisure I should give to recreation and a search for the motives that lay behind the crafts and assaults of my enemies. When I plunged into the wood in the middle of the afternoon it was with the definite purpose of returning to the upper end of the lake for an interview with Morgan, who had, so Bates informed me, a small house back of the cottages. I took the canoe I had chosen for my own use from the boathouse, and paddled up the lake. The air was still warm, but the wind that blew out of the south tasted of rain. I scanned the water and the borders of the lake for signs of life, more particularly, I may as well admit, for a certain maroon-colored canoe and a girl in a red tamashanter, but lake and summer cottages were mine alone. I landed and began at once my search for Morgan. There were many paths through the woods back of the cottages, and I followed several futilely, before I at last found a small house snugly hit away in a thicket of young maples. The man I was looking for came to the door quickly in response to my knock. Good afternoon, Morgan. Good afternoon, Mr. Glenarm. He said, taking the pipe from his mouth the better to grin at me. He showed no sign of surprise, and I was nettle'd by his cool reception. There was perhaps a certain element of recklessness in my visit to the house of a man who had shown so singular an interest in my affairs, and his cool greeting vexed me. Morgan, I began. Won't you come in and rest yourself, Mr. Glenarm? He interrupted. I reckon you're tired from your trip over. Thank you, no, I snapped. Suit yourself, Mr. Glenarm. He seemed to like my name and gave it a disagreeable drawing emphasis. Morgan, you are an infernal blackard. You have tried twice to kill me. We'll call it that, if you like. And he grinned, but you're better cut off one for this. He lifted the graphadora hat from his head and poked his finger through a hole in the top. Yeah, a pretty fair shot, Mr. Glenarm. The fact about me is—and he winked—the honest truth is, I'm all out of practice. Why, sir, when I saw you paddling out on the lake this afternoon, I sighted you from the casino half a dozen times with my gun, but I was afraid to risk it. He seemed to be shaken with inner mirth. If I missed, I wasn't sure you'd be scared to death. For a novel diversion I hardly recommend a meeting with the assassin who has, only a few days or hours before, tried to murder you. I know nothing in the way of social adventure that is quite equal to it. Morgan was a fellow of intelligence and, whatever lay back of his designs against me, he was clearly a foe to reckon with. He stood in the doorway calmly awaiting my next move. I struck a match on my box and invited a cigarette. Morgan, I hope you understand that I am not responsible for any injury my grandfather may have inflicted on you. I hadn't seen him for several years before he died. I was never at Glenarm before in my life, so it is a little rough for you to visit your displeasure on me. He smiled tolerantly as I spoke. I knew, and he knew that I did, that no ill feeling against my grandfather lay back of his interest in my affairs. You're not quite the man your grandfather was, Mr. Glenarm. You'll excuse my bluntness, but I take it that you're a frank man. He was a very keen person, and I'm afraid. He chuckled with evident satisfaction to himself. I'm really afraid, Mr. Glenarm, that you're not. There you have it, Morgan. I fully agree with you. I'm as dull as an oyster. That's the reason I've called on you for enlightenment. Consider that I'm here under a flag of truce, and let's see if we can't come to an agreement. It's too late, Mr. Glenarm. Too late. There was a time, when we might have done some business, but that's past now. You seem like a pretty decent fellow, too, and I'm sorry I didn't see you sooner, but better luck next time. He stroked his yellow beard reflectively, and shook his head a little sadly. He was not a bad-looking fellow, and he expressed himself well enough with a broad western accent. Well I said, seeing that I should only make myself ridiculous by trying to learn anything from him. I hope our little spats through windows and on walls won't interfere with our pleasant social relations, and I don't hesitate to tell you, I was exerting myself to keep down my anger, that if I catch you on my grounds again I'll fill you with lead and sink you in the lake. Thank you, sir," he said, with so perfect an imitation of Bates' voice and manner that I smiled in spite of myself. And now, if you'll promise not to fire into my back, I'll wish you good day, otherwise." He snatched off his hat and bowed profoundly. It'll suit me better to continue handling the case on your grounds," he said, as though he referred to a business matter. Killing a man on your own property requires some explaining. You may have noticed it. Yes, I commit most of my murders away from home, I said. I formed the habit early in life. Good day, Morgan." As I turned away he closed his door with a slam, a delicate way of assuring me that he was acting in good faith and not preparing to puncture my back with a rifle-ball. I regained the lakeshore, feeling no great discouragement over the lean results of my interview, but rather a fresh zest for the game, whatever the game might be. Morgan was not an enemy to trifle with. He was, on the other hand, a clever and daring foe. And the promise with which he began war on me the night of my arrival at Glenarm House indicated that there was method in his hostility. The sun was going his ruddy way beyond St. Agatha's as I drove my canoe into a little cove near which the girl in the Tamishenter had disappeared the day before. The shore was high here, and at the crest was a long curved bench of stone, reached by half a dozen steps, from which one might enjoy a wide view of the country, both across the lake and directly inland. The bench was a pretty bit of work, boldly reminiscential of Alma to Dima, and as clearly the creation of John Marshall Glenarm, as though his name had been carved upon it. It was assuredly a spot for a pipe and a mood, and as the shadows crept through the wood before me, and the water, stirred by the rising wind, began to beat below, I invoked the one and yielded to the other. Something in the withered grass at my feet caught my eye. I bent and picked up a string of gold beads, dropped there no doubt, by some girl from the school, or a careless member of the summer colony. I counted the separate beads. They were round, and there were fifty of them. The proper length for one turn about a girl's throat, perhaps, not more than that. I lifted my eyes and looked off toward St. Agathas. Child of the Red Tamishenter, I'm very sorry I was rude to you yesterday, for I liked your steady stroke with the paddle, and I admired even more the way you spurned me when you saw that among all the cats in the world I am number one in Class A, and these golden bubbles, O girl of the Red Tamishenter, if they are not yours, you shall help me find the owner, for we are neighbors, you and I, and there must be peace between our houses. With this foolishness I rose, thrust the beads into my pocket, and paddled home in the waning glory of the sunset. That night as I was going quite late to bed, bearing a candle to light me through the dark hall to my room, I heard a curious sound, as of someone walking stealthily through the house. At first I thought Bates was still abroad, but I waited, listening for several minutes, without being able to mark the exact location of the sound, or to identify it with him. I went on to the door of my room, and still a muffled step seemed to follow me. First it had come from below, then it was much like someone going upstairs, but where? In my own room I still heard steps, light, slow, but distinct. Again there was a stumble and a hurried recovery. Ghosts, I reflected, do not fall downstairs. The sound died away, seemingly in some remote part of the house, and though I prowled about for an hour it did not recur that night. CHAPTER IX THE GIRL AND THE RABBIT Wind and rain rioted in the wood, and occasionally both fell upon the library windows with a howl and a splash. The tempest had awakened me. It seemed that every chimney in the house held a screaming demon. We were now well launched upon December, and I was growing used to my surroundings. I had offered myself frequently as a target by land and water. I had sat on the wall and tempted fate, and I had roamed the house constantly expecting to surprise Bates in some act of treachery, but the days were passing monotonously. I saw nothing of Morgan. He had gone to Chicago on some errand, so Bates reported, but I continued to walk abroad every day, and often at night, alert for a reopening of hostilities. Twice I had seen the red tamishanter far through the wood, and once I had passed my young acquaintance with another girl, a dark laughing youngster walking in the highway, and she had bowed to me coldly. Even the ghost in the wall proved inconstant, but I had twice heard the steps without being able to account for them. Memory kept plucking my sleeve with reminders of my grandfather. I was touched at finding constantly his marginal notes in the books he had collected with so much intelligence and loving care. It occurred to me that some memorial, a tablet attached to the outer wall, or perhaps more properly placed in the chapel, would be fitting, and I experimented with designs for it, covering many sheets of drawing paper in an effort to set forth in a few words some hint of his character. On this gray morning I produced this, 1835, the life of John Marshall Glenarm was a testimony to the virtue of generosity, forbearance, and gentleness. The beautiful things he loved were not nobler than his own days. His grandson, who served him ill, writes this of him, 1901. I had drawn these words on a piece of cardboard and was studying them critically when Bates came in with wood. "'Those are unmistakable snowflakes, sir,' said Bates from the window. We are in for winter now.' It was undeniably snow. Great lazy flakes of it were crowding down upon the wood. Bates had not mentioned Morgan or referred even remotely to the pistol-shot of my first night, and he had certainly conducted himself as a model servant. The man of all work at St. Agatha's, a scotchman named Ferguson, had visited him several times, and I had surprised them once, innocently enjoying their pipes and whiskey and water in the kitchen. "'They're having trouble at the school, sir,' said Bates from the hearth. "'The young lady's running a little wild, eh?' "'Sis de trice, ill, sir,' Ferguson told me last night. "'No doubt, Ferguson knows,' I declared, moving the papers about on my desk, conscious, and not ashamed of it, that I enjoyed these dialogues with Bates. I occasionally entertained the idea that he would some day brain me, as I sat dining upon the vians which he prepared with so much skill, or perhaps he would poison me, that being rather more in his line of business and perfectly easy of accomplishment. But the house was bare and lonely, and he was a resource. So, Sister Teresa's ill, I began, seeing that Bates had nearly finished, and glancing with something akin to terror, upon the open pages of her dreary work on English cathedrals that had put me to sleep the day before. She's been quite uncomfortable, sir, but they hope to see her out in a few days. "'That's good, I'm glad to hear it.' "'Yes, sir, I think we naturally feel interested, being neighbors,' and Ferguson says, Miss Devoreau's devotion to her aunt is quite touching. I stood up straight and stared at Bates' back. He was trying to stop the rattle which the wind had set up in one of the windows. "'Miss Devoreau?' I laughed outright. "'That's the name, sir.' "'Rather odd, I should call it.' "'Yes, it is rather odd,' I said, composed again, but not referring to the name. My mind was busy with a certain paragraph in my grandfather's will. Should he fail to comply with this provision, said property will revert to my general estate, and become without reservation, and without necessity for any process of law, the property absolutely of Marion Devoreau, of the county and state of New York. Your grandfather was very fond of her, sir. She and Sister Teresa were abroad at the time he died. It was my sorrowful duty to tell them the sad