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Title: Spooky Hollow
A Fleming Stone story
Author: Carolyn Wells
Release date: February 16, 2026 [eBook #77966]
Language: English
Original publication: Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Co, 1923
Credits: Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPOOKY HOLLOW ***
SPOOKY HOLLOW
_CAROLYN WELLS’_
_Baffling detective stories in which Fleming Stone, the great American
Detective, displays his remarkable ingenuity for unravelling mysteries_
FEATHERS LEFT AROUND
THE MYSTERY GIRL
THE MYSTERY OF THE SYCAMORE
RASPBERRY JAM
THE DIAMOND PIN
VICKY VAN
THE MARK OF CAIN
THE CURVED BLADES
THE WHITE ALLEY
ANYBODY BUT ANNE
THE MAXWELL MYSTERY
A CHAIN OF EVIDENCE
THE CLUE
THE GOLD BAG
PTOMAINE STREET
A Rollicking Parody on a Famous Book
SPOOKY HOLLOW
A FLEMING STONE STORY
BY
CAROLYN WELLS
_Author of “Vicky Van,” “The Mystery Girl,” etc._
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1923
COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY STREET AND SMITH CORPORATION
COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS
PHILADELPHIA U. S. A.
TO MY DEAR FRIEND JULIE STANIFORD
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. PROUT HAS A FARE 9
II. THE GUEST AT GREATLARCH 28
III. ROSEMARY 48
IV. A MYSTERIOUS DEATH 70
V. WHERE WAS JOHNSON? 89
VI. THE WILD HARP 108
VII. UNCLE AND NIECE 128
VIII. SPOOKY HOLLOW 147
IX. A LIVING TRAGEDY 167
X. HOW COLLINS FELT ABOUT IT 187
XI. A RUN OVER TO FRANCE 207
XII. A NAMELESS, HOMELESS WAIF 227
XIII. A VINCENT AFTER ALL 246
XIV. FLEMING STONE ON THE CASE 266
XV. A FEW DEDUCTIONS 286
XVI. FIBSY EXPLORES 306
XVII. FINCH’S STORY 326
XVIII. THE TERRIBLE TRUTH 346
CHAPTER I
PROUT HAS A FARE
Our Pilgrim band of stern and rock-bound forefathers left us a goodly
heritage in New England. And, even though we may not still in awed tones
call it holy ground, yet the soil where first they trod calls forth a
certain respect and admiration not compelled by any other group of these
United States.
To be sure they didn’t tread all of it. Lots and lots of square miles of
ground and lofty soil are still untrodden to any great extent, especially
the northern parts of the northern states.
Maine, with its great, beautiful Aroostook County, whose far-flung potato
farms have a charm all their own, and whose glistening white farm-houses
have their barns hitched on behind like majestic trains of cars—the
exquisite tidiness of Maine as a state far outranks all her twelve
original sisters.
In New Hampshire the white paint is less immaculate, the state less
tidily cleared up, but the woods against a stormy sky their giant
branches toss, and the rocking pines of the forest roar their eternal
welcome. Timid little lakes nestle confidingly among the hills and the
White Mountains cluster in majestic serenity.
And then comes Vermont, beautiful, careless Vermont, forgetful of her
white paint, heedless of her broken-down fences, conscious only of her
green Green Mountains and the sounding aisles of her dim woods.
East of the Green Mountain Range, in northern Vermont, is wide, rolling
country, with here and there a handful of small hills dumped down as
though they had been flung at the Range and fell short of their mark.
Among them are valleys and lakes, vistas and scenery, verdure and
foliage,—all that goes to make Vermont what her beautiful name means.
And villages. These are not always as picturesque as they should be, but
man’s place in nature is frequently out of harmony with his surroundings.
What should be a quaint little hamlet with an old white-spired church and
a few clustering cottages, is more often a Four Corners or a few rods
or perches of a stupid-looking Main Street, totally lacking in pride,
prosperity, or paint.
Farm-houses are shabby and fences dilapidated, yet, after all, there are
sites and spots—oh, the sites and spots of Vermont!
If one wanted to build ten thousand homes, he could find a satisfying
site or spot for each and have as many left over.
In our forefathers’ days, the soil where first they trod was considered
the very thing for highroads, but now the broad white ribbon of concrete
that tangles itself among the green hills is exceedingly convenient,
without marring the picture.
And the towns that chance to impinge on or straddle that road are up to
date and almost a part of the living, bustling world outside.
But the towns reached by the lesser roads, the older roads,—they have no
animal spirits and lead a mere vegetable life.
Unless a great country house has been built on a site or a spot near-by,
these little villages have none at all to praise and very few to love.
Hilldale was one of the prettiest of these villages and was in fairly
good repair. This was owing to the fact that it had offered an
unsurpassed site for a gentleman’s country house.
The gentleman had materialized, and so, later, did the house.
It had happened forty years ago. Vicissitudes had removed the gentleman
but the house remained—remained empty for years, and at last, five years
ago, had been bought, furnished, and occupied.
Yet the fact of the house, half a mile from the village street, so
influenced and stimulated the villagers that unconsciously they lived
up to it and gloried in its possession as in an invisible jewel held in
trust.
For the house was invisible, by reason of those same dim woods and
rocking pines, and moreover, because of high and strong stone walls.
Yet it was there and it was theirs, so Hilldale plumed itself and went
about its business.
Off the main travelled road of traffic, it was also off the main line of
the railroad and was reached by a tiny spur, whose trains, not impressed
by the great house, ran with a debonair disregard of timetables or
schedules.
And so, when one of these trains pulled up with a grinding jerk, and the
leisurely, easy-going conductor sang out, “Hilldale!” John Haydock, who
had risen, almost fell over backward by reason of the sudden stop.
The train was nearly an hour late, and though still well up in the
heavens, the November sun was secretly preparing for a quick swoop down
and out. The air was damp and raw, with a feeling that portended snow.
Beautiful Vermont had lost her green, but was bravely substituting a
glory of red and russet and gold that clad her hills and dales with a
blaze of autumn beauty.
John Haydock shivered as he stepped to the station platform, then drew up
his overcoat collar, and appreciatively lapped up the beauty of the scene
even while he looked about at conditions.
He saw a phlegmatic looking man standing near an elderly Ford, and with
admirable sagacity deduced a local taxi driver.
“I want to go to Homer Vincent’s,” Haydock said, half expecting the man
would drawl out “Wal, why don’t ye, then?” after the approved manner of
Vermont natives in fiction.
But the influence of the house wouldn’t allow that, and the man merely
gave a sort of grunt that seemed to mean “All right,” or “Certainly.”
Moreover, he showed a gleam of curiosity in his hard, weather-beaten blue
eyes, and moved with alacrity as he took the stranger’s bag.
But he said nothing as he held the car door open for his passenger, and
then took his own place at the wheel.
“Is it far from the village?” Haydock asked.
The driver rolled a blue eye around at him.
“Ain’t never been there, eh?” he said. “Well, it’s about halfa mile,—good
halfa mile. I ain’t never been in the house myself. Druv up to the
entrance now, naginn,—just now, naginn. Great place!”
He spoke in an awe-struck voice, as one might of some masterpiece of God
or man, and Haydock said, involuntarily:
“Is it such a beautiful house?”
“Is it? _Is it!_ Well, you’ll soon see!”
They had left the village now, and were passing along a wooded country
road, beautiful with its pines and hemlocks among the bright autumn
leaves. A few roads branched to right or left, but the Ford car clattered
straight ahead.
“Mr. Vincent get over his broken leg?” Haydock asked. “Can he walk all
right?”
“Yep, mostly. Has a little limp—you’d hardly notice it, though. Course
we don’t see him hardly ever.”
“Recluse?”
“Not quite that,—but sticks to his home mostly. Miss Vincent, now, she’s
more sociably inclined.”
“Miss Rosemary?”
“Well, no, I didn’t mean her,—I meant the old lady,—Mr. Vincent’s sister.
Miss Rosemary, now, she’s here, there, and everywhere. Ridin’ a horse,
drivin’ a car, walkin’, skatin’ and they do say they’re goin’ to keep an
airoplane.”
“Really? How up to date they are.”
“Well, they are, an’ they ain’t. Yes, sir, they are, ’n’ they ain’t. The
old man, now—”
“Why do you call Mr. Homer Vincent an old man?”
“Thasso. He can’t be mor’n fifty,—’n’ yet, he somehow seems old.”
“To look at?”
“Well, no; though ’s I said, I don’t often see him. But if he’s passin’
in his motor-car, he don’t look out an’ nod at people,—see, an’ he don’t
seem to be smilin’—”
“Grumpy?”
“Not so much that as—”
“Indifferent? Preoccupied?”
“That’s more like it. Thinkin’ ’bout his own affairs, seemin’ly. An’ they
do say he does himself mighty well. And why shouldn’t he,—seein’s he has
plenty of money. Why shouldn’t he, I say?”
“Is he married?”
The driver turned fully around, leaving the temperamental Ford to its own
sweet will for a moment.
“Homer Vincent married!” he exclaimed. “I should say _not_! Him married!”
“What’s so strange about that? Lots of men marry.”
“So they do. Oh, well,—no, Mr. Vincent, he ain’t married.”
“What does he do? Any business?”
“Land, no; he’s got more money’n he knows what to do with. He just enjoys
himself, one way ’n’ another,—just one way ’n’ another. Miss Vincent,
now, Miss Anne, she rides about, stylish like, an’ makes fashionable
calls on the minister an’ a few families of the town. They been here five
years now, an’ yet mighty few people knows ’em atall.”
“He didn’t build his fine house?”
“Land, no. It was built long ago, by a man named Lamont,—long about
eighteen-eighty it was begun. Took years to build it, o’ course.”
“Is it so elaborate, then?”
“Is it? Look, here’s the beginnin’ of the stone wall now. See?”
“Good heavens, what a wall!” and Haydock stared at the high, massive,
tessellated structure of carefully hewn and laid blue dolomite, that
seemed to extend interminably.
“Yep, that’s it,” and the speaker wagged his head in deep pride of
ownership. For Hilldale felt that it owned the place individually as well
as collectively; and this in utter disregard of any opinion Mr. Vincent
might hold on the matter.
“He’s an inventor, you know,” Haydock was further informed, as they
neared the gates. “But I don’t think he invents anything.”
The great iron gates stood open but gave access only to a long avenue
shaded by almost perfect specimens of the beautiful “wine-glass” elm.
“That kinda ellum tree’s just about gone now,”—said Haydock’s guide.
“Mighty few left in all New England. Fine ones, these. Now, here begins
the poplar row. See ’m,—not Lombardy,—they’re North Carolina poplars.
I guess Mr. Vincent set these out. They ain’t long-lived. Well, here
we come to the wooded drive. The rest of the way to the house is right
through a jungle. I’d hate it.”
The jungle was a grove, rather sparse than thick, of pine, spruce,
hemlock, and larch, and its shadows were dank and black.
An occasional white birch, slender and ghostly, instead of lightening
the gloom, rather added to it, and the rays of the now setting sun could
scarcely penetrate the murk.
“Not very cheerful,” was Haydock’s comment.
“Now, here, sir, is the tree that gives the place its name.”
“What is its name?”
“Greatlarch,—that’s what they call it, Greatlarch,—’count o’ that big
tree there. See?”
Haydock looked and saw the tallest larch tree he had ever seen. It was
enormous, a most magnificent specimen. Surely the name was well chosen.
“That’s a hummer,” he agreed.
“Yep; nothin’ like in these parts,—an’ I don’t believe, nowhere.”
“I don’t either!” said Haydock, regardless of negatives in his enthusiasm.
“Now, you see, sir, we come to the entrance proper. This stone gateway’s
where I leave you. Want me to wait?”
“No,” and Haydock dropped his sociable manner and became again a
stranger. “What do I owe you?”
“One dollar, sir. Don’t want me to wait? You stayin’ here?”
Haydock looked at him.
“I’m not sure just what I shall do. Have you a telephone?”
“Yes, sir; call 87 Hilldale.”
“And your name?”
“Prout. Mr. Vincent knows me. Tell him you want Prout,—that is, if you do
want me. To take you back,—you know.”
“Yes, I gathered that was what you meant. Good day, Prout.”
The entrance was a massive arch with a tower on either side.
It seemed to include guard-rooms and connected with what was doubtless a
porter’s lodge.
Haydock stared at the heavy stone-work, the beautiful design, and the
hint of green velvety lawn through the arch.
He wished the daylight would linger, but it was even now almost gone. The
gathering dusk gave the scene an eerie aspect, the great larch whispered
as its long branches slowly tossed about, and the pines responded with a
murmur of their own.
Seeing no one, Haydock stepped through the deep, wide archway, and then
stood still, spellbound at what he saw.
A pile of gray stone, red-tiled roofs, tall chimneys, towers, turrets,
dormers,—a perfect example of a French chateau of the period of the
Renaissance.
Haydock knew enough of architecture to realize that he was gazing at
a masterpiece. He had no idea there was such a building in America.
Perfect in every detail, exquisitely set in the midst of rolling lawns,
well-placed shrubbery, and noble old trees, with half glimpses, in the
fading light, of terraces and gardens beyond.
Deeply impressed, he approached the entrance, a recessed portico on the
north side of the house.
Outer doors of massive oak stood open, and he entered a vestibule
wainscoted and paved with richly hued marble.
Wrapt in contemplation of the detail work, he pushed an electric bell,
and was still unheeding when the door opened and a butler faced him
inquiringly.
He felt a slight thrill of disappointment, for, without knowing it,
he had subconsciously looked for a lackey in gold lace or at least a
powdered and plushed footman.
But this man, beyond all question a butler, and a knowing one, gave
Haydock an appraising glance, and in a tone nicely poised between
deference and inquiry, said:
“You wish to see—” The voice trailed off to nothingness, but the barrier
form of the butler gave way no inch of vantage.
“Mr. Homer Vincent,” said Haydock, suddenly recovering his wits, and
speaking with a firm decision.
“By appointment?” But the severity of the butler’s manner perceptibly
decreased and he even stepped back from the threshold.
“No, not by appointment,” and John Haydock came under the portal and
into the beautiful entrance hall. Again he was nearly swept off his feet
by what he saw. Marble walls and floors, painted friezes, vistas of
rooms opening one from another—surely he was transported to some Arabian
Nights’ Dream.
And again he was recalled to equanimity by that calm, cool voice:
“What name shall I give Mr. Vincent?”
And after the merest instant of hesitation, Haydock said:
“Tell him Henry Johnson wishes to see him,—on business, private,
personal, and important.”
This speech was accompanied by a straight, sharp glance at the man, and
the visitor, half-turning, began to give himself up to contemplation of
his surroundings.
“Yes, sir. Will you step in the reception room, sir?”
The reception room, in a large circular tower, was at the right as one
entered the house, and to this Haydock went.
The butler disappeared, and Haydock studied the room.
It was of the period known as Perpendicular Gothic, and the side walls,
delicately paneled in old oak, reached to the richly ornamented and domed
ceiling.
The chimney-piece, which curved with the circular wall of the room,
was of the rare Italian marble known as Red of Vecchiano, and it was
Haydock’s study of this that was interrupted by the entrance of his host.
“You like it?” Homer Vincent said in a tone of slight amusement. “It is
the only bit of that stone ever brought to this country.”
Turning, Haydock saw a moderately tall man with moderately broad
shoulders. His hands were in his pockets, and the smile that had sounded
in his voice was perceptible on his strong, well-cut lips.
He stood erect, his head thrown a trifle back, as if sizing up the
situation.
“If you like, I’ll show you the whole house,” he offered. “It’s worth
seeing.”
And now, Haydock looked at him as if sizing him up. Seemingly he had
forgotten the house in his interest in its owner.
He saw a strong face, which, though now smiling with courtesy, yet looked
as if, on occasion, it could be hard, even severe.
This may have been imagination, for Homer Vincent’s whole manner and
attitude betokened only a friendly welcome.
But Haydock noted the firm curve of the chin, the straight line of
the lips, and the haughty, aristocratic effect of the Roman nose, and
concluded, off-hand, that Homer Vincent was a power.
The dark hair was thickly streaked with gray, and the deep-set gray
eyes were of a peculiar penetration. And yet, important though the man
doubtless was, he had an air of indolence, of impatience under annoyance,
that was unmistakable and impossible to ignore.
“Well,” he said, shortly, “well, Mr. Henry Johnson, what do you want to
see me about?”
With a cautionary glance out through the doorway, Haydock leaned toward
him and whispered two words in his ear.
Vincent permitted himself a slight raising of the eyebrows,—an unusual
concession to interest or surprise.
“You do right to be discreet,” he said; “let us go to my own private
room,—it is just across the hall.”
He led the guest across toward the circular room in the opposite turret,
corresponding with the reception room.
And this time Haydock couldn’t restrain his exclamations.
“Let the business wait a few moments,” said Vincent, almost gleefully. “I
admit I am proud of my home; let me show you a little of it.
“You see, it was built many years ago by one Lamont, an eccentric
millionaire. It is an exact copy of one of the finest of the French
chateaux. Moreover, it is built of the most magnificent marbles ever
perhaps collected under one roof. Just the walls of this hall show
French Griotte, Porte Venere, Verde Martin, and here you see American
Black,—from Glens Falls. The floor is Morial marble from Lake Champlain.
“Ahead of you, looking toward the back of the house, you see the Atrium,
copied faithfully from the Erectheum at Athens. We will not go there
now,—nor to the Organ wing, where I have one of the largest and finest
pipe organs in the world. We will go now into my own private room, and
you shall tell me all about this matter you speak of.”
They crossed the hall, Haydock scarce able to tear his eyes from the
cabinets, paintings, and rare pieces of furniture. The tall chimney-piece
of the hall, Vincent said, was of Bois de Orient marble from Africa.
“Why all these rare marbles?” Haydock cried.
“It was Lamont’s fad,” Vincent replied. “And I’m glad he did it, for it
saved my having to collect them. I bought the place complete, though
totally unfurnished. It has been my pleasure to collect suitable
furnishings and I have enjoyed the task.”
“I should say so!” and Haydock stared about the room they entered, which
was Vincent’s very own.
Circular in form, it was finished in rare woods with a mantel of Siena
marble and bronze, which showed figures of Hercules in statuary marble.
The furniture, while not over-ornate, was in keeping with the character
of the room. In the center was a great flat-topped desk, carved and
inlaid, and at this the two men sat down.
It was after an hour’s conversation that Vincent said: “I will send for
my sister,—we must consult with her.”
A bell brought the imperturbable, yet eagerly solicitous butler, whose
name, Haydock now learned, was Mellish.
“Go to Miss Anne,” Vincent directed; “ask her to join me here if she will
be so good. Tell her I have a caller here. And, by the way, Mr. Johnson,
will you not stay the night? Then we can talk at our leisure and, also, I
can show you over the house, which I feel sure will interest you.”
Haydock looked at his host questioningly, decided he meant his invitation
sincerely, and accepted.
“But I have no evening togs with me,” he demurred.
“No matter, we will be informal. I am myself not overly given to
conventions and my niece is dining out. Mellish, take Mr. Johnson’s bag
to the south guest room, and make him comfortable there.”
Mellish departed, and after informing Miss Vincent, went about his other
errands.
“Man here,” he announced a little later to his wife, who was also the
Vincents’ cook. “Nicish chap, but addle-pated. So took up with the house
he don’t know what he’s saying.”
“They’re often took like that,” returned Mrs. Mellish, placidly. “Where’s
he put?”
“In the south room.”
“H’m; master must set a pile by him.”
“I don’t know about that. I’m not sure they ever met before.”
“Too bad Miss Rosemary’s out,—she likes a stranger here now and then.”
“Oh, Miss Rosemary wouldn’t look at him. He’s not her sort,” said Mellish.
CHAPTER II
THE GUEST AT GREATLARCH
The organ hall at Greatlarch was a massive west wing, with transepts
looking north and south. The hall, as large as a small church, was
Corinthian in design, with side walls of antique oak, marvellously carved
and gilded, that had been brought from England in panels. High above the
antique oak cornice rose the vaulted, coffered ceiling and at the east
end was a balcony that might be reached from the second story. A rose
window in the third story also looked down into the beautiful room.
In the semicircular west end was the great organ, and at its keyboard sat
Homer Vincent, his capable hands caressing the keys with a gentle yet an
assured touch. He usually spent the hour before dinner at the organ, and
those who knew him could divine his mood from the music they heard.
Tonight his mood was variable, uncertain. He struck slow, close harmonies
in a desultory fashion, his fine head bowed a trifle as if in deep
thought. Then, suddenly, he would lift his head, and the organ would peal
forth a triumphant strain, like a song of victory. Or some crashing
chords would resound for a moment, to be followed by a silence or by a
return to the slow, meditative harmonies.
Sometimes he would play works of the masters and again he would drift
into improvisations of his own.
As the dinner hour drew near, Anne Vincent came from her room on a
mezzanine floor, and went directly to the gallery that overlooked the
organ room.
A slight little lady, a spinster of forty-seven, she had enough
pretensions to good looks to warrant her pride in dress. Her hair would
have been gray, but for discreet applications of a certain concoction.
It would have been straight, but for the modern invention known as a
permanent wave. And so, she presented to the world a beautifully coifed
head of dark-brown hair, whose frantic frizz was persuaded to lie in
regular, though somewhat intractable waves. Her eyes were gray, like her
brother’s, but more bright and piercing. Her air was alert, observant and
interested. Where Homer Vincent showed utter indifference to the universe
at large, his sister manifested interest, even curiosity, toward all
mundane matters.
Her slight figure was youthful, her manner animated, and her clothes were
in exquisite taste and bore the labels of the best modistes.
Tonight she wore a Georgette gown of a pale apricot color, simply made,
but with delicate, floating draperies that betokened the skilled hand of
an artist. Her only ornament was a large and perfect ruby, set in finely
wrought gold work.
With a light step she tripped down the short mezzanine stairs to the
upper front hall. This was no less beautiful than the hall below. It was
flanked on either side by four Corinthian columns with gilded capitals,
and the panelled ceiling was modelled after one in the Ducal Palace at
Venice.
Save for the Tower rooms on either side, this hall took up the entire
front of the house, and from it a balcony rested on the portico above the
main entrance.
Through the hall Miss Anne went, her high-heeled slippers making no sound
on the rugs, which were skins of polar bears.
Through to the balcony above the organ room she passed and stood, one
slim hand on the carved balustrade, looking down at her brother.
“Poor Homer,” she thought to herself; “he doesn’t know what to do. But of
course Mr. Johnson is right in the matter,—and of course he knows—my! it
means a lot of money! Well, Homer has plenty—if he will only think so. A
strange man, that Mr. Johnson—now I think I like him,—and then—I don’t—I
wish I—but, of course,—my heavens! here he comes now!”
Anne Vincent looked up with a smile as Haydock joined her on the balcony.
The man was still rolling his eyes about as if in a very ecstasy of
delight in what he saw.
This was his first glimpse of the organ, as after their talk Vincent had
sent him to his room to tidy up for dinner.
“I regret my informal attire—” he began, as he joined Miss Anne, but she
brushed aside his apology.
“It’s all right,” she said; “we’re always informal when we’re alone. Now
I should like elaborate dress every night, but my brother and my niece
wouldn’t hear to such a thing. So you’re quite all right, Mr. Johnson.
What do you think of the organ?”
“I have no adjectives left, Miss Vincent. The whole place stuns me, I
can scarcely believe I am in America,—I feel transported to the France of
the Renaissance.”
“You are familiar with the history of that period?” She looked at him
curiously.
“No,” he replied, honestly enough. “No, I am not. But I know this is all
of that era, and anyway, it so overwhelms me, I can’t quite analyze my
emotions.”
“Yes, I felt like that when we first came here. But five years have made
me feel at home in this atmosphere. Your room, Mr. Johnson, is just above
my own. It looks out on the south gardens and I am sure you noticed the
lagoon and the Greek Temple?”
“Of course I did, though the twilight view made me only more anxious to
see it all by daylight.”
“Which you can do in the morning. My niece will be here then, and she
will show you the grounds. That Greek Temple is a Mausoleum.”
“A wondrously beautiful one!”
“Yes, is it not? And now, dinner is served,—come Mr. Johnson,” and then,
“Come, Homer,” she called to her brother at the organ.
Vincent met them in the lower hall, and ushered them into the Atrium.
This, perhaps the most imposing feature of the house, was a pure and
perfect example of Greek Ionic architecture.
From the floor of native white marble, rose sixteen monolithic columns
with gilded capitals and bases of Bois de Orient and Vert Maurin marble.
The side walls were of Rose of Ivory marble quarried in the Atlas
mountains of North Africa.
These details Homer Vincent told his guest as they passed through the
great room, and drew his attention to the tall plate-glass windows that
formed the whole southern end.
Between the Ionic columns of the semicircular south portico could be seen
the lagoon with its fountain, and at its far end gleamed the pure white
of the Greek Temple against a dark setting of pines and larches.
Johnson sighed as they turned to the dining-room, another marvel of
Italian Renaissance, in antique English oak, with tall chimney-piece of
French Griotte and Belgium Black marbles.
“I wonder,” Haydock said, whimsically, as they took their seats, “if
the native marble of Vermont resents the presence of these imported
strangers.”
“I have thought that, too,” and Miss Anne’s eyes twinkled, “I am sure it
is the case.”
“They dislike one another,” Vincent said, taking up the jest. “The
Italian and African marbles scorn the Vermont stone, however pure
and white. But they are silent about it, for the most part. In our
living-room is a chimney-piece of Porte Venere or ‘Black and Gold’
marble from Spezia, which, with its gold bronze ornaments is one of the
handsomest and most expensive features of the house. You will forgive my
descanting on these things, Mr. Johnson, but I own up that this house is
my hobby, and I am a bit daft over it.”
“I don’t wonder,” declared Haydock, with honest enthusiasm. “And I am
glad to hear these details. Of course, I am especially interested,
because of—”
“I am going to ask of you,” Vincent interrupted him, “not to discuss
during dinner the business on which you came here. It is,” he smiled,
“bad for our digestion to think deeply while eating, and too, I want you
to do justice to the art of my cook.”
The dinner, indeed, as well as the service of it, was entirely in harmony
with the surroundings, and though there was no unnecessary pomp or
ceremony, the details were perfect and correct.
Mellish, like a guardian spirit, hovered about, and two waitresses under
his jurisdiction were sufficient to insure the comfort of the party.
“I am sorry your niece is not at home,” Haydock said, as Rosemary’s name
was casually mentioned.
“You shall see her tomorrow,” Vincent promised. “This evening we must
have another confab in my study as to our business, and I trust we shall
settle it to the satisfaction of all. Mr.—er—Johnson, you must remain
here for a time as our guest.”
“Thank you,” Haydock said, simply. “I trust I may do so.”
He looked at Miss Anne, as if expecting a confirmation of the invitation,
but she said nothing.
“I suppose,” he said, “that, having your sister and your niece, you have
not felt the need of a wife as chatelaine of this wonder-home.”
Homer Vincent smiled.
“I’m afraid,” he said, “no wife would put up with my vagaries. I’m not an
easy man to live with—”
“Oh, now, Homer,” his sister protested, “you sha’n’t malign yourself. If
my brother is a bit spoiled, Mr. Johnson, it is because my niece and I
pet and humor him. It is our pleasure to do so. You see, my brother is a
very remarkable man.”
“And my sister is blindly prejudiced in my favor,” Vincent tossed back.
“We are a very happy family, and perhaps the more so that each of us
follows his or her own sweet will.”
Although no outward change took place on the features of the
blank-countenanced Mellish, yet could one have seen into his brain, there
was indication of unseemly derision and unholy mirth.
For, as a matter of fact, every one at Greatlarch, whether family, guest,
or servant, followed the sweet will of Homer Vincent.
At least, he did if he knew what was good for himself.
Yet Vincent was no tyrant. He was merely a man whose only desire in life
was creature comfort; whose only pursuit was his own pleasure; whose only
ambition was to be let alone.
His sister and niece might do what they would, so long as they did not
interfere with his plans. His servants might have much liberty, many
indulgences, if they would but attend perfectly to his wants or needs.
Guests could have the freedom of the place, if they kept out of his way
when not wanted.
Homer Vincent was not so much selfish as he was
self-indulgent,—self-centered. He was scholarly and loved his books;
musical, and loved his organ; artistic and æsthetic, and loved his house
and his collections; he was of an inventive turn of mind, and loved to
potter about in his various workrooms and laboratories, without being
bothered as to what he was doing.
In return for these favors he gave his sister and niece pretty much a
free hand to do as they chose, checking them now and then in the matter
of expenditures. For though the Vincent fortune was large, it was not
inexhaustible, and the upkeep of the place was enormous. Yet it must be
kept up in a manner to please Homer Vincent’s ideas of comfort, even
though this necessitated curtailing the hospitalities toward which Miss
Anne and Rosemary inclined.
Homer was kindly by nature; he really disliked to deny Anne anything she
wanted, but, as he said, they couldn’t entertain all Hilldale all the
time, especially as they had no desire to accept return hospitalities.
And if Miss Anne did have such an undesirable desire, she kept it to
herself, for she adored her clever brother.
Her other brother, the father of Rosemary, had died five years before,
an event which resulted in the girl’s coming to live with these relatives.
The household was harmonious,—if and when the two women sank their own
wills in the will of Homer Vincent. Otherwise not.
Not that there was ever any friction, or unpleasantness.
Vincent had a way of attaining his end without such. And, perhaps through
habit, perhaps following the line of least resistance, both the older
woman and the girl willingly capitulated when conditions required it.
For Rosemary loved her Uncle Homer, and Miss Anne fairly worshipped him.
It went without saying, therefore, that Vincent’s hint that business
matters should not be discussed at the table, was effectual.
Haydock acquitted himself fairly well. The interest he felt in the
business which had brought him thither, and the absorbing entertainment
of this beautiful home, filled his mind to the exclusion of all else. And
since the first subject was for the moment taboo, he pursued the other
with zest.