news in New York, sir, when they landed. The devil it was. It irritated me to remember that Bates probably knew exactly the nature of my grandfather's will, and the terms of it were not in the least credible to me. Sister Teresa and her niece were doubtless calmly awaiting my failure to remain at Glenarm House during the disciplinary year. Sister Teresa are Protestant nun, and the niece, who probably taught drawing in the school for her keep. I was sure it was drawing, nothing else would, I felt, have wrought the woman within the pale of my grandfather's beneficence. I had given no thought to Sister Teresa since coming to Glenarm. She had derived her knowledge of me from my grandfather, and such being the case, she would naturally look upon me as a blacker and a menace to the peace of the neighborhood. I had therefore kept rigidly to my own side of the stone wall. A suspicion crossed my mind, marshalling a host of doubts and questions that had lurked there since my first night at Glenarm. Bates. He was moving toward the door with his characteristic slow step. If your friend Morgan or anyone else should shoot me, or if I should tumble into the lake or otherwise end my earthly career, Bates. His eyes had slipped from mine to the window, and I spoke his name sharply. Yes, Mr. Glenarm? Then Sister Teresa's niece would get this property and everything else that belonged to Mr. Glenarm. That's my understanding of the matter, sir. Morgan, the caretaker, has tried to kill me twice since I came here. He fired at me through the window the night I came. Bates! I waited for his eyes to meet mine again. His hands opened and shut several times, and alarm and fear convulsed his face for a moment. Bates! I'm trying my best to think well of you. But I want you to understand. I smote the table with my clenched hand, that of these women, or your employer, Mr. Pickering, or that damned hound Morgan, or you, damn you, I don't know who or what you are, think you can scare me away from here, you've waked up the wrong man, and I'll tell you another thing. You may repeat it to your schoolteachers and to Mr. Pickering who pays you, and to Morgan, whom somebody has hired to kill me, that I'm going to keep faith with my dead grandfather, and that when I've spent my year here and done what that old man wished me to do, I'll give them this house, and every acre of ground and every damn dollar the estate carries with it. And now, one other thing, I suppose there's a sheriff, or some kind of constable with jurisdiction over this place, and I could have the whole lot of you put into jail for conspiracy. But I'm going to stand out against you alone. Do you understand me, you hypocrite? You stupid, slinking spy? Answer me quick, before I throw you out of the room. I had worked myself into a great passion and fairly roared my challenge, pounding the table in my rage. Yes, sir, I quite understand you, sir, but I'm afraid, sir. Of course you're afraid, I shouted, enraged anew by his halting speech. You have every reason in the world to be afraid. You've probably heard that I'm a bad lot and a worthless adventurer, but you can tell Sister Teresa, or Pickering, or anybody you please, that I'm ten times as bad as I've ever been painted, now clear out of here. He left the room without looking at me again. During the morning I strolled through the house several times to make sure he had not left it to communicate with some of his fellow plotters, but I was, I admit, disappointed to find him in every instance busy at some wholly proper task. Once indeed I found him cleaning my storm-boots. To find him thus humbly devoted to my service after the raking I had given him dulled the edge of my anger. I went back to the library and planned a cathedral in seven styles of architecture, all unrelated and impossible. And when this began to bore me I designed a crypt in which the wicked should be buried standing on their heads and only the very good might lie in sleep and peace. These diversions and several black cigars won me to a more amiable mood. I felt better, on the whole, for having announced myself to the delectable baits, who gave me for luncheon a brace of quails, done in a manner that stripped criticism of all weapons. We did not exchange a word, and after knocking about on the library for several hours I went out for a tramp. Winter had indeed come and possessed the earth, and it had given me a new landscape. The snow continued to fall in great heavy flakes, and the ground was whitening fast. A rabbit's track caught my eye, and I followed it, hardly conscious that I did so. Then the clear print of two small shoes mingled with the rabbit's trail. A few moments later I picked up an overshoe, evidently lost in the chase, by one of Sister Teresa's girls I reflected. I remembered that while at Tech I had collected diverse memorabilia from schoolgirl acquaintances, and here I was beginning a new series, with a string of beads and an overshoe. A rabbit is always an attractive quarry. Few things besides riches are so elusive, and the little fellows have, I am sure, a shrewd humor peculiar to themselves. I rather envied the schoolgirl, who had ventured forth for a run in the first snowstorm of the season. I recalled Aldrich's turn on Gautier's lines, as I followed the double trail. How where you tread? A tiny mold betrays the light foot all the same, upon this glistening, snowy fold, at every step it signs your name. A pretty autograph indeed. The snow fell steadily, and I tramped on over the joint signature of the girl and the rabbit. Near the lake they parted company, the rabbit leading off at a tangent, on a line parallel with the lake, while his pursuer's steps pointed toward the boathouse. There was, so far as I knew, only one student of adventurous blood at St. Agatha's, and I was not in the least surprised to see, on the little sheltered balcony of the boathouse, the red Tamashanter. She wore, too, the covert coat I remembered from the day I first saw her from the wall. Her back was toward me as I drew near, her hands were thrust into her pockets. She was evidently enjoying the soft mingling of the snow with the still-blue waters of the lake, and a girl and a snowstorm are, if you ask my opinion, a pretty combination. The fact of a girl's facing a winter storm argues mightily in her favor, testifies, if you will allow me, to a serene and dauntless spirit, for one thing, and a sound constitution for another. I ran up the steps, my cap in one hand, her overshoe in the other. She drew back a trifle, just enough to bring my conscience to its knees. I didn't mean to listen that day, I just happened to be on the wall, and it was a thoroughly underbread trick, my tweeting you about it, and I should have told you before, if I'd known how to see you. May I trouble you for that shoe? She said, with a great deal of dignity. They taught that cold disdain of man, I supposed, as a required study at St. Agatha's. Oh, certainly, won't you allow me? Thank you, no. I was relieved to tell the truth, for I had been out of the world for most of that period in which a youngster perfects himself in such graces as the putting on of a girl's overshoes. She took the damp bit of rubber, a wet overshoe, even if small and howled by associations, isn't pretty, as Venus might have received a soft-shell crab from the hand of a fresh young merman. I was between her and the steps, to which her eyes turned longingly. Of course, if you won't accept my apology, I can't do anything about it, but I hope you understand that I'm sincere and humble and anxious to be forgiven. You seem to be making a good deal of a small matter. I wasn't referring to the overshoe, I said. She did not relent. If you'll only go away. She rested one hand against the corner of the boathouse while she put on the overshoe. She wore, I noticed, brown gloves with cuffs. How can I go away? You children are always leaving things about for me to pick up. I'm perfectly worn out carrying some girl's beads about with me, and I spoiled a good glove on your overshoe. I'll relieve you of the beads, too, if you please." And her tone measurably reduced my stature. She thrust her hands into the pockets of her coat and shook the tamashanter slightly to establish it in a more comfortable spot on her head. The beads had been in my corduroy coat since I found them. I drew them out and gave them to her. Thank you. Thank you very much. Of course they are yours, Miss. She thrust them into her pocket. Of course they're mine! She said indignantly and turned to go. We'll waive proof of property in that sort of thing, I remarked, with I fear the hope of detaining her. I'm sorry not to establish a more neighborly feeling with St. Agatha's. The stone wall may seem formidable, but it's not of my building. I must open the gate. That wall's a trifle steep for climbing. I was amusing myself with the idea that my identity was a dark mystery to her. I had read English novels in which the young lord of the manor is always mistaken for the gamekeeper's son by the pretty daughter of the curate who has come home from school to be the belle of the county, but my lady of the red Tamashanter was not a creature of illusions. It serves a very good purpose. The wall, I mean, Mr. Glenarm. She was walking down the steps and I followed. I am not a man to suffer a lost schoolgirl to cross my lands unattended in a snowstorm, and the piazza of a boathouse is not, I submit, a pleasant loafing place on a winter day. She marched before me, her hands in her pockets. I liked her particularly that way, with an easy swing in a light and certain step. Her remark about the wall did not encourage further conversation, and I fell back upon the poets. Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage." I quoted, quoting poetry in a snowstorm while you stumble through a woodland behind a girl who shows no interest in either your prose or your rhymes has its embarrassments, particularly when you are breathing a trifle hard from the swift pace your auditor is leading you. I've heard that before, she said, half turning her face, then laughing as she hastened on. Her brilliant cheeks were a delight to my eye, the snow swirled about her, whitening the crown of her red cap, and clung to her shoulders. Have you ever seen snow crystals gleam, break, dissolve in fair, soft, storm-blown hair? Do you know how a man will pledge his soul that a particular flake will never fade, never cease to rest upon a certain flying strand over a girlish temple? And he loses his heart and his wager in a breath. If you fail to understand these things, and are furthermore unfamiliar with the fact that the color in the cheeks of a girl who walks abroad in a driving snowstorm marks the favor of heaven itself, then I waste time, and you will do well to wrap at the door of another inn. I'd rather missed you, I said, and really I should have been over to apologize if I hadn't been afraid. Sister Teresa is rather fierce, she declared, and we're not allowed to receive gentlemen-callers. It says so in the catalogue. So I imagined. I trust Sister Teresa is improving. Yes, thank you. And Miss Devereux, is she quite well, I hope? She turned her head as though to listen more carefully, and her steps slackened for a moment. Then she hurried blithely forward. Oh, yes, she's always well, I believe. You know her, of course? Oh, rather, she gives us music lessons. So Miss Devereux is the music teacher, is she? Should you call her a popular teacher? The girls call her. She seems moved to mirth by the recollection. Miss Prim and Prozie. Ugg, I exclaimed sympathetically. Tall and hungry-looking, with long talons that pound the keys with grim delight. I know the sort. She's a sight, and my guide laughed approvingly. But we have to take her, she's part of the treatment. You speak of St. Agatha's as though it were a sanatorium. Oh, it's not so bad. I've seen worse. Where do most of the students come from? All what you call Hoosiers? Oh, no. They're from all over. Cincinnati, Chicago, Cleveland, Indianapolis? What the magazines call the Middle West? I believe that is so. The bishop addressed us once as the flower of the Middle West, and made us really wish he'd come again. We were approaching the gate. Her indifference to the storm delighted me. Here, I thought, in my admiration, is a real product of