“The man who built this was a genius,” he declared.
“It was built,” Vincent informed him, “by a prominent firm of New York
architects, but as they faithfully copied an old French chateau, they
had little need for originality. Of course it was a folly. These great
palaces often are. After getting it, the owner found he hadn’t sufficient
fortune left to keep it up. So it came into the market, and years later
I was fortunate enough to get it at a great bargain. Probably I paid not
half of the original building cost.”
“Lack of funds wasn’t the only reason that Mr. Lamont wanted to sell it,”
Miss Anne said, with a glance at her brother.
“No,” and Homer Vincent looked grave. “There is a tragedy connected with
the place, but I try not to let it affect my nerves or even linger in my
memory. I wish you would do the same, Anne.”
“Oh, it doesn’t get on my nerves, Homer, but I can’t put it out of my
memory, altogether. I am reminded of it too often.”
“May I hear the story?” asked Haydock, looking from one to the other.
“If you wish,” Vincent said, a little unwillingly; “but it’s not a
cheerful one.”
“Anything connected with this wonderful place must be of interest,”
Haydock declared, and Anne Vincent began the tale.
“It’s a ghost story,” she said, her eyes showing a sort of horrified
fascination. “You see, Mrs. Lamont, the wife of the former owner, was
murdered in her bed—”
“Now, Anne,” her brother interrupted, “we don’t know that she was—it may
have been a suicide.”
“No,” Miss Anne declared, positively, “she was murdered, and her ghost
still haunts the place.”
“Have you seen it?” Haydock asked. He had deep interest in the occult.
“I haven’t seen it,—but I’ve heard of it,” she replied, in a whisper.
“What do you suppose it does? It plays the harp—the Wild Harp!”
“Oh, come now, Anne, don’t bore Mr. Johnson with your fairy tales.”
Homer Vincent was in the best possible humor. He had had a dinner that
exactly suited him, perfectly served, and now as he pushed back his
chair a little, he was raising a cigar to his lips, knowing that at the
instant it reached them a lighted match, in Mellish’s careful hand,
would touch the other end of it. Knowing, too, that an ash-tray would
materialize on the exact spot of the tablecloth that he wished it, and
that, simultaneously, his coffee cup would be removed.
These things were necessary to Homer Vincent’s happiness, and his
thorough drilling of Mellish had made them immutable.
He had instructed the butler long ago to measure carefully with a
yardstick the exact distances between the four table candlesticks as well
as their distance from the edge of the table.
Yet Vincent was no “Miss Nancy,” no feminine or effeminate fusser in
woman’s domain. All details of housekeeping were left to Miss Anne, whom
he had also trained. But the most infinitesimal derelictions from exact
order and routine were noticed and reproved by Homer Vincent and rarely
indeed did the same error occur twice.
In fact, after his five years of occupancy, he had his home in perfect
running order, as he conceived perfection.
Banquets were never given, house guests were rare, callers infrequent,
because none of these things contributed to the comfort of Homer Vincent.
His tranquil days were occupied with his pleasant avocations indoors,
varied by motor trips, horseback rides, or country rambles.
His stables and garage boasted the finest horses and cars, and in
addition he was seriously contemplating an aeroplane. Indeed, he had
already ordered plans drawn for a hangar.
All of his belongings were at the service of his sister and niece at such
times as he did not himself require them. It was their duty to find out
when these times were.
But the two women had no trouble about this. Vincent was not
unreasonable, and both Miss Anne and Rosemary were astute enough to read
him pretty well.
He required Anne to be always present to preside at his table. To be
sure, he did the presiding himself, but he wished her at the head of the
board always. This precluded her accepting invitations which did not
include him or which he was not inclined to accept. However, the placid
lady was more than willing to defer to his preferences.
Rosemary was allowed more freedom in these matters and went to visit her
girl friends as often as she chose. Having them to visit her was another
matter, and only to be suggested with the greatest discretion and
careful choice of opportunity.
“Yes,” Miss Anne was saying, “and, do you know, Mr. Johnson, my room,—my
bedroom is the one she had, and the one that is said to be haunted by her
ghost!”
“Really, Miss Vincent? And are you not timid—?”
“Not a bit! You see, it is the loveliest room in the house,—except
brother’s, and I would be silly to refuse it because of a foolish
superstition.”
“Just below my room, you said, I think?”
“Yes, facing south,—looking out on the lagoon and fountain and on down to
that beautiful marble Temple—”
“That is a tomb!” finished Vincent. “Any other woman would be scared to
death to look out on that view, but I believe my sister enjoys it.”
“I surely do, Homer. Often I look out there on moonlight nights and
feel sorry for the poor lady. And—” her voice fell, “sometimes I hear
her—playing on her harp—”
“Oh, come now, Anne, you’ll get Mr. Johnson so wrought up he won’t dare
sleep in his own room, which of course has the same outlook!”
“I’m not superstitious,” Haydock averred. “In fact, I should like to hear
the ghostly harp—though I cannot say I’d welcome a spook visitor!”
“Let us look out in that direction,” said Vincent, rising. His idea of
Anne’s presiding was to have her ready to arise at his signal, not the
other way.
He led them back through the Atrium and on out to the great semicircular
portico that was the southern entrance.
“It’s chilly,” he said, as he opened a long plate-glass door. “Better
stay inside, Anne. Just a moment, Mr. Johnson, unless you think it too
cold?”
“No, I like it,” and Haydock stepped out into the crisp night air.
“Feels like snow,” said Vincent. “Now, of course, tomorrow you can see
this in the sunlight, but in this dim murk, with the shadows so deep and
black, it is a picturesque sight, is it not?”
“It’s wonderful!” Haydock exclaimed, looking across the black water of
the lagoon, where the dimly seen fountain did not obscure the faint gleam
of white marble that was the Mausoleum.
“You like to keep that thing there?” he asked, curiously.
“Why not?” and Vincent shrugged his shoulders. “Since it doesn’t worry
the ladies, and I have no fear of spooks, why should I have it removed?
It is exquisite, the Temple. The model, as you can scarcely see now, is
that of the Parthenon.”
“How did the story of the haunting come about?”
“Since it is supposed that the lady was murdered, it would be more
strange if such a story did not arise. It was long ago, you know. I’ve
been here five years, but before that the house stood empty for nearly
twenty years. In that time many legends found credence, and many ghostly
scenes were reported. Apparitions flitting round the tomb are the most
common reports, but strains of a wild harp also are vouched for. Indeed,
my sister thinks she has heard them.”
“Have you?”
Homer Vincent hesitated, and then said, “There have been times when I
thought I did. But of course it was imagination,—stimulated by the weird
aspect of the place. Look at that thicket back of the Temple. Even now,
you can seem to see moving shadows.”
“What is behind there?”
“It is a sort of undergrowth of low pines and birches, scrub oaks and
elms, a tangle,—almost a jungle, of vines and canebrakes—”
“Swampy?”
“Not quite that,—though mucky after a long rainy spell. I threaten now
and then to have it all cleared out and drained,—but I haven’t got at it
yet. It is more or less fenced off,—you can just see the low stones—”
“Yes, they look like gravestones.”
Vincent smiled. “They do. That adds to the spookiness. Do you know the
villagers, before I came here, called the place Spooky Hollow?”
“And a good name, too!” Haydock shivered. The atmosphere of gloom was
beginning to tell on his nerves. “Guess I’ll seek the bright lights! It’s
fairly creepy out here!”
Vincent turned toward the house, his slight limp showing itself a little
as he crossed the tiled terrace.
“It is all most wonderful,” Haydock summed up, as they re-entered, “but
it does not make me forget my mission here—”
“Let that wait, my dear sir, until we are by ourselves.”
For the ubiquitous Mellish was in silent waiting to open the door wider
for them, to close it, and to stand at attention for orders.
Haydock perceived the man was a bodyservant of his master rather than a
mere butler.
“And now,” Vincent said, “we will again seek my own private room, and
settle the business. After that, I trust we shall all sleep contented and
serene. Come, Anne, we want your advice and opinions.”
Miss Vincent joined them, and as they passed into Homer Vincent’s Tower
room, Mellish, looking a little regretful, returned to his domestic
duties.
CHAPTER III
ROSEMARY
“That man up there is a queer bird,” Mellish declared to his wife, as he
joined her in the kitchen.
“As how?” Mrs. Mellish inquired, with slight interest.
The main kitchen at Greatlarch was a spacious room with walls of pure
white marble. Spotless all its appointments and speckless Mrs. Mellish
had them kept.
Of a truth she dwelt in marble halls, and having plenty of vassals and
serfs at her side, she secured the immaculate tidiness in which her soul
delighted, and which, incidentally, Mr. Vincent exacted.
No oversight of Susan Mellish was necessary. Cook she was, but also she
was queen of her own domain and life below stairs went on with no more
friction or dissension than above. In the household, Homer Vincent’s
motto was: “Peace at Any Price,” and if an underling disturbed it, there
was a rapid substitution.
Nor was there any ripple in the smooth-flowing current of the family
life. Homer Vincent saw to that. Not that the man was domineering. On the
contrary, he was a loving and kind brother and uncle. His tastes were
simple, even though luxurious. He asked only smooth-running household
machinery and no interference in his own pursuits.
Anne Vincent was nominally housekeeper, and indeed she kept up a
careful oversight, but Susan Mellish was so thoughtful, so capable, so
meticulously watchful of details there was little or nothing for Miss
Anne to do.
The whole household worshipped the master, and he repaid them by liberal
wages and comfortable living.
The servants’ quarters included delightful sitting-rooms and dining-room,
and their sleeping-rooms were most pleasant and beautifully appointed.
A feature of the house was Homer Vincent’s own suite. Above his Tower
room on the first floor was his smoking-room on the second floor. Back
of this followed his bedroom and elaborate bath. Next, his library, with
large open terrace that in winter became a sun parlor.
These rooms, of rarest marbles and woods, with French panels of
paintings, mirrors, and rich brocades, were appointed in perfect
taste. No gimcrackery ornaments, but dignified furniture and a few fine
paintings and vases.
The library was a joy. Comfort and beauty of the highest degree were
combined with utilitarian bookracks and tables.
These rooms ran along the whole east side of the house, ending with the
library and terrace, which looked down toward the Temple as well as off
to the east.
They were directly above the lower Tower room, the dining-room and
breakfast-room and the family living-room. The other side was taken up
by the reception room, the great organ wing, and, back of that, the
drawing-room. Between the two sides were the wide entrance hall, and the
wonderful Atrium.
Above the Atrium, at the south end, was Miss Vincent’s room, on a
mezzanine floor, and above that, on a second mezzanine, was John
Haydock’s room.
The floor above held six large guest rooms and the servants’ bedrooms
were higher still. However, electric elevators did away with the
discomforts of stair climbing, and the many floors, cellars, and
sub-cellars were easy of access.
And the two Mellishes, with Miss Anne watchfully observing, held the
reins of government of this establishment, and so great was their
efficiency, so true their system and method, that a jar of any sort was
exceedingly rare, and, because of its rarity, was fully and promptly
forgiven by Homer Vincent.
“Yes, a queer bird,” Mellish repeated, shaking his head. “He’s that dark,
now.”
“Dark?”
“You heard me! Yes, I said dark. Dark complected, dark eyes, dark hair,
dark hands, and dark clothes.”
“Not dressed up?”
“No, but that isn’t it, he’s almost dark enough to be a Creolian.”
Mellish was a good butler, but made an occasional slip in his diction.
One can’t know everything.
“Yes, Susan, he’s not our sort, and I know it. He’s peculiar,—that’s what
he is,—peculiar.”
“So’s the master.”
“Ah, that’s different. The Vincent peculiarities are of the right sort.
This man, now,—well, Susan, he was so took up with the place, he could
scarce eat his dinner.”
“Small wonder. The place is a fair marvel to those who’ve not seen it.”
“It isn’t that. I’ve seen guests before, who were overwhellumed by it.
But this chap,—he, why he had an appraising glance for it,—yes, sir,
appraising,—that’s the word.”
“Mellish, you’re daft. Appraising, was he? Like he meant to buy it!”
Susan’s ironic scorn would have withered any one but her husband.
“Susan, you’re a witch. That’s it exactly. Not that he meant such a
thing, he’s a poor man, I’m thinking,—but that was the way he looked at
it.”
“Drop him, Mellish. You’ve no sense tonight. Are you dismissed?”
“Yes. Mr. Vincent said he’d not need me more. They’re shut in the Tower
room, Miss Anne and all. They’re talking business. I can’t make that
felly out.”
“Did he look sinister?”
“What a woman you are for the word, Susan! No, it wasn’t that,—he looked
more—er—determined,—yes, that’s what that man is,—determined.”
“Determination can’t move the master. I’m bound he’ll be a match for
anybody’s determination.”
“Oh, it isn’t a clash of wills—or that. But there’s a matter between them
of some sort,—and Miss Anne’s in it, too.”
“And you’re eaten alive with curiosity, that’s what you are, man! Now,
get about your business. And see to it the plumber is ordered in the
morning. There’s a trickle in the cold storage room sink,—it only needs
a washer,—and the hothouse hamper didn’t come today,—send Dickson to the
station for it at sunup—and be sure to speak to Carson about his flirting
with Francine—it won’t do.”
As she talked, Susan was busily engaged in mixing and kneading the
breakfast rolls. This was a duty that could be entrusted to no lesser
artist in baking, for Susan’s rolls were nothing short of perfection, but
it required all her care and attention to keep them so.
In upon this engrossed couple drifted Francine, the pert little French
maid, who, though Miss Anne’s exclusive property, also looked after
Rosemary now and then.
“That man!” she exclaimed, with a shrug of her slender shoulders, “_Mon
Dieu_, but he is the beast!”
“Where did you see him?” and Mellish whirled on her.
“There, there, now, old man, don’t lose any temper! Miss Anne rang for me
to get her a scarf. They’re all in the Tower room, and they’re talking
most—”
“Angrily?” demanded Susan, whose curiosity was more aroused than she
would admit to her husband.
“No, not so much that,—as,—oh,—la, la,—excitement,—all talking at
once,—argument—see?”
“What are they talking about?” This from Mellish,—who asked to know.
“That I can’t say. When I entered all converse stopped. But I could see
the—atmosphere, the attitudes,—and the dark man—oh, he is a terror! Such
a low voice—”
“Oh, you couldn’t hear him through the closed door!” and Mellish glared
at her.
“_Non, Monsieur!_ Are you not desolate that I could not?”
Pretty Francine was a saucy piece and dearly loved to ballyrag the
dignified butler. But both the Mellishes liked her, though they kept a
wary eye on her coquettish ways with certain servants of the other sex.
“Is he threatening them?” Susan asked.
“Not quite that—but—”
“But you know absolutely nothing at all of what is going on!” Mellish
spoke sharply. “You’re only pretending you do. Stop discussing your
betters and get about your work.”
“I’ve no work to do until Miss Anne wishes to retire. She will ring for
me.”
“Then go and read your book. Or get some sewing. But don’t you dare go
outside the door!” Thus Susan admonished her, knowing full well the
girl’s secret intention of slipping out for a few moments to join Carson,
the chauffeur, in a stolen interview.
So Francine dawdled about until the bell rang and then presented her
demure self at the door of the Tower room.
Apparently the matter, whatever it was, had been most amicably settled,
for the three were smiling and contented looking as Francine scanned
their faces.
John Haydock was a dark man,—not like a Creole at all, but merely
markedly a brunette. His otherwise unnoticeable face wore a look
of satisfaction, and as he stepped out into the hall, he had again
that expression that could, perhaps, be called appraising. Yet small
wonder, for his deep and enthusiastic interest in the house led him to
examine its various beauties and marvels, and few could do so without
involuntary thought of the great outlay involved.
“I will go with my sister to her room,” Vincent was saying, “and you must
amuse yourself a few moments. Then I will rejoin you for a good-night
cigar, and then we will ourselves retire early.”
As was his nightly custom, Homer Vincent escorted his sister to her room.
Francine followed, and paused at the door, with her usual discretion.
“Come on in, Francine,” Vincent decreed. “I’m not chatting with Miss Anne
tonight. Get to rest, dear, and try to forget this whole matter. As you
know, I’m only anxious to do what is wise and right. You shall cast the
final decision as to all details and tomorrow we will draw up contracts
and all that.”
“How good you are, Homer; and though it was a long confab I do not feel
so very tired. Fix my powder, dear, and go back to Mr. Johnson. He is
a—not quite our sort,—is he, Homer?”
“Not quite, dear,—but he is a good business man, I judge, and he seems
honest.”
Miss Vincent required a small dose of opiate each night, and fearing lest
she should mistake the quantity prescribed, or that Francine might be
careless, Homer Vincent himself each night measured out the portion for
her.
“There you are,” he said, as he carefully gauged the dose. “Give it to
her when she’s ready, Francine. Good night, Anne, dear.”
He left his sister in Francine’s capable hands and went down to rejoin
his guest. It was a mark of respect, if not of liking, that he took John
Haydock up to his own library for their smoke.
Though sybaritic in many ways, Vincent did not employ a valet. His
preference was to have Mellish arrange his bedroom and night things,
and then to retire by himself whenever it pleased him to do so. Like
his sister, he was a poor sleeper, and often prowled round the house,
upstairs and down, during many of the small hours.
On the soft rugs his footfalls disturbed nobody, or if they did, no
one was alarmed, so, in this, as in all other matters, Vincent pleased
himself.
On this night, when at last he was alone in his own bedroom he bethought
himself of some matters he wished to attend to, that necessitated his
going downstairs to his private room. He had not yet begun to undress,
and as he went down the stairs and through the hall, where a dim light
burned all night, he met the night watchman, Hoskins. This was by no
means an unusual occurrence, for Hoskins came on every night at midnight,
and made certain prescribed routes through the premises.
Vincent gave the man a pleasant nod and went on his way. Though this
Tower room was sacred to his use, it was by no means kept locked or
difficult of access. Indeed, the door usually stood open, though in
the room itself were two wall safes, concealed by decorative hangings
and also a secret panel which was so cleverly hidden as to be perhaps
impossible of discovery.
It is at this point that Rosemary comes into this story.
She comes in a motor-car, out of which she steps softly, as the car
reaches the wooded part of the driveway.
Unafraid, because she knows Hoskins is not far away, and because this is
by no means her first experience of the sort, she makes her way silently
toward the house.
She cannot be seen gliding through the shadows, and she takes good care
she shall not be heard.
Reaching the stone arch of the entrance, she slips through, and pauses
to reconnoitre. No lights are on save those in her uncle’s suite, and one
in his Tower room below.
“Aha,” thinks the sagacious young woman, “up yet,—the old Prowler, is he?
Well, we’ll see what we’ll do about it. I don’t want to hang around long
tonight!”
As may be gathered, Rosemary had overstayed her allowed time, and greatly
desired to get into the house and up to her room unnoticed. For Homer
Vincent was a bit strict about his niece’s behavior, and if truth be
told, his restrictions were rather necessary and all for Rosemary’s good.
Not that the girl was wilful or wayward, but at twenty-one, the hour of
midnight seems to strike very early in the evening, and usually just when
the fun is at its height. Yet it was a Medo-Persian law that Rosemary
should be in the house by twelve o’clock—and to give her just due, she
almost always was.
But tonight had been a gay and pleasant party, and she had been tempted
to remain beyond the hour.
The afternoon’s portent of snow had been fulfilled, and though the squall
had been short, it was severe, and now, though it was not snowing, there
was enough fallen snow and cold dampness to make any tarrying outside
exceedingly uncomfortable.
So Rosemary crept to the great window that was at the southern exposure
of the Tower room, and peeped in at her uncle.
Wrapped in her fur motor coat, a brown toque spilling its plumes down
one side of her pretty, eager face, Rosemary shivered as she picked her
way through the soft wet snow, but nodded in satisfaction as she saw her
uncle’s very evident absorption in whatever matter claimed his attention.
About to turn away, she paused a moment to notice him as he opened a
secret panel. She had known of the existence of this, but had never
before seen it opened.
Fascinated, she saw him searching among its contents, though she could
discern nothing definitely. The window had a thin film of curtain
material, and she really saw little beyond the moving silhouette and the
furniture of the room. Moreover, it suddenly came to her that she was
rudely spying upon another’s movements in a way she had no right to do,
and blushing to herself in the darkness, she turned quickly away.
Rosy from the icy air, her cheeks glowed; and curled up by the dampness,
her red-brown hair made little tendrils that blew across her face. She
snuggled into her fur collar and even welcomed the warmth of the long
russet plume that fell over one ear.
Carefully she slipped back again to the great front door, which she well
knew Hoskins had not yet locked for the night. Turning the knob slowly,
the opening door made no sound, and in a moment Rosemary was inside.
And it was just at that moment that Homer Vincent elected to return
to his bedroom. But the girl quickly stepped behind one of the great
columns, and stood in its protecting shadow while her uncle went up the
stairs.
She thought he limped a little more than usual, as he sometimes did when
tired, and a wave of regret swept through her tender heart that she had
disobeyed his orders.
“I’ll never do it again,” she resolved. “Uncle Homer is too good to me
for me to slight his wishes. I’m a wicked old thing!”
But a healthy, girlish hunger was more in evidence with her just
then than her feeling of conscience-stricken remorse, and she turned
her silent steps toward the dining-room. Here Mellish usually left
for her some tempting bit of food on a tray in a cold cupboard, and
investigating, Rosemary found a little mold of jellied chicken, with two
buttered finger-rolls and a plate of fruit.
Snapping on a small table light, she sat down to enjoy her little feast.
Hoskins, passing, looked in and smiled at her. It was not the first time
he had smiled at such a scene.
Soon Rosemary finished her lunch, and gathering up her fur coat, went
softly upstairs.
She paused at the door of her Aunt’s room. Sometimes, if Miss Anne were
awake, she liked to have Rosemary come in and tell her of the party. But
the sound of heavy asthmatic breathing proved Miss Anne asleep, and the
girl went on to her own rooms.
Her boudoir was the Tower room over the reception room and her bedroom
was next back of that. Everything was in readiness and it was but a short
time before Rosemary slumbered as soundly, if not as audibly, as her aunt.
Hoskins went his rounds stolidly. He was a good and faithful watchman,
largely because he had not the brains required for any higher calling.
His route he meticulously followed, punching his time clocks as required,
and throwing the flash of his electric lantern in dark corners.
His orders took him outside and around the house as well as through the
lower floors. The upper floors he was not required to patrol.
As usual, he found no disturbing element and trudged around his appointed
path like a patient ox. He had long since ceased to wonder at the beauty
and grandeur of Greatlarch,—to him it was merely the home of his employer.
He repeatedly tracked the soft wet snow in his journeys round the house,
removing his damp overshoes when making his inside rounds.
His shift ended at seven o’clock, and at that hour he gladly went into
the kitchen, where a hot breakfast awaited him.
“Nasty mess underfoot,” he confided to the maid who served him. “Don’t go
out today, my dear, lessen you have to.”
“The sun’s out bright,” she demurred, looking from the window.
“Yes, and that makes it all the wuss. Meltin’ an’ thawin’—sloppy weather,
my dear.”
As Hoskins’ “my dears” were matters of habit rather than real affection,
the girl paid but slight attention and went about her business.
The routine of breakfast preparations went on. The Mellishes appeared on
the stroke of seven-thirty, as was their wont. They gravely inspected the
work of their underlings and then set about their own superior duties.
All was in readiness at eight, though it was an entirely uncertain
question as to when the family would appear.
They were subject to moods or whims, sometimes having breakfast together
and again having trays carried to any rooms that pleased them.
Mellish opined, however, that this morning would see the family
congregated in the breakfast-room because of the presence of a guest.
And shortly after eight Homer Vincent appeared.
Though always impatient at a delay not of his own causing, he showed no
irritation and said to Mellish he would wait for Mr. Johnson to come down.
Then Rosemary appeared. Such a pretty Rosemary, her brown eyes smiling,
her animated little face showing a frank curiosity.
“Good morning,” she cried, “who’s here? Francine says there’s a guest.”
“Yes, but he isn’t down yet. A Mr. Johnson, who came to see Antan and
myself on some business affair.”
Rosemary had a funny little way of pronouncing Aunt Anne, and as it
sounded like Antan, the nickname had become habitual.
“Nice?” she asked, briefly.
“Rather,” her uncle returned. “Good business chap, fairly good-looking,
decent manners, but no particular charm.”
“Doesn’t sound much,” Rosemary observed; “may I begin my breakfast?”
“Oh, let’s wait a few moments. I told him eight o’clock, he’ll surely be
down in a few moments.”
And then Francine burst into the room, breathless and wild-eyed with
wonder.
“But what do you think?” she cried, quite forgetting her formalities.
“Miss Anne—I cannot rouse her and her door is bolted!”
Homer Vincent looked at her coldly.
“Remember your manners, Francine,” he said in a tone of reproach. “Your
information does not warrant such carelessness of address. Is Miss
Vincent still sleeping?”
“That’s just it, sir, I do not know. Always I hear her bell by eight
o’clock at latest. Now, I go and tap, but she answers not,—nor do I hear
her moving about inside her chamber.”
“Did you not go in?”
“But the door is locked,—bolted on the inside. Always she bolts it at
night, but the bolt is always off before this time in the day!”
Francine was a trim little figure, her plain black dress and white cap
and apron well becoming her. She was excitable, but this time her concern
was deeper than mere excited curiosity. Plainly, she was alarmed.
Vincent saw this, and spoke more kindly.
“Run up again, Francine, and rattle the door. I will go with you, if you
wish.”
“Oh, do, sir, I did rattle at the door, and there was no response. And I
did not hear her breathing—she—she breathes deeply, you know.”
This was a discreet allusion to Miss Anne’s asthma, which at times was
distinctly in evidence.
“Francine, I’m sure you’re needlessly excited; however, Mellish will go
up and see—”
The butler turned slowly toward the door, and Vincent said:
“No matter, Mellish, I’ll go myself,” and then, noting Rosemary’s
frightened glance, he added, “we’ll all go.”
He led the way to Miss Anne’s bedroom, the great south room on the
mezzanine above the hall.
The short flight of steps ended in a broad landing, the bedroom door in
its center. The door had been a heavy one of carved antique oak. But Miss
Anne had disliked it, saying it was like a prison door. So her brother
had had it removed and replaced by a light swing door, covered with
rose-colored velour and studded round its edges with brass-headed nails.
This door had a small bolt on the inside, but it was only to insure
privacy, not at all a protection from possible marauders.
Homer Vincent tapped at this door, calling “Anne—Anne, dear!”
There was no response and Vincent pressed his ear to the door.
The others watched, breathlessly, and Rosemary shrank back in nameless
dread while Francine fluttered and gave voice to voluble French
expletives.
“Be quiet, Francine!” Vincent commanded, and Mrs. Mellish, who had joined
the group, gave the French girl an admonitory shake.
“I shall break in the door,” Vincent said; “it’s a flimsy thing. Stand
back, Rosemary. Mellish, push here, as I strike.”
The combined strength of the two men easily forced the door, and Mellish
fell into the room first.
Vincent, following, hurried to his sister’s bed.
The beautiful room, built for the first mistress of the house, had a
raised dais, a sort of low platform for the bed to stand on. Also, from
the ceiling depended an elaborate cornice that surrounded the space
designed for the bed and from which hung voluminous curtains of silk
brocade.
In the shadowy gloom of these curtains lay Miss Anne, and as her brother
reached the bedside and pushed away the hangings to see his sister, he
cried out in a horrified voice, “Keep back! Mellish, keep back Miss
Rosemary!”
Waving a warning hand at them, Vincent leaned over the still form and
then turned round, his hands clenched and horror on his face.
“My sister is dead!” he cried. “She—she—oh, take that child away!”
“I will not be taken away, Uncle Homer,” Rosemary cried. “I’m not a baby!
Let me know the truth! What has happened?”
Breaking away from the restraining arms of Mrs. Mellish, unheeding
Mellish’s effort to stop her, she ran to the bedside and herself looked
inside the long curtains.
She saw a white, dead face, staring eyes and a nightdress stained with
crimson drops.
CHAPTER IV
A MYSTERIOUS DEATH
“Oh, Antan!” Rosemary cried, starting back in horror. “Oh, Uncle Homer,
what is it?”
Vincent put his arm round the terrified girl and they both gazed on the
dreadful sight. Both were white-faced and trembling, and though Homer
Vincent strove hard for composure, it was a few moments before he could
even speak.
Then, still holding Rosemary close, he spoke to the others.
“Mellish,” he said, “Miss Vincent is dead. She has been killed. That’s
all my brain can take in at present. I am stunned—I am heartbroken,”—and
the man’s enforced calm gave way as he sank into a chair and buried his
face in his hands.
Then Mrs. Mellish stepped nearer to the bed, gave one glance at the awful
sight and turned shuddering away.
“Leave the room,” she said to the trembling Francine. “You’ll be flying
into hysterics in a minute. I know you! Leave the room.”
“What shall I do? Where shall I go?” the French girl cried. “My place is
here—beside my mistress.”
“She’s right,” and Mellish showed surprised approval of Francine’s
self-control. “You stay in this room, Francine, and don’t you get to
blubbering. Keep your head, and you can be of good service. Mr. Vincent,
shall I call a doctor?”
“Why, yes,—do, Mellish. Poor Anne is dead, but—yes, I’d like you to call
Doctor McGee. And—and Mellish, I suppose we ought to notify—”
“Do nothing, sir, until Doctor McGee comes. He’ll know just what to do.”
Mellish departed to telephone the Doctor, and Homer Vincent, lifting his
bowed head, rose and began to assume his usual place at the helm.
“I can’t seem to think,” he said, as he brushed his hand across his brow.
“Rosemary, who could have done such a thing? Who could harm such a dear
lady?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Uncle,—did—did somebody kill her?”
“Unless she took her own life—she wouldn’t do that, would she, Rosemary?”