the Western world. I felt that we had made strides towards such a comradeship as this proper should exist between a schoolgirl in her teens and a male neighbor of twenty-seven. I was, going back to English fiction, the young squire walking home with the curate's pretty young daughter and conversing with fine condescension. We girls all wish we could come over and help hunt the lost treasure. It must be simply splendid to live in a house where there's a mystery, secret passages, and chests of the balloons and all that sort of thing. My, squire Glenarm, I suppose you spend all your nights exploring secret passages. This free expression of opinion startled me, though she seemed wholly innocent of impertinence. Who says there's any secret about the house? I demanded. Oh, Ferguson, the gardener, and all the girls. I fear Ferguson is drawing on his imagination. Well, all the people in the village think so. I've heard the candy shop woman speak of it often. She'd better attend to her taffy, I retorted. Oh, you mustn't be sensitive about it. All us girls think it ever so romantic, and we call you, sometimes, the Lord of the Realm. And when we see you walking through the darkling wood at Evenfall, we say, my Lord is brooding upon the treasure chests. This, delivered in the stilted tone of one who is half quoting and half improvising, was irresistibly funny, and I laughed with goodwill. I hope you've forgiven me. I began, kicking the gate to knock off the snow and taking the key from my pocket. But I haven't, Mr. Glenarm. Your assumption is, to say the least, unwarranted. I got that from a book. It isn't fair for you to know my name, and for me not to know yours, I said, leadingly. You're perfectly right. You are Mr. John Glenarm. The gardener told me, and I'm just Olivia. They don't allow me to be called Miss yet. I'm very young, sir. You've only told me half. And I kept my hand on the closed gate. The snow still fell steadily, and the short afternoon was nearing its close. I did not like to lose her, the life, the youth, the mirth for which she stood. The thought of Glenarm House amid the snow-hung wood, and of the long winter evening that I must spend alone, moved me to delay. Lights already gleamed in the school-building straight before us, and the sight of them smote me with loneliness. Olivia Gladys Armstrong, she said, laughing, brushed past me through the gate, and ran lightly over the snow towards St. Agatha's. End of Chapter 9. CHAPTER X. An Affair with the Caretaker. I read in the library until late, hearing the howl of the wind outside with satisfaction in the warmth and comfort of the great room. Bates brought in some sandwiches and a bottle of ale at midnight. If there's nothing more, sir. That is all, Bates. And he went off sedately to his own quarters. I was restless and in no mood for bed, and mourned the lack of variety in my grandfather's library. I moved about from shelf to shelf, taking down one book after another, and while thus engaged, came upon a series of large volumes extra-illustrated in watercolors of unusual beauty. They occupied a lower shelf, and I sprawled on the floor, like a boy with a new picture-book, in my absorption, piling the great volumes about me. They were unrelated subjects pertaining to the French chateau. In the last volume I found a sheet of white note-paper, no larger than my hand, a forgotten bookmark, I assumed, and half crumpled it in my fingers before I noticed the lines of a pencil sketch on one side of it. I carried it to the table and spread it out. It was not the bit of idle penciling it had appeared to be at first sight. A scale had evidently been followed, and the lines drawn with a ruler. With such trifles my grandfather had no doubt amused himself. There was a long corridor indicated, but of this I could make nothing. I studied it for several minutes, thinking it might have been a tentative sketch of some part of the house. In turning it about under the candelabrum, I saw that in several places the glaze had been rubbed from the paper by an eraser, and this piqued my curiosity. I brought a magnifying glass to bear upon the sketch. The drawing had been made with a hard pencil, and the eraser had removed the lead, but a well-defined imprint remained. I was able to make out the letters NW three-quarter to C, a reference clearly enough to points of the compass and a distance. The word ravine was scrolled over a rough outline of a doorway or opening of some sort, and then the phrase, the door of bewilderment. Now I am rather an imaginative person. That is why engineering captured my fancy. It was through his trying to make an architect, a person who quarrels with women about their kitchen sinks, of a boy who wanted to be an engineer that my grandfather and I failed to hit it off. From boyhood I have never seen a great bridge or watched a locomotive climb a difficult hillside without a thrill, and a lighthouse still seems to me quite the finest monument a man can build for himself. My grandfather's devotion to old churches and medieval houses always struck me as trifling and unworthy of a grown man, and fate was busy with my affairs that night. For, instead of lighting my pipe with the little sketch, I was strangely impelled to study it seriously. I drew for myself rough outlines of the interior of Glenarm House, as it had appeared to me, and then I tried to reconcile the little sketch with every part of it. The door of bewilderment was the charm that held me. The phrase was in itself allure. The man who had built a preposterous house in the woods of Indiana, and called it the House of a Thousand Candles, was quite capable of other whims, and as I bent over this scrap of paper in the candle-lighted library, it occurred to me that possibly I had not done justice to my grandfather's genius. My curiosity was thoroughly aroused as to the hidden corners of the queer old house, round which the wind shrieked tormentingly. I went to my room, put on my corduroy coat, for its greater warmth in going through the cold halls, took a candle, and went below. One o'clock in the morning is not the most cheering hour for exploring the dark recesses of a strange house, but I had resolved to have a look at the ravine opening and determine if possible whether it bore any relation to the door of bewilderment. All was quiet in the great cellar, only here and there an area window rattled dolorously. I carried a tape line with me and made measurements of the length and depth of the corridor and of the chambers that were set off from it. These figures I entered in my notebook for further use, and sat down on an empty nail-keg to reflect. The place was certainly substantial. The candle at my feet burned steadily with no hint of a draft, but I saw no solution of my problem. All the doors along the corridor were open or yielded readily to my hand. I was losing sleep for nothing. My grandfather's sketch was meaningless, and I rose and picked up my candle yawning. Then a curious thing happened. The candle, whose thin flame had risen unwaveringly, sputtered, and went out as a sudden gust swept the corridor. I had left nothing open behind me, and the outer doors of the house were always locked and barred, but someone had gained ingress to the cellar by an opening of which I knew nothing. I faced the stairway that led up to the back hall of the house, and to my astonishment, steps sounded behind me, and turning, I saw coming toward me a man carrying a lantern. I marked his careless step. He was undoubtedly unfamiliar ground. As I watched him, he paused, lifted the lantern to a level with his eyes, and began sounding the wall with a hammer. Here undoubtedly was my friend Morgan, again. There was the same periodicity in the beat on the wall that I had heard in my own rooms. He began at the top and went methodically to the floor. I leaned against the wall where I stood and watched the lantern slowly coming toward me. The small revolver with which I had fired at his flying figure in the wood was in my pocket. It was just as well to have it out with the fellow now. My chances were as good as his, though I confess I did not relish the thought of being found dead the next morning in the cellar of my own house. It pleased my humor to let him approach in this way, unconscious that he was watched, until I should thrust my pistol into his face. His arms grew tired when he was about ten feet from me, and he dropped the lantern and hammer to his side, and swore under his breath impatiently. Then he began again with greater zeal. As he came nearer, I studied his face in the lantern's light with interest. His hat was thrust back, and I could see his jaw hard set under his blonde beard. He took a step nearer, ran his eyes over the wall, and resumed his tapping. The ceiling was something less than eight feet, and he began at the top. Insettling himself for the new series of strokes, he swayed toward me slightly, and I could hear his hard breathing. I was deliberating how best to throw myself upon him, but as I wavered he stepped back, swore at his ill luck, and flung the hammer to the ground. Thanks! I shouted, leaping forward and snatching the lantern. Stand just where you are. With the revolver in my right hand and the lantern held high in my left, I enjoyed his utter consternation, as my voice roared in the corridor. It's too bad we meet under such strange circumstances, Morgan, I said. I'd begun to miss you, but I suppose you've been sleeping in the daytime to gather strength for your night prowling. You're a fool! he growled. He was recovering from his fright. I knew it by the gleam of his teeth in his yellow beard. His eyes, too, were moving restlessly about. He undoubtedly knew the house better than I did, and was considering the best means of escape. I did not know what to do with him now that I had him at the point of a pistol, and in my ignorance of his motives and my vague surmise as to the agency back of him, I was filled with uncertainty. You needn't hold that thing quite so near, he said, staring at me coolly. I'm glad it annoys you, Morgan, I said. It may help you to answer some questions I'm going to put to you. So you want information, do you, Mr. Glenarm? I should think it would be beneath the dignity of a great man like you, to ask a poor devil like me for help. We're not talking of dignity, I said. I want you to tell me how you got in here. He laughed. Heh! You're a very shrewd one, Mr. Glenarm. I came in by the kitchen window, if you must know. I got in before your solemn jack-of-all-trades locked up, and I walked down to the end of the passage there. He indicated the direction with a slight jerk of his head, and slept until it was time to go to work. You can see how easy it was. I laugh now at the sheer assurance of the fellow. If you can't lie better than that, you needn't try again. Face about now and march. I put new energy into my tone, and he turned and walked before me down the corridor in the direction from which he had come. We were, I daresay, a pretty pair. He tramping doggedly before me, I following at his heels with his lantern and my pistol. The situation had played pritally into my hands, and I had every intention of resting from him the reason for his interest in Glenarm house and my affairs. Not so fast, I admonished sharply. Excuse me," he replied mockingly. He was no common rogue. I felt the quality in him with a certain admiration for his scoundrelly talents, a fellow, I reflected, who was best studied at the point of a pistol. I continued at his heels, and poked the muzzle of the revolver against his back from time to time to keep him assured of my presence, a device that I was to regret a second later. We were about ten yards from the end of the corridor when he flung himself backward upon me, through his arms over his head, and seized me about the neck, turning himself lightly until his fingers clasped my throat. I fired blindly once, and felt the smoke of the revolver hot in my own nostrils. The lantern fell from my hand, and one or the other of us smashed it with our feet. A wrestling match in that dark hole was not to my liking. I still held on to the revolver, waiting for a chance to use it, and meanwhile he tried to throw me, forcing me back against one side and then the other of the passage. With a quick rush he flung me away, and in the same