It was strange the way the strong and self sufficient man seemed to
appeal to his niece. Mrs. Mellish regarded him solicitously. She had
never before seen Homer Vincent troubled.
“There now, sir,” she said, in kindly fashion, “you can do nothing for
the poor lady now. Come down to the breakfast-room, sir, and take a cup
of coffee and a bite of breakfast. Come now, Miss Rosemary, let Melly fix
you out.”
The girl often called Mrs. Mellish thus, to distinguish her from her
husband.
“Oh,” exclaimed Vincent, suddenly, “that man, that Mr. Johnson! He must
be already down in the breakfast-room, and no one to look after him! Run
down to him, Melly.”
“Come you, too, sir. And Miss Rosemary. The man must be told,—best you
should do it, Mr. Vincent.”
“Yes,” and Homer Vincent rose, with a determination to do his part,
however hard it might be. “Rosemary, will you come with me, or will you
have your breakfast taken to your rooms?”
“I’ll go with you, Uncle. Perhaps I can help. Who is Mr. Johnson?”
“He’s a man who came yesterday on business, and I asked him to stay the
night. I asked him to stay on, but I hope he’ll go this morning.”
“Oh, he surely will,—when he hears—Uncle Homer, I can’t believe it!” she
looked again at the silent, pitiful figure on the bed, where Francine was
lightly laying a fine handkerchief over the face of poor Anne Vincent.
“That’s all right,” Vincent said, slowly, “but don’t touch the body
otherwise, Francine. It—it isn’t right to do so.”
“No, sir,” and the maid nodded, comprehendingly.
“Come now, sir,” Mrs. Mellish urged him, and with a backward glance of
grief and bewilderment, Vincent followed Rosemary from the room.
But Mr. Johnson was not in the breakfast-room.
“He has overslept,” Vincent said, glancing at the clock. “For I told him
breakfast at eight and he said he would be prompt. I shouldn’t send for
him, otherwise,—but—as things are, don’t you think, Melly, you’d better
call him?”
“Yes, sir; shall I tell him—what’s happened, sir?”
“Yes—no,—well, tell him that there is trouble in the household, you might
say sudden illness—oh, I don’t care what you say, Melly, but can’t you
hint that he’d better go right after breakfast?”
“Yes, sir, surely,” and Mrs. Mellish went on her somber errand.
Uncle and niece took their places in the bright and cheery
breakfast-room. The weather had cleared, and the sun shone with a glowing
warmth as of Indian Summer.
“Eat your breakfast, Rosemary,” Vincent said, “that will best help you to
meet the trying times before you.”
Habit is a compelling thing, and Homer Vincent went about his own
breakfast methodically, as usual, chipping his egg with his customary
care and attention. It was characteristic of the man that even in the
nervous stress and strain of the occasion, he gratified his physical
appetite with apparent relish. Yet this was purely a matter of habit, and
indeed, he was almost unaware of what he was eating or even that he was
eating.
The girl, however, could eat nothing. Her excitement was so great, her
nerves so wrought up, that she found it impossible to swallow a mouthful.
“At least drink a cup of coffee, dear child,” her uncle urged, as he
solicitously proffered cream and sugar.
At this moment Mrs. Mellish returned, her round face showing a look of
amazement.
“The gentleman isn’t in his room, sir,” she said. “I—”
“Then he’s out in the grounds,” interrupted Vincent, impatiently. “Go and
hunt him, Mellish.”
Now, Mrs. Mellish’s place wasn’t in the dining-rooms at all at breakfast,
a maid assisted the butler. But today the maids were demoralized and
Melly was trying to help things along all she could.
The news of the tragedy had, of course, flown like wildfire through the
servants’ halls and they were even now in huddled groups in corridors and
pantries.
“But, Mr. Vincent,” Melly resumed, “the gentleman didn’t sleep in his
bed! It hasn’t been touched since it was turned down for him last night.”
“What?” Vincent stared at her incredulously.
“No, sir; his hat and coat’s there, but his clothes ain’t—”
“Oh, then he’s spent the whole night prowling round the house. He was
daft over it and hated to go to bed. I left him wandering round the upper
floors. I hope he didn’t go out on the leads and fall over. What a bother
he is! But go and find him Mrs. Mellish. Get some one to help, if you
like,—but get Mr. Johnson! He’s maybe fallen asleep in some Tower room.”
Mrs. Mellish departed and Rosemary asked, “Who is this man, Uncle?”
“An ordinary person, dear. I never saw him before,—he came to see me in
regard to a business proposition, and your Aunt and I grew interested and
promised to decide the matter today.”
Tears filled his eyes as he realized there was no today for poor Anne
Vincent.
“But why wouldn’t he go to bed?” Rosemary persisted. “Do you mean he
spent the whole night wandering round the house?”
“I don’t know, child, but he was mad about the place and most curious to
visit every nook and cranny of it. I showed him about a lot, then, as he
seemed inclined to explore for himself, I told him to do so.”
“What room did he have?”
“The south room, above your Aunt’s. He’s a decent chap, but not quite our
own sort. Ah, Mellish, did you get the doctor?”
The butler shook his head. “No, sir, he’s away on an important case, out
of town, sir. Shall I call some one else?”
“Oh, I don’t know what to say or do—” and Vincent seemed to be at his
wits’ end.
“I wish I could help you, Uncle,” Rosemary said, gently; “you have such
an awful burden to bear. Shall I call Bryce over—”
“No; I am indeed in trouble, Rosemary, but I can bear my own burdens.
I ask no help, at present. But when the time comes, I shall get
help—skilled help—to solve the mystery of your aunt’s death and to bring
the murderer to justice.”
Vincent’s voice rang out sternly and Rosemary marvelled at the fiery
depths of his eyes.
He seemed to pull himself together anew, and said: “I think, Mellish,
you’d better call up the County Physician. He must be notified anyway,
and if he gets here before Doctor McGee, it will do no harm. We must
have some medical man, as soon as we can. Call Doctor Archer—and then,
Mellish, for Heaven’s sake find that man Johnson. It’s unpardonable for
him to act like this!”
The calm, even-tempered man was getting nervously upset. Nor could it
be wondered at, for in all his life before equability and composure had
never deserted him. But never had there been such provocation. For a
man who lived but for his own pleasure, whose every thought and act
were definitely directed toward the achievement of his own comfort and
happiness, for a man like this to be brought suddenly face to face with a
tragedy that tore his very heartstrings was enough of itself to shatter
his nerves.
But when, in addition, he must meet the terrible situation, must even
assume direction of the horrible events consequent upon it, must stifle
and suppress his own grief in order to preserve sufficient calm to take
charge of the proceedings,—this was overwhelming, and Homer Vincent
almost sank beneath the blow.
But he was made of strong fiber, he was possessed of an indomitable will
and ability to cope with an emergency.
Conquering his jumping nerves, he said: “We must all help, Rosemary. You
must try to take your Aunt’s place so far as you can; look after the
household matters, assist Melly, and be ready to see visitors,—for as
soon as the news spreads there will be many callers.”
Rosemary shuddered. “Must I see them, Uncle? I’d hate it—”
“Some we can refuse to see. But many must be met,—and I thought, dear
child, you’d do that to help me. I have many painful matters to see to
myself.”
“Of course, I will, then,—and—if I could have Bryce—”
“Oh, Rosemary, just this once,—I beg of you, don’t bring up that subject—”
Vincent looked so distressed that his niece said quickly, “No, I
won’t,—but—if you only would—”
She was interrupted by the return of Mellish.
Having summoned Doctor Archer, he had himself taken up the command of the
search for the missing guest.
“We can’t find that man anywhere,” he declared, looking completely
mystified. “As my wife says, he didn’t sleep in his bed, and what’s more,
it doesn’t look to me as if he was in his room at all after dinner.
There’s nothing put about, no chair out of place, no cigar ashes or
that,—his night things all undisturbed, just as the maid laid them out.
It’s mighty queer, sir,—ay, it’s mighty queer!”
“His hat and coat are up there—in his room?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then he hasn’t left the place,—then he must be somewhere about.”
“Yes, sir,—it would seem so, sir. But he isn’t,—he just isn’t. We’ve
looked everywhere. We’ve called out, and we’ve rang bells, and we’ve
searched the whole place. He’s nowhere about—alive.”
Vincent started at the last word.
“What do you mean?” he cried.
“Nothing, sir, only whoever done for poor Miss Anne may have done for
him, too.”
“That’s so,” and Homer Vincent dropped his face in his hands as if this
new phase of trouble was more than he could bear.
“Mellish,” he said, at last, “I can’t take it all in. It’s too much for
me. I must have help—”
“Oh, Uncle Homer,” and Rosemary spoke involuntarily, “if you’d only let
Bryce—”
“Hush, Rosemary, don’t add to my troubles. No, much as I hate it, much as
I dread it, I see I must call in the police. We’d better wait, I think,
until Doctor Archer comes, but I am sure he will send for them at once.
It is inevitable.”
“The police! Oh, no, Uncle Homer!”
“I fear it must be so, Rosemary. And, dear, until they come is the only
time we may have to ourselves. I mean, once they start investigations,
the whole house will be upset and they will be entirely in charge.”
“How awful! Must we have them?”
“Yes,” he spoke abruptly. “Oh, Rosemary, I can’t stand this another
minute! I shall go to the organ,—Mellish, when the Doctor comes let me
know.”
No one was surprised, a few moments later, to hear the long, low,
mournful notes that pealed through the stricken house. It was the habit
of Homer Vincent to find solace in music if anything troubled him, but
never before had his troubles been more than some slight, momentary
disturbance of a trifling sort.
And as he played, he recovered his poise, he regained his courage, he
felt enabled to cope with the trials that he must endure.
One who knew him could judge from the deep, dirge-like strains or the
troubled crashing chords, which phase of the tragedy was at the moment
uppermost in his mind, the death of his sister, or the imminent horror of
the consequent and necessary investigations.
The servants were in a state of chaotic excitement. The two Mellishes
had their hands full to keep quiet and decorum in their domain.
Francine, however, showed her best side, and proved that she had a fine
and efficient nature.
She put Miss Anne’s rooms in order, weeping silently as she disposed of
the clothing the poor lady would never wear again. She was careful to
disturb nothing that might be useful as evidence, for Francine fully
realized the gravity of the case, and wanted to help, if only by letting
things alone.
She found Rosemary in her room, weeping her very heart out in an agony of
woe.
“Poor child,” thought Francine, “not a soul to go to for sympathy or
comfort!”
“Mayn’t I send for someone, Miss Rosemary?” she offered. “Wouldn’t you
like Miss Eaton, or—”
“No, Francine,” the girl looked at her fiercely; “you know well there’s
only one person I want to see,—and I’m not allowed to see him!”
“No,” and Francine nodded, understandingly; “but don’t stir up your uncle
about that. He’s got all he can stagger under.”
“So have I!” Rosemary cried out. “Don’t you suppose I’m as much broken up
by Antan’s death as Uncle Homer is? Don’t you suppose I want somebody to
comfort and love me even more than he does? He has his music—that always
quiets and soothes him, while I—I have nothing—nobody!”
The lovely face, torn with emotion and grief, was mutinous; the scarlet
lips were trembling, while the white, tear-stained cheeks and the stormy
eyes showed rebellion seething in Rosemary’s heart.
“But wait,” counseled Francine. “All is now so—so excitement,
so—tornado!” In moments of stress, Francine forgot her English.
“After a little, after some small few of days, the trouble will clear
somewhat,—the suddenness will be forgotten,—Monsieur will find himself,
and, who knows, mademoiselle, all may be well for you—and yours.”
Francine had never before spoken with such familiarity, but Rosemary did
not resent it. She was too stunned, too helpless, to resent anything.
“Tell me about that man, Francine,” she said; “did you see him?”
“Yes, when Miss Anne called me to get her a wrap. Oh, he was dreadful!” A
French shrug betokened how dreadful.
“But how? In what way?”
“So black, so sneering,—so dictating,—yet not a gentleman.”
“What in the world did he want? I wish Uncle Homer would tell me about
him. Where do you suppose he is, Francine?”
“That is not hard to guess.” The French girl smiled a sardonic little
grin,—like a wise sibyl.
“Why, what do you mean? What do you think?”
And then came a peremptory summons for both girls to appear below.
Doctor Archer had arrived, and, almost simultaneously, the local police.
The Law was represented by Lane, the Sheriff of the county, and two
eager-eyed detectives, who were so flabbergasted by the beauty and
grandeur of their surroundings that they seemed able to detect little
else.
Doctor Archer, the County Medical Examiner, was in charge, and was firing
questions right and left. He had never before had such an opportunity to
stand in the limelight and was making the most of it.
“The lady was murdered,” he informed his hearers, in a deep bass voice;
“most foully murdered. She was stabbed with some sort of dagger or
long-bladed knife.”
“Carving-knife?” asked Brewster, one of the detectives, and Rosemary
smothered a shriek.
“Not necessarily,” replied Archer, “a long-bladed jackknife might have
been used, or a regular dagger. Anyway, it required a long blade, for
it went in her chest and pierced her heart. It was just one swift, deft
blow, and death was instantaneous. Now, Sheriff, what do you make of
that?”
“Murderous intent,” answered Lane promptly. “Murderer concealed in the
room, like as not, all afternoon.”
“Ah, h’m, and how did he get out?”
“Door locked?” and Lane looked up quickly. He had not heard all the
details yet.
They were gathered in the living-room, a delightful room on the first
floor, back of the dining-room. It looked out on the terrace, and on over
the lagoon and fountain to the Greek Temple that was a Mausoleum.
Lane was an artist at heart, a lover of the beautiful, and like many
other visitors, he was overcome with the sights about him.
They were to visit the room of the tragedy later, but Vincent had
requested that the preliminary inquiries be made in some other place.
“Yes,” Archer said, “door locked on the inside.”
“Windows?” asked Brown, the other and lesser detective.
“You must look into those things for yourselves,” Archer said. “I’m
merely making my medical report. Then we’ll get a line on the time and
all that and then we’ll go upstairs and take a look about.”
Homer Vincent cringed at the matter-of-fact tone and the business-like
air of the men, and Rosemary, shocked at the whole proceeding, shivered
so that Mrs. Mellish went and sat by her side and held her hand.
Grateful for even this human sympathy, Rosemary forced herself to listen
to the inquiries now being made.
Francine, composed and alert, answered readily all that was asked of her.
So far as could be gathered, she was the last person known to have seen
Miss Vincent alive.
“Tell us all about it,” Brewster said, listening eagerly.
“There’s not much to tell,” the French maid averred. “Miss Vincent spent
a time after dinner in the Tower room of Mr. Vincent, her brother. There
was also a Mr. Johnson with them, a dinner guest of the house. Miss
Vincent left them and came up to her room at about half-past ten. Mr.
Vincent came with her as he always does, to say good night and to measure
her medicine. After Mr. Vincent had gone downstairs again, I assisted
Miss Vincent to get ready for the bed, and I gave her her drops, arranged
the coverlets, and put out the lights, all but the ones she wished kept
burning. Then I said good night, and left her to herself.”
“She had then gone to bed?”
“Oh, no; it was always her custom to sit up and read for a time. I left
her sitting in her arm-chair, her reading light at her side, her books
on a small table. Always I leave her thus at night. Then, when she tires
of her books, she arises from her chair, locks her door, puts out her
reading light and goes to bed. This, monsieur, is her invariable routine.”
“She seemed well, in her usual spirits?”
“She seemed well, but much er—preoccupied. As if in deep—serious thought
over something.”
“Over the discussion with her brother and the strange gentleman, perhaps?”
“It may be. She said no word of what was in her mind.”
“Was she irritable? Cross?”
“Miss Vincent was never that. No, she was most courteous and kind, as
always, but deeply thoughtful. When I left her, she said merely ‘good
night,’ not adding, ‘sleep well, Francine,’ as is most usual.”
“But this only indicates thoughtfulness, not disturbance or worry,—eh?”
“So it seemed to me. Also, she seemed rather satisfied with her thoughts,
as if, after all, the matter was satisfactorily adjusted.”
“You gathered quite a bit from her manner,” Archer remarked, dryly.
Francine caught his tone and flared up at once.
“I know—knew Miss Vincent very well, monsieur! I knew well her moods
and the phases of her mind. It was not much that I should read her
satisfaction from her air and manner! Surely I could tell that she was
contented and not worried or disturbed! That is not so amazing!”
“No,” said Archer.
CHAPTER V
WHERE WAS JOHNSON?
On the whole, Francine made a good impression. Though pert and saucy of
appearance, she laid aside all such attitudes now, and seemed desirous
only to be helpful and dutiful.
“Snappy chit, but devoted to her mistress,” was the way Brewster summed
her up in his mind, and Brown contented himself with musing: “Full of
pep, but honestly grieved.”
Brewster and Brown were themselves honest, hard-working detectives. Far
from brilliant, woefully inexperienced, they felt that now at last their
chance had come, and they were firmly resolved to make good.
Brewster was big and burly, and of a slow-going mind, while Brown
was small, wiry, and active, with what he considered a hair-trigger
intellect. They had often rejoiced in the fact, as they saw it, that they
thus complemented one another, and they felt that their team work would
be admirable should they ever get a chance to try it out. And now their
time had come.
Eagerly they listened to Archer’s inquiries, carefully they remembered
the answers, and frequently gave each other astute glances, indicative of
great mental activity.
“Now,” said Lane, “let’s take up next thing we know of Miss Vincent. Did
any one hear any sound from her or from her room during the night?”
All present,—and several of the servants had gathered in the
doorway,—declared they had heard no sounds from Miss Vincent’s room.
“There is a night watchman?” Archer asked.
“Yes,” replied Mellish, who saved his master in every way he could. “But
if he had heard or seen anything unusual, he would have reported it first
thing this morning.”
“Leave that for the moment, then. Now, who went first to Miss Vincent’s
door this morning?”
“Perhaps I did,” said Francine.
“Why do you say perhaps?” demanded Lane.
“Because how can I tell?” returned Francine, wide-eyed at such stupidity.
“Any one might have been there before me—indeed, some one must have been
there before me—the villain who killed my dear lady.”
“Very well,” said Lane, “go ahead. What time did you go there?”
“At something after eight, monsieur. Always Miss Vincent rings for me
earlier than that,—about seven-thirty, maybe. This morning she did not
do so, and I waited until eight, then I went and hovered near her door,
wondering at her sleeping so late. I listened closely, and hearing no
sound, I ventured to turn the knob, but the door was locked and would not
open. I called softly,—then louder, and then, listening intently, I heard
no sound of Miss Vincent moving about, and I feared she was indisposed,
and I greatly desired to get in to give her assistance, if need be.”
“What did you do?”
“But, naturally, I ran down the stairs for help. Forgetting my
discipline, I ran into the breakfast-room, where were Mr. Vincent and
Miss Rosemary, and I told them of the unusual condition,—and though
not alarmed, Mr. Vincent was concerned, and with Mellish, we all came
upstairs, and broke in the door.”
“Who broke it in?”
“Mellish and I together,” Homer Vincent answered for himself. “The door
is a light, temporary structure; my sister preferred it to the original
heavy oak door. We burst it in,—in fact, it opened so easily Mellish
was thrown to the floor. I went quickly to my sister’s bed, and the
first glance told me the truth. I saw in an instant that she had been
killed,—murdered. I admit I almost lost my consciousness. My senses
reeled, and I fell back involuntarily. But I quickly pulled myself
together, for my young niece was present, and forced myself to lean over
the body and discover if life was surely extinct. It was,—the flesh was
cold to my touch. I ordered Mellish to hold my niece back, as I wanted to
spare her the awful sight. But she insisted on looking at her aunt, and
for a moment we gazed together on the terrible scene. I think there is
no more to tell. Finding I could do nothing for my poor sister, assuring
myself that she was positively beyond human aid, I fear I gave way to
selfish grief for a few moments. Then I roused myself to a sense of duty,
and ever since I have been trying to do what is right and wise in the
matter.
“But I am all unversed in the course the law should take, or the manner
of efforts that should be made to find the murderer and avenge the crime.
Will you, therefore, gentlemen, take the case in charge, and do or advise
me to do, whatever is right and best. Let one thing be understood.
The murderer must be found. Spare no time, pains, or expense. I stand
ready to do anything I can, but as I said, I am ignorant of the proper
procedure, and I desire to relegate the work to more experienced hands.
“You think, do you not, Doctor Archer, that the criminal can be found and
brought to justice?”
“That is not quite in my province, Mr. Vincent. The inquiry is my duty,
but the real detective work must be done by men skilled in such things.”
Brewster and Brown looked duly important and capable, but they offered no
hint of their conclusions so far.
“Do you think, Mr. Vincent,” Lane asked, in his ponderous way, “that your
sister’s death could have been a suicide?”
“I should say positively not,” Vincent replied, slowly, “except for the
fact that she died in a locked room. I can see no way that a murderer
could escape and leave that door locked behind him. Yet, so far from
probability is the idea of suicide, that I am forced to believe it was a
murder, however impossible such a theory may seem. But all this business
of theorizing and of deducing and collecting evidence is so foreign to
my nature and to my experience, that I cannot pretend to decide any such
questions.”
“What weapon was used? Was any found?” asked Brewster, looking at Vincent.
“That I don’t know,” he replied, looking in his turn at Doctor Archer.
“Did you find any, Doctor?”
“No,” and Archer looked stern. “There was none in evidence. Was any such
thing removed before my arrival?”
“Of course not,” said Vincent; “who would do such a thing as that?”
“Did you see any knife or dagger, Mellish? or you, Francine?” Archer
asked of the servants.
But every one present denied having seen any weapon of any sort.
“Then,” said Brewster, “it must have been murder.”
“But the door was locked,” Brown reminded him, “so it must have been
suicide.”
“Those statements are both true, superficially,” Lane said, “but since
they contradict each other, either or both may be untrue. One must be.
Such points can only be settled after much more investigation than has
yet been made. Shortly we will adjourn to the scene of the crime and
gather what evidence we may up there. Just now, I’d like some more
information regarding this stranger, this Mr. Johnson who visited here
last night, and who, I understand, is now missing.
“That’s one of the strangest features,” said Lane. “Please tell us all
about him, Mr. Vincent.”
Rosemary, who had sat quietly listening to the talk, now showed signs of
curiosity. She wished herself to learn more of this strange visitor, but
the conversation about her aunt had filled her soul only with horror and
grief.
Rosemary Vincent was of a self-contained, self-repressed nature. Though
her uncle was kind, even generous to her in many ways, yet their tastes
were not congenial, and their ways more utterly dissimilar.
Indeed, this mutual sorrow that had just come to them had seemed to draw
them together more closely than they had ever been before.
And though Rosemary had earlier that morning inquired concerning the
mysterious Mr. Johnson, she had received no satisfaction, and now she
hoped to learn details.
“I had hoped not to be obliged to tell you of his business here,” Vincent
said slowly, “but his strange disappearance seems to make it advisable
that I should do so. Yet,” he still hesitated, “I cannot convince myself
that the man is really missing. I can’t help thinking he is about the
place or in the house somewhere. He was so intensely interested in the
architecture of this house, he was so eager to go into every nook and
cranny of it, may it not be possible that he has fallen asleep in some
unused room, or even, perhaps, met with an accident while climbing from
one place to another?”
“Are there such dangerous places?” asked Lane.
“Oh, yes; at least, they might be dangerous to an adventurous stranger.
You see, there are upwards of fifty rooms in the house, and there are
turret rooms, to enter which one must step out on the leads; also, there
are dark dungeon-like rooms down in the sub-cellar where if one were to
stumble and fall, perhaps breaking a leg or even spraining an ankle, his
cries might not be heard by the household.”
“You think Mr. Johnson, a transient guest, would go down in your
sub-cellar alone, at night, in utter darkness?” and Lane looked astounded.
“I merely suggest it,” Vincent said, looking harassed, “because he was
apparently out of his bedroom all night, and because he showed such
extraordinary interest in the construction of the house.”
“Very well, Mr. Vincent, if you wish to wait until further search can be
made for the gentleman before revealing the secret of his errand here,
we will wait. You had better send some of your people to look over the
house at once. But in the meantime, I will ask you for the details of his
arrival, and a description of the man.”
“He came here yesterday afternoon,” Vincent began, slowly. “He sent in
no card, but told my butler his name was Henry Johnson, and he wished to
see me on important and private business. I rarely see callers who are
not known to me, but I was not busy at the moment, and I had him shown
in. His errand was really a simple business proposition, which involved a
large investment of money if I saw fit to take it up. I called my sister
down to consult with us, as her fortune is about the same as my own,
and we usually made our investments together. I will tell you the full
details of this business plan later,—if Mr. Johnson cannot be found. If
he does turn up, I feel sure he would prefer the matter kept confidential.
“Well, Mr. Johnson proved to be a fairly agreeable guest, though not at
all distinguished in any way. As we had not come to final decisions, I
invited him to remain overnight. Also, as my sister and I had just about
concluded to accept his propositions, and as the man was so enthralled
with Greatlarch, I invited him to remain here a week and enjoy the
beauties of the place.”
“He was with you all the evening?”
“After dinner he sat with us in my own private room until our plans were
pretty well made regarding the venture he proposed. Then my sister grew
weary, and concluded to retire, all three of us agreeing to draw up
contracts and settle the business finally in the morning.”
“And you went upstairs with your sister?”
“Yes, as I always do. The doctor prescribes a certain sleeping draught
for her, which must be carefully measured. I have no doubt of her
carefulness and accuracy, but to be on the safe side, I have always
measured the medicine myself. Moreover, my sister appreciated my little
courtesy of escorting her to her room, so I have always made it a
practice. Sometimes I remain for a little chat, but last night, having a
guest, I went downstairs again after saying good night.”
“You rejoined Mr. Johnson?”
“Yes; I found him wandering about the halls, rapt in admiration of the
choice marbles, of which, it seems, he is a connoisseur. I led him about
through many of the rooms, even going with him nearly to the top of the
house,—there are nine stories, counting the basements. As we came down
from the upper floors, we reached the room destined for his use. It is
one of the south rooms.
“He duly admired it, and after asking him if he had everything he wanted
for the night, and being assured that he had, I bade him good night and
left him there; telling him, however, that if he wished to prowl about he
was at liberty to do so. In this house, no one is surprised or alarmed to
hear footfalls during the small hours. We are all wakeful, and frequently
go up or down stairs on various trifling errands.”
“And you heard Mr. Johnson prowling about in the night?”
“No, I can’t say that I did. Yet he may have done so, for the rugs are
thick and soft, and with care one may make no noise.”
“Then the last you saw of this man was when you left him in his bedroom?”
“Yes, that was the last I saw of him. He was in good spirits, for he had
achieved his purpose in coming here. He was satisfied with the agreement
we had come to, and he looked forward to the morning, when we would sign
the final contracts, and also, when he would remain as my guest for a
time.”
“And then, this morning, he has disappeared?”
“He is not here, certainly, but I can’t think it is a mysterious
disappearance. He may have gone for a very early morning walk, and met
with some untoward accident. Or he may have remembered some important
business matter, and walked down to the village to telegraph or something
of that sort. I only suggest these things, because they are to my mind
more probable than that the man has voluntarily or purposely gone away.
Yet there may be a mystery about it, and it may be we shall never see him
again. Those things I trust the detectives will delve into.”
Vincent leaned back in his chair, looking not so much physically wearied
with the conversation as mentally and nervously exhausted by the strain
of the situation.
“What does Johnson look like?” Lane asked.
“Describe him, Mellish,” Homer Vincent said, feeling he could delegate
this task to another.
“Well,” the butler said, speaking slowly, but concisely; “he is a
medium-size man, and a medium-weight man. He’s well enough shaped, but
he has no carriage—”
“Carriage?” interrupted Lane.
“Yes, sir, carriage, I said. Meaning he don’t bear himself with any
distinguishment,—as a gentleman should.”
A gleam of amusement passed across Vincent’s face at this, but he
immediately resumed his look of weary sadness.
“Not but what he knew how to behave proper; he was all right at the
table, and that,—but I should say he is not really an aristocrat.”
“Don’t be too severe, Mellish,” Vincent admonished him; “I think Mr.
Johnson had good manners.”
“Good manners, yes,” Mellish granted, “but, well, he was lacking in
cultural background.”
Some of the hearers stared at this phrase from the butler’s lips, but
those of the household knew Mellish’s trick of picking up phrases
overheard at his master’s table and, later, using them, either rightly or
wrongly, in his own conversation.
Vincent smiled outright, and even Rosemary’s sorrowful face showed amused
appreciation.
Lane repeated the phrase in bewilderment.
“Cultural background!” he exclaimed; “what do you mean?”
“What I say,” returned the unabashed Mellish. “Mr. Johnson, I feel sure,
is not accustomed to mingle in the best of social circles; he has no
phrases or allusions in his speech that betoken the college man or the
student of life and literature.”
“Perhaps you’d better confine yourself to his physical description,
Mellish,” Vincent suggested, “and omit your opinion of his mentality.”
“Yes, sir. Then, Mr. Johnson is a very dark-faced man,—dark hair, eyes,
and skin. He wears a small black moustache, and under it his white teeth
gleam like those of some ferocious animal. His countenance is what may be
called sinister,—yes, sir,—sinister. In a word, Mr. Henry Johnson has the
face of a murderer.”
Mrs. Mellish gave a sudden gasp, Rosemary turned white, and Homer Vincent
stared at his butler.
“Yes, a murderer,” Mellish repeated; “and he’s the villain what did
for our Miss Anne! How can it be otherwise? In comes a stranger, has
secret dealings with master and Miss Anne,—him all the time looking like
a murderer, if ever man did! Comes morning, he’d fled, his bed not
touched, his hat and coat left behind him, and the dear lady dead in her
bed! What else could be the exclamation?”
Mellish’s habit of miscalling a word provoked no smile this time, for
everybody was startled at his idea, and was turning it over mentally,
with deep interest.
At last, Doctor Archer said coldly, “Can any one suggest a motive for
such a deed on the part of Mr. Johnson?”
“No, and I can’t think of him as the criminal,” said Vincent,
thoughtfully. “And yet, if Johnson never appears again, it does seem a
way to look.”
“Of course it’s a way to look!” Brown cried eagerly. “The only way to
look, as yet. Who else could get into the house, with the night watchman
on duty? Who else is a possible suspect in a house of devoted servants
and loving relatives? Why else would Johnson disappear? What else would
explain his unused bed? A man doesn’t wander about the whole night,
admiring house decorations, however beautiful!”
“All true, Brown,” said Brewster, slowly, “but we must get more data
before we assume anything. This man’s room, now. Much could doubtless be
learned from examination of his belongings. Had he any luggage?”
“A kitbag,” Mellish informed. “A new one, not overly large. I laid out
his night things,—right and proper enough, but not elaborate or fine. And
all new.”
“That’s always suspicious,” declared the quick-witted Brown. “When a man
has a lot of new things, it means he wants to conceal his identity.”
“But Johnson didn’t,” Vincent told them. “He told his name and address
straightforwardly enough; he had to, for us to come to a business
agreement.”
“Yes, that’s so,” and Brown looked a little crestfallen. “Go on, Mellish,
as to his kit. Anything more personal than clothing and toilet things?”
“Not as I recollect. But the room hasn’t been touched, sir; you can go up
and deduce it whenever you wish.”
Mellish was sure of his word this time.
“Let’s go now, Brewster,” cried Brown; “the chap may come back any
minute.”
The two detectives went up to the room in question, while the others
remained downstairs.
The windows were not wide, but owing to the thickness of the stone wall
they were very deep.
Brown leaned far out of one, and drawing back into the room, informed
Brewster that nobody could get in or out by that means. The room was on
the third floor, and the stone wall was unscalable.
“Well, Pighead,” Brewster returned, amiably, “nobody has suspected Friend
Johnson of making his exit otherwise than by this door; why the fuss
about the window?”
“But how did he get out of the house by the front door without being
seen by the watchman? If he could have made any other getaway, it would
simplify matters a lot.”
“Don’t hope to simplify matters yet, my son. This is a stupendous case—”
“Don’t talk like that parrot-tongued butler! Stupendous is a silly word.
But the case is a corker! I’ll admit that!”
“Yes, that’s what I meant by stupendous. Now, as you can see for
yourself, there’s absolutely nothing to be learned from this bag or its
contents. It isn’t unpacked at all,—just as the man left it. Nothing
in it but a change of underclothing, a pair of socks, a timetable, a
clothesbrush—”
“Here are a few things on the dresser,” Brown said. “But nothing
personal. See, the brushes are plain black rubber, without monogram
or initials. Here in the top drawer, we see three or four clean
handkerchiefs, a necktie, and a pair of gloves. Doubtless the good
Mellish put these here, by way of arranging his wardrobe.”
“Yes, of course. Not a thing marked, not a thing personal or different
from hundreds of other men’s belongings.”
“Here’s his hat and coat. Old Sherlock would size him up perfectly just
from the hat alone.”
“Well, I can’t; I don’t see anything but a plain black Derby, this
season’s style, new,—like everything else!—and bought at Knox’s in New
York. Small help in that.”
“And his coat is no better. New, too, bought at Rogers, Peet and Co.’s,
also in New York. Does the chap hail from New York?”
“I don’t know. Mr. Vincent can tell us that. But I’ll say Johnson is the
one to look to as a potential murderer, at any rate. Think so?”
“Yes, but he doesn’t seem to be a man of any forceful personality, so
far.”
“That’s the beauty of it! You see, if he is the murderer he would come
here all togged out in clothes and things, new and unmarked, just to
prevent the disclosure of his identity.”
“Something in that, by Jove! Now, if we can circumvent his bright idea,—I
mean, find some purely personal thing that he has overlooked, we’ll hoist
him with his own petard!”
“Well, here’s the thing! See, an atomizer,—isn’t that what you call these
little sprayers? It was on the washstand.”
Brewster looked at the glass container and its black rubber spray with
interest.
“Good as far as it goes,” he said. “Where’s the bottle of medicine that
belongs with it?”
“Don’t see any. Well, I’ll leave it where I found it. Let’s go back
downstairs.”
CHAPTER VI
THE WILD HARP
Mellish had detailed two of the servants to search the house and grounds
thoroughly for the missing Johnson.
This was easily done, for the men were familiar with all the unused rooms
and all the dark passages and dungeon-like spaces in the cellar and
sub-cellar.
They returned with the report that there was positively no one concealed
in the house and no sign of any one about the grounds.
“It’s clear enough to me,” said Doctor Archer, “that the missing man is
the criminal we are in search of. Had he met with an accident, he would
have been found, even though injured or dead. As it is, he has evidently
disappeared of his own volition and intentionally. What can we assume,
then, but that he is the murderer and has fled?”
“Then, Mr. Vincent,” Lane said, “I think you should now tell us all you
know about the man and what business brought him here.”
“Willingly,” Homer Vincent answered, “but,” he added, “I cannot conceive
why he should have killed my sister,—or how he accomplished it.”
“That is for us to discover,” Lane said, a little pompously. “But, first,
Doctor Archer, how long do you judge Miss Vincent had been dead when you
arrived?”
“That is the most surprising part of it,” Archer replied. “It is not
often possible to affirm positively as to that matter, but allowing a
wide margin of probability, I feel sure that death occurred not more than
three hours before I made the examination of the body.”
Vincent looked at the speaker with an amazed face.
“Why,” he exclaimed, “that would mean that my sister was—was killed only
about an hour before we broke into her room!”
“That is my report,” Archer said, decidedly. “As I say, it is hard to
tell with certainty, but death must have occurred as late as seven
o’clock this morning.”
“Then,” said Mellish, who in the stress of the occasion was joining in
the conversation, “then, that man, that murderer, waited till Hoskins
went off duty, and then he killed Miss Anne and immejitly made himself
scarce! You’ll never see him again!”
“But why,—_why_ would he kill her?” Vincent persisted. “However, if he
did,—he’s the man we want and he must be found. I’ll tell you all I
know about him. In fact, I have told you all, except the nature of his
business here. It was this. He claims to have discovered or invented a
way to make what are known as synthetic rubies. This is not unheard of
among chemists and the results of attempts, so far, are well-known to
lapidaries and to jewelers. But Johnson declared that his process was so
far above and beyond all others in point of merit and value, that if he
could make and market his wares it would mean a revolution in the jewel
business and a colossal fortune for the inventor and his backer. For,
of course, his plan was for me to finance the project, he putting his
knowledge and experience against my money investment. Then he proposed
we divide evenly the profits. This, in a nutshell, is the gist of his
business here. I am not one who is easily persuaded to invest in an
unknown venture, but the way he talked proved to me that he knew his
subject thoroughly, and the proofs he showed of success already attained,
made me give the matter deep consideration.
“I called my sister in to the discussion, not only because I wished
to give her an opportunity to share in the undertaking if she chose,
but also because I place great reliance on her good judgment and sound
advice. Somewhat to my surprise, she was enthusiastic over the plan, and
wanted to put in a large sum of money.”
“Does it, then, require such an outlay to attain the desired end?” asked
Archer, greatly interested.
“Yes, and I was convinced of it by the statistics and verified data
that Mr. Johnson showed me. He also had with him two rubies which he
had himself manufactured, and which a leading jewelry firm had declared
genuine stones. I have those still in my possession, in my safe, and I
will show them to you, whenever you like. My sister was entranced with
their beauty and luster. After our afternoon confab, my sister wore
down to dinner a fine and perfect ruby of her own, for the purposes of
comparison. I could see no difference in the real and the false.”
“So you decided to finance his project, Mr. Vincent?” Brewster asked,
respectfully.
“I had practically so decided, but we were to confer further this
morning, and if we agreed on certain unsettled points in the contract,
I was quite ready to sign it and so was my sister. It meant a large
outlay of money for laboratories and materials, but we were firmly
assured we would get it back many times over. That, Doctor Archer, was
the business that brought Henry Johnson to my door, and if I hesitated
to make it public, it was because I felt a certain duty to him. Since he
has so surely disappeared, and since there is a reason to believe him a
criminal, of course, I am absolved from my promise of secrecy.”
“Where is Miss Vincent’s ruby?” asked Brown suspiciously; “maybe he took
that with him.” Vincent looked startled.
“She had it on when I bade her good night,” he said, thinking back; “she
always cares for it herself—call Francine, Mellish.”
The maid appeared, and Vincent asked her concerning the jewel.
“But yes,” she answered, “Miss Vincent had it on last evening. When
disrobing, she put it in her wall safe, as usual. Is it not there?”
“Go and see,” directed Vincent. “You can open it?”
“Oh, yes, Miss Vincent trusted me with the combination.”
“I’ll just go along,” Brown said, and the two left the room.
“I am frightened to go in,” said Francine, crossing herself as they
reached the threshold.
“Why?”
“Miss Anne—she is there—and yet—not there!”
“Well, she can’t hurt you! Come along. Are you superstitious?”
“No—yes, I am! And last night, the Wild Harp played! Did you know that?”
“What’s the Wild Harp?”
“It’s a spirit harp, played by phantom fingers. The fingers, monsieur, of
the dead lady—”
“Miss Vincent?”
“Oh, no, no,—the lady who was long time ago dead—in this very room—this
same room, monsieur, and again a deed of blood!”
“I see; you mean Mrs. Lamont.”
“Yes, Madame Lamont,—she was murdered, or, she killed herself,—it is not
known which,—and of a truth, often she plays the Wild Harp, and always
there follows disaster.”
“H’m, interesting. And where is the harp? In the music room?”
“No, monsieur, it is out in the dismal—the black thicket. Back of
the Temple that is her tomb. There is the Wild Harp, there, among the
desolation—the somber shadows, the soughing pines, where the gloom is
deepest, there the Lady Lamont walks by herself and moans, or plays
wailing strains on the Wild Harp.”
“Tell me more about this some other time, Francine. We’re sent on an
errand, you know. Come on in; don’t be foolish.”
With shuddering glances toward the still figure on the bed, Francine
followed the detective into the room.
A guard stationed outside the door said nothing and made no move.
At Brown’s command, Francine tried to open the small safe in the wall,
but her fingers trembled so, she could scarce control them.
“What a baby you are!” cried Brown, though his glance at the pretty
French girl was not severe. “Tell me the letters, I’ll do it.”
“No, it is my trust,” and whirling the dial, Francine at last threw open
the safe door.
“_Mon Dieu_, it is gone!” she cried; “the great ruby is gone! All else is
here, yes, here is the diamond cross and the emerald bracelet—only the
ruby is missing. The beast! The murderous beast! I knew he was the bad
one! His blackness—ugh!”
More by gestures than by words did Francine express her detestation of
the man and her distress at the discovery of the loss.
“You’re sure, Francine?” Brown persisted.
“Oh, yes, always the ruby reposed in this case, see! Now, the case is
empty!”
“Well, I’m not overly surprised. Johnson is certainly the villain! Come
on, we must go down and report.”
Francine closed and locked the safe, and, dabbing at her eyes with a
minute handkerchief drawn from her foolish little apron pocket, she went
obediently downstairs.
Brewster heard of the stolen ruby with a certain feeling of satisfaction.
It was all in keeping that the maker of synthetic rubies should purloin a
real one—even at the price of becoming a murderer thereby.
“Johnson’s your man,” he declared. “All we’ve got to do now, is to
nab him. And that’s not so hard as you may think. Mr. Vincent has his
address, and sooner or later the man must return to his home,—even if
secretly. We’ll get him!”
“I can’t understand it—” Vincent looked bewildered, “How did he do it?
How did he get the safe open? How did he kill my sister? It is all too
unbelievable,—too mysterious—”
“It is!” declared Rosemary, her attitude of sorrowful dejection suddenly
giving way to a burst of indignation; “that was to be my ruby! Antan left
it to me in her will,—she told me so!”
No one thought the girl mercenary, or criticized her for this speech. It
was natural that the news of the theft should call forth such regret from
the one whose property it was meant to be.
“Poor child,” said her uncle, “that is true. My sister did intend for you
to have the jewel. Will troubles never end, Rosemary?”
“Oh, Uncle, I fear they have only just begun. I—I heard the Harp last
night—”
She stopped as a shade of annoyance crossed her uncle’s face.
Homer Vincent always frowned at mention of the mysterious harp. He
declared there could be no truth in the tales about it, that no sounds
were ever heard from the dense thicket that the townsfolk had dubbed
“Spooky Hollow.”
Nor was it an inappropriate name. On either side of the marble Temple
were beautiful pine trees and larches, and a background of these threw
out the shining whiteness in fine relief. But further back still, was a
deep thicket of lower growth, dwarfed trees, tangled shrubs and vines,
marshy swamp ground, that, after a long rain, showed dark pools of ooze
and murky patches of soggy ground.
Lower than the rest of the estate, it sloped still farther downward to a
deep ravine, which, filled with a wild growth, was so picturesque, and
also so difficult of access, that Homer Vincent had put off clearing it
out to a future time that had not yet arrived.
The unhindered growth of the trees and the rank and luxuriant undergrowth
had, of course, taken place during the long years that the house stood
vacant, and it was also during this period that the term Spooky Hollow
came into use.
Many stories were current of weird sounds heard from the Hollow, of
ghostly shapes seen flitting there, of mysterious lights flaring for a
moment, now and then.
Many of the townspeople pooh-poohed these stories, but there were many
more who believed the reports.
When the Vincents first came, it had been hard to persuade servants to
remain with them. But enormous wages and tempting conditions had brought
many permanent retainers and Mrs. Mellish’s wise government and kindly
heart had secured others, so that now a vacancy on the staff was besieged
by applicants.
Yet tales persisted of hauntings and apparitions, prominent among them
being the stories of a phantom harp that was played upon only on dark
nights, and that gave forth long, wailing strains as of a soul in anguish.
As it was a fact that Mrs. Lamont met a violent death in her room, the
same one Anne Vincent had occupied, it was not strange that this harp
music was attributed to her restless spirit.
Anne Vincent herself had taken no interest in the ghost stories, her
hard-headed practicality refusing to credit a word of them.
But she had reluctantly admitted having heard the Harp once or twice,
though afterward declaring it must have been her imagination.
Rosemary was uncertain whether she believed in the spooks of Spooky
Hollow or not. She had heard, or had thought she heard, the Wild Harp,
but she was never inclined to talk on the subject and indeed, except
among the servants, it was not often discussed at Greatlarch.
And so, when Rosemary declared she had heard the Harp the night of her
aunt’s death, Homer Vincent looked at her in astonishment.
“Rosemary,” he said, “I beg of you—at such a time—”
“But, Uncle, I did—I did hear it just after I came in—”
“At what time did you come in?” he asked, and then poor Rosemary wished
she had not spoken.
But he was quite evidently awaiting an answer, so the girl said,
falteringly, “I’m afraid I was a little late,—I didn’t mean to be.”
“How late?” asked Vincent, inexorably.
“After midnight,” and the girl’s appealing eyes seemed to beg him not to
reprimand her then and there.
Nor did he. With a slight sigh, he merely said, “You know my wishes,
Rosemary. I am sorry you so persistently disregard them.”
“You came home at midnight, Miss Vincent?” said Brewster, hoping to glean
information of some sort.
“Yes; I dined with a friend over on Spruce Hill Road, and she sent me
home in her motor. I left the car at our avenue and walked to the house.”
“In order to conceal the fact of your late return,” observed Vincent.
“Yes, Uncle,” Rosemary admitted, and her brown eyes fell before his
reproachful gaze.
But Brewster went on: “Tell me, Miss Vincent,” he said, “did you see or
hear anything unusual when you entered the house?”
“Nothing at all,” she replied. “I had my own night key, but I did not use
it, as Hoskins had not yet locked the front door.”
Brown looked at her closely.
“Miss Vincent,” he said, “you did not come directly into the house. You
walked around the northwest Tower and back before coming in at the front
door.”
The girl’s face expressed utter amazement.
“That is quite true,” she said, “but how ever did you know it?”
Rosemary’s face betokened merely surprise, not alarm, but Brown continued
to quiz her.
“You paused at the window of that Tower, and stood there some moments.
Why did you do that?”
His eyes narrowed as he looked at her, and his voice was curiously tense.
Rosemary rather resented this catechism, and then she quickly realized
that the detectives had a right to question her, and moreover, that she
must tell the truth.
“Tell me how you know I did that, and I’ll tell you why I did it,” she
returned.
Susceptible young Brown was fascinated by the charm of the appealing
eyes, and the piquant little face, animated now by curiosity.
“Not a difficult bit of deduction,” he said; “I saw footprints in the
snow along the front portico and round the Tower when I came this
morning. They were made by slender, feminine shoes, and I think now they
were yours.”
“I daresay,” said Rosemary, indifferent now that the mystery was
explained. “Well, I stepped around there because I saw by the light that
my uncle was probably there, and I wanted to size up my chance of getting
into the house unnoticed.”
Homer Vincent looked at her with disapproval, but Brown suppressed a
chuckle.
“Not really afraid of the old man,” he silently decided. “Guess his bark
is worse’n his bite.”
“What was your uncle doing?” asked Brewster, casually.
“He was looking over some papers,—and he had something in his hand that
glittered—”
“The two synthetic rubies that Mr. Johnson left with me,” Vincent
explained. “I will answer queries pertaining to myself, if you please.”
Brewster felt a little abashed. Homer Vincent had a gift of making people
feel abashed when he chose.
“May I see those rubies, Mr. Vincent?” asked Lane.
“Certainly, I’ll fetch them,” and Vincent left the room.
“Did it look like a ruby, the object your uncle was holding?” Brewster
inquired of Rosemary.
The girl looked at him and instinctively disliked his manner.
“My uncle prefers that questions about himself should be addressed to
him,” she said, coolly, and again Brown had hard work to repress a smile
of amusement at his colleague’s discomfiture.
The two detectives worked harmoniously and in unison, but there was a
slight feeling of rivalry that was, perhaps, not to be wondered at.
Moreover, both of them were greatly impressed with the gravity of the
case, the magnificence of the house, and not least, by the winning
personality of Rosemary Vincent.
“Then proceed with your own story, Miss Vincent,” Brewster said, a little
curtly. “After looking in on your uncle, did you at once enter the house?”
“Yes, I thought from his manner he was meaning to stay where he was for
some time. So I went back to the front door, and softly opened it and
slipped in. Well, of all things, if Uncle Homer didn’t start that very
minute to go upstairs! I was so afraid he’d see me, I scuttled behind one
of the big pillars in the hall, and waited till he passed me. I scarcely
dared breathe! But he didn’t hear me,—he went on up the staircase, and—”
“And you followed after a discreet interval.”
“Well, yes,—but in that interval I went to the dining-room and ate a bit
of luncheon that Mellish had left there for me.”
A smile of respectful affection crossed the face of the butler as he
regarded the girl.
“But you had just come from a dinner party!”
“Oh, but dinner was at seven-thirty, and since then, we had danced till
after midnight, and had no other refreshments.”
“I see. Well, then after your supper, you went upstairs?”
Rosemary suddenly saw she was practically on the witness stand.
This did not disturb her, it only served to make her more careful of her
statements.
“Yes,” she said, slowly. “I went upstairs, and as it is my habit to stop
in my aunt’s room to say good night, if she is awake, I listened at her
door. But her regular, deep breathing told me that she was asleep, so I
went on to my own apartments.”
“You did not know Mr. Johnson was in the house?”
“No, I had no way of knowing that.”
“You saw the night watchman as you came in?”
“Not as I came in, but while I was in the dining-room, Hoskins looked in.
We nodded at each other and he went on.”
“May I see Hoskins?” Lane asked, abruptly.
Mellish went to summon the watchman, who, though usually asleep at this
hour, was still in the servants’ sitting-room, gossiping over events.
He came back with Mellish, and was ready, even anxious, to answer
questions.
“Yes, sir,” he informed them, “I saw Miss Rosemary a eatin’ of her little
supper, and I went on about my business.”
“Did you see Mr. Johnson walking about the house or grounds through the
night?”
“That I did not, or I’d reported it, you may be sure.”
“Is it necessary to report the wanderings if a guest of the house?”
“Well, I’ve never seen this Mr. Johnson they tell of, and if I’d a seen
him outside the house, I’d hardly taken him for a guest. We ain’t never
had such guests as that. But if I’d a seen him a walkin’ about inside,
like as not I’d a supposed he was a visitor and let it go at that. You
can’t tell just what you’d do in such cases, less’n you’re there on the
spot.”
“Then you saw no sign of anybody at all?”
“No, sir. After Miss Rosemary went upstairs, I saw and heard no human
bein’ till the stroke of seven sent me in to breakfast. That is, no
human, sir.”
“You mean to say you saw or heard something supernatural?”
“That’s it, sir, the Wild Harp. She broke loose long about two or three
o’clock, and such a wailin’ sound you never heard!”
“Hoskins,” Homer Vincent spoke, as he came into the room again, “you are
too sensible to talk like that. There is no truth in those stories of a
Wild Harp.”
“Have it your own way, sir,” and Hoskins cheerfully accepted the mild
rebuff.
“There are the rubies, gentlemen,” Vincent said, laying two gleaming
crimson stones on the table.
“What beauties!” cried Doctor Archer. “Do you mean to tell me these are
synthetic? Made by that man, Johnson?”
“So he affirmed. Of course, there’d be no sense in his making a false
statement of that sort.”
“Oh, Uncle, they’re wonderful!” exclaimed Rosemary. “Can’t I have one of
these now that Antan’s ruby is gone?”
“Oh, Miss Rosemary, don’t think about foolish gewgaws with your poor aunt
lying dead up above us!” Mrs. Mellish showed a horrified surprise on her
round, rosy face. “And you gentlemen may search all you wish, you may
do all the detective stunts you can pull off, never will you see that
Johnson man again, and never will you learn any more about poor Miss
Anne’s death than you know this minute! For I heard the Wild Harp last
night, and it was a funeral dirge it played. The dear lady was killed by
a haunt, that she was! Who else could get into her locked room? Who else
could sperrit away Mr. Johnson? Tell me that now! She chose for her own
the haunted room,—and she paid the penalty,—did poor Miss Anne!”
CHAPTER VII
UNCLE AND NIECE
The dreary November afternoon passed, and the shadows lengthened and
deepened the gloom that hung over Greatlarch.
The Avenue trees waved their long branches as a soughing wind swept
through them. The pines sang and whistled and the dense tangle down
behind the Mausoleum was black and eerie, more than ever justifying its
name of Spooky Hollow. Mrs. Mellish stood staring out of a rear window,
almost certain she could hear faint strains of the Wild Harp.
“Come away, now, Susan,” commanded her spouse. “It’s no spook music
you’ll hear, savin’ that which you make in your own ears—”
“Hush your blether, Mellish,—I want no coddlin’ from you.” And then, with
true feminine inconsistency, she turned to her husband and threw herself
into his arms, sobbing convulsively.
“Therey, therey, now, Soodie, cry an ye want to, it’ll do ye good,” and
he patted her shoulder and smoothed her hair, and comforted her by his
strong protecting arms.
“It’s Miss Rosemary,” Susan said, wiping her eyes. “I can’t stand it to
see the child so gone-like. She wanders about, her eyes wide and staring,
and that full of sadness!”
“She loved her Antan,—that she did,” and Mellish nodded his gray head.
“There’s a terrible moil, Susan. Who killed Miss Anne?—answer me that
now!”
“No mortal hand,” and Mrs. Mellish gazed solemnly into space. “Never
could a human hand do it, you see, for the door was locked, and the poor
lady in there alone. Comes the ghost of the other lady who met her death
in that very room, and,—the wicked, evil thing,—she killed our Miss Anne!
Or where’s the knife? How could a human, mortal villain kill her and
leave no weepon? Or how get out through a locked door? Answer me that,
Mellish, now!”
“No, I can’t. Yet ’twas no spook, of that I’m certain!”
Susan Mellish held up her finger, listening.
“Hark at the organ, now,” she said; “Master’s fair crazy with his grief!”
The great organ pealed and rolled its melodies through the house. Fugues
and dirges of the greatest masters were played with a strong, sure touch
and a powerful, agonizing sorrow, like the cry of a lost soul.
One funeral march after another sounded as Homer Vincent strove to quiet
his perturbed spirit by the aid of his one great passion—music.
Rosemary stood in the Atrium, looking through the plate-glass doors down
across the terrace, across the lagoon to the white Mausoleum and to the
black Spooky Hollow beyond it.
She had put on a black dress, of plain and simple cut, and her white arms
shone in the dusk as she leaned them up against the window and hid her
face upon them.
“If he doesn’t stop that music,” she thought, “I shall go crazy! I never
heard him play so like one inspired! It is heartrending, crucifying, yet
it has a triumphant note,—like the triumph of Death. Poor Uncle Homer, he
must be almost beside himself with grief,—I know by the way he plays. And
he has no other solace—I wish he would let me talk to him,—I’d like to
talk about Antan—but he doesn’t want me to mention her name—”
And then, through the long shadowy room, lighted only by a faint radiance
from the Entrance Hall, came softly a footfall, and Rosemary turned to
see Lulie Eaton, her friend whom she had visited the night before.
“Rosemary,” and Lulie put her arms round her, “I want you to go home with
me, and stay a few days. At least, until the funeral. Won’t you? It will
be so much better for you, and—your uncle won’t mind, will he?”
“I don’t know,” Rosemary hesitated; “it’s good of you, Lulie,—I’d be glad
to go,—if I ought to—”
“Of course you ought to,—you owe it to yourself to get out of this
atmosphere—oh, have they found out anything—about—”
“About Antan? No, not a thing. The detectives are at their wits’ end,
Uncle Homer is nearly distracted—listen to that awful music—”
“It is desperately sad, but, what a wonderful performer he is!”
“Oh, yes,—there, now he is improvising,—that means he’s a little easier
in his mind,—let’s go and ask him if I may go with you.”
The two girls went to the organ room, the high walls and domed ceiling
giving back the music and making the place seem more than ever like a
church.
With a feeling of awe, almost of fear, they tip-toed toward the silent
figure on the organ bench.
The light was low, the branches of the tall trees waved against the
windows with weird sounds.
Seeing the girls, Vincent paused, slowly trailing his softly touched
chords off to nothingness.
“What is it, Rosemary?” he said, wearily pushing back the thick hair from
his brow. “How do you do, Miss Eaton?”
Lulie Eaton dared her request.
“Oh, Mr. Vincent,” she said, “I’ve come to take Rosemary home with me for
a few days,—mayn’t she go?”
“If she chooses.” Homer Vincent spoke coldly, and again his hands hovered
above the keys.
“Oh, Uncle,” Rosemary cried, “I won’t go if you don’t want me to, Uncle
Homer. Indeed, I won’t.”
“Would you like to be left alone in this house, Rosemary?” Vincent asked,
as, barely touching the keys, he made them sound like a faint echo of a
sweet, sad strain.
“No!” and the girl shuddered at the thought.
“Yet you would leave me—”
“But I didn’t know you cared to have me here, Uncle. You don’t like to
have me mention Antan, you don’t even talk to me—”
“My dear, there is some grief too deep for words,—yet human companionship
is a help and a comfort, even though ordinary conversation is out of
the question. And you can help by looking after the house. Can you not
fill Antan’s place to a degree? Can you not order the meals and give out
supplies,—or, whatever your Aunt did?”
Rosemary smiled a little at his idea of her Aunt’s duties. For, she
thought, Miss Vincent did none of these things, the two Mellishes
arranged all such details. But Vincent was not the sort of man who knew
what was going on in the domestic department.
However, Rosemary sensed the fact that her uncle wanted her to stay by
him, if only as a moral support, and though she would have preferred to
go with Lulie, yet she felt a certain pride in the idea that he wanted
her at home.
Not exactly afraid of her uncle, Rosemary never could quite conquer a
feeling of awe of him, and a dread of running counter to his will in any
way. But she had long ago learned that if conditions were right, if there
was no flaw in the arrangements that made for his creature comfort, she
need never look for any but the kindest and most courteous treatment from
him. But if any of his orders were not fulfilled accurately, if any meal
was a moment late, any course imperfectly cooked or served, any book or
smoking-stand moved one iota from its accustomed place, then, as Rosemary
had often had occasion to notice, his sister or his niece received,
however undeserved, a portion of his reprimand.
So Rosemary declined to go with her friend, and after a short visit,
Lulie went off alone.
“What were you two girls talking about?” Vincent asked, as he left the
organ and joined Rosemary in the living-room.
The lights were on, now, and the beautiful room was warm and cheerful.
But the girl seemed struck dumb. She blushed and remained silent,
raising her troubled eyes to her uncle’s face only to drop them again in
confusion.
“I can read your thoughts the same as if you had spoken, my dear,” her
uncle said, a tinge of displeasure in his tone. “You talked of young
Collins. Has he been here to see you?”
“No, Uncle, not since you forbade it.”
Rosemary’s tone was gentle, her voice steady, but in her golden-brown
eyes there shone a sudden light, that was rebellious, almost mutinous.
Vincent caught this gleam, and said, in real irritation, “I do think,
Rosemary, at this time, when I am in such deep grief, you might be less
selfishly inclined to brood sullenly over your own petty grievances.
You know my dislike for Bryce Collins, you know I will not hear of your
marrying him; why not, then, give over thinking about it?”
“Did you ever love anybody, Uncle?” she asked, quietly, mentally adding,
“except yourself!”
Vincent gave her a curious glance, and then said, sadly, “I loved your
Aunt Anne. She was my dear sister, and now that she has been so terribly
taken away from me,—away from us, I should think, Rosemary, that you
would turn your thoughts to your great loss, even if you have no sympathy
or sorrow for mine.”
“Oh, Uncle, don’t talk to me like that! I do feel sorry for you, I do
grieve for Antan,—oh, I can’t realize she’s gone! What shall I do without
her?”