second I stared. The roar of the shot in the narrow corridor seemed interminable. I flung myself on the floor, expecting a return shot, and quickly enough a flash broke upon the darkness dead ahead, and I rose to my feet, fired again, and leaped to the opposite side of the corridor and crouched there. We had adopted the same tactics, firing and dodging, to avoid the target made by the flash of our pistols, and watching and listening after the roar of the explosions. It was a very pretty game, but destined not to last long. He was slowly retreating toward the end of the passage, where there was, I remembered, a dead wall. His only chance was to crawl through an area window I knew to be there, and this wood I felt sure, give him into my hands. After five shots apiece there was a truce. The pungent smoke of the powder caused me to cough, and he laughed. Have you swallowed a bullet, Mr. Glenarm? He called. I could hear his feet scraping on the cement floor. He was moving away from me, thatless intending to fire when he reached the area window, and escape before I could reach him. I crept warily after him, ready to fire on the instant, but not wishing to throw away my last cartridge. That I resolved to keep for close quarters at the window. He was now very near the end of the corridor. I heard his feet strike some boards that I remembered lay on the floor there, and I was nerved for a shot, and a hand-to-hand struggle if it came to that. I was sure that he sought the window. I heard his hands on the wall as he felt for it. Then a breath of cold air swept the passage, and I knew he must be drawing himself up to the opening. I fired and dropped to the floor. With the roar of the explosion I heard him yell, but the expected return shot did not follow. The pounding of my heart seemed to mark the passing of hours. I feared that my foe was playing some trick, creeping towards me, perhaps, to fire at close range, or to grapple with me in the dark. The cold air still whistled into the corridor, and I began to feel the chill of it. Being fired upon is disagreeable enough, but waiting in the dark for the shot is worse. I rose and walked toward the end of the passage. Then his revolver flashed and roared directly ahead, the flame of it so near that it blinded me. I fell forward confused and stunned, but shook myself together in a moment and got upon my feet. The draft of air no longer blew into the passage. Morgan had taken himself off through the window and closed it after him. I made sure of this by going to the window and feeling of it with my hands. I went back and groped about for my candle, which I found without difficulty and lighted. I then returned to the window and examined the catch. To my utter astonishment it was fastened with staples, even deep into the sash, in such a way that it could not possibly have been opened without the aid of tools. I tried it at every point. Not only was it securely fastened, but it could not possibly be open without an expenditure of time and labor. There was no doubt whatever that Morgan knew more about Glenarm House than I did. It was possible, but not likely, that he had crept past me in the corridor and gone out through the house or by some other cellar window. My eyes were smarting from the smoke of the last shot and my cheek stung where the burnt powder had struck my face. I was alive, but in my vexation and perplexity not I fear, grateful for my safety. It was, however, some consolation to feel sure I had winged the enemy. I gathered up the fragments of Morgan's lantern and went back to the library. The lights and half the candlesticks had sputtered out. I extinguished the remainder and started to my room. Then in the great dark hall I heard a muffled tread as of someone following me, not on the great staircase nor in any place I could identify, yet unmistakably, on steps of some sort, beneath or above me. My nerves were already key to a breaking pitch and the ghostlike tread in the hall angered me, Morgan or his ally Bates I reflected, at some new trick. I ran into my room, found a heavy walking-stick, and set off her Bates' room on the third floor. It was always easy to attribute any sort of mischief to the fellow, and undoubtedly he was crawling through the house somewhere on an errand that boated no good to me. It was now past two o'clock, and he should have been asleep and out of the way long ago. I crept to his room and threw open the door without, I must say, the slightest idea of finding him there. But Bates the enigma, Bates the incomparable cook, the perfect servant, sat at a table, the light of several candles falling on a book over which he was bent with the maddening gravity he had never yet in my presence thrown off. He rose at once, stood at attention, and climbing his head slightly. Yes, Mr. Glenarm? Yes, the devil I roared at him, astonished at finding him. Sorry, I must say, that he was there. The stick fell from my hands. I did not doubt he knew perfectly well that I had some purpose in breaking in upon him. I was baffled, and in my rage floundered for words to explain myself. I thought I heard someone in the house. I don't want you prowling about in the night, do you hear? Certainly not, sir," he said in a grieve tone. I glanced at the book he had been reading. It was a volume of Shakespeare's comedies, open at the first scene of the last act of The Winter's Tale. Quite a pretty bit of work that, I should say, he remarked. It was one of my late master's favorites. Go to the devil, I bawled at him, and went down to my room and slammed the door in rage and chagrin. CHAPTER XI. I receive a caller. Going to bed at three o'clock on a winter morning in a house whose ways are disquieting, after a duel in which you escaped whole only by sheer good luck, does not fit one for sleep. When I finally drew the covers over me it was to lie and speculate upon the events of the night, in connection with the history of the few weeks I had spent at Glenarm. Larry had suggested in New York that Pickering was playing some deep game, and I myself could not accept Pickering's statement that my grandfather's large fortune had proved to be a myth. If Pickering had not stolen or dissipated it, where was it concealed? Morgan was undoubtedly looking for something of value, or he would not risk his life in the business, and it was quite possible that he was employed by Pickering to search for hidden property. This idea took strong hold of me, the more readily I fear, since I had been anxious to see evil in Pickering. There was, to be sure, the unknown alternative heir, but neither sheet nor sister Teresa was, I imagined, a person capable of hiring an assassin to kill me. On reflection I dismissed the idea of appealing to the county authorities, and I never regretted that resolution. The seat of Wabana County was twenty miles away, the processes of law were unfamiliar, and I wished to avoid publicity. Morgan might, of course, have been easily disposed of by an appeal to the Annandale Constable, but now that I suspected Pickering of treachery the caretaker's importance dwindled. I had waited all my life for a chance at Arthur Pickering, and in this affair I hoped to draw him into the open and settle with him. I slept presently, but woke at my usual hour, and after a tub felt ready for another day. Bates served me, as usual, a breakfast that gave a fair aspect to the morning. I was alert for any sign of perturbation in him, but I had already decided that I might as well look for emotion in a stone wall, as in this placid, colorless, serving man. I had no reason to suspect him of complicity in the night's affair, but I had no faith in him, and merely waited until he should throw himself more boldly into the game. By my plate next morning I found this note, written in a clear bold woman's hand. The Sisters of St. Agatha trust that the intrusion upon his grounds by Miss Armstrong, one of their students, has caused Mr. Glenarm no annoyance. The Sisters beg that this infraction of their discipline will be overlooked, and they assure Mr. Glenarm that it will not recur. An unnecessary apology. The note paper was of the best quality. At the head of the page St. Agatha's Anondale was embossed in purple. It was the first note I had received from a woman in a long time, and it gave me a pleasant emotion. One of the Sisters I had seen beyond the wall undoubtedly wrote it, possibly Sister Teresa herself, a clever woman that, thoroughly capable of plucking money from guileless old gentleman. Poor Olivia, born for freedom, but doomed to a pent-up existence with a lot of nuns. I resolved to send her a box of candy some time, just to annoy her grim guardians. Then my own affairs claimed attention. Bates, I asked, do you know what Mr. Glenarm did with the plans for the house? He started slightly. I should not have noticed it if I had not been keen for his answer. No, sir. I can't put my hand upon them, sir. That's all very well, Bates, but you didn't answer my question. Do you know where they are? I'll put my hand on them, if you will kindly tell me where they are kept. Mr. Glenarm, I fear very much that they have been destroyed. I tried to find them before you came, to tell you the whole truth, sir, but they must have been made way with. That's very interesting, Bates, will you kindly tell me whom you suspect of destroying them? The toast again, please? His hand shook as he passed the plate. I hardly like to say, sir, when it's only a suspicion. Of course I shouldn't ask you to incriminate yourself, but I'll have to insist on my question. It may have occurred to you, Bates, that I am in a sense, in a sense, mind you, the master here. Well, I should say, if you press me, that I fear Mr. Glenarm, your grandfather, burned the plans when he left here the last time. I hope you'll pardon me, sir, for seeming to reflect upon him. Reflect upon the devil. What was his idea, do you suppose? I think, sir, if you will pardon. Don't be so fussy, I snap. Damn your pardon and go on. He wanted you to study out the place for yourself, sir. It was dear to his heart, this house. He set his heart upon having you enjoy it. I like the word, go ahead. And I suppose there are things about it he wished for you to learn for yourself. You know them, of course, and are watching me to see when I'm hard or cold, like kids playing hide the handkerchief. The fellow turned and faced me across the table. Mr. Glenarm, as I hope God may be merciful to me in the last judgment, I don't know any more than you do. You were here with Mr. Glenarm all the time he was building the house, but you never saw walls built that weren't what they appeared to be or doors made that didn't lead anywhere. I summoned all my irony and contempt for this arraignment. He lifted his hand, as though making an oath. As God sees me, that he's all through. I was here to care for the dead master's comfort, and not to spy on him. And Morgan, your friend, what about him? I wish I knew, sir. I wished that devil you did, I said, and flung out of the room and into the library. At eleven o'clock I heard a pounding at the great front door, and bates came to announce a caller, who was now audibly knocking the snow from his shoes in the outer hall. The Reverend Paul started, sir. The chaplain of St. Agathas was a big fellow, as I had remarked on the occasion of his interview with Olivia Gladys Armstrong by the wall. His light brown hair was close cut, his smooth shaven face was bright with the freshness of youth. Here was a sturdy young apostle without frills, but with a vigorous grip that left my hand tingling. His voice was deep and musical, a voice that suggested sincerity and inspired confidence. I'm afraid I haven't been neighborly, Mr. Glenarm. I was called away from home a few days after I heard of your arrival, and I have just got back. I blew in yesterday with the snowstorm. He folded his arms easily and looked at me with cheerful directness, as though politely interested in what manner of man I might be. It was a fine storm. I got a great day out of it, I said. An Indiana snowstorm is something I have never experienced before. This is my second winter. I came out here because I wished to do some reading, and thought I'd rather do it alone than in a university. Studious habits are rather forced on one out here, I should say. In my own case my