“A very grave question, my child. But now, we must make some necessary
arrangements for the funeral. My sister must be buried with the dignity
and beauty befitting her life. And you must help, for there are many
details to be looked after.”
“Yes, Uncle, anything I can do to help or to lessen your load of care and
responsibility, I am glad to undertake.”
“That’s the way to talk, my dear child. Now, listen and I’ll tell you
what you can do.”
And when the talk was over, Rosemary found herself weighted down with her
share of the errands and arrangements necessary for the obsequies that
Homer Vincent deemed appropriate for his sister.
Not that he desired any ostentation or display.
But his directions as to the music, the flowers, the clergyman’s address,
the luncheon to be prepared for guests from a distance, and the thousand
and one things that he mentioned seemed to Rosemary to make a task both
burdensome and difficult.
However, she relied on the Mellishes for much help, and she was so glad
to be of some real assistance to her uncle, that she willingly promised
all he asked.
And then they drifted into a discussion of the terrible circumstances,
as mysterious this minute as they had been early in the morning when the
discovery had been made.
“Uncle,” Rosemary cried, “who killed Antan,—and how? I must know those
two things or I shall go out of my mind! I can’t conceive of any possible
explanation, can you?”
“No, Rosemary, I can’t. It is as great a mystery as it is a tragedy,—and
I can’t say any more than that.”
“No, Uncle, we can’t say more than that. But somebody killed her,—that we
know. How, then, did he get out of the room, and what did he do with the
knife?”
“Those, Rosemary, are the unanswerable questions. And I must say I don’t
believe these dunderheaded detectives that are on the job can ever solve
the mystery. Do you?”
“Oh, I don’t know anything about such things, Uncle dear. But they do
seem unable to discover anything or to suggest anything. Tell me more
about that Johnson man, Uncle. Was he a—a gentleman?”
“Why, no, Rosemary, not as we look upon a gentleman. Yet he had decent
manners and presentable appearance. I wish I had never seen him!”
“Do you think he killed Antan?”
“How can I say I think so, when I can’t imagine his motive for such a
deed. Unless, of course, he stole her ruby. Too bad, dear,—that gem was
to have been yours.”
“Yes, I know. But, Uncle, when a strange man comes here, and acts in such
an extraordinary manner,—not going to bed at all,—and then mysteriously
disappears, and we find Antan dead,—isn’t there logical reason to think
maybe he did it?”
“There certainly is, Rosemary, and I shall never rest till we find that
man! It must be possible to find him. He can’t have dropped out of
existence. But that’s where I thought the detectives would do better
work. I supposed they would get on his trail somehow, almost immediately.
I thought detectives could always trace a fugitive,—always find a
skulking, hiding villain. But they seem not to know which way to turn!”
“Yes, I noticed that. And that Mr. Lane knows even less, I should say.”
“Yes, he’s a numskull. But the little detective, that one called
Brown, seems rather alert, and wide awake, yet he can’t get anywhere,
apparently; unless they do something soon, I shall call in a more expert
detective.”
“Can you do that? Right over their heads, I mean?”
“I most certainly shall. My sister’s death must be avenged, if any effort
of mine can accomplish it. But I do admit it seems a problem impossible
of solution.”
“The facts are so irreconcilable,” the girl said, musingly. “I can’t see
any conceivable way the deed could have been done, and the room left
locked and the weapon missing.”
“Rosemary, there’s only one explanation. But I am not yet quite able
to believe in it.” Vincent’s voice was low and his direct gaze was so
piercing, that the girl was startled. She felt an uncanny, a sinister
presentiment of his meaning.
“Oh, Uncle Homer,” she cried, “you don’t mean—you can’t mean Mrs.
Lamont—” She looked over her shoulder, and out the window toward the
Temple where once had rested the mortal remains of that other victim.
“I’ve always been a practical hard-headed unbeliever in spiritualism,”
Vincent said, slowly, “but I am so staggered by this thing, so puzzled to
think of any possible explanation, however improbable, that, as I say,
I see no other way to look but toward the supernatural. Yet I will not
as yet put myself on record as going over to the spiritualistic belief,
only, unless we can unearth some evidence, find some clues, I cannot say
what I may do.”
“Uncle Homer,” and Rosemary’s face looked wondering, “I heard the Harp
last night.”
“You imagined it, dear. How could you hear what doesn’t exist?”
“But I did,—I’m sure of it. It was between two and three o’clock. I was
wakeful, and I was tempted to get up and go to some south window. But I
didn’t, and yet, even in my own room, which is north, I heard faintly the
low wailing strains of the Wild Harp. Have you never heard it, Uncle?”
“I have sometimes thought I did, child, but I put it down to imagination.
Leave me now, Rosemary,—I am very weary, and I must think over some
matters by myself.”
So Rosemary went in search of the two Mellishes and they discussed the
arrangements for the funeral services of Anne Vincent.
To Rosemary’s own surprise, but not to Mrs. Mellish’s, it soon transpired
that the girl was not at all wise or experienced in household matters.
Anne Vincent had been the guiding spirit, the directing hand of the
establishment, and though she had occasionally called on her niece for
some slight assistance, it was always mere routine work, and carefully
under the elder woman’s own supervision.
So when the cook began to ask about how many chickens and hams should
be prepared for the cold luncheon, and what sweets should be provided,
Rosemary found herself quite at sea, and told Mrs. Mellish and her
husband to get whatever they deemed best.
“That’s all very well,” and Melly shook her head; “all very well, Miss
Rosemary,—but your uncle won’t like it a bit, if you don’t fill your
aunt’s place. Many’s the little thing she did for him, many’s the time
she looked out for him and stood between him and some bit of a bother. Be
careful now, Miss Rosemary, to do such things yourself. Keep a constant
watch on your uncle. See that everything is ready to his hand when he
reaches out his hand to get it—meaning, of course, such as is outside the
duties of me and Mellish.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Melly. What am I to do? Darn his socks,—that
sort of thing?”
“That, of course, Miss—and his buttons and all. But hand him a paper or a
book that he’s glancing about for,—offer to play Russian Bank with him,
when he’s in just the mood for it,—gather from his symptoms what sort of
food he’ll want for dinner,—that’s the way Miss Anne looked after him.”
“Good gracious, Melly, I can’t do those things! Why, I don’t know how to
play that stupid old card game! And I didn’t know he had symptoms!”
“You must learn, then, Miss Rosemary.” Mellish himself spoke now, and
very seriously. “Your uncle is a good man and a kind man if he is
comfortable. If not,—oh, well, Miss, you know him!”
“Of course I do. And I know you two look out for all his real wants. I’ll
do anything I can, of course, but I guess he’ll have to diagnose his own
symptoms, and select his special foods himself. As to this luncheon,
Melly, order whatever you think best. Be sure to have enough, that’s all,
for relatives and friends will come from all the country round. And,
Melly, I don’t know much about ordering and such things. Antan never let
me help her much or tried to teach me anything about housekeeping.”
“You should know, Miss Rosemary. It’s right every young lady should be a
housekeeper, such as your aunt, rest her soul, was. Now, if you’ll let
me, I’ll teach you, and you’ll soon learn, for you’ve a quick wit and
handy fingers.”
“All right, Melly, and we’ll begin after all this trouble has cleared up
a little. Melly, who killed Antan?”
“The Ghost Lady, Miss Rosemary. Didn’t I hear her playin’ on her Wild
Harp—”
“Why, so did I, Melly. What time did you hear it?”
“As it might be say two or three o’clock of the mornin’, Miss.”
“That’s the very time I heard it! Melly, how could a ghost kill anybody,
with a dagger?”
“Likewise, Miss Rosemary, how could a human kill anybody with a dagger,
and go away leaving the door locked behind him?”
Mellish, who had mysteriously disappeared, returned and whispered to the
girl.
“I opine, Miss Rosemary,” he said, softly, “if you was to step out this
little back door now,—just step out, you know,—you might—well, just step
out now. I opine you won’t be sorry.”
Having more than a suspicion of what Mellish was opining about, Rosemary
stepped out of the small door that gave on an areaway.
As she had hoped, there stood the tall, thin form of Bryce Collins.
“Oh,” she whispered, “you ought not to have come—how did you dare?”
“I felt I must see you, Rosemary; it’s too utterly absurd to be forbidden
the house,—for no reason at all—”
“I know it, Bryce,—but Uncle Homer is terribly upset anyway, and if he
sees you—”
“He won’t see me. I just want a few minutes with you, dear. Can’t we go
inside,—somewhere?”
“No, I don’t dare. Melly has just been telling me I must look after Uncle
Homer as Antan used to. And, surely, I can’t allow anything that he has
so positively forbidden. He’d—oh, I don’t know what he’d do!”
“What would he do, dear? Fly in a passion?”
“No, I’ve never seen him do that. But he’d be so displeased, he’d reprove
me so—”
“Rosemary, it’s idiotic for a girl twenty-one years old to be so afraid
of anybody! Your uncle is not your father, and even if he were—”
“Don’t talk like that, Bryce. He’s the same as a father to me. Ever since
my own dear father died, five years ago, Uncle Homer has done all for
me that a father could do, and more than a great many fathers do. I’ve
seen the other girls,—their fathers aren’t half as good to them as Uncle
is to me. And now Antan is gone, I owe it to him to be obedient and to
observe all his commands.”
“Don’t you love me, dear?”
Bryce Collins was a tall, slender man, but his physique showed strength,
and his bearing was that of an assured, determined nature.
His deep blue eyes were honest and straightforward, and his smooth-shaven
face showed a chin that betokened will power to the point of
stubbornness. And Collins was stubborn. He clung to an opinion or a
determination like a puppy to a root, and he never gave up.
Now, at twenty-six, he was an insistent suitor of Rosemary Vincent, but
his plea was denied by her uncle.
Homer Vincent gave no reason for his decision,—it was not his habit to
give reasons,—but he declared it was final. To Rosemary he said she was
too young to think of marriage yet, and he preferred that she should
never marry. He hinted that he and his sister Anne had been much happier
in their lives than their brother, Rosemary’s father, who had married
young. In any case, he told the girl she must give up all thought of
Bryce Collins, and, unable to do otherwise, Rosemary had submitted to
his decree.
And as the girl was by no means of a sly or deceitful nature, she obeyed
the spirit of her uncle’s dictum as well as the letter.
That is, she did so, as far as she could; but Collins, with his
indomitable will and his firm determination, would not let her give him
up finally, unless she would tell him she did not care for him.
This Rosemary could not do, for she loved Bryce, and hoped against hope,
that some day her uncle would relent.
Now, in view of the tragedy that hung over the house, Rosemary was more
than ever afraid to have Collins’ presence known, and yet, never before
had she felt so strong a wish, a need, for his presence.
And his gentle tone, his whispered question, seemed to take away all her
power of resistance.
“Yes,” she said, “I love you,” and eagerly he clasped her in his waiting
arms.
“Bless her heart! Whatever is coming to her?” and wiping her eyes, Melly
turned from the window, where she had been watching the pair.
CHAPTER VIII
SPOOKY HOLLOW
Twenty-four hours had elapsed since the funeral of Anne Vincent, and the
mystery of her death was no nearer solution than it had been the moment
her body was found.
None of the relatives or friends who had attended the simple but
beautiful services had been asked to tarry at the house.
Homer Vincent had no desire to have them do so, and though several had
dropped hints betokening their wish to stay on for a visit, they had met
with no responsive invitation and had reluctantly taken their departure.
He sent for Brewster and Brown and asked for their report.
“I have to confess, Mr. Vincent,” Brewster said, “that we are up
against it. We are convinced that the strange visitor, Mr. Johnson, is
responsible for the death of your sister, but we can form no theory that
will fit the facts. We have examined the bedroom, and we find there is
absolutely no means of entrance or exit, save that one door. The windows
have patent ventilators that admit air without leaving possible space
for an intruder. The lock of the door is burst in such a fashion as to
show clearly that it was locked on the inside and could only be opened by
force. We have tried every possible suggestion of suicide, and find that
theory untenable, because there is no weapon in evidence. Miss Vincent
could not have killed herself and then disposed of the dagger, for the
death blow was instantly fatal,—we have the doctor’s assurance for that.”
“I am very sure,” Homer Vincent said, “that my sister did not kill
herself. She had no motive for such a deed,—I left her that evening in
the best of spirits and she was looking forward to the matter we were
to confer about the next day. And, as you say, it could not have been
suicide, as there has been no weapon found. I assume you made a thorough
search of the bedding—”
“Oh, yes, I attended to that myself. No, suicide is out of the question.”
“I suppose,—” Vincent spoke a little diffidently, “I suppose you
hard-headed detectives wouldn’t consider the—er,—the supernatural for a
moment.”
“No, sir!” declared Brown, “not for a moment! I’ve been a detective
too long to suspect a spook as long as there are human beings upon this
earth. Miss Vincent was murdered by a knife held in a hand of flesh and
blood! The motive was robbery,—robbery of her valuable ruby. The criminal
is, of course, the man named Johnson, the ruby manufacturer. I can
reconstruct the crime as it must have been—but, I confess, I can’t see
how it could have been so!”
“What do you mean by ‘reconstruct the crime’?” Vincent asked, curiously.
“Why, I mean, that evening, after you left Mr. Johnson in his room,
he came out of it, later,—probably walked round the house a bit,
reconnoitering, and laid his plans to murder Miss Vincent as soon as the
first faint light of dawn gave him opportunity. He did this, and then
slipped out of the house, while the watchman was at his breakfast and the
other servants about their work.”
“Logical enough,” Vincent said, “except for the seemingly impossible feat
of getting in and out of that locked room.”
“There you have it, Mr. Vincent,” Brewster exclaimed. “That’s
right,—_seemingly_ impossible feat. It wasn’t impossible, because he did
it,—he had to do it, there’s no other explanation. Now, the thing is to
find out how he did it, and the only way to do that is to catch him and
ask him. Nobody knows but himself, so he must do the explaining.”
“That sounds plausible, Mr. Brewster. Now, can you find him? He has four
days’ start. May he not be far away by this time,—perhaps out at sea?”
“That’s true, Mr. Vincent, but all we can do is to hunt him down.
Perhaps he can be found even if he is on an ocean steamer. Indeed, that
would be one of the easiest hiding-places to track down. But, and this
is not an easy thing to say,—we can’t do it. Mr. Brown and I have done
all we could, so far, but for a big hunt like this must be, we require
the machinery, the facilities of a larger police department, of more
experienced investigators.”
“I daresay,” Vincent nodded in agreement. “In fact, I had thought of
proposing the plan of putting the matter up to some one else. Whom do you
suggest?”
“The Burlington police. Not only have they a well-equipped Detective
Bureau, but they have one man in especial, whose forte seems to be
delving into mysteries that defy solution by others. His name is
Prentiss, but so keen is he, so sharp-sighted, he is called the
Burlington Hawkeye.”
Homer Vincent gave an involuntary smile. “Why, that is a celebrated paper
of quite another Burlington!”
“Yes, it’s only a nickname. Well, what do you say, sir? Shall we call him
in?”
“By all means. As I told you, I wish to spare no effort, no expense, in
my endeavor to avenge my sister’s death. I suppose this man will come in
the interests of the Police, but if it is any better or more advisable to
engage him personally, I will do so.”
“We’ll see about that, sir. If he succeeds, you can, of course, give him
an honorarium. He is a wizard,—I’ll say that for him, but I can’t see him
solving this case,—it’s too strange!”
However, when Prentiss arrived, he gave the impression that he certainly
could solve that case or any other.
Not that the man was bumptious or unduly conceited, but he had an air
of self-reliance, of self-assuredness, that carried weight by its mere
physical effect.
Homer Vincent regarded him with curiosity, that turned to respect and
then to entire satisfaction.
He had a long talk with him, and Prentiss earnestly declared his ability
to find the murderer.
“There’s a mystery,” he said; “I am here to solve it. There’s a seeming
impossibility,—I am here to explain it. There’s a missing man,—I am here
to find him.”
If Vincent thought the man too sure of himself or his powers, he did not
say so, and merely nodded approval of such determination.
The Burlington Hawkeye was not an impressive-looking man, in fact, he
was rather inconspicuous. Medium height, average figure, unimportant
coloring, his appearance was saved from absolute non-entity by his
piercing, darting eyes. These eyes were of the color sometimes called
beryl or topaz. Also, they were a trifle prominent, and were so quick
of motion, so glinting of shine, that they made remarkable an otherwise
negligible face.
He shot a glance of inquiry at Vincent, as if to ask his recognition of
his powers.
But Homer Vincent was not accustomed to bestow praise.
“I am glad to learn of your enthusiasm,” he conceded, “and I am ready and
willing to do anything at all I can to help you. But I must ask that you
will not disturb me unnecessarily. While I am most anxious to have the
mystery of my sister’s death solved, most eager to find that man Johnson,
yet I am not at all interested in the details of the search, nor do I
want uncertain or partial reports. When you have learned beyond doubt
some important fact, acquaint me with it, but do not come to me with
trifling discoveries that may or may not mean anything. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Mr. Vincent, perfectly so. I understand. In fact, I have been
told you are a recluse and wish no unnecessary communications with your
fellow-men.”
“That is perhaps an exaggerated way to put it,” Vincent observed, calmly,
“yet for your own edification, it is perhaps the best way. Yes, you
may look upon me in that light, Mr. Prentiss. However, that does not
mean that I do not want to be told of anything you may discover of real
importance. And if you are uncertain as to the value of your news, refer
it to Mellish, my butler. He is entirely in my confidence, and often
stands between me and what you have termed my fellow-men.”
If Prentiss had expected to jar the calm of Homer Vincent by his
outspokenness, he must have been disappointed, for Vincent seemed rather
pleased than otherwise at the implication of retirement.
Sensing this, the detective resolved to get all the information possible
at this time, for it might prove difficult to get future interviews.
“Will you describe Johnson, please?” he asked.
“He is a very dark man, both as to hair and skin. He is as good-looking
as the average citizen and has an air of business alertness and executive
ability.”
“What is his business?”
“Aside from this plan of manufacturing synthetic rubies, I know of none.
It is probable he has some other calling, for he appeared a well-dressed,
well-set-up man, as if accustomed to a competency but not wealth. He put
his business proposition to my sister and myself with a straightforward
manner and a fair and equal arrangement of profits.”
“You were to finance the thing?”
“Yes; and my sister wished also to take a share in it. She had a fortune
equal to my own, and was anxious to invest in this new scheme.”
“What disposition did your sister make of her fortune?”
“She left no will. Neither she nor I have ever made one. We agreed that
as whichever of us died first would legally inherit the estate of the
other, a will was unnecessary for either of us.”
“And Miss Rosemary Vincent?”
“The question of her inheritance has not yet been brought up. It is true
that my sister intended our niece should have her great ruby,—but alas!
that gem is missing. It may be, however, that if you find Johnson you can
recover the ruby. In that case, it will, of course, belong to my niece.
As to my niece’s fortune or prospects, we need not take up that subject
at this time. Sufficient to say that she is under my care, and I shall
guard and protect her interests. Now, Mr. Prentiss, I will ask you to
excuse me from further conversation. Mellish will show you the room Mr.
Johnson occupied; it is still untouched, I think. He will also show you
my sister’s room and the rest of the house and grounds. Or he will depute
some one to do so. You may command him in any way you choose.”
“Thank you, Mr. Vincent. I can’t help hoping for success in this
investigation. It is conceded among our profession that the more strange
and bizarre conditions appear, the more impossible the correlation of
facts seems to be,—the easier of solution a mystery is. This may or may
not be literally true, but at any rate it is true in part.”
“You most certainly have contradictory conditions in this case; you
surely have strange and bizarre situations. Go to it, then, Mr. Prentiss,
and advise me when you have achieved some definite success.”
But the Burlington Hawkeye was not so easily shaken off.
“One more thing, Mr. Vincent,” he said. “What about this Wild Harp? Have
you ever heard it?”
“I should be sorry to put myself on record as a believer in the
supernatural,” Vincent looked as if the matter were distasteful to him,
“but I will say this much. If there are occult forces, if there are
deeds done without the intervention of human agency, then, Mr. Prentiss,
then I must say this looks like such a case. But, mind you, I do not say
that there are. I do not state that I believe my sister met her death
by supernatural means,—but I own I cannot explain the circumstances by
any natural procedure. Also, I think you ought to know that the place is
reputed haunted, and that the room my sister occupied was the room of
a previous mistress of the house, who was also found dead in her bed
there. It is said that her spirit has haunted this place ever since her
death, but of these tales I am no sponsor. I merely mention them because
I think you ought to hear of them from me, rather than from the silly
townspeople. They have dubbed the place ‘Spooky Hollow’ and they claim to
have seen ghostly figures and to have heard ghostly voices.”
“This brings us back to the Wild Harp. Have you ever heard it?”
Homer Vincent hesitated. Then he said, “Mr. Prentiss, I am no authority
on the subject. The truth is, music is my passion. Not only do I play on
my organ frequently, but when I am not playing I seem to hear the strains
of my favorite compositions. They ring in my ears to such an extent that
I am as conscious of them as when I am actually hearing them. And so, if
I say that I have heard, or think I have heard, this so-called Wild Harp,
you must remember that I am also willing to admit that it may easily
be only my memories of music I have played, or that it is some of the
harmony with which my brain is always teeming.”
“I see—and yet you are willing to say that at times you have thought or
imagined that you heard the Harp music?”
“Yes, I am willing to say that. But I insist that you do not lay too much
stress upon it in your deductions. For I object to being set down as a
spiritualist when I am far from certain that I really do believe at all
in such things.”
“I see. Now, one thing more, Mr. Vincent. Will you describe to me this
woodland down back of the Temple—the part of your estate that they
definitely call Spooky Hollow? What is it like?”
“It is a densely wooded area, full of low, tangled underbrush and
containing, also, tall pines, larches, and spruces. There are, too, some
white birches, which, I make no doubt, are the shapes the frightened
townsfolk have diagnosed as spooks.”
“Doubtless that is true. And the ground—is it wet—swampy?”
“A little marshy, I believe. I’ve never been down in it, but I think it
is wet, and I purpose having it drained and reclaimed.”
“Is it damp enough, marshy enough, to have bogs or quagmires? I’m
wondering, you see, if Johnson could have wandered down there and could
have gone into the swamp and have been sucked in by the quaking bog.”
Vincent looked up in surprise.
“Oh, I don’t think the swamp is as bad as that! Hardly of the quicksand
variety,—if that is what you mean. But ask Mellish about it, he will know
the details of it far better than I do. And I scarcely think Johnson
would have gone out of doors,—I mean to walk about. He was entranced with
my house, and wished to examine its architecture and marbles. But I can’t
think he went outside until, his fell aim accomplished, he went out to
run away.”
“He left coat and hat behind him?”
“Yes, that is one of the strange features of the case.”
“Had he an umbrella?”
Vincent pondered. “I really don’t know. If so, doubtless Mellish took it
from him and cared for it. Can you gather nothing from his hat or coat? I
thought such things carried meanings for detectives.”
“Possibly. I haven’t examined them yet. Now, Mr. Vincent, you don’t know
of any other possible reason for Mr. Johnson to kill your sister except
robbery? Could he have been an old-time suitor of hers, or a crank, an
anarchist, or even a homicidal maniac? Did his conversation hint any such
thing?”
“I never thought of such explanations,” and Vincent looked bewildered.
“No, of course he was not an old beau,—ridiculous! My sister never saw
him before,—of that I am positive. Nor did he seem like an anarchist,—or
a homicide. He was normal in manner and conversation. I object to
talking of business affairs at the dinner-table. I do not think it good
for digestion. But our conversation was on usual, ordinary subjects.
Mr. Johnson did not seem an educated man, in a cultural sense, but he
seemed a thorough man of the world, of fairly wide experiences, and good
judgment.”
“He said nothing of his life or affairs, outside the ruby business?”
“No; our talk was impersonal. He knew little of music, and I know of no
subject that specially interested him. I’m sorry, Mr. Prentiss, but I
can tell you nothing definite concerning his personality. If I could, I
should have told it long ago.”
“Of course, of course. Well, Mr. Vincent, I will go about my work. By the
way, you have confidence in all your servants?”
“Absolute confidence in Mellish, my butler, and his wife, who is my cook.
Also in Francine, the little French girl who was maid to my sister, and
who also attends on my niece. She may seem like a shallow-pated little
thing, but she was devoted to Miss Vincent and truly mourns for her now.”
“Yes, yes, I will talk with her. Good morning, Mr. Vincent.”
“Ah, one moment, Mr. Prentiss. I shall not ask you to make your home at
Greatlarch while you are conducting your investigations. It would not
please me to know of your continued presence here. But, pray feel free to
come and go as you like, and refer all questions to Mellish.”
Assenting to this, the Burlington Hawkeye took his leave of the master of
the house and went in search of the servants.
“Umbrella, sir? yes, sir,” said Mellish, in response to the inquiry of
Prentiss. “Mr. Johnson did carry an umbrella and I did take it from him
that day, and never again did it occur to my rememory! I put it, of
course, in the coat room, in the umbrella cupboard, and there, I make me
no doubt, it still is. I’ll see, sir.”
In a moment, Mellish returned, bringing triumphantly a good-looking and
carefully-rolled umbrella.
Prentiss looked at it with interest.
“You can learn a lot from an umbrella,” he said. “First, I deduce a
careful, tidy sort of person, accustomed to take good care of his
belongings. A knob handle, not a crook, denotes a fastidious or
particular person. Nine out of ten umbrellas have crook handles.”
“Do they now, sir?” asked Mellish, much interested.
“Of good quality silk,” Prentiss went on, “black, fairly new, made by—”
He opened it and read the name of a well-known New York haberdasher.
“H’m, we ought to trace it through that firm—”
“Trace an umbrella, sir, as any one might buy—”
“Ah, but you see our man had this marked. See, H. J., the initials
intertwined. Now, if we can trace up that order—”
“You’ll find out that Henry Johnson had his umbrella marked there, but
how will that tell you where to look for him now?”
“Every bit of information we can get is important when hunting a missing
man. Put it away, Mellish,—or suppose we take it up to the room Johnson
had when he was here. Yes, that will be best.”
The two went up to the room Johnson had occupied. But as he had only
tidied up for dinner, not having evening clothes with him, there was
little to notice and but few things disturbed at all.
Prentiss went over the scanty array of clothing in the bag.
“Come now, Mellish, you’re by way of being a valet, wouldn’t your master
take more than that when going on a journey?”
“That he would, sir. Mr. Vincent’s overnight bag holds as much as a small
trunk.”
“Just so, and I deduce our friend here didn’t expect to stay the night.”
“Maybe so, sir. Maybe he thought he could do up the business in a short
time.”
“Yes; strange he left no papers, no letters, or memoranda of any kind.”
“Mr. Vincent has all the papers about the ruby construction business,
sir. Mr. Johnson left all those with Mr. Vincent that night.”
“Yes, but I mean other papers. You’ve not cleared out any, Mellish?”
“Oh, no, sir. Not a thing in this room has been disturbed. Orders, sir.”
“And that turned-down bed is just as the housemaid left it?”
“Exactly, sir. But she’d be for tidying up his brushes and that, at the
same time. So as one of the brushes is out of line, and there’s a towel
or so rumpled up in the bathroom, I take it the man was in his room after
the confab with Mr. Vincent in the evening.”
“Oh, yes, and beside, Mr. Vincent brought him up to his room, you know,
and said good night to him.”
“Did he now? That’s a deal for the master to do for any guest!”
“Mr. Vincent not given to putting himself out for anybody?”
“That he is not. Mr. Vincent prefers that people put themselves out for
him.”
“But a good master, eh?”
“Never a better. Given that things go right.”
“The place will go on just the same, now that the lady is not here?”
“Oh, yes; leastways, I suppose so. My wife, now, she can run the house as
Mr. Vincent wants it, and I doubt not Miss Rosemary will help look after
things.”
“Miss Rosemary? She’s a niece?”
“Yes, sir; her father, Mr. Vincent’s brother, died five years since, and
Miss Rosemary then came here to live.”
“She has money of her own?”
“I take it she has, sir. She never lacks for anything she wants. But
money is not talked of in this house. They are no purse-proud upstarts.
Mr. Vincent wants only what’s comfortable and to his wishes, naught for
show or ostentationary purposes.”
“That’s fine. And Miss Anne was the same?”
“The very same, sir. Though whatever Mr. Vincent was, of course Miss Anne
would be. And Miss Rosemary, too.”
“Yes. And, now, Mellish, what about the Wild Harp?”
A slight smile hovered on the man’s features.
“Well, sir, I’d not say as there is any truth in them stories. They are
what you might call—imaginatious,—yes, sir, merely imaginatious.”
“But some people have heard the weird strains.”
“They think they have, sir,—but, well, you know yourself, it couldn’t be.
How could a harp be for making music, when there’s no harp there and no
hand to pull its strings?”
“But a phantom harp,—and a phantom hand to touch the strings—”
“Nay, nay, sir. Nothing of the sort. All old woman’s tales. All made-up
yarns,—that’s what they are.”
“And all made up about the visitations of Mrs. Lamont’s spirit?”
“Of course, sir. Take it truly, sir, you waste your time a looking for
the spooks of Spooky Hollow.”
“Then, Mellish, then who killed Miss Anne?”
“It was that Johnson, sir. Yes, sir, he’s the villain, the criminal, the
anathema maharajah!”
And Mellish’s solemn face and tense, strained voice kept Prentiss from
laughing at his queer, mistaken words.
CHAPTER IX
A LIVING TRAGEDY
The Burlington Hawkeye bided his time to obtain an interview with
Rosemary when he could see her alone. He felt considerable curiosity
about the girl and wanted to learn some personal facts concerning her.
Rosemary Vincent had been what is sometimes called buffeted by Fate. But
the buffetings had been so gentle and the girl so well protected, she had
never felt them definitely.
She still had delightful memories of a childhood spent in Paris, of a
devoted mother and doting father, who might easily have spoiled her had
she been of a less loving and lovable disposition. Naturally obedient and
dutiful, always sunshiny and happy, her life was uneventful until, when
she was ten years old, her mother died.
But the broken-hearted child was so petted and entertained by her father
that her life again became happy and her mother merely a beloved memory.
Moreover, her father, soon after his wife’s death, was sent by his
business firm to America to establish a branch business in Seattle.
This pleased Carl Vincent, who was glad to return to his native land,
although in a hitherto unfamiliar portion of it.
He grew to like the Seattle climate and people, and contentedly
remained there, bringing up his daughter in kindly and well-conditioned
circumstances.
Carl Vincent became a very rich man, but of this Rosemary had no
knowledge or thought. Vincent deemed it best to keep the girl to her
simple tastes and ways, and though their home was delightfully appointed,
it was by no means magnificent or of a grandeur commensurate with
Vincent’s income.
Then, when his daughter was sixteen years old, Carl Vincent was killed in
a motor accident.
The tragedy was a terrible one, and the girl was not even allowed to see
her dead father.
Immediately Homer Vincent went out to Seattle, from his home in
Burlington, Vermont, where he was then living.
He tenderly cared for the orphaned girl and took her back home with him
as soon as the business matters consequent on his brother’s death could
be completed.
Anne Vincent, whom Rosemary lovingly called Antan, welcomed her niece
warmly, and again Rosemary’s acute grief was diverted by the scenes and
experiences of her new home.
She deeply mourned her father, but Rosemary Vincent was an eager, vivid
spirit, a life- and laughter-loving girl, and she quickly became a
favorite among the young people and neighbors.
Then, six months later, Homer Vincent bought the huge mansion of
Greatlarch, and the three moved there.
Rosemary loved the house as much as her uncle did. Her Paris memories
made her appreciate the full charm of the old French chateau, and her own
beauty-loving nature made her feel at home in the marble halls.
Uncle and aunt were kind and loving to their niece, but Rosemary found
her freedom a bit curtailed. Her father had let her do everything she
wished, for she had never desired the unadvisable, in his opinion.
But Uncle Homer was more stringent in his commands. The girl could
have her own way in many instances, but if her ways interfered in the
slightest with Homer Vincent’s personal inclinations, Rosemary must give
them up.
She did not openly rebel; in fact, she felt she owed willing obedience
to her kind uncle, but at times her patience gave out, and her
disappointments made her petulant.
Especially in the matter of young visitors at Greatlarch. Rosemary wanted
dances and house parties, and girl friends for long visits. But these
were banned by Uncle Homer, because the laughter and chatter of a lot of
young people disturbed the restful calm that he wished to pervade the
household.
It had been tried a few times, with results embarrassing to the guest and
heartbreaking to Rosemary.
Aunt Anne had interceded for her niece, had begged her brother to indulge
the girl, at least occasionally, but Vincent was firm. It was his house,
therefore, his castle. He had a right to order it as he chose, and it was
Rosemary’s duty to obey.
His calm air of finality, which was never absent from him, made his rules
adamant, and Rosemary gave up the struggle and succumbed to a solitary
life in her home, though getting much enjoyment from social gayeties
elsewhere.
Though, here again, she was handicapped by her uncle’s insistence on her
early homecoming. This brought about a slyness and secrecy, quite foreign
to Rosemary’s nature, but developed by her love of dancing and of young
society.
And by the help of Hoskins and the connivance of the two Mellishes, all
of whom adored her, Rosemary managed to stay at most parties until they
were over.
Another thorn in her flesh was the trouble about Bryce Collins.
Though Homer Vincent had no definite objection to the young man, he
expressed his strong disapproval of Rosemary’s marriage with any one.
Of this stand he gave no explanation, his usual manner being such that
explanations never seemed necessary. His word was law, unquestionable and
immutable.
Yet Vincent was not a stern or awe-inspiring personality. If things were
going as he wished,—and they usually were,—he was not only amiable, but
charming and entertaining.
He was subject to moods, which must be observed and humored by his
household. He made laws which must be obeyed. He gave orders which must
be carried out. These things done, Homer Vincent was the most gracious of
hosts, the most generous of brothers and uncles.
And all this, the Burlington Hawkeye learned from Rosemary Vincent when
he asked her to go for a brisk walk with him, around the grounds of
Greatlarch.
The girl, with her responsive disposition, liked Prentiss at once. He had
an ingratiating manner, and a pleasant air of courteous deference. The
stare of his slightly prominent eyes was often veiled by lowered lashes,
and under the influence of his discreet but leading questions, Rosemary
told him all about her life, past, present, and future, so far as she
knew it.
“And your father was the brother of Mr. and Miss Vincent?” he asked,
interestedly.
“Yes, their youngest brother. And the dearest man! Dad had the best
traits of Uncle Homer and Antan, and none of their faults.”
“And he was very rich, wasn’t he?”
“Why, yes,—I suppose so. I never thought much about that. I’ve always had
all the money I wanted, but I’m not an extravagant person.”
“But you must be an heiress. You must inherit your father’s fortune,
don’t you?”
“I suppose so. Probably he left it to the three of us.”
“Do you mean to say you don’t know? Don’t know anything about your own
finances?”
Rosemary laughed outright.
“Is that strange?” she said; “well, then, it’s true. I don’t know a thing
about money matters—but I do know this. Antan’s great ruby was to be
mine, and now that horrid Johnson man has stolen it! Oh, don’t think I am
heartless to think of it, but you know how I do mourn dear Antan, and it
seems awful that he should have taken the ruby, too!”
“Are you fond of jewels?”
“Not specially, but that stone was a favorite of mine,—and it is a
wonderful stone,—it has a history—”
“Miss Vincent, do you believe in hauntings,—in,—well, in spooks?”
“Oh, I do and I don’t. It’s too absurd to think a ghost killed Antan,—and
yet, how could a mortal get in—and get out?”
“Well, just granting that a mortal could do that,—suppose a skeleton key
or something like that,—whom would you suspect?”
“Why, that Mr. Johnson, of course. He was a clever burglar,—he just took
that means of hood-winking Uncle Homer,—the ruby-making business, I mean.”
“Yes, it would seem so. But why didn’t he steal anything else? Wasn’t
there other jewelry of your aunt’s about?”
“I daresay; but nothing to compare in value to that. Why, do you know
that a ruby is worth three times as much as a diamond of the same size?
And Antan’s ruby was enormous!”
“Where did she get it?”
“Bought it herself,—soon after I came here to live.”
“Well, Miss Vincent, I truly think, now that you and your uncle are left
alone, you ought to have some sort of a financial settlement. From what
you tell me, I am sure you have an independent fortune, and it ought to
be settled upon you. Aren’t you of age?”
“Twenty-one last birthday.”
“Then you should see to it at once. Doubtless your uncle is going to
attend to it shortly, but don’t let him delay.”
“Why, Mr. Prentiss?” the girl asked, curiously. “I am well provided
for. All my bills are paid without question, all my wants supplied
unhesitatingly.”
“Oh, well, perhaps it’s a matter of no immediate importance. You may as
well wait until after this awful mystery is solved.”
“Will it ever be solved? Can you find that Johnson man? Where can he be?
Where do you think, Mr. Prentiss? They call you a Hawkeye, has your sharp
eyesight yet discerned anything?”
“I know that Mr. Johnson has five or six days’ start of me, and that in
that time he could get to the ends of the earth,—with his ruby!”
“Don’t call it his ruby,—it’s mine,—and I hope you are going to get it
back for me.”
The girl’s topaz-colored eyes looked into those of Prentiss. Her eyes
were not unlike his own in tints, but while his were round and staring,
hers were deep-set and expressive. Her long lashes were golden-brown,
like her hair, and her whole face was suggestive of the russet and gold
glory of an autumn day. Her clear, olive skin was tanned by a summer in
the sun, and her red-brown hair showed golden light in its clustering
curls that shone like copper or deepened to dusky bronze.
Her principal characteristic was an effect of vivid life. Her glance was
direct, her face animated, her lithe, graceful gestures indicative of
vitality and enthusiasm.
Perception and responsiveness shone in her eyes and her scarlet,
sensitive lips quivered with a bewildering charm.
A fleeting, evanescent dimple showed only when she was deeply amused, but
whoever once saw it, used every effort to bring it forth again.
Though too intelligent not to have a subconsciousness of her own beauty,
Rosemary was not vain or conceited over it.
She accepted it as she did food or sunlight, and gave it no more definite
thought. Full of the joy of living, absorbed in her daily duties and
pleasures, she went her way like a wise butterfly, taking no heed of the
morrow in the occupations of the day.
Her trivial troubles were those caused by her uncle’s restrictions on
her freedom, and her only real trouble, and that just dawning, was his
refusal to recognize Bryce Collins as her possible suitor.
The pair were in love with that first flush of youthful affection that is
none the less real because of its ignorance and inexperience.
Rosemary had liked other boys, had felt an interest in other young
men, but until she knew Bryce Collins, she had never felt the personal
attachment, the mating thrill, that is the precursor of true love.
Moreover, she admired Collins from an intellectual viewpoint. She
appreciated his mentality, and liked his casual traits. She adored his
big, strong manliness, and she was beginning to love him with a sense of
reciprocation of his own affection for her.
Their love was dawning, budding, just ready to spring into full light, to
burst into full blossom, when it was thwarted by Homer Vincent’s decree
against it.
Nor was Bryce Collins ready to submit tamely to the dictum. He openly
rebelled, while Rosemary, uncertain of the wisdom of defying her uncle,
was waiting to see what would happen.
Antan had been her niece’s ally, in secret, but Anne Vincent would never
dream of opposing her brother’s decisions.
And now, even Antan’s support was gone, and Rosemary began to think she
must do something definite about it all.
Her nature felt a strong distaste to secret meetings with Collins. Her
father had brought her up to strict honesty and a hatred of deceit. Her
little evasions about late homecoming or casual meetings with Bryce at
other girls’ houses, she condoned to herself as trifles. But now a real
dilemma confronted her.
She was left the only helpmeet in her uncle’s home; the only overseer
and housekeeper for him to depend on in the matter of his small habits
and peculiar comforts. If she were to desert him, he would be left
entirely to the care of paid servants, and after all he had done for her,
Rosemary’s soul rebelled at the thought of ingratitude.
And yet,—there was Bryce,—growing dearer and more lovable every day. And
with her growing love, came growing womanhood, growing desire for her
chosen mate, for her own life partner.
And perhaps egged on by her talk with Prentiss, Rosemary decided to have
a talk with her uncle.
She found him in his own Tower room, and to her satisfaction his mood was
a composed and apparently pliable one.
“I want a talk, Uncle Homer,” she said, as he held a chair for her. “A
serious talk.”
Rosemary was glancing about the room, and a sudden thought struck her.
“Uncle Homer,” she exclaimed, “what were you hiding in a secret panel
the night,—the night Antan died?”
Homer Vincent’s face showed his amazement.
“What do you mean?” he asked, blankly.
“Yes, when I came home,—oh, I was late,—you were putting something away
in a secret panel, in this room. Some papers and also something that
shone like gold.”
“Well, Rosemary, even if I was doing that, it doesn’t really concern you,
and in fact, I don’t remember the circumstance. But what is your serious
talk about? Bryce Collins?”
“Yes, Uncle,” and the girl bravely stated her case. Fortified by the
advice of Prentiss, she asked concerning her own financial affairs, and
declared that, being of age, she had a right to know these things.
Homer Vincent drew a long sigh, and regarded his niece with a look that
was both sad and sympathetic.
“I’m glad, in a way, Rosemary, that you have brought up this subject.
I’ve been trying to get up my courage to broach it to you for a long
time, but I couldn’t bear to disturb your happy, girlish content.”
From his tone, rather than his words, Rosemary sensed trouble, and she
looked up quickly to find her uncle regarding her with real sorrow in his
deep gray eyes.
“What is it, Uncle Homer?” she cried, paling in an intuitive premonition
of an unpleasant disclosure of some sort. “Don’t condemn Bryce unheard!”
for the poor child could think of no other ill news.
“No, Rosemary, what I have to tell you now is in no way connected with
young Collins, though it may have a bearing on your friendship for him.
Child, I don’t know how to begin.”
“Is it so very disagreeable?” she asked, wonderingly. “Then get it over
quickly,—I’ll be brave.”
And she had need of bravery, for this was the tale he told,—the secret he
revealed.
“Then, to put it baldly,—plainly, Rosemary,—you are not—you are not
really the child of your supposed parents. You are adopted.”
“What!” There seemed to be nothing else to say, and Homer Vincent did not
repeat his statement, for he knew she had heard.
Her mind raced, her quick perceptions realized everything in one blinding
flash.
Not her parents’ child! Merely an adopted daughter! Whose?
“Don’t look like that, Rosemary, listen to the story.”
“But it can make no difference. What are details? If I am not the
daughter of my dear father—and my angel mother—who am I?”
Her cry rang out, like the shriek of a lost soul. Her emotional nature
was stirred to its depths for the first time in her happy young life.
“Go on,” she cried, inconsistently; “tell me the rest! Who am I?”
“Try to be quiet, dear, and let me tell you. My brother Carl married a
lovely woman named Mary Leslie. A little child was born to them, but died
almost immediately. My sister-in-law, sadly stricken, wanted to adopt a
baby in its place. My brother approved of this, and so, Rosemary, they
took you from an orphan asylum. And they brought you up as their own
child, they loved and cared for you, and, as they never had any other
children, they lavished real parental devotion on you, as no one knows
better than you do yourself.”
“Oh, I do know it!” and Rosemary moaned between her interlaced fingers.
“But I can’t believe it, Uncle! I can’t sense it! Not the daughter of my
dear, dear father! Why, he loved me so—”
“Yes, that’s what I said,—they both loved you like a real child of their
own,—I know they did.”
“Who else knew of this? Antan?”
“Yes, of course she knew it, but no one else at all. That is, except
the asylum authorities. Your parents,—for I shall continue to call them
so,—lived in Paris at that time, and you were taken from a small and
exclusive orphanage—”
“Do you know who I was? Did they know? Oh, Uncle, I can’t stand it! It’s
too dreadful—”
“Dear Rosemary, don’t overrate the thing. It is a shock to you, of
course, but remember I’ve known it all your life,—so did your Aunt
Anne,—so, of course, did your parents. Did it make any difference in
our love for you? In our treatment of you? Never. And it will make no
difference now. The only difference is that you know it yourself, and I
deem it wise that you do know. As I said, I’ve been thinking for some
time that I ought to tell you,—it is your right to know—”
“My right! I have no rights! I have no birthright, even—no name! Uncle, I
can’t stand it! I shall kill myself—”
“Hush, Rosemary,” Vincent commanded, sternly. “Never say a thing like
that again. You’re over-excited now,—you are stunned at this news,—but
you will get used to it,—you must get used to it. You have your life to
live—”
“I have no life to live! I have no name—no hope—no—”
“Unless you can calm yourself, my dear, I must ask you to leave me until
you attain some degree of composure. I want to talk to you about several
things, about your prospects, about your future, but I cannot talk with a
girl who rants and screams in nervous paroxysms.”
“Forgive me, Uncle,” and Rosemary’s habit of obedience came to her aid.
“I will try to be calm,—I will talk rationally,—but—I mean, I will if I
can.”
The poor child strove vainly for composure, but her quivering sobs were
persistent, and her tears would not stop.
Ignoring them then, Homer Vincent continued.
“I will take this opportunity to tell you some further truths, Rosemary,
for I don’t want to repeat a scene like this if we can help it. Let us,
therefore, talk it all over now, and do try,—make an earnest effort to
stop that convulsive crying.”
“Yes, Uncle. Tell me, first of all, do you know who I am?”
“No, Rosemary, I do not. Your father,—as I said, I will continue to call
my brother by that name,—kept no record of your birth. I know this,
because at his death I took charge of all his papers, both concerning
business matters and private affairs, and there was no document of any
sort pertaining to your adoption. But I have personal letters from my
brother and from his wife, telling my sister and myself all about the
matter. You can read them for yourself, and it will comfort you to read
how they loved you from the first, and how delighted they were with their
little new daughter. Never for one moment, Rosemary, forget the love they
showered upon you, or the debt of gratitude you owe them and their memory
for the happy and beautiful life they gave you. Also, if it pleases you
to recognize it, your Aunt Anne and I, myself, have always endeavored to
show you the same love and affection as if you were really our niece.”
“You did, Uncle, you both did,—and I do realize it, and I am grateful.”
“Try to show it now, my dear, by less agitation. This scene is wearing
me out,—I am in a nervous state, naturally, since your aunt’s death,
and I cannot bear much more. But what I must tell you, Rosemary, is that
you are virtually penniless. My brother left no will, and, of course,
his estate reverted to your Aunt Anne and myself, as his natural heirs.
He assumed I would provide for you, and I have done so, and I always
shall. But, Rosemary, I do not wish you to continue to live here. When
your aunt was with us, it was quite different. Now, I am not able to meet
the conditions consequent upon having a young lady in the house. You are
young and fond of young society. I am getting old, and I need rest and
quiet in my home. I am sure you can see for yourself that it would be
impossible for us to remain together happily. And I am sure you would
not wish to stay here, unwanted. So, Rosemary, dear, we will at some
early date talk over your plans, and see about settling you somewhere by
yourself. Of course, you cannot expect the luxurious life you have led
here, but I will give you what I consider a sufficient allowance for a
young girl, and doubtless you will like to take up some light occupation
that will bring you in an additional sum. You are not a Vincent, as I
have told you, and so you have no real claim on me. But I will willingly
give you an allowance and I trust you will find a little home for
yourself. This is why I had to forbid you all thought of marrying young
Collins. They are an aristocratic old family, and his people, of course,
would not hear of his alliance with—”
“Don’t say it! I _am_ a nameless orphan, but I never shall foist myself
on the family of Bryce Collins—or on anybody else!”
And, white-faced and trembling, biting her scarlet lips in agony,
Rosemary walked out of the room.
CHAPTER X
HOW COLLINS FELT ABOUT IT
Rosemary walked alone in the south gardens. These beautiful terraced
plots lay either side of the lagoon, and ended only at the broken stone
fence that bounded Spooky Hollow.
This fence, not unusual in New England, was merely a succession of flat,
unevenly shaped stones, most of them pointed, standing in a ragged row
between the gardens and the swampy jungle of undergrowth. They had a
slight appearance of old and neglected gravestones, and their grim, gaunt
shapes added to the eerie aspect of the place.
One had fallen over to a horizontal position and Rosemary went and sat
upon it.
The girl was stunned. Not yet did she feel grief, sorrow, or despair
at her uncle’s revelations; not yet could she look ahead or plan for
her future; she couldn’t even realize the situation. She was dazed,
bewildered,—her mind a senseless blank.
Wrapped in her long fur coat, a small fur hat drawn down over her brow,
she nestled into the deep coat-collar and tried to collect her wits, to
marshal her thoughts, to make some plans.
But she could not think coherently. Her memories raced back to the dear,
kind father—who was not her father! to the loving, beautiful mother—who
was not her mother! Oh, it couldn’t be true,—it must be an awful dream!
Then the dear Antan, who had died—not her aunt—not Antan at all! Uncle
Homer not her uncle—Greatlarch not her home—
Wonderful Greatlarch! Rosemary loved every tower and turret of the
splendid old pile. Every bit of marble and wood-carving was her joy and
delight. And she was put out of Greatlarch—put out because she had no
right there—no claim or inheritance in its ownership.
It was too incredible, she could not believe it!
And then the tears came, and poor Rosemary buried her face in her fur
sleeves and her whole slender frame shook with convulsive, heartrending
sobs.
She tried to stop but it was impossible, so she let herself go and cried
until she was physically exhausted from her wild bursts of grief.
Everything swept away at once! Home, relatives, parents, even her name!
She was a homeless, nameless orphan,—a wanderer on the face of the earth!
She knew her Uncle Homer well enough to understand his attitude.
He had always objected to the presence of her young friends in the house.
He hated anything that obtruded to the slightest degree on his even
routine of life, and many a time Antan had stood between Rosemary and
Uncle Homer’s displeasure.
And now, without his sister’s presence, Rosemary was not surprised at his
desire to have her out of his house.
That was bad enough,—to leave Greatlarch was a tragedy of itself,—but it
was lost sight of when she remembered the other and worse misfortune that
had come to her.
What could she do? But her brain still refused to plan. Every fresh
realization of her parents, her birth, brought the tears anew, and it
seemed to Rosemary she was at the end of her endurance.
She could have borne the shock of her parentage if she could have
remained at Greatlarch with Uncle Homer. She could have borne to leave
Greatlarch if she could have gone forth as Rosemary Vincent, in truth.
But the two blows were too much for her, and she bent under them like one
of the slender white birches before the chill autumn wind.
As she sat, motionless, her face hidden, her whole body shivering with
cold and quivering with agony, she heard faint strains of music.
“The Wild Harp,” she thought, but so great was her apathy, she paid
little attention to it.
Subconsciously, she heard the weird, wailing sounds, an incoherent
melody, eerie as a banshee’s cry.
It was twilight, the early twilight of the late November afternoon, and
as Rosemary glanced uneasily toward the Hollow, she imagined the Harp
strains came from there.
It was almost like an æolian harp, but that makes only accidental
harmonies. This, though disconnected and fragmentary, had a certain
sequence of notes that betokened an intelligent agency of some sort.
Abstractedly she gazed into the deepening shadows of the Hollow, and
a sudden determination came to her to walk into it, and—never to come
out. If a supernatural agency was in there, was making that weird music,
perhaps it might attack her and put an end to a life that had become
unbearable. Better so, she thought, and half rose to go, when a man’s
voice sounded through the gathering gloom.
“Miss Vincent!” Prentiss exclaimed, “out here all alone? You’ll catch
your death of cold!”
“I wish I might,” she said, mournfully, scarcely noting or caring that
she was speaking to a new and casual acquaintance.
“Now, now, my child,” Prentiss said, puzzled, but seeing her agitation,
and quickly deciding that kindliness was his cue, “don’t despair so
utterly. Your dear auntie was much to you, but you have much left in
life—”
“I have nothing left! I have no life—no name—no home!”
“Why—what do you mean?” Prentiss was utterly astounded. He couldn’t
imagine what she meant, and wondered if the tragedy had turned her brain.
Rosemary hesitated a moment, but the situation was too strong for her.
She had no one to turn to for advice or help. She had put away all
thought of Bryce Collins from her forever. She would never face him with
her terrible story, she would never want to hear his pitying sympathy.
She was a nameless, homeless girl, not fit to be the wife of any man with
a name and a heritage.
Nor would she ever willingly see Lulie Eaton again. Lulie had been a dear
friend, but Rosemary knew her well enough to realize that her friendship
never would stand the strain of Uncle Homer’s story.
The Mellishes would stand by her through thick and thin,—of that Rosemary
was certain. But they were only servants, and Uncle Homer’s servants.
What could they do for her?
And so, the impulse to speak freely to Prentiss was strong. He was an
intelligent, experienced man of the world. He might tell her what to do.
So Rosemary did tell him, and he listened attentively. She gave him the
facts of her parentage, as her uncle had related them, and she admitted
her utter helplessness and bewilderment.
“You poor child!” Prentiss exclaimed. “You dear child—” and he restrained
a sudden impulse to take her in his arms and comfort her.
For Rosemary was very lovely in her abandonment of grief. Her imploring
eyes, gazing through tear-wet lashes, her quivering lips, beseeching
help, her little hands nervously clasping one of his own, would have
thrilled a far less impressionable man than the Burlington Hawkeye.
But he quickly saw that the girl was utterly unconscious of his
personality, utterly oblivious to the fact that she was appealing to his
impulses, and that she was merely pouring out her woe to him, because he
happened to be there, and she must speak or go mad.
He said quietly, “Suppose we go in the house, and sit by a comfortable
fire to discuss these things. If you are going to leave Greatlarch, you
may as well enjoy its comforts while you can. Come, won’t you?”
And, like a trusting child, Rosemary went with him.
Homer Vincent was playing the organ as they entered.
Rosemary listened a moment, and then nodded her head in satisfaction. At
least, he was in a calm frame of mind. Close harmonies rolled through
the dimly lighted house, and Rosemary led Prentiss to the pleasant
living-room, snapped on the lights, and rang for Mellish to mend the fire.
“And bring tea, mayn’t he?” suggested Prentiss, and Rosemary agreed.
“Now,” the detective said, “would it be better to call in your uncle and
discuss your future plans? Or shall we just talk them over by ourselves?”
“By ourselves,” she said, promptly. “If Uncle Homer wants to, he will
join us without being called.”
But their talk was desultory, and without definite result.
As a matter of fact, Prentiss did not believe Vincent would really send
the girl away. He thought it was more likely a threat, in order to get
her to agree to have less company and fewer intrusions upon his own
retirement and solitude.
A strange man, Prentiss deemed Homer Vincent, but, after all, a just and
kind one. Not a man who would really turn away his brother’s child, even
though she were only an adopted daughter.
An adopted child, he argued, who had lived all her life with her adopted
parents and their family connections, was entitled to recognition of
some sort. And though he knew Vincent’s solitary habits and eccentric
disposition, yet he felt sure he would provide properly for Rosemary
either in his home or out of it.
He had sympathized with her and did still, but he felt certain she was
exaggerating the case, and that while she must realize she was not a
Vincent, yet she would doubtless get used to that in time and pick up her
life and happiness again.
“Forget it for a time, Miss Rosemary,” he said, as the advent of tea and
hot crumpets absorbed his own attention. “At least, you’ll stay here for
the present,—while I’m tracking down this Johnson man.”
“Have you any clue to his whereabouts?” the girl asked, half-heartedly.
She was interested in the search for Johnson, but her own troubles had
obliterated all thought of him.
“Not quite that, but I’m going down to New York to look up the jewelry
firms whose cards he left with your uncle. Surely they can tell me all
about him,—I mean his home and habits, and that will help us to find him.”
“But if he has run away,—which, of course, he has,—and if he has sold
that valuable ruby,—which, of course, he has,—he has money enough to take
him anywhere, and he has doubtless gone out beyond civilization, and so,
how can you ever find him?”
“That’s all true, but missing men are often found, and no criminal is
quite clever enough to cover all his tracks. Besides, he can’t sell that
ruby at present. It’s too large and important to offer to a pawnbroker or
to a ‘fence,’ as they are called. Still, he probably has money enough for
his escape. I’m banking on his overlooking some trace or some clue that
will lead me to him.”
“Have you any real clues?”
“Oh, yes. The business cards, the synthetic rubies,—surely they can be
traced to the laboratory where they were made. Then there’s the hat and
coat and umbrella—”
“You know, Mr. Prentiss, it’s too absurd to think of that man running
away without his hat or coat. The umbrella he might easily forget, but
not the others.”
“Oh, he didn’t forget them, as I see it. He was probably frightened away.
Perhaps he heard the watchman on his rounds, or thought he heard some one
near him. And he ran off hurriedly, without stopping for anything.”
“How could he get away? The grounds are locked and guarded.”
“But, Miss Rosemary, he did get away. We’ve searched the place too
thoroughly to allow of his concealment here. Now, as we know he did get
away, it’s futile to guess how he did it. The thing is to find him.”
“Yes, I see that. And I hope you will recover my ruby. That, at least, is
my own, and I don’t want that horrid man to have it.”
“I’ll surely make a try for that,” Prentiss said, glad to note her
interest in it.
And then, to Rosemary’s intense surprise, Homer Vincent and Bryce Collins
came into the room together.
“Will you give us some tea?” asked Vincent, in a pleasant tone, and still
stupefied at Collins’ appearance, Rosemary tilted the teakettle over a
fresh cup.
“We’re going to have a conclave,” Vincent said, as he took an easy chair,
and the ubiquitous Mellish, suddenly appearing, set a small table beside
him for his cup. “Mr. Collins called to see you, Rosemary, and I received
him; and I have told him the story of your birth, as I have already told
it to you.”
“And I don’t believe a word of it!” Bryce Collins declared.
“I wish I needn’t,” Vincent said, a little sadly. “I’d rather, indeed,
that Rosemary were my own niece. I have always loved her as such,—and
this disclosure was bound to come sooner or later. I often talked it
over with my sister, and we agreed that we never could let Rosemary marry
without acquainting the man of her choice with the truth of her birth. It
wouldn’t be fair to him or to her. I think now, it would have been better
if Rosemary had known all her life that she was an adopted daughter of my
brother and his wife. But they preferred to let her grow up in ignorance
of the fact, and this is the result.”
“I’m glad they did!” Rosemary burst out. “At least I’ve had twenty-one
years of happiness,—even if I am miserable the rest of my days.”
“But you needn’t be, Rosemary,” Vincent said; “as you well know, many
children are adopted, and lead the happiest of lives. That this knowledge
has come to you just now, is because of my brother’s plan of keeping you
in ignorance during his life, and my sister’s disinclination to tell you
during her life. I, too, would have spared you the knowledge, except, as
I said, that Mr. Collins came to me, and asked for your hand in marriage.
I could not honorably let him marry you under your assumed name,—so, what
could I do, but tell him the truth?”
“It is not the truth,” Bryce Collins reiterated.
Vincent looked at him curiously.
“I don’t follow your thought, Bryce,” he said; “why do you say that when
I tell you the facts as they are?”
“Because Rosemary is all Vincent,” Collins declared. “Those topaz eyes
of hers are just like her Aunt Anne’s were. Her nose is shaped like your
own, Mr. Vincent, and she has the manner and ways of her aunt in many
particulars.”
“I wish your arguments could carry weight,” Homer Vincent said, looking
kindly at Rosemary; “but let me call your attention to the fact that Mr.
Prentiss here has eyes of that same peculiar color, and he is not related
to the Vincents. Also, Rosemary’s manners and ways are of course modeled
on those of her aunt, with whom she has lived for five years, and also,
doubtless, she learned Vincent traits and habits from my brother, with
whom she lived thirteen years.”