course of reading is all cut out for me. He ran his eyes over the room. The Glenarm collection is famous, the best in the country easily. Mr. Glenarm, your grandfather, was certainly an enthusiast. I met him several times. He was a trifle hard to meet, and the clergyman smiled. I felt rather uncomfortable, assuming that he probably knew I was undergoing discipline, and why my grandfather had so ordained it. The reverend Paul Stoddard was so simple, unaffected, and manly a fellow, that I shrank from the thought that I must appear to him an ungrateful blaggard whom my grandfather had marked with obliquely. My grandfather had his whims, but he was a fine, generous hearted old gentleman, I said. Yes, in my few interviews with him he surprised me by the range of his knowledge. He was quite able to instruct me in curious branches of church history that had appealed to him. You were here when he built the house, I suppose? My visitor laughed cheerfully. I was on my side of the barricade for a part of the time. You know there was a great deal of mystery about the building of this house. The country folk hereabouts can't quite get over it. They have a superstition that there's treasure buried somewhere on the place. You see, Mr. Glenarm wouldn't employ any local laborer. The work was done by men he brought from afar. None of them, the villagers say, could speak English. They were all Greeks or Italians. I've heard something of the kind, I remarked, feeling that here was a man who, with a little cultivating, might help me to solve some of my riddles. You haven't been on our side of the wall yet? Well, I promise not to molest your hidden treasure, if you'll be neighborly. I fear there's a great joke involved in the hidden treasure, I replied. I'm so busy staying at home to guard it that I have no time for social recreation. He looked at me quickly to see whether I was joking. His eyes were steady and earnest. The reverend Paul Stoddard impressed me more and more agreeably. There was a suggestion of a quiet strength about him that drew me to him. I suppose every one around here thinks of nothing but that I'm at Glenarm to earn my inheritance. My residence here must look pretty sorted from the outside. Mr. Glenarm's will is a matter of record in the county, of course. But you are too hard on yourself. It's nobody's business if your grandfather wished to visit his whims on you. I should say, in my own case, that I don't consider it any of my business. What you are here for. I didn't come over to annoy you or to pry into your affairs. I get lonely now and then and thought I'd like to establish neighborly relations. Thank you. I appreciate your coming very much. And my heart warmed unto the manifest kindness of the man. And I hope—he spoke for the first time with restraint—I hope nothing may prevent your knowing Sister Teresa and Miss Devereaux. They are interesting and charming, the only women about here of your own social status. My liking for him abated slightly. He might be a detective, representing the alternative heir for all I knew, and possibly Sister Teresa was a party to the conspiracy. In time, no doubt I shall know them, I answered evasively. Oh, quite as you like! And he changed the subject. We talked of many things, of outdoor sports, with which he showed great familiarity, of universities, of travel and adventure. He was a Columbia man, and had spent two years at Oxford. Well, he exclaimed, this has been very pleasant, but I must run. I have just been over to see Morgan, the caretaker at the resort village. The poor fellow accidentally shut himself yesterday, cleaning his gun or something of that sort, and he has an ugly hole in his arm that will shut him in for a month or worse. He gave me and Aaron to do for him. He's a conscientious fellow, and wished me to wire for him to Mr. Pickering, that he'd been hurt, but was attending to his duties. Pickering owns a cottage over there, and Morgan has charge of it. You know Pickering, of course. I looked at my clerical neighbor straight in the eye, a trifle coldly, perhaps. I was wondering why Morgan, with whom I had enjoyed a duel in my own cellar only a few hours before, should be reporting his injury to Arthur Pickering. I think I have seen Morgan about here, I said. Oh yes, he's a woodsman and a hunter, our Nimrod of the lake. I could sort very likely. I daresay, he has sometimes brought me ducks during the season. To be sure, they shoot ducks at night, these Hoosier hunters, so I hear. He laughed as he shook himself into his great coat. That's possible, though unsportsmanlike, but we don't have to look a gift-malloured in the eye. We laughed together. I thought that it was easy to laugh with him. By the way, I forgot to get Pickering's address from Morgan, if you happen to have it. With pleasure, I said, Alexis Building, Broadway, New York. Good, that's easy to remember, he said, smiling and turning up his coat-colour. Don't forget me, I'm corded in a hermit's cell back of the chapel, and I believe we can find many matters of interest to talk about. I'm confident of it," I said, glad of the sympathy and cheer that seemed to emanate from his stalwart figure. I threw on my overcoat and walked to the gate with him, and saw him hurry toward the village with long strides. End of CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XII. OF THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND CANDLES. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND CANDLES by Meredith Nicholson. CHAPTER XII. I EXPLORE A PASSAGE. Bates! I found him busy replenishing the candlesticks in the library. It seemed to me that he was always poking about with an armful of candles. There are a good many queer things in this world, but I guess you're one of the queerest. I don't mind telling you, that there are times when I think you a thoroughly bad lot. And then again I question my judgment, and don't give you credit for being much more than a doddering fool. He was standing on a ladder beneath the great crystal chandelier that hung from the center of the ceiling, and looked down upon me with that patient injury that is so appealing in a dog, in, say, the eyes of an Irish setter, when you accidentally step on his tail. That look is heartbreaking in a setter, but seen in a man it arouses the direst homicidal feelings of which I am capable. Yes, Mr. Glenarm, he replied humbly. Now I want you to grasp this idea that I'm going to dig into this old shell, top and bottom. I'm going to blow it up with dynamite, if I please, and if I catch you spying on me, or reporting my doings to my enemies, or engaging in any questionable performances whatever, I'll hang you between the posts out there in the school wall. Do you understand? So that the sweet sisters of St. Agatha and the dear little schoolgirls in the chaplain and all the rest will shudder through all their lives, at the very thought of you. Certainly Mr. Glenarm. And his tone was the same he would have used if I had asked him to pass me the matches, and under my breath I consigned him to the harshest tortures of the fiery pit. Now as to Morgan. Yes, sir? What possible business do you suppose he has with Mr. Pickering? I demanded. Why, sir, that's clear enough. Mr. Pickering owns a house up the lake. He got it through your grandfather. Morgan has the care of it, sir. Very plausible indeed, and I sent him off to his work. After luncheon I went below and directly to the end of the corridor and began to sound the walls. To the eye they were all alike, being of cement and substantial enough. Through the area window I saw the solid earth and snow. Surely there was little here to base hope upon, and my wonder grew at the east with which Morgan had vanished through a barred window and into frozen ground. The walls at the end of the passage were as solid as rock, and they responded dully to the stroke of the hammer. I sounded them on both sides, retracing my steps to the stairway, becoming more and more impatient at my ill-luck or stupidity. There was every reason why I should know my own house, and yet a stranger and an outlaw ran through it with amazing daring. After an hour's idle search I returned to the end of the corridor, repeated all my pervious soundings, and I fear, stretched in language, unbecoming a gentleman. Then in my blind anger I found what patient's search had not disclosed. I threw the hammer from me in a fit of temper. It struck upon a large square in the cement floor, which gave forth a hollow sound. I was on my knees in an instant, my fingers searching the cracks, and drawing down close I could feel a current of air, slight but unmistakable against my face. The cement square, though exactly like the others in the cellar floor, was evidently only a wooden imitation, covering an opening beneath. The block was fitted into its place with a nicety that certified the skill of the hand that had adjusted it. I broke a blade of my pocket-knife trying to pry it up, but in a moment I succeeded, and found it to be in reality a trapdoor hinged to the substantial part of the floor. A current of cool, fresh air, the same that had surprised me in the night, struck my face as I lay flat and peered into the opening. The lower passage was as black as pitch, and I lighted a lantern I had brought with me, found that wooden steps gave safe conduct below, and went down. I stood erect in the passage, and had several inches to spare. It extended both ways, running back under the foundations of the house. This lower passage cut squarely under the park before the house, and toward the school wall. No wonder my grandfather had brought foreign laborers who could speak no English to work on his house. There was something delightful in the largeness of his scheme, and I hurried through the tunnel with a hundred questions tormenting my brain. The air grew steadily fresher until, after I had gone about two hundred yards, I reached a point where the wind seemed to beat down upon me from above. I put up my hands and found two openings, about two yards apart, through which the air sucked steadily. I moved out of the current with a chuckle in my throat and a grin on my face. I had passed under the gate in the school wall, and I knew now why the piers that held it had been so high. They were hollow, and were the means of sending fresh air into the tunnel. I had traversed about twenty yards more when I felt a slight vibration accompanied by a muffled roar, and almost immediately came to a short wooden stair that marked the end of the passage. I had no means of judging directions, but I assumed I was somewhere near the chapel in the school grounds. I climbed the steps, noting still the vibration, and found a door that yielded readily to pressure. In a moment I stood blinking, lantern in hand, in a well-lighted floored room. Overhead the tumult and thunder of an organ explained the tremor and roar I had heard below. I was in the crypt of St. Agatha's Chapel. The inside of the door by which I had entered was a part of the wane-scoting of the room, and the opening was wholly covered with a map of the Holy Land. In my absorption I had lost the sense of time, and I was amazed to find that it was five o'clock, but I resolved to go into the chapel before going home. The way up was clear enough, and I was soon in the vestibule. I opened the door, expecting to find a service in progress. But the little church was empty, safe-where, at the right of the chancel, and organist was filling the church with the notes of a triumphant march. Cap in hand I stole forward, and I sank down in one of the pews. A lamp over the organ keyboard gave the only light in the chapel, and made an oriole around her head, about the uncovered head of Olivia Gladys Armstrong. I smiled as I recognized her, and smiled too, as I remembered her name. But the joy she brought to the music, the happiness in her face as she raised it in the minor harmonies, her isolation marked by the little isle of light against the dark background of the choir, these things touched and moved me, and I bent forward, my arms upon the pew in front of me, watching and listening, with a kind of odd wonder. Here was a refuge of peace and lulling harmony, after the disturbed life at Glenarm, and I yielded myself to its solace, with an inclination my life had rarely known. There was no pause in the outpouring