“Why,” Rosemary exclaimed, “I’m twenty-one, Uncle Homer. You make me out
only eighteen!”
“You were three years old when you were adopted, Rosemary,” Vincent said;
“you lived in the asylum the first three years of your life.”
Bryce Collins looked serious.
“Will you give me the dates, sir?” he said.
“Certainly. Suppose we all go into my Tower room, where are all the
papers and documents referring to the matter. Mr. Prentiss, will you not
come, too? Your advice may be useful.”
As the other two left the room, Collins drew Rosemary to him, and
whispered, “Trust me, dear, I’ll straighten out this moil. You are a
Vincent, I’m sure of it! And I’ll prove it, too!”
Rosemary’s heart fell. She was glad of Bryce’s comforting tone, but his
words meant nothing. She knew the story was true. She knew Homer Vincent
was telling the facts and there was no denying them. And she would have
preferred Bryce’s assurance of his love for her, whatever her name might
really be, to his protestations of unbelief of the story.
The four, seated in the Tower room, watched with interest as Homer
Vincent opened the sliding panel and took out some bundles of papers and
letters.
“This is not exactly a secret panel,” he said, noting the curious
glances, “but it is a private hiding-place. One has only to press this
embossed ornament on the panel, and it slides open—as you see.”
The Burlington Hawkeye fastened his alert eyes on the slide, but Collins
paid little attention to it. He was eagerly awaiting a sight of the
papers.
“There are no articles of adoption or anything of that sort,” Vincent
said; “it is possible my brother had some, but at his death all his
personal effects were put into my hands, and I searched in vain for some
such documents. But I have here letters from him and from his wife, which
tell in full detail of the adoption of little Rosemary.
“As may be seen from his marriage certificate, which I have here, my
brother was married in 1904. Here is a letter from him and one from his
bride telling my sister and myself of his marriage. We did not attend the
wedding as he was travelling in France at the time, and was married in
Paris.
“Here is a whole packet of letters from both of them, written in the year
following. You may read them at your leisure, Rosemary, and indeed, they
are at the disposal of any one interested. They tell of the happiness of
the young couple, and of their joy in anticipation of the advent of a
child.
“Later here are the letters that tell of the birth of a daughter in 1905.
And sad letters follow, telling of the early death of the baby. Soon
after that,—here is the letter,—they decided to adopt a little one in
hope of easing the heart of the sorrowing mother.
“Visiting the asylum, they were struck by the beauty and charm of a child
of three years,—our Rosemary. My sister-in-law preferred a child older
than a mere infant, and, too, they thought she showed a vague likeness to
the Vincents. This explains, Bryce, the resemblance you have noted.
“So the little girl was taken into their home, at first on trial,
and then gladly adopted permanently. I daresay it was because of the
temporary arrangement at first, that papers of adoption were not formally
made out. Or it may be that my brother did not wish them. At any rate,
there were none drawn up, and the little Rosemary simply grew up as the
real daughter of her adopted parents. I do not mean that my brother
and his wife pretended she was their own child, or wished to deceive
anybody. But she was as a daughter to them, and when, at her mother’s
death, Rosemary and her father went to live in Seattle, he said nothing
about her adoption and she passed as his own. All this I learned from
his letters, which were regular though not frequent throughout his life.
Then, when his sudden death occurred, in a frightful motor accident, I
went out there at once, settled up his estate and brought Rosemary home
with me.
“Knowing she was ignorant of the truth, my sister and I never told her.
Often we talked it over, often had anxious and worried hours wondering
what was our duty, and how best to tell Rosemary what she must eventually
know.
“And then my sister was taken from me, and I had to face our family
problem alone. There was but one way open to me. Rosemary has grown to be
a woman. No longer a child, the truth was her due, and she had to have
it. No woman would want to be allowed to marry a man in ignorance of such
a truth. No man should be allowed to marry a woman under such a delusion.
Tell me, Rosemary, tell me, Bryce, tell me, Mr. Prentiss, did I not do
right, did I not do my duty, however hard a task, when I told Rosemary
the truth?”
Homer Vincent’s face was troubled, his voice shook a little, but he
looked squarely in the faces of one after another as he awaited their
answers.
Rosemary, sobbing, could not respond. Bryce Collins, convinced at last,
was speechless with surprise and consternation.
So the Burlington Hawkeye answered. He spoke slowly and cautiously.
“I suppose, Mr. Vincent, there was no other way to proceed. You are sure
of all you have told us?”
“There are the letters.” Homer Vincent spoke wearily, as if worn out by
the harrowing scene. “As you can see, they are written and posted in
Paris on the dates I have mentioned. Good heavens, man, do you suppose I
trumped up this yarn? The letters bear their truth stamped on their face!
I have scores more of my brother’s letters, you may compare them—but,”
his voice dropped to a quieter key, “you have only to read those letters
from my sister-in-law, to realize that they are from a heartbroken mother
mourning the loss of her own baby, and later from a cheerful-hearted
woman glad in the possession of her adopted little one.”
“I don’t remember anything about being in the asylum,” Rosemary said,
slowly. “Don’t children remember their experiences at three years old?”
“You never did,” Vincent said. “Your aunt and I frequently quizzed you
when you first came here, to see how far back you could remember. And
you never spoke of anything that happened before you lived with my
brother.”
“Yes,” Rosemary said, “I remember such questionings by you and Antan.”
Prentiss had been reading the letters hastily, but with deep absorption.
“Of course it’s true,” he said, throwing down the last one. “Those
letters are too positively genuine to admit of the slightest doubt. But
would you not think that Mr. Carl Vincent would have made some provision
for his adopted daughter in his will?”
“I have no doubt he meant to do so,” Vincent returned. “But he, like
many another man, postponed the matter, and then death overtook him
without warning. But no one can say that my sister and myself treated
Rosemary as other than our own niece. We have indulged her every whim;
given her every luxury, and surrounded her with all the joys and comforts
of a beautiful home. If now, that my sister is no longer here, and
I, myself, am in advancing years,—if now, I feel that I cannot have
the responsibility of the ordering of the life of a vivacious young
lady,—it can scarcely be wondered at. And, since I am willing to make
generous provision for her maintenance, and since she is not really
a blood-relative of mine, I feel that I should not be too severely
criticized for consulting my own well-being in the matter.”
“As you always have done and always will do!” blurted out Collins. “You
are a selfish, self-indulgent, self-centered man, Mr. Vincent! You have
no sympathy nor consideration for the helpless girl you thrust from your
roof! You!—”
“Just a moment, Mr. Collins. What about yourself? Do you want to marry
the nameless girl you thought was my niece? Do you want to give your
children a nameless mother? Where now are your protestations of love and
devotion to Rosemary?”
Collins put a strong, protecting arm round the sobbing girl beside him.
“My love and devotion are stronger than ever,” he declared. “I do want to
marry her—and at once. It matters not to me who her parents were—she is
my love—my Rosemary!”
CHAPTER XI
A RUN OVER TO FRANCE
But if Bryce Collins was willing to stand by his love and loyalty to his
sweetheart, Rosemary was by no means acquiescent.
She positively refused to marry Bryce or to be engaged to him.
“It will not do,” she told him. “Your mother would never agree, and I
would never marry you against her wishes. Oh, Bryce, can’t you see it as
I do? I should be utterly miserable as your wife, unrecognized,—or even
unwillingly recognized by your people. I, who have always considered
myself a Vincent, whose fine line of stainless names has been my
inspiration as well as my pride, now to find myself not only no Vincent,
but of no known parentage whatever! Bryce, you can’t realize what that
means to me. My parents may have been anybody—anybody at all! I may have
in my veins the blood of ignorant, low-bred people, even criminals! It is
appalling,—I can’t bear to think of it. But I must think of it,—I must
face it, and plan my life accordingly. I shall never marry, of that I
am certain. It would be unfair to my husband, unfair to my children. I
would be willing to stay right here with Uncle Homer, and never have any
company or go anywhere. But he won’t have me. Nobody wants me. I am an
outcast, a wanderer on the face of the earth.”
Rosemary did not say this by way of appealing to Collins’ sympathy, nor
was it a mere dramatic cry on her part. She was thinking aloud more than
talking to him, and she really felt her utter friendlessness, loneliness,
and homelessness. It was a cry from her very soul, and it went straight
to Collins’ heart.
“Rosemary,” he said, and his thin, dark face was strong with purpose,—“I
am going to find your parents. I want you anyway, dear,—nameless or a
Princess Royal,—it’s all the same to me. You are my own Rosemary. But I
know, for your own sake, this thing must be cleared up. And for mine,—for
ours, Rosemary. I know you too well to believe you are of anything but
gentle birth. Such features and mental traits as yours never belonged
to an ignorant or low-born ancestry. I can’t help thinking you are a
Vincent—maybe they adopted a cousin or distant relative—”
“No, Bryce, that’s impossible. Uncle Homer is most clannish and loyal to
his kindred. If I had the slightest claim to the Vincent name, he would
stand by me. And he is standing by me. We must remember, Bryce, that he
had to tell me about this,—he couldn’t let me marry you under a name not
my own. Could he?”
“No, Rosemary, he couldn’t. I do see that. But his putting you out of the
house—”
“You don’t know him, Bryce. Uncle Homer is a peculiar man, but his
strange ways are simple, after all. He only asks to be let alone, to
enjoy himself in his own way.”
“And isn’t that infernally selfish?”
“Not so much so as you think. He loves his books, his music, his
collections of curios and pictures, and he wants to enjoy them unbothered
by people about, especially young people. He frequently has guests of his
own age, and he is a charming and courteous host. Now, if I were really
his niece, really a Vincent, I might resent his not wanting me here. But
when he is so fond of solitude, and freedom from interruption, when I am
not the slightest relation to him, when he says he is willing to give me
a fair allowance,—why should he feel any further responsibility for me,
or any obligation to let me remain at Greatlarch?”
“As you put it, Rosemary, it is logical enough, but in all these years he
must have learned to love you—”
“Ah, Bryce, that’s the worst of it. He didn’t and it has been my own
fault. Antan loved me, because she sympathized with my gay disposition
and love of social life. But Uncle Homer didn’t like my everlasting
running about, as he called it, and,—here’s the trouble,—I took no pains
to please him, or to give up my inclinations to his. I was the selfish
one, I thought only of my gayeties, my dances, and my friends, and I
ignored Uncle’s wishes, and even deceived him often as to my doings. Oh,
I was more to blame than he, that he didn’t love me as Antan did. And as
I sowed the wind, now I am reaping the whirlwind.”
Rosemary’s lovely, wistful eyes looked into Collins’ own and she shook
her head in utter disapproval of her own past conduct.
“Tell him you’ll do differently now. Tell him you’ll stay at home and
look after his comforts and order his household for him—”
“He doesn’t want me or need me,” Rosemary said, the sad tears filling her
eyes. “Mellish and Melly can do everything he wants, they know his ways,
and they are devotion itself. The few little things I could do in their
absence would not compensate to Uncle for the bother of having me around.
He doesn’t want me, Bryce, that’s all. And as there is no reason why he
should have me here, of course I must go. But where can I go?
“Don’t think I am whining—or playing the martyr. I hate such a spirit.
And I am going to brace up and bear this thing bravely,—but, oh, Bryce,
it is so hard to bear, and it came to me so suddenly,—it was so undreamed
of! Don’t despise me for giving way to my despair.”
“Despise you! My darling—I love you more every minute!”
They were alone in the living-room, Homer Vincent at the organ on the
other side of the house. They could hear the low strains of mournful
music now and then, and Rosemary knew his soul was troubled.
But so was her own, and while Bryce Collins’ love was a solace, yet the
very fact that she must thrust that love away from her made her grief the
more poignant.
He led her into the embrasure of a south window and took her in his arms.
“Rosemary,” he said, and her lifted face showed white and drawn in the
moonlight, “sweetheart, I am yours. My heart is devoted to you and to
your service. If you will marry me at once, I will brave my parents’
displeasure, I will marry you under the name of Rosemary Vincent, and we
will go away and establish a home of our own, where no one shall ever
know more about you than that.”
“No, Bryce, it can’t be done that way. No minister would marry me by a
name to which I have no right. Oh, I wish Uncle had told me long ago. I
wish my father had told me—Bryce, he couldn’t have been more like a real
father if I had been born his child! He loved me with a true fatherly
affection—”
“Well, we know he was not your father, dear. There’s no getting away from
those letters. Is there?”
“No, I’ve read them all over and over. They’re true as Gospel.”
“Then, let’s face facts. If you won’t,—if you can’t marry me now, we must
find a nice, snug home for you, and I shall set about finding out your
history.”
“You can’t do that, Bryce.”
“Can’t I? Well, I can make a pretty big stab at it! Do you
happen to know, my little love, that your future husband has
quite some persistency? Quite some of what is known as bulldog
stick-to-it-ativeness! And what I set out to do, I most generally
sometimes always accomplish! So, dear little girl, try to possess your
soul in patience till your ardent cavalier can run over to France and
back and then we’ll see what we shall see!”
“To France! You can’t mean it!”
“But I do mean it, and if you’ll go, I’ll take you with me.”
“No, Bryce, we can’t marry. On that point I’m positive.”
“Well, then, it’s merely a postponed wedding. Don’t you dare fall in love
with any one else while I’m gone.”
For answer Rosemary put her soft arms round his neck and kissed him
voluntarily. It was the first time she had ever done so, and Collins
clasped her close.
“My little girl,” he whispered, “my darling little girl, with your love
to look forward to, with you to win, I can do anything! accomplish any
task. I shall go to the asylum where you were adopted, and I haven’t the
slightest doubt that I can trace your parentage. Of course they have
records, and I shall insist on seeing them.”
“I’m afraid, Bryce,—afraid of what you may find out—”
“I will ask you, mademoiselle, to have more respect for my future wife! I
allow no one, not even you, to imply the least disparagement of her birth
or breeding. So, kindly refrain from such comment! When I return from my
quest I will announce to you the details of her illustrious lineage!”
But Rosemary was not comforted by Collins’ gay chatter. She had a
foreboding that his investigation, if he really made one, might bring to
light more and worse facts than those already known. For, poor Rosemary
thought, people don’t put their children in orphan asylums if everything
is all right and proper.
“It’s awful, Bryce,” she said, “not to have the least idea whether you’re
the child of decent people, or scum of the earth!”
“Don’t talk like that, dear. The suspense, the uncertainty is awful,—oh,
I appreciate your feelings, darling, but these conditions we have to
face, and we must face them bravely. Now, I shall get from Mr. Vincent
all the addresses of the asylum in question and the various residences
of your adopted parents while they remained in France, and then, if
necessary, I shall follow up your father’s removal to Seattle, and go
there to learn what I can.”
“You never can trace it, Bryce, you can’t delve into matters so far back,
as you might do if the dates were later. The war, doubtless, caused the
loss of lots of records and statistics, and you never can get the truth
from those old archives.”
“Now, my little Cassandra, no more of these dismal forebodings. No more
cold water to be thrown on my projects,—if you please. And I’ll tell
you another thing. After I get you all straightened out as to vital
statistics, I’m going to devote my energies to tracking down the murderer
of your aunt. I don’t believe those addle-pated policemen will ever get
anywhere. Oh, yes, I know that Burlington man is alert and promises
well. But if he doesn’t succeed in getting at the bottom of the mystery,
I will! Now, my little love, do you begin to realize what a determined
man you’ve got to put up with for the rest of your life? Just as soon
as I get matters fixed up to my liking you’ll be wooed and married and
to a tyrant worse than any feudal lord you ever read about in mediæval
history!”
But Rosemary was not deceived by his banter. She knew he meant it all,
but she knew the obstacles in his path, and without unnecessary doubt
she clearly foresaw the opposition his plans would receive from his own
people.
Bryce Collins had an independent fortune left him by his grandfather, but
it was not large enough to preclude his having a business of his own.
Nor did he mean to go through life without working and earning. But now,
fired with enthusiasm over these new plans of his, he proposed to use his
inheritance and postpone his business career, which, naturally, would not
seem wise to his parents.
And Collins was a devoted son, and on the best of terms with his family.
Also his mother admired Rosemary, and was glad at the hope of an
alliance between her son and the Vincent family. But in view of the new
developments, Bryce Collins well knew the quick turn that his mother’s
inclinations would take.
With his volatile nature, however, he put from him all unpleasant
anticipations, and gave himself up to the joy of being with Rosemary
and of comforting her by his presence and by his love, in spite of her
forebodings.
When Collins detailed his plans to Homer Vincent, he was given a patient
and thoughtful hearing.
“You propose to go to France and to Seattle both?” Vincent asked, for the
young man’s enthusiastic statements were a bit incoherent.
“If necessary, sir. You see, I must get at the truth of things. I mean I
must find out who were the real parents of Rosemary.”
“You’re not afraid of what that discovery may mean—to you—and to her?”
“I’ve thought about that, Mr. Vincent, and it seems to me the truth,
however disappointing, will be better than ignorance. If Rosemary is
of decent and legitimate birth, I don’t care how lowly her origin. If,
however, she is of disgraceful ancestry, then I shall take her away from
here to some distant place, and try to make her forget it all.”
Bryce Collins’ young face was somber and his strong jaw was sternly set
in his intensity of purpose.
“You are taking a fine stand, Collins,” Homer Vincent said, “and I
admire your pluck and your loyalty to Rosemary. But my advice would be
to let sleeping dogs lie. Aside from the fact that a trip to France at
this late date would in all probability be a wild-goose chase, there
is also an even chance that your discoveries, if you make any, will be
disappointing.”
“What is your advice, then, sir?”
“I don’t know what to say. But, though I’m not at all sure it’s right, I
would be willing to ignore the whole matter of Rosemary’s birth and, if
you are willing, let her marry you as Rosemary Vincent, my niece.”
“Does no one else know the truth?” Collins was thinking quickly.
“Only the detective, Prentiss. I believe, in her frenzied surprise the
girl told him. But I’m sure we can pledge him to secrecy. You understand,
Collins, I never would have let her marry you as my niece without telling
you both the truth. But since you know it, if you care to adopt such a
course, I will do my part. I will give her a wedding, small and quiet, of
course, as the house is in mourning, and I will never divulge the secret
of her adoption.”
Collins thought this over.
“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Vincent,” he said, at last. “I confess I
am tempted to do this thing. It is the line of least resistance, and
quite the simplest way out of our difficulty. But, beside the question
of Rosemary and myself, we must think of our possible children. You
know as well as I do that, while in America ancestry and lineage is not
looked upon as it is in England, yet if, in time to come, there should
be discovered any stigma on my wife’s name, is it a fair deal to the
innocent babes who may be born to us?”
“That is a question for your own consideration, Bryce.” Vincent spoke
gravely. “I feel strongly about family ties myself. I admit I have never
felt toward Rosemary as I should have felt toward a child of my brother’s
own. But it is too hard on her to tell her these things. She is a sweet,
sensitive nature,—a dear girl in every way. But she is not my kin. Yet,
as I said, I will keep her secret, if you wish me to.”
“No!” and Collins’ face took on a look of even sterner determination.
“No, I cannot do it. I love Rosemary too well, too deeply, not to try,
at least, to vindicate her claim to honor and right. I shall go on
my quest,—at most, it will not take me more than about a month, and
I shall find out something,—or learn that nothing can be found out.
In the latter case, I will, perhaps, give your proposition further
consideration. I will ask you to keep the secret until my return. Can
you—will you do this?”
“I will if I can. But since Prentiss knows it, it is in danger of further
publicity. What is your project, in detail?”
“I’ve planned nothing further than to go to that asylum from which
Rosemary was taken. You have the address of that, have you not?”
“Yes, and all the addresses of my brother’s residences in Paris and some
suburban towns. They moved two or three times. You will, of course,
return here before going to Seattle, if you conclude to go there?”
“Yes, and I hope I shall not have to go out there. But I know there is
no use in writing to these places, or sending any sort of an emissary.
Only my own desperate determination can accomplish my ends, if indeed I
can accomplish them at all. Now, another thing. May not Rosemary stay
here with you until my return? I cannot think you will turn her from your
door.”
“It isn’t exactly turning her out,” Vincent said, looking troubled.
“But,—well, as man to man, Collins, I may as well admit that I’m what is
known as a woman-hater. I loved my dear sister, but I have never cared
for any other woman, and I long for a home without a woman in it,—except
as a servant. This may seem strange to you,—perhaps it is strange. But
you must realize that alone in my home I can pursue my own avocations,
I can have things just as I want them, I can have the uninterrupted
solitude that I love; when, with Rosemary here, the whole atmosphere
is changed, the whole house on a different basis. This is really not
unreasonable; I am aging, I am a bit eccentric, I have suffered a
terrible tragedy, and I have no real responsibility toward my brother’s
adopted child, outside of her financial maintenance; and, so, I hold that
it is not my bounden duty to keep Rosemary here.”
“That is all true, but won’t you consent, even to keep her here until my
return? You’ve promised to keep her secret until then—if you can. Surely
to send her away would rouse suspicion against her of some sort. I am
sure she will agree to annoy you by her presence as little as possible.
She can keep out of your way—”
“Oh, don’t make me out an ogre!” Vincent exclaimed. “Of course, she
can stay here—for a month or two. As I have had her here for five
years—but, you see, Bryce, it was very different when my sister was
here. She stood between me and any nuisance the girl might have been.
She kept Rosemary in a sort of subjection, which I see now, with her
aunt’s restraint missing, has utterly vanished. She permeates the
household,—unconsciously, of course, but breezily, noisily, as any young
girl would. I can’t deny her the visits of her young friends entirely,
yet when they come they are laughing and chattering all over the house,
and it annoys me frightfully. Absurd, you would say. But you can’t
realize the difference between the viewpoint of an enthusiastic young
fellow and a world-weary, hermit-souled old man.”
“You’re far from an old man, Mr. Vincent, but I do understand what you
mean, and I can see it from your point of view. And I realize that if
Rosemary were really your niece, things would be very different. However,
I’m going to hold you to your agreement that she may stay here a month or
so, until I can run over to Paris and back. Then—”
“Collins, I’m not sure I ought to say this,—and yet, it’s only fair to
warn you of even a remote possibility. You know, those detectives have
no theory, no idea of how my sister’s murder was accomplished. Nor have
I, for that matter. But since we know it was accomplished, since some
murderer did, somehow, gain access to that locked room, and get out
again, we must assume some diabolically clever criminal. Now, you must
not overlook the possibility that it may have been some one of Rosemary’s
relatives,—some one who has watched over her career, secretly, meaning
to profit in some wicked way by the girl’s good fortune. This may seem
far-fetched, but what theory does not seem so? At any rate, suppose the
murderer of my sister should turn out to be some evil-minded relative of
Rosemary’s real parents, do you want to delve into the matter?”
“Yes, I do. Even though there is a possibility of what you suggest, I
deem it so remote a one that it is almost negligible. I have determined
to go to France; I shall tell my people it is merely a travel tour,
they will raise no objection. And I will ask you to preserve Rosemary’s
secret, in so far as you can. Your definite request will ensure Prentiss’
silence, I am certain. And, Mr. Vincent, if your hinted theory should
prove true, at least you will have achieved the solution of the mystery
of Miss Anne’s terrible death. It is one of my strongest desires to
avenge her memory, and once the matter of Rosemary’s birth is settled, I
shall turn my attention to the murder tragedy, if it has not by that time
been discovered.”
“You are a determined man, Bryce, and while I admire your indomitable
perseverance, I wish I felt more faith in your success. I doubt your
making any discoveries at all in France, but if you are bent on going, I
will give you all those old addresses, and letters, if you want them, to
various people who may help you in your search. In all probability the
asylum will have the old records of Rosemary’s adoption by my brother,
but will they have the statistics to prove who her own parents were?
Still, as I said, I will give you all these documents, if you are bent on
going.”
“I am bent on going,” said Bryce Collins.
And go he did. Obstacles fell before him like grain before the reaper.
His determination was so strong, his will so powerful, that he made his
departure possible and speedy.
Rosemary knew his errand, and imbued with his own hopefulness, she bade
him Godspeed.
But she did not know she remained at Greatlarch only on sufferance and
because of Collins’ insistent plea to her uncle.
Vincent treated her kindly but with no words of love or sympathy. Indeed,
his words were few and his manner self-absorbed and often seeming utterly
oblivious to her presence.
Rosemary did not resent this. She quite understood her uncle’s attitude
toward her, she well knew his distaste for her presence. And she felt, at
times, that she would gladly go away. But the charm of the place, and her
great love for it, held her there, as well as her ignorance of the world
and her feeling of inability to face its unknown and perhaps unfriendly
possibilities.
She wrote notes to Lulie Eaton and a few other girl friends, asking them
not to come to see her for the present. And she gave Mellish orders to
admit none of the young men who came to call on her.
She was determined to think things out for herself, but she could not
do this all at once. It was all so new and unaccustomed,—this thinking
for herself. All her life her plans had been made for her, in important
matters. She had willingly acquiesced in all Antan’s advices, knowing
that the aunt who loved her would give all the liberty and pleasure that
could be hers.
And now, she had no one to whom to turn for advice or for information.
Even Prentiss, who was friendly, was away on his investigations in New
York.
There remained only the two Mellishes and little Francine.
Reduced to the society of servants or none at all, Rosemary did talk over
her affairs with good Susan Mellish.
“Never fear, dearie,” that kind woman said; “it’ll all come out right.
Your uncle is for now that worrited there’s no doing anything with him.
But these detective men, they’ll find out the wicked villain and they’ll
hang him high! Or, what’s more belike, they’ll find there was no mortal
murderer, and then they’ll know where to look!”
For Mrs. Mellish was strong in her belief that the hand that slew Anne
Vincent was the phantom hand of the dead Mrs. Lamont.
And there were those who agreed with her.
CHAPTER XII
A NAMELESS, HOMELESS WAIF
Although Prentiss had gone to New York in search of information
concerning Johnson, the local police of Hilldale were by no means idle.
They searched and researched the premises of Greatlarch, both in the
house and about the grounds. The room that Johnson had occupied they
studied over and over, in their efforts to learn something further of the
man’s personality. They left his few belongings where they found them,
deducing nothing beyond the general facts of a business man on a hasty
trip.
The entire absence of letters or personal papers was peculiar in
itself, but there was no conclusion to be drawn from it. The fact
that his clothing was new and unmarked was thought to be a suspicious
circumstance, but it led to no definite suspicion.
It was a favorite remark among the detectives that Sherlock Holmes could
have deduced the whole man from his few articles of luggage, but Sherlock
Holmes was not there, and the men who were there only looked at the
things blankly and without inspiration.
The same with Miss Anne Vincent’s room.
Day after day they surveyed the beautiful appointments there. Again and
again they drew back the heavy silk hangings that fell round the head of
the bed and scanned the bed anew. The sheets with their crimson stains
had been removed, but were still kept at the Police Station as possible
evidence.
The wall safe, from which the great ruby had presumably been stolen,
was examined frequently, and all the details of Miss Anne’s personal
belongings had been studied to no avail whatsoever.
There were the two rooms, one above the other, the rooms, all agreed, of
victim and criminal, yet from neither room could a single fact be deduced
that was of helpful significance.
Police reconstruction of the crime,—for they took no cognizance of
suicide or of spooks,—set forth that Johnson had spent the entire night
in preparation for his crime, and in waiting for dawn to bring his chosen
moment. That he had, as soon as the watchman went indoors, unlocked Miss
Anne’s door with some clever sort of key, had killed the lady, stolen
the ruby, and then, relocking the door with his patent contraption, had
easily made his way out of the front door, when the family were still
asleep and the servants busy in the kitchen quarters.
Almost superhuman cleverness they conceded this criminal, but, they
argued, only such diabolical ingenuity could have perpetrated such a
mysterious crime.
Their decisions were arrived at by elimination. There was no other
suspect, there was no other means of procedure. The only thing to do was
to catch the man. This, they hoped, Prentiss would accomplish.
But the Burlington Hawkeye returned from an unsuccessful search.
His report, given to Homer Vincent, in the presence of Brewster and
Brown, was disappointing in the extreme.
“There isn’t any Henry Johnson,” he declared, looking both crestfallen
and defiant at once. “I went to the address you gave me, Mr. Vincent,—the
address he gave you, and they declared they never had heard of him there.
Then I visited those two jewelry firms, of which he left you the cards,
and they said they had never heard of any Henry Johnson in connection
with ruby manufacturing. They spoke of a Mr. Markham or Markheim who
made synthetic rubies, but that was of no interest to me. I begged them
to search their books and records to find Johnson’s name. They were most
obliging but utterly unsuccessful.”
“What else did you do?” Brewster asked.
“Oh, lots of things. I went to the stores where he must have bought his
coat and hat, but I couldn’t trace any sale. This is not to be wondered
at, of course. I only tried it on a chance. But that umbrella, now. That
is a new one. I wish I had taken it with me. However, I went to the store
it came from and asked what monograms they had put on umbrellas recently.
Not an H. J. amongst them! As I say, I didn’t really hope to find out
these things, but I took a chance.”
“You did well, Mr. Prentiss,” Homer Vincent assured him. “Where there’s
nothing to find out, you can’t, of course, find out anything. But I’m
surprised that the jewelry firms repudiated all knowledge of him. Do you
suppose he was entirely a fake? Do you suppose he came here merely to rob
and murder, and that the ruby story was all made up?”
“I do suppose just that, Mr. Vincent,” Brewster declared. “And probably
his name wasn’t Johnson at all—”
“There’s the umbrella,” put in Prentiss.
“I know,” Brewster assented, “but that may have been made for a Hiram
Judkins or a Hugh Jennings.”
“That’s so,” said Vincent, thoughtfully. “Or perhaps he stole the
umbrella somewhere.”