of the melody. She changed stops and manuals with swift fingers, and passed from one composition to another. Now it was an august hymn, now a theme from Wagner, and finally Mendelssohn's spring-song leaped forth exultant in the dark chapel. She ceased suddenly, with a little sigh, and struck her hands together, for the place was cold. As she reached up to put out the lights, I stepped forward to the chancel steps. Please, allow me to do that for you." She turned toward me, gathering a cape about her. "'Oh, it's you, is it?' she asked, looking about quickly. "'I don't remember. I don't seem to remember that you were invited.' I didn't know I was coming myself,' I remarked truthfully, lifting my hand to the lamp. "'That is my opinion of you, that you are a rather unexpected person. But thank you very much.' She showed no disposition to prolong the interview, but hurry toward the door, and reached the vestibule before I came up with her. "'You can't go any further, Mr. Glenarm,' she said, and waited as though to make sure I understood. Straight before us, through the wood, and beyond the school buildings, the sunset faded sullenly. The night was following fast upon the gray twilight, and already the bolder planets were aflame in the sky. The path led straight ahead beneath the black boughs. "'I might perhaps walk to the dormitory, or whatever you call it,' I said. "'Thank you, no. I'm late and haven't time to bother with you. It's against the rules, you know, for us to receive visitors.' She stepped out into the path. But I'm not a caller, I'm just a neighbor, and I owe you several calls anyhow.' She laughed, but did not pause, and I followed a pace behind her. "'I hope you don't think for a minute that I chased a rabbit on your side of the fence just to meet you. Do you, Mr. Glenarm?' "'Be it far from me. I'm glad I came, though, for I liked your music immensely. I'm in earnest. I think it quite wonderful, Miss Armstrong.' She paid no heed to me. "'And I hope I may promise myself the pleasure of hearing you often.' "'You are positively flattering, Mr. Glenarm, but as I'm going away.' I felt my heart sink at the thought of her going away. She was the only amusing person I had met at Glenarm, and the idea of losing her gave a darker note to the bleak landscape. "'That's really too bad, and just when we were getting acquainted, and I was coming to church every Sunday to hear you play, and to pray for snow, so you'd come over often to chase rabbits.' Miss I thought softened her heart, and at any rate her tone changed. "'I don't play for services. They're afraid to let me, for fear I'd run comic opportunes into the tedium.' "'How shocking!' "'Do you know, Mr. Glenarm?' Her tone became confidential, and her pace slackened. "'We call you the squire at St. Agathas, the Lord of the Manor, and names like that. All the girls are perfectly crazy about you. They'd be wild if they thought I talked with you clandestinely. Is that the way you pronounce it?' "'Anything you say, in any way you say it, satisfies me,' I replied. "'That's ever so nice of you,' she said, mockingly again. I felt foolish and guilty. She would probably get roundly scolded if the grave sisters learned of her talks with me, and very likely I should win their hearty contempt. But I did not turn back. "'I hope the reason you're leaving isn't,' I hesitated. "'Ill conduct? "'Oh, yes, I'm terribly wicked,' Squire Glenarm. "'They're sending me off.' "'But I suppose they're awfully strict, the sisters. "'They're hideous, perfectly hideous.' "'Where is your home?' I demanded. "'Chicago, Indianapolis, Cincinnati, perhaps?' "'Humph, you are dull. You ought to know from my accent that I'm not from Chicago, and I hope I haven't a Kentucky girl's air of waiting to be flattered to death. And no Indianapolis girl would talk to a strange man at the edge of a deep wood in the gray twilight of a winter day. That's from a book. And the Cincinnati girl is without my Elan Esprit. Whatever you please to call it, she has more Teutonic repose, more Gretchen of the Rhine Valley about her. Don't you adore French, Squire Glenarm?' She concluded breathlessly, and with no pause in her quick step. "'I adore yours, Miss Armstrong,' I asserted, yielding myself further to the joy of idiocy, and delighting in the mockery and changing moods of her talk. I did not make her out. Indeed, I preferred not to. I was not then, and I am not now, thank God, of an analytical turn of mind. And as I grow older I prefer, even after many a blow, to take my fellow human beings a good deal as I find them, and as for women, old or young, I envy no man his gift of resolving them into elements. As well carry a spray of Arbitis to the laboratory, or subject the enchantment of moonlight upon running water to the flame and blowpipe as try to analyze the heart of a girl, particularly a girl who paddles a canoe with a sure stroke and puts up a good race with a rabbit, a lamp shone ahead of us at the entrance of one of the houses, and lights appeared in all the buildings. If I knew your window I should certainly sing under it, except that you're going home. You didn't tell me why they were deporting you. I'm really ashamed to. You would never. Oh, yes I would. I'm really an old friend," I insisted, feeling more like an idiot every minute. Well, don't tell, but they caught me flirting with the grocery boy. Now, aren't you disgusted? Thoroughly, I can't believe it. Why, you'd a lot better flirt with me," I suggested boldly. Well, I'm to be sent away for good at Christmas. I may come back then if I can square myself. My, that's slang. Isn't it horrid? The sisters don't like slang, I suppose. They loathe it. Miss Devereaux, you know who she is. She spies on us and tells. You don't say so, but I'm not surprised at her. I've heard about her," I declared bitterly. We had reached the door, and I expected her to fly, but she lingered a moment. Oh, if you know her, perhaps you're a spy, too. It's just as well. We should never meet again, Mr. Glenarm," she declared haughtily. The memory of these few meetings will always linger with me, Ms. Armstrong. I returned, in an imitation of her own tone. I shall scorn to remember you," and she folded her arms under the cloak tragically. Our meetings have been all too few, Ms. Armstrong. Three, exactly, I believe. I see you prefer to ignore the first time I ever saw you," she said, her hand on the door. Out there in your canoe? Never. And you've forgiven me for overhearing you in the chaplain on the wall. Please? She grasped the knob of the door and paused an instant as though pondering. I make it four times, not counting once in the road and other times when you didn't know, Squire Glenarm, I'm a foolish little girl to have remembered the first. I see now how BLIND I have been. She opened and closed the door softly, and I heard her running up the steps within. I ran back to the chapel, roundly abusing myself, for having neglected my more serious affairs for a bit of silly talk with a schoolgirl, fearful lest the openings I had left at both ends of the passage should have been discovered. The tunnel added a new and puzzling factor to the problem already before me, and I was eager for an opportunity to sit down in peace and comfort to study the situation. At the chapel I narrowly escaped running into Stoddard, but I slipped past him, pulled the hidden door into place, traversed the tunnel without incident, and soon climbed through the hatchway and slammed the false block securely into the opening. End of CHAPTER XIII A pair of eavesdroppers. When I came down after dressing for dinner, Bates called my attention to a belated male. I pounced eagerly upon a letter in Laurent Stonovan's well-known hand, bearing to my surprise an American stamp and postmark New Orleans. It was dated, however, at Veracruz, Mexico, December 15, 1901. Dear old man, I have had a merry time since I saw you in New York, couldn't get away for a European port as I hoped when I left you, as the authorities seemed to be taking my case seriously, and I was lucky to get off as a deckhand on a southbound boat. I expected to get a slice of English prodigal veal at Christmas, but as things stand now, I am grateful to be loose, even in this God-forsaken whole. The British bulldog is eager to insert its teeth in my trousers, and I was flattered to see my picture bulletin'd in a conspicuous place the day I struck Veracruz. You see, they're badgering the government at home because I'm not apprehended, and they've got to catch and hang me to show that they've really got their hands on the Irish situation. I'm not afraid of the greasers. No people who gorge themselves with bananas and red peppers can be dangerous, but the British consul here has a bad eye, and even as I write, I am dimly conscious that a sleek person who is ostensibly engaged in literary work at the next table is really killing time while he waits for me to finish this screed. No doubt you are peacefully settled on your ancestral estate, with only a few months and a little patience between you and your grandfather's shire. You always were a lucky brute. People die just to leave you money, whereas I'll have to die to get out of jail. I hope to land under the stars and stripes within a few days, either across country through El Paso or via New Orleans, preferably the former, as a man's social status is rated high in Texas, in proportion to the amount of reward that's out for him. They'd probably give me the freedom of the state if they knew my crimes had been the subject of a debate in the House of Commons, but the man across the table is casually looking over here for a glimpse of my signature, so I must give him a good one just for fun. With best wishes always, faithful to yours, George Washington Smith. P.S. I shant mail this here, but give it to a red-haired Irishman on a steamer that sails north tonight. Pleasant, I must say, this eternal dodging. Wish I could share your rural paradise for the length of a pipe in a bottle. Have forgotten whether you said Indian Territory or Indiana, but will take chances on the latter as more remotely suggesting the Aborigines. Bates gave me my coffee in the library, as I wish to settle down to an evening of reflection without delay. Larry's report of himself was not reassuring. I knew that if he had any idea of trying to reach me, he would not mention it in a letter which might fall into the hands of the authorities, and the hope that he might join me grew. I was not perhaps entitled to a companion at Glenarm, under the terms of my exile, but as a matter of protection in the existing condition of affairs there could be no legal or moral reason why I should not defend myself against my foes, and Larry was an ally worth having. In all my hours of questioning and anxiety at Glenarm, I never doubted the amiable intentions of my grandfather. His device for compelling my residence at his absurd house was in keeping with his character, and it was all equitable enough. But his dead hand had no control over the strange issue, and I felt justified in interpreting the will in the light of my experiences. I certainly did not intend to appeal to the local police authorities, at least not until the animus of the attack on me was determined. My neighbor, the chaplain, had inadvertently given me a bit of important news, and my mind kept reverting to the fact that Morgan was reporting his injury to the executor of my grandfather's estate in New York. Everything else that had happened was tame and unimportant compared with this. Why had John Marshall Glenarm made Arthur Pickering the executor of his estate? He knew that I detested him, that Pickering's noble aims and high ambitions had been praised by my family until his very name sickened me, and yet my own grandfather had thought it wise to entrust his fortune and my future to the man of all men who was most repugnant to me. I rose and paced the floor in anger. Instead of accepting Pickering's word for it that the will was all straight, I should have employed counsel and taken legal advice before suffering myself to be rushed away into a part of the world I had never visited before, and cooped up in a dreary house under the eye of a somber scoundrel who might poison me any day if he did not prefer to shoot me in my sleep. My rage must fasten upon someone, and Bates was the nearest target for it. I went to the kitchen where he usually spent his evenings to vent my feelings upon him, only to find him gone. I climbed to his room and found it empty. Very likely he was off condoling with his friend and fellow conspirator the caretaker, and I fumed with rage and disappointment. I was thoroughly tired, as tired as on days when I had beaten my way through tropical jungles without food or water, but I wished in my impotent anger against I knew not what agencies to punish myself, to induce an utter weariness that would drag me exhausted to bed. The snow in the highway was well beaten down, and I swung off countryward past St. Agatha's. A gray mist hung over the fields in whirling clouds, breaking away occasionally and showing the throbbing winter stars. The walk and my interest in the alternation of star-lighted and mist-wrapped landscape won me to a better state of mind, and after tramping a couple of miles I set out for home. Several times on my tramp I had caught myself whistling the air of a majestic old hymn and smiled, remembering my young friend Olivia and her playing in the chapel. She was an amusing child, the thought of her further lifted my spirit, and I turned into the school park as I passed the outer gate with a half-recognized wish to pass near the barracks where she spent her days. At the school gate the lamps of a carriage suddenly blurred in the mist. Carriages were not common in this region, and I was not surprised to find that this was the familiar village hack that met trains day and night at Glenarm Station. Some parent I conjectured, paying a visit to St. Agatha's. Perhaps the father of Miss Olivia Gladys Armstrong had come to carry her home for a stricter discipline than St. Teresa's school afforded. The driver sat asleep on his box, and I passed him and went on into the grounds. A whim seized me to visit the crypt of the chapel and examine the opening to the tunnel. As I passed the little group of school buildings a man came hurriedly from one of them and turned toward the chapel. I first thought it was stoddard, but I could not make him out in the mist, and I waited for him to put twenty paces between us before I followed along the path that led from the school to the chapel. He strode into the chapel porch with an air of assurance, and I heard him address someone who had been waiting. The mist was now so heavy that I could not see my hand before my face, and I stole forward until I could hear the voices of the two men distinctly. Bates! Yes, sir. I heard feet scraping on the stone floor of the porch. This is a devil of a place to talk in, but it's the best we can do. Did the young man know I sent for you? No, sir. He was quite busy with his books and papers. We can never be sure of him. I suppose that is correct, sir. Well, you and Morgan are a fine pair, I must say. I thought he had some sense, and that you'd see to it that he didn't make a mess of this thing. He's in bed now with a hole in his arm, and you've got to go on alone. I'll do my best, Mr. Pickering. Don't call me by that name, you idiot! We're not advertising our business from the house-tops." Certainly not, replied Bates humbly. The blood was roaring through my head, and my hands were clenched as I stood there listening to this colloquy. Pickering's voice was, and is, unmistakable. There was always a purring softness in it. He used to remind me at school of a sleek, complacent cat, and I hate cats with a particular loathing. Is Morgan lying or not when he says he shot himself accidentally? Demanded Pickering, petulantly. I only know what I heard from the gardener here at the school. You'll understand, I hope, that I can't be seen going to Morgan's house? Of course not, but he says you haven't played fair with him, but you even attacked him a few days after Glenarm came. Yes, and he hit me over the head with the club. It was his indiscretion, sir. He wanted to go through the library in broad daylight, and it wasn't any use, anyhow. There's nothing there. But I don't like the looks of this shooting. Morgan's sick and out of his head, but a fellow like Morgan isn't likely to shoot himself accidentally, and now it's done. The work stopped, and the time is running on. What do you think Glenarm suspects? I can't tell, sir. What mighty little, I should say, the shot through the window the first night he was here seemed to shake him a trifle, but he's quite settled down now, I should say, sir. He probably doesn't spend much time on this side of the fence, doesn't haunt the chapel, I fancy. Lord knows, sir. I hardly suspect the young gentleman of being a praying man. You haven't seen him prowling about analyzing the architecture? Not a bit of it, sir. He hasn't, I should say, what his revered grandfather called the analytical mind. Having yourself discussed in this frank fashion by your own servant is, I suppose, a wholesome thing for the spirit. The man who stands behind your chair may acquire in time some special knowledge of your mental processes by a diligent study of the back of your head, but I was not half so angry with these conspirators as with myself, for ever having entertained a single generous thought towards Bates. It was, however, consoling to know that Morgan was lying to Pickering and that my own exploits at the house were unknown to the executor. Pickering stamped his feet upon the paved porch floor in a way that I remembered of old. It marked a conclusion and pre-looted serious statements. Now, Bates, he said, with a ring of authority and speaking in a louder key than he had yet used, it's your duty under all the circumstances to help discover the hidden assets of the estate. We've got to pluck the mystery from that architectural monster over there, and the time for doing it is short enough. Mr. Glenarm was a rich man. To my own knowledge, he had a couple of millions, and he couldn't have spent it all on that house. He reduced his bank account to a few thousand dollars and swept out his safety vault boxes with a broom before his last trip into Vermont. He didn't die with the stuff in his clothes, did he? Lord bless me, no, sir. There was little enough cash to bury him, with you out of the country and me alone with him. He was a crank, and I suppose he got a lot of satisfaction out of concealing his money. But this hunt for it isn't funny. I supposed, of course, we dig it up before Glenarm got here, or I shouldn't have been in such a hurry to send for him. But it's over there somewhere or in the grounds. There must be a plan of the house that would help. I'll give you a thousand dollars the day you wire me you have found any sort of clue. Thank you, sir. I don't want thanks. I want the money or securities or whatever it is. I've got to get back to my car now, and you'd better skip home. You need to tell your young master that I've been here. I was trying hard to believe as I stood there with clenched hands outside the chapel porch that Arthur Pickering's name was written in the list of directors of one of the greatest trust companies in America, and that he belonged to the most exclusive clubs in New York. I had run out for a walk with only an inverness over my dinner jacket, and I was thoroughly chilled by the cold mist. I was experiencing, too, an inner cold, as I reflected upon the greed and perfidy of the man. Keep an eye on Morgan, said Pickering, certainly, sir, and be careful what you write or wire. I'll mind those points, sir, but I'd suggest, if you please, sir. Well, demanded Pickering impatiently, that you should call at the house. It would look rather strange to the young gentleman if you'd come here and not see him. I haven't the slightest errand with him, and besides, I haven't the time. If he learns that I've been here, you may say that my business was with Sister Teresa, and that I regretted very much not having an opportunity to call on him. The irony of this was not lost on Bates, who chuckled softly. He came out into the open and turned away toward the Glen Arm Gate. Pickering passed me, so near that I might have put out my hand and touched him, and in a moment I heard the carriage drive off rapidly toward the village. I heard Bates running home over the snow and listened to the clatter of the village hack as it bore Pickering back to Anondale. Then, out of the depths of the chapel porch, out of the depths of time and space it seemed, so dazed I stood, someone came swiftly toward me. Someone, light afoot like a woman, ran down the walk a little way into the fog, and paused. An exclamation broke from me. He's dropping for two. It was the voice of Olivia. I take pretty good care of myself if I were you, Squire Glen Arm. Good night. Good-bye, I faltered, as she sped away into the mist toward the school. End of Chapter 13. CHAPTER XIV The Girl in Gray My first thought was to find the cryptor and return through the tunnel before Bates reached the house. The chapel was open, and by lighting matches I found my way to the map and panel. I slipped through and closed the opening, then ran through the passage with gratitude for the generous builder who had given it a clear floor and an ample roof. In my haste I miscalculated its length and pitched into the steps under the trap at a speed that sent me sprawling. In a moment more I had jammed the trap into place and was running up the cellar steps, breathless, with my cap smashed down over my eyes. I heard Bates at the rear of the house and knew I had won the race by a scratch. There was but a moment in which to throw my coat and cap under the divan, slap the dust from my clothes, and seat myself at the great table where the candles blazed tranquilly. Bates' step was as steady as ever. There was not the sluggest hint of excitement in it, as he came and stood within the door. Big pardon, Mr. Glen Arm. Did you wish anything, sir? Oh, no, thank you, Bates. I had stepped down to the village, sir, to speak to the grocer. The eggs he sent this morning were not quite up to the mark. I have warned him not to send any of the storage article to this house. That's right, Bates. I folded my arms to hide my hands, which were black from contact with the passage, and faced my manservant. My respect for his rascally powers had increased immensely since he gave me my coffee. A contest with so clever a rogue was worthwhile. I'm grateful for your good care of me, Bates. I had expected to perish of discomfort out here, but you are treating me like a lord. Thank you, Mr. Glen Arm. I do what I can, sir. He brought fresh candles for the table candelabra, going about with his accustomed, noiseless step. I felt a cold chill creep down my spine as he passed behind me on these errands. His transition from the role of conspirator to that of my flawless servant was almost too abrupt. I dismissed him as quickly as possible, and listened to his step through the halls as he went about locking the doors. This was a regular incident, but I was aware tonight that he exercised what seemed to me a particular care in settling the bolts. The locking-up process had rather bored me before. Tonight the snapping of bolts was particularly trying. When I heard Bates climbing to his own quarters, I quietly went the rounds on my own account and found everything as tight as a drum. In the cellar I took occasion to roll some barrels of cement into the end of the corridor to cover and block the trap door. Bates had no manner of business in that part of the house, as the heating apparatus was under the kitchen and accessible by an independent stairway. I had no immediate use for the hidden passage to the chapel, and I did not intend that my enemies should avail themselves of it. Morgan at least knew of it, and while he was not likely to trouble me at once, I had resolved to guard every point in our pleasant game. I was tired enough to sleep when I went to my room, and after any ventless night woke to a clear day and keener air. I'm going to take a little run into the village, Bates, I remarked at breakfast. Very good, sir. The weather's quite cleared. If anyone should call, I'll be back in an hour or so. Yes, sir. He turned his impenetrable face toward me as I rose. There was, of course, no chance whatever, that anyone would call to see me. The reverend Paul Stardard was the only human being except Bates, Morgan, and the man who brought up my baggage who had crossed the threshold since my arrival. I really had an errand in the village. I wished to visit the hardware store and buy some cartridges, but Pickering's presence in the community was a disturbing factor in my mind. I wished to get sight of him, to meet him, if possible, and see how a man, whose schemes were so deep, looked in the light of day. As I left the grounds and gained the highway, Stardard fell in with me. Well, Mr. Glenarm, I'm glad to see you abroad so early. With that library of yours, the temptation must be strong to stay within doors. But a man's got to subject himself to the sun and wind. Even a good wedding now and then is salatory. I tried to get out every day, I answered. But I've chiefly limited myself to the grounds. Well, it's a fine estate. The lake is altogether charming in summer. I quite envy you, your fortune. He walked with a long stringing stride, his hands thrust deep into his overcoat pockets. It was difficult to accept the idea of so much physical strength being wasted in the mere business of saying prayers in a girl's school. Here was a fellow who should have been captain of a ship or a soldier, a leader of forlorn hopes. I felt sure there must be a weakness of some sort in him. Quite possibly it would prove to be a mild asceticism that delighted in the savor of incense and the mournful cadence of coral vespers. He declined a cigar, and this rather increased my suspicions. The village hack filled with young women passed at a gallop, found for the station, and we took off our hats. Christmas holidays, explained the chaplain. Practically all the students go home. Lucky kids to have a Christmas to go home to. I suppose Mr. Pickering got away last night, he observed, and my pulse quickened at the name. I haven't seen him yet, I answered guardedly. Then of course he hasn't gone. These words, uttered in the big clergyman's deep tones, seemed wholly plausible. There was, to be sure, nothing so unlikely as that Arthur Pickering, executor of my grandfather's estate, would come to Glenarm without seeing me. Sister Teresa told me this morning he was here. He called on her and Miss Devereux last night. I haven't seen him myself. I thought possibly I might run into him in the village. His car is very likely on the station switch. No doubt we shall find him there, I answered easily. The Annandale station presented an appearance of unusual gaiety when we reached the main street of the village. There, to be sure, lay a private car on the siding, and on the platform was a group of twenty or more girls with several of the brown-habited sisters of St. Agatha. There was something a little foreign in the picture, the girls in their bright colors talking gaily, the sisters in their somber garb hovering about, suggesting France or Italy rather than Indiana. I came here with the idea that St. Agatha's was a charity school, I remarked to the chaplain. Not a bit of it. Sister Teresa is really a swell, you know, and her school is hard to get into. I'm glad you warned me in time. I have thought of sending over a sack of flour occasionally, or a few bolts of calico to help in the good work. You've saved my life. I probably have. I might mention your good intentions to Sister Teresa. Pray don't. If there's any danger of meeting her on that platform, no, she isn't coming down, I'm sure. But you ought to know her, if you will pardon me, and Miss Devereux is charming, but really, I don't mean to be annoying. Not in the least, but under the circumstances, the will in my probationary year you can understand. Certainly, a man's affairs are his own, Mr. Glenarm. We stepped upon the platform. The private car was on the opposite side of the station, and had been switched into a siding of the east and west road. Pickering was certainly getting on. The private car, even more than the yacht, is the symbol of plutocracy, and gaping rustics were evidently impressed by its grandeur. As I lounged across the platform with Stoddard, Pickering came out into the vestibule of his car, followed by two ladies and an elderly gentleman. They all descended and began a promenade of the plank walk. Pickering saw me an instant later, and came apparently with an outstretched hand. This is indeed good fortune. We dropped off here last night rather unexpectedly to rest a hot box, and should have been picked up by the Midnight Express for Chicago. But there was a miscarriage of orders somewhere, and we now have to wait for the nine o'clock, and it's late. If I'd known how much behind it was, I should have run out to see you. How are things going? I smooth as a whistle. It really isn't so bad when you face it, and the fact is I'm actually at work. That's splendid! The year will go fast enough, never fear. I suppose you pine for a little human society now and then. A man can never strike the right medium in such things. In New York we are all rushed to death. I sometimes feel that I'd like a little rustication myself. I get nervous, and working for corporations is wearing. The old gentleman there is Taylor, president of the Interstate in Western. The ladies are his wife and her sister. I'd like to introduce you. He ran his eyes over my corduroys and leggings amiably. He had not in years addressed me so pleasantly. Stoddard had left me to go to the other end of the platform to speak to some of the students. I followed Pickering rather loathly to where the companions of his travels were pacing to and fro in the crisp morning air. I laughed still whenever I remember that morning at Annandale Station. As soon as Pickering had got me well under way in conversation with Taylor he excused himself hurriedly and went off, as I assumed, to be sure the station agent had received orders for attaching the private car to the Chicago Express. Taylor proved to be a supercilious person. I believe they call him Chilly Billy at the Metropolitan Club, and our efforts to converse were pathetically unfruitful. He asked me the value of land in my county, and as my ignorance on this subject was vast and illimitable I could see that he was forming a low opinion of my character and intelligence. The two ladies stood by, making no concealment of their impatience. Their eyes were upon the girls from St. Agatha's on the other platform, whom they could see beyond me. I had jumped the conversation from Indiana farmlands to the recent disorders in Bulgaria, which interested me more when Mrs. Taylor spoke abruptly to her sister. That's she, the one in the gray coat, talking to the clergyman. It came a moment ago in the carriage. The one with the umbrella, I thought you said. Mrs. Taylor glanced at her sister warningly, and they both looked at me. Then they sought to detach themselves and moved away. There was someone on the farther side of the platform whom they wished to see, and Taylor, not understanding their maneuver, he was really anxious, I think, not to be left alone with me, started down the platform after them, I following. Mrs. Taylor and her sister walked to the end of the platform, and looked across, a biscuit toss away, to where starters stood talking to the girl I had already heard described as wearing a gray coat and carrying an umbrella. The girl in gray crossed the track quickly and addressed the two women cordially. Taylor's back was to her, and he was growing eloquent in a mild, well-bred way over the dullness of our statesmen in not seeing the advantages that would accrue to the United States in fostering our shipping industry. His wife, her sister, and the girl in gray were so near that I could hear plainly what they were saying. They were referring, apparently, to the girl's refusal of an invitation to accompany them to California. So you can't go, it's too bad. We had hoped that when you really saw us on the way you would relent, said Mrs. Taylor. But there are many reasons, and, above all, Sister Teresa needs me. It was the voice of Olivia, a little lower, a little more restrained than I had known it. But think of the rose gardens that are waiting for us out there, said the other lady. They were showing her the deference that elderly women always have for pretty girls. Alas! And again, alas! exclaimed Olivia. Please don't make it harder for me than necessary, but I gave my promise a year ago to spend these holidays in Cincinnati. She ignored me wholly, and after shaking hands with the ladies returned to the other platform. I wondered whether she was overlooking Taylor on purpose to cut me. Taylor was still at his lecture on the needs of our American merchant-marine when Pickering passed hurriedly, crossed the track, and began speaking earnestly to the girl in gray. The American flag should command the seas. What we need is not more battleships, but more freight-carriers," Taylor was saying. But I was watching Olivia Gladys Armstrong in a long skirt with her hair caught up under a gray toke that matched her coat perfectly. She was not my Olivia of the Tamishanter, who had pursued the rabbit, nor yet the unsophisticated schoolgirl who had suffered my idiotic babble, nor again the dreamy, wrapped organist of the chapel. She was a grown woman with at least twenty summers to her credit, and there was about her an air of knowing the world, and of not being at all a person one would make foolish speeches to. She spoke to Pickering gravely, once she smiled woefully, and shook her head. And I vaguely strove to remember where I had seen that look in her eyes before. Her gold beads, which I had once carried in my pocket, were clasped tightly about the close collar of her dress, and I was glad, very glad, that I had ever touched anything that belonged to her. As the years go by we're going to dominate trade more and more. Our manufacturers already lead the world, and what we make we've got to sell, haven't we?" demanded Taylor. Certainly, sir, I answered warmly. Who was Olivia Gladys Armstrong, and what was Arthur Pickering's business with her, and what was it she had said to me that evening when I had found her playing on the chapel organ? So much happened that day that I had almost forgotten, and indeed I had tried to forget that I had made a fool of myself for the edification of an amusing little schoolgirl. I see you prefer to ignore the first time I ever saw you, she had said. But if I had thought of this at all, it had been with righteous self-contempt, or I may have flattered my vanity with the reflection that she had eyed me, her hero perhaps, with wistful admiration across the wall. Meanwhile, the Chicago Express roared into Annandale, and the private car was attached. Taylor watched the trainman with the cool interest of a man for whom the proceeding had no novelty, while he continued to dilate upon the nation's commercial opportunities. I turned perforce, and walked with him back toward the station, where Mrs. Taylor and her sister were talking to the conductor. Pickering came running across the platform, with several telegrams in his hand. The Express had picked up the car, and was ready to continue its westward journey. I'm awfully sorry, Glen Arm, that ours stopped so short, and Pickering's face wore a worried look as he addressed me, his eyes on the conductor. How far do you go? I asked. California, we have interests out there, and I have to attend some stockholders' meetings in Colorado in January. Ah, you businessmen, you businessmen, I said reproachfully. I wished to call him a blackherd than an there, and it was on my tongue to do so, but I concluded that to wait until he had shown his hand fully was the better game. The ladies entered the car, and I shook hands with Taylor, who threatened to send me his pamphlet on the needs of American shipping, when he got back to New York. It's too bad she wouldn't go with us. Poor girl, this must be a dreary hole for her. She deserves wider horizons," he said to Pickering, who helped him upon the platform of the car with what seemed to be unnecessary precipitation. You little know us, I declared, for Pickering's benefit. Life at Anondale is nothing, if not exciting. The people here are indifferent marksmen, or there'd be murders galore. Mr. Glenarm is a good deal of a wag," explained Pickering dryly, swinging himself aboard as the train started. Yes, it's my humor that keeps me alive," I responded, and taking off my hat I saluted Arthur Pickering with my broadest salam.