“Yes, the umbrella gets us nowhere,” and Prentiss sighed. “I feel as if
I’d accomplished nothing, and yet it is something to have learned that
the Johnson name was assumed—”
“Not necessarily,” objected Brown. “You see, he may be named Henry
Johnson all right, and yet have made up all the ruby business.”
“If he came here with intent to rob and murder, he most certainly didn’t
announce his true name,” Brewster declared, and his words carried
conviction.
“Then,” Vincent summed up, “we have a criminal with a definite purpose,
who came under an assumed name, and carried out his plans successfully to
the smallest detail. I remember, now, his asking me rather particularly
as to the watchman’s rounds and all that. But, of course, I never
suspected anything wrong.”
“Of course not,” Prentiss said. “Now I’d like to see that butler of yours
again.”
“Surely,” said Vincent, and rang for Mellish.
That worthy came in, and contrary to his habitual calm, he exhibited a
hint of suppressed excitement.
“Will you look what Hoskins found, sir,” he said, holding out his hand
toward Vincent.
As all could see, he held a long amber and ivory cigarette-holder.
It was one of those extremely long ones that are affected by the
ultrafashionable.
“Where was this found?” Vincent asked, looking at it attentively, and
then passing it over to Prentiss.
“Hoskins found it, sir, out in the grounds. Or maybe the gardener found
it and gave it to Hoskins. But it’s the one Mr. Johnson used, sir, and I
opine he lost it as he hurried on his way.”
“You remember it?” Prentiss inquired of the butler.
“Oh, yes, sir. I noticed it when Mr. Johnson used it at the table, sir.
After dinner, he took no cigar, but took a cigarette, which he fitted
into that outlandish thing, sir!”
Mellish’s scorn of the eccentric implement was evident on his face.
“They’re quite fashionable now,—I’ve seen them in use,” said Brown, with
an air of wide experience. “And see, here’s the H. J. monogram again! The
fellow’s initials must be H. J. whether his name is Henry Johnson or not.”
“Unless he stole this thing and the umbrella from the same party,” argued
Prentiss. “Wonder if we could trace the cigarette-holder. It looks rather
valuable, and a specialty shop, where such a thing was doubtless bought,
might remember the buyer.”
“Keep it carefully,” Brewster admonished him; “it’s a good bit of
evidence,—maybe a real clue! Where was it found, exactly?”
“I don’t know the precise spot,” Mellish said; “but I opine it was
somewhere on the east lawn. The gardener is working there today.”
“Would that be on his way out of the grounds?” Brown inquired.
“It might be,” Vincent returned, slowly. “Or, he may have been walking
about outside—”
“Killing time until the dawn broke!” Brown exclaimed. “Oh, I’m sure we
can get a line from that thing. It’s most unusual,—not common at all.”
“You go down to New York then, on this errand,” Prentiss said; “I don’t
want to go right back there.”
“All right, I’ll go,” Brown agreed, rather liking the idea.
“And I thought, Mr. Vincent,” Prentiss continued, “you might recall some
more data about the synthetic rubies. You see, even if he faked that
whole ruby proposition, at least he must have known enough about the
matter to make a good showing before you and your sister. You would have
known if he had been a mere layman. He couldn’t have made you believe he
was an expert without knowing a good deal about the processes and all
that.”
“That’s true,” Vincent agreed. “But, knowing little or nothing of the
subject myself, I daresay I was not in a position to be critical of his
explanations and descriptions.”
“I opine,” Mellish said, speaking deferentially but with a look of pride
at his master, “that Mr. Vincent is not so ignorant of these things. You
remember, sir, there was another gentleman here not more than a month
ago, who also wanted to interest you in the making of imitation rubies.”
“Why, yes, that’s so,” Vincent said; “I had forgotten that. But I daresay
the market is full of such things. The process, recently invented,—or
perhaps I should say discovered,—has doubtless been taken up by various
would-be lapidaries. Well, does all this get you anywhere, Mr. Prentiss?”
“We have only one goal, sir, the whereabouts of the man who called
himself Henry Johnson, whether that is his true name or not. I think no
one can doubt he killed Miss Vincent, even though we cannot yet determine
his exact method. But given this mysterious visitor, his mysterious
disappearance, and the immediate discovery of the robbery and murder,
we cannot think otherwise than that he is the criminal. He may not have
intended murder, in the beginning. He may have used the ruby chatter
to induce Miss Vincent to exhibit her splendid jewel,—of which he must
have known,—and then, when he endeavored to steal it and make away, very
possibly she awoke and would have made an outcry, had he not silenced
her. Burglars often commit murder because of a sudden danger of exposure.”
“That is all true, Mr. Prentiss,” Vincent agreed; “I had not thought
of that sequence of events at my sister’s bedside. It may well have
been just as you suggest. Granting his ability to get in and out of
that room,—and you have suggested an explanation of that,—I feel sure
there can be no doubt of Johnson’s guilt. Now, we must find him. It is
imperative. Can any one suggest any further or more far-reaching plan?”
“It is hard to circumvent such fiendish ingenuity as that man has
showed.” Brown spoke vindictively. “We have, of course, inquired at all
the near-by railway stations. I assumed he might have walked to some one
of them and boarded a train there. But we find no trace of such a thing.”
“More likely,” Brewster said, “he walked to a near-by town, and after a
rest and a breakfast walked on to another, and so on, until he was far
enough away to take a train without fear of detection. In a large town he
could do that, but not in one of our small villages.”
“There are many ways he could escape,” said Vincent, looking wearied,
as if tired of their futile conversation. “He could lie low for hours
anywhere, and then go on by night. Or he could beg a ride in a passing
motor, or in a farmer’s cart. At any rate, he did get away, he did get
beyond our ken, and if we find him, it will not be by simple search, but
by some deduction or conclusion based on some bit of evidence. I know
little of these things myself, but I supposed detectives worked from
small clues.”
“We are supposed to,” Prentiss declared, frankly, “but I must confess
there are fewer clues in evidence in this case than in any I ever saw
before.”
“There’s this,” and Brown held up the long cigarette-holder.
“Yes,” agreed Vincent, “there’s that. Now, that’s just the sort of thing
I mean. Can’t you experts gather anything from that?”
“I gather that he had sharp teeth,” Brown said, smiling a little, “for
the amber mouthpiece is a good deal scratched.”
“He did have strong teeth,” Vincent remarked, “and very white ones. But
I can’t see how that will help you to find him. Perhaps, after all, you
may have to give it up, and put it down among the unsolved mysteries of
history.”
“Not yet,” Prentiss declared. “I’m by no means ready to lie down on the
job, and if Mr. Brown will run down to the city and try to trace the
fancy cigarette doodaddle, I’ll try some few little manœuvres I have in
mind up here.”
“Try all you like, gentlemen,” Vincent directed them. “Use every effort,
call upon me for whatever money you need. I will refuse no sum in reason
to bring about the discovery of my sister’s assassin. But, I must
ask you to report to me only when you have some worthwhile news. This
interview today was, of course, necessary, but until you have equally
important information, continue your search by yourselves, or report to
me through Mellish here.”
The detectives, of course, agreed, and the interview was brought to a
close.
At dinner that night, Rosemary asked her uncle what the detectives had
accomplished.
“Very little,” he returned. “They have concluded Henry Johnson killed
your aunt, which we were practically certain of all along. They have
learned, they think, that Henry Johnson was an assumed name, which is an
obvious conclusion. They have practically admitted that they have doubts
of being able to find him, which is no surprise to me. The murderer in
this, as in most cases, is far cleverer than the detectives, and can, of
course, easily outwit them. A criminal who can plan and carry out such
a scheme as this man has done is no ordinary evil-doer. He is a genius
in crime, and such are not usually apprehended. Now, let us drop the
subject, Rosemary, for I have had all I can stand of it for one day.”
The subject remained dropped between the two, for there were no new
developments to bring the detectives for another report to Vincent.
They were continuing their efforts to find Johnson, they were hunting for
new clues or evidence, but all their endeavors were futile.
Even Brown’s assiduous hunt for the shop where the cigarette-holder had
been bought was to no avail. Such holders he found, but could get hold of
no dealer who had monogrammed that one.
Days at Greatlarch followed one another in much the same routine as
before the tragedy. The household routine, that is. The two Mellishes and
their under-servants admirably kept up the high standards that Miss Anne
had instilled in the _ménage_, but the family, as represented by Homer
Vincent and Rosemary, was far from a happy one.
Each day, it seemed to the girl, her uncle grew more and more reserved,
more absorbed in his books and music. She did not resent this, in a way
it was a relief not to have to entertain him, but Rosemary was very
lonely and very sad.
It was on one of their silent evenings, when Vincent mused over a book
and Rosemary tried to interest herself in a bit of needlework, that he
said:
“Child, have you any belief in spiritualism?”
His tone was gentler, more interested, than common, and Rosemary
hesitated before she answered. She didn’t want to express herself
contrary to his own views, and yet the girl had never felt any faith in
the supernatural.
“Table-tipping or spooks?” she said, trying to turn it off lightly.
“Don’t be flippant. I mean this idea of Mrs. Lamont returning to the
scene of her tragic death.”
“Oh, that. No, Uncle, I can’t say I do believe she does that.”
“And yet it may be. Why may not the souls of the dead return?”
“Oh, they may, but I’ve never seen any evidence of it, have you?”
“What would you say if I said, Yes, I have?”
“I’d say, Tell me all about it.”
The subject was a distasteful one to Rosemary, but she would willingly
have talked on any topic, so glad was she to have her uncle talk to her
at all.
“Well, a queer thing happened last night,” he began. “I was wakened out
of a sound sleep by a sort of light in my room. A strange, hovering
light, that seemed to sway and waver and at last shaped itself into the
semblance of a human form. Rosemary, it was your Aunt Anne.”
“No!”
“Yes, child, it surely was. I felt no fear; she waved a gentle hand as
she came nearer to me. ‘Brother,’ she said, ‘it is all right. Do not seek
my slayer, I am happy in my new life.’ And then, Rosemary, she seemed to
vanish slowly, and as the phantom shape was nearly gone, I heard a few
more fleeting words, that sounded like a promise to play the Wild Harp
tonight.”
“Tonight! Antan! Oh, Uncle Homer! You believe it was really her spirit?”
“If the harp plays tonight and I hear it—I shall have to believe,” he
replied, in a solemn tone.
And that night the Wild Harp did play. Rosemary was awakened soon after
midnight by the low, wailing strains. She wondered if her uncle heard it,
too.
She lay in her bed listening to the weird music, and wondering if it
could be possible her dead aunt was responsible for it.
She could not believe it, nor could she believe it was the work of the
spirit of Mrs. Lamont.
But then, she asked herself, what is it? What can it be?
She rang a bedside bell which brought Francine to her.
“What is it, mademoiselle?” asked the French girl. “What is it that I can
do for you?”
“Listen, Francine, do you hear the Wild Harp?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. Is it not beautiful—so faint, so sweet!”
“Who is playing it, Francine?”
Rosemary fully expected the girl would assert it to be a phantom that
made the harmonies. But, to her surprise, Francine said, “Of a truth, I
do not know,—but I think it is Mr. Mellish.”
“Nonsense! Go to bed!” and Rosemary had to smile at the girl’s
foolishness.
But the next morning she referred to it before her uncle.
“Yes, Rosemary, I heard it,” he said, “and I believe it was the spirit of
your aunt who made the music. Do not you?”
“No, Uncle, to be truthful, I do not.”
But Rosemary regretted her frankness, for Homer Vincent turned grim and
moody and scarcely spoke again that day.
But at last came the news of Bryce Collins’ arrival in New York, and
Rosemary’s heart beat high with hope and joy.
His letters had given no hints as to the results of his quest, but he
had written that he had results, which he would detail on his return.
Rosemary eagerly desired to accept this as an omen of favorable news,
but her forebodings were not happy ones and she felt an undercurrent of
despair that grew stronger as the time of his homecoming drew near.
And when at last she saw him, when he came to Greatlarch, and, taking her
in his arms, kissed her gently, she knew in her heart that his tidings
were not happy ones.
“Tell it at once, Bryce,” Homer Vincent said, curtly. “I know from your
manner you bring no good news.”
“I do not,” Collins said, his face dark with sorrow and his eyes sad and
somber. “Yes, I will tell you at once, but do not hurry me, Mr. Vincent.
I will tell you as it happened to me.”
“You found the asylum?”
“Yes, with no trouble at all. But it was not at the address you gave me.”
“Ah, they have moved?”
“Perhaps so; but they told me they had never been at the other address.
However, I found them. They have full and complete records,—they
willingly let me study them. The present head of the institution is not,
of course, the one who was there when Rosemary was left there. Nor is he
the immediate successor. They have had several in his place, as the years
went by.”
“You found the entry of Rosemary’s admission to the asylum?”
“Yes, I did. And I learned,—this is the strange part,—that she was placed
there by your brother Carl.”
“Before his marriage?” Homer Vincent fairly blurted out the words.
“Yes, two years before.”
“Then that means—”
“There is no use blinking the facts. It means that Rosemary is the child
of your brother Carl, but was not born in wedlock.”
“An illegitimate daughter of my brother—then a Vincent after all.”
“No, a nameless, homeless waif,” Rosemary moaned, and as she swayed from
her chair, Collins ran to catch her fainting form and held her in his
arms.
“I’m all right,” she said, struggling to preserve her self-control; “only
it seems this last blow is more than I can bear. Uncle Homer, I will
leave your house tomorrow. You shall not be burdened with the disgrace of
a nameless child,—a child of shame!”
“Who was her mother?” Vincent asked.
“It is not known,” Collins replied. “The records so far back are
imperfect. And I could find no one who remembered the circumstance. All
the attendants are changed since that time. It was by the merest chance I
came across the book that contained the entry of her admission. There was
no mistake about that. She was left there by Carl Vincent, an American
citizen travelling for pleasure. Her birth-date was given and her name
stated as Rosemary Vincent.”
“And two years later, my brother and his wife adopted this child,—the
daughter of my brother!”
“Three years later. After he had been married a year.”
“I cannot stand it,” Rosemary cried, and without another word, she fled
from the room.
“There is no doubt about this?” Vincent asked.
“Not the slightest,” replied Collins, hopelessly.
“What is to be done?”
“I do not know.”
CHAPTER XIII
A VINCENT AFTER ALL
After the news brought home from France by Bryce Collins and after a
day’s reflection on the matter, Homer Vincent called Rosemary to him in
his Tower room.
The girl gave him a curious glance. Her own attitude in the matter
had changed. She was still downcast and despairing because of her
illegitimate birth and her nameless condition. But she had most loving
memories of her father, and it was a deep consolation to know he was
really her father even though she had no acknowledged mother.
Rosemary’s life had been a sheltered one. During her first years with her
adopted mother, during the succeeding term of years with her father, and,
later, with the Vincents at Greatlarch, the girl had been kept carefully
from companions save such as her elders deemed wise for her.
She had never attended public schools, never mixed with uneducated or
unrefined people, and really knew little of the gossip or scandals of
society.
Anne Vincent had never talked with her of immoral conditions or events,
and Rosemary, while blankly wondering just how bad it was to be
illegitimate, was yet gladdened at heart by the realization that at any
rate she was a Vincent.
But she was destined to a rude awakening when Homer Vincent told her in a
few words how hopeless and irremediable was her fate.
He was not unkind in his manner, he was rather pitying and sympathetic.
But he explained that she could never hope to marry, that to transmit
such a stigma to children would be out of the question, and, moreover, no
man, knowing the truth, would be willing to marry her.
“Bryce would,” she said, her red lips quivering with emotion, but her
little head held high, in a sort of bravado.
“No, he would not. You’ll see. He said he would when he thought you were
adopted by my brother, and born of respectable though humble parents.
That’s what he went to France to see about, and thereby learned the whole
unpleasant truth. No, Rosemary, neither Bryce Collins nor any other
self-respecting young man will marry a girl who was born out of wedlock.”
Rosemary’s despair returned. Her long dark lashes drooped over her sad
eyes and her whole figure relaxed into an attitude of utter dejection.
“What can I do?” she murmured, her voice tragically sad.
“You will be cared for,” Vincent replied. But he sighed deeply and looked
at the girl as if she were indeed an unwelcome responsibility.
“You see,” he continued, “now that I am led to believe that you are the
child of my brother, I cannot turn you away. When I thought you merely
his adopted child and the offspring of unknown parents, I had no real
family interest in your welfare. But if you are my brother’s child, you
are a Vincent, even though not a legitimate member of the family.
“And so, I propose to keep you here with me,—at least so long as I find
you tractable and amenable to my wishes. I think you will not expect to
hold your position as a daughter of the house, but neither shall I allow
you to be slighted or scorned in any way. If you have good common sense,
Rosemary, you will accept the anomalous position that is now yours and
you will be thankful that you have a home and a protector here.”
“Oh, I do! Oh, Uncle Homer, how good you are to me. I can never thank
you—”
“There, there, no histrionics, if you please. You can easily thank me,
by the mere observance of my wishes. You know those already,—you know,
that though I may be eccentric, my odd ways are not really very dreadful.
You know all I want is a quiet, peaceful home, and if you devote your
life,—as you probably will prefer to do,—to some such pursuit as study
or philanthropic effort, you will make no disturbance in the household
and you will have ample time to look after such matters as tend toward my
peculiar desires and exactions.”
Rosemary looked thoughtful. She fully realized her position, fully
appreciated her uncle’s kindness and generosity, but she was young and of
a pleasure-loving, vivid temperament. She could not foresee happiness in
this humdrum existence he proposed. It was all very well for Antan, who
was of a quiet, indolent nature.
But for Rosemary to be at home day in and day out, occupied in household
duties or philanthropic pursuits,—whatever they were,—did not sound
appealing.
In fact, the previous plan, of living by herself, seemed more attractive.
“How much money have I?” she asked, almost abruptly.
Vincent looked at her, and shook his head.
“None at all, Rosemary,” he said, “but what I give you. Your father left
no will, and, of course, as an illegitimate child you have no inheritance
claim. Your Aunt Anne’s ruby, which would have been a small fortune in
itself, has been stolen, so what I choose to give you constitutes your
sole source of income. But I shall not be mean or small in this matter,
if you agree to my plans. If, however, you are thinking of asserting your
independence, I may as well tell you at once, that I shall not contribute
to your support except here at Greatlarch. You must admit, my dear,
that you are a little inconsistent. Last week you were in tears at the
thought of leaving this place, now, when I offer you a home here, you are
contemplating going off by yourself.”
“How do you know I am?”
“I knew by your expression of rebellious discontent at the sort of life
you must accept if you remain here. I knew by your sudden inquiry about
finances. I know you would prefer independence and a home by yourself to
a home with me under the restrictions that I must make. But you are not
in a position to dictate. You may choose,—but I must tell you, Rosemary,
you will make a great mistake if you attempt to go out into the world,
nameless and penniless.”
Vincent spoke very gravely, and Rosemary’s mutinous red lips curved
downward into an expression of surrender.
“Don’t think I’m ungrateful, Uncle Homer,” she said, slowly. “But you
must remember I’m crushed under this sudden blow. You must remember that
I’ve lost parents, home, fortune, reputation, everything in the world,
at one blow,—and I must think things over before I can see my way clear.
What is it Kipling says:
“‘If you can see the things you gave your life to broken,
Yet stoop and build them up with worn-out tools—’”
“That’s all very well, Rosemary, for hifalutin ethical poppycock. But,
I’ll tell you, my girl, that if you know what’s good for yourself, you’ll
gladly accept a home here, under the protection of my name, rather than
face any sort of career out in the cold, hard world. You’ve no idea,
Rosemary, what slights, what scorn, you would receive! Good heavens,
child, I don’t believe you realize at all what a terrible misfortune has
come to you!”
“Yes, I do, Uncle,—indeed I do. But sometimes I feel I am so hopeless, so
dishonored, it might be better to strive to live a new life—”
“Fine talk! That’s what all the younger generation harp on nowadays. Live
a new life—live your own life—well, Rosemary, do what you choose. But if
you choose to go out from under my roof, it is on the understanding that
I will never take you back again. Think well before you throw away a home
like this!”
Vincent glanced round the beautiful room and out into the great hall, and
Rosemary’s eyes followed.
Her deep love for the place welled up in her heart, and with an
uncontrollable sob, she caught her uncle’s hand in hers, and cried:
“Oh, you are right! I never could be happy away from here—”
“Not with the conditions you have to face,” he returned, gravely. “Let
us consider it settled then, and you may take your place as head of
the household, in so far as ordering meals and presiding at table is
concerned. What you do not know, Melly will show you, and I myself will
instruct you in some of the matters your dear aunt used to look after.”
Rosemary went away from her uncle with a heart full of conflicting
thoughts. She knew her best plan, as he had said, was to stay at
Greatlarch under the conditions he imposed. She knew the world would be
hard on her, would look down upon her, and as a member of her uncle’s
household she would at least run no chance of scornfully pointed fingers.
But Rosemary’s whole nature rebelled at the restrictions she would be
under, and the vision of her future seemed far from bright.
It is said stone walls do not a prison make, but as the girl saw it, they
would come very near doing so.
Yet the alternative was no more desirable. What could she do, alone in an
inhospitable world, without money, name, or friends?
And as to marrying Bryce Collins, Rosemary firmly put aside all thought
of it. Even if he asked her to do so, she would not take advantage of his
offer, she would not go to him a nameless bride.
There was no way open, the girl concluded, but to stay on at Greatlarch,
and try to do exactly as her uncle wished her to.
She would have a home,—a beautiful home that she loved,—and she would
try to adjust herself to the new conditions and get along without young
companionship or society.
She would forget Bryce Collins, forget Lulie and the other girls, and
take up what her uncle called philanthropic work.
She was a bit hazy as to what this meant,—visiting the poor and old, she
supposed,—or making flannel petticoats for orphan babies.
She wondered who had made flannel petticoats for her when she was an
orphan baby, as she must have been the first three years of her life.
Those first three years! It seemed to her sometimes that she could dimly
recall scenes that must have been asylum scenes. She seemed to see rows
of cots and numberless babies, but she couldn’t be sure that this was not
mere imagination and not memory.
Well, it didn’t matter. She had been an orphan baby, and now she was
something still worse, an orphan girl and an illegitimate child.
But when Bryce Collins came that evening, he cheered her by his very
presence. He was so strong and masterful, so determinedly hopeful,
so eagerly anxious to do something, anything, to bring about new
developments that might point to brighter days.
Also, he was more than ever resolved to solve the mystery of Miss Anne’s
death.
“Who knows?” he said, “that may have some bearing on your parentage,
Rosemary.”
“As how?” asked Homer Vincent, interestedly.
“I can’t imagine,” Collins admitted, “but there seems no motive—”
“No motive, when the murderer took away a hundred thousand dollar ruby!”
“But did he take it? May not Miss Anne have hidden it elsewhere? I can’t
seem to see a burglar taking that one stone and leaving the other jewels.”
“But the ruby is a fortune in itself. He needed nothing more to make him
independent for life.”
“I know,—but what can he do with it? Those enormous stones are famous.
Every jeweler in the country,—in the world, knows of that ruby. He would
be spotted the moment he offered it for sale.”
“I suppose so,” Vincent said; “and yet, I’ve heard those people have what
they call ‘fences’ who dispose of stolen jewels in some manner. And,
anyway, the man must have taken it, for I’ve looked everywhere among my
sister’s belongings and all through her rooms and there is no possible
hiding-place where the stone can be. No, Bryce, that Henry Johnson stole
the jewel and killed my sister. As I see it, Anne woke up and he killed
her lest she scream and alarm the household. Now, the thing is to find
him.”
“That’s exactly it,” assented Collins, “and I’m going to do it. You
said, Mr. Vincent, that you would spend any amount of money to find the
murderer, which, of course, means to find Henry Johnson. Now, I heard on
board ship, coming home, of a wonderful detective,—Stone, his name is,
who can, without doubt, solve this mystery. Murder cases are his special
forte, and though I understand he is expensive, yet I know you said—”
“I did say so, at first, Bryce, but I’ve already spent a lot on
detectives. And what have they done? What have Brewster and Brown done?
Nothing. What has Prentiss done? Nothing. And quite aside from the
money I’ve paid and still have to pay them, I am tired of having these
investigators around my house. They examine the rooms over and over
again. But they learn nothing from them. They quiz my servants over and
over again. But they deduce nothing from their stories. The man Johnson
has disappeared and the detectives are not able to find him. That’s the
case in a nutshell. Now why should I spend any more money, or be put to
any further inconvenience when there is no probability that a new man
would or could do any more than the others have done?”
“But this Stone is a wizard,—why, he—”
“I know that wizard type. They come in and look around, and say the
murder was done by a man five feet nine inches high, who wore a number
seven hat and smoked a Havana Perfecto cigar. And then they waste days in
futile attempts to find that man,—and never find him. No, I have decided
not to spend any more on the case, and—I have a reason—a secret reason
why I prefer not to delve further into the mystery.”
“I know what that reason is,” Rosemary cried. “Bryce, Uncle Homer has
gone over to the spiritualists! He has messages from Aunt Anne and I’ve
no doubt his secret reason is connected with—”
“You’re quite right, Rosemary,” Vincent spoke very seriously, “my reason
is that my sister’s spirit has communicated with me, and she has asked me
to refrain from further investigations.”
“Did she tell you who killed her?” Collins asked, not showing his true
feelings in regard to these supernatural communications.
“No,—not exactly, but she said the murderer would never be caught, and
for my own peace of mind and—for Rosemary’s, it would be better to let
the matter rest.”
“And you fancy that it may be some of Rosemary’s relatives—on her
mother’s side—”
“Don’t put it into words, Collins. You know yourself it may be that the
Johnson person was some such relative,—and it may be as well never to
find him—”
“Rubbish! I don’t believe for a minute anything of that sort, and I
refuse to listen to such absurd theories. Now, look here, Mr. Vincent,
here’s my platform. I propose to marry Rosemary in any case. She is my
affianced wife—”
“No, Bryce,” and Rosemary’s tone was as decided as his own, “no, I will
never consent to marry you, a nameless, shameful, illegitimate girl! I
would not,—could not be happy, knowing that I brought you only ignominy
and disgrace. I will never marry you or any one. The fact that my father
was a Vincent does not make me one, since I was not born in wedlock. I am
an unhappy girl,—but I am fortunate in having Uncle Homer,—for I shall
always call him that,—give me a home. I will continue to live here with
him and you must not think it strange if I ask you not to come to see me
any more. I am going to try to forget you and all my young friends—”
“Now, Rosemary, let up on that rigmarole. I am going to take hold of
this matter and fight it to a finish. If Mr. Vincent won’t employ this
Stone, I will do so myself. I have some of my money left, and if it isn’t
enough, I’ll get busy and earn more. I have one or two ideas that I
haven’t divulged yet, and if Stone takes any interest in them, they may
be of use to him.”
“I don’t think, Bryce, that you ought to keep from me any knowledge or
ideas that you may have discovered.”
“Well, Mr. Vincent, they’re hardly definite enough to be called
ideas,—they’re merely vague impressions—for instance, here’s one. The
detectives say that Johnson could have locked that bedroom door behind
him by the use of a little instrument that burglars use, which can turn a
key from the other side of the lock. Now, I’ve looked up that matter, and
while there is such an implement known, it is very hard to come by, and
only found in the kit of the most expert and experienced burglars. This
man Johnson, as I make it out, wasn’t a burglar. He was merely a business
man, here on a business errand. If his cupidity was aroused by the sight
of Miss Anne’s great ruby, is it likely that he would chance to have in
his pocket that rare and peculiar tool that would lock the door after he
had committed the crime? Also, why did he want to lock the door? He made
his escape at once. He knew breakfast wouldn’t be until eight o’clock,
and he committed the murder, they say, at seven or thereabouts. Why waste
time locking a door when every minute was precious in making an escape?
And how happen to have the implement needed, when, so far as we can
gather, he had no other burglar’s tools?”
“He may have had a whole kit, and taken it away with him.”
“But when he arrived, Mellish says, he had only the one bag which, as we
now know, contained his night things and a change of underclothing.”
“I’m not arguing the case, Bryce, nor am I reconstructing the crime, as
they call it, or guessing how it may have been done. To me the case is
simply this. Johnson killed my sister, stole her jewel, and made his
escape. How he did it, I do not know. But as I truly believe it is the
wish of my dead sister that I should make no further effort to discover
any more about it, I propose to cease my investigations. If you persist
in calling in further detective service, it will be at your own expense
and on your own responsibility, and, I may add, greatly against my wishes
and, in fact, under my disapproval.”
“Sorry, Mr. Vincent, but I’m going to employ this Stone, if I can get
him. And not only regarding the murder. I can’t help a certain feeling,
maybe a forlorn hope, that he may help me in the search for Rosemary’s
mother. I admit I want to know, if possible, who her mother was. Not,
understand, for my own sake alone,—but for her sake. However, I want
it understood that our sake is one and the same henceforth. I know
Rosemary says she will not marry me, but if she doesn’t it will not be
for lack of importunity and insistence on my part. But that is a future
consideration. First, I’m going to pursue my own investigations as I see
fit, and then I will consult with you as to Rosemary’s future. I take it
you do not,—you cannot forbid me to look into this mystery further?”
“I can’t forbid you, Bryce, but I can and do most earnestly request you
to leave it alone. You may laugh if you will at spiritual revelations,
but older and wiser minds than yours do not laugh at them. If I have been
persuaded that I have had visitations from the spirit of my dear sister,
it is no more incredible than that great and good men have also been so
convinced. I ask of you, I beg of you, not to try further to elucidate a
mystery, the victim of which has requested that it be forgotten.
“And, quite aside from that, remember I am an older man than you, and I
can see the futility of renewed search. Indeed, I am convinced that, as
a layman, I can see better than a detective the utter impossibility of
finding a man as clever and determined as Johnson must necessarily be.
Doubtless he has so changed his appearance and demeanor by this time
that no one could recognize him; in addition to which he has in all
probability fled to the very ends of the earth. These obvious conclusions
present themselves to the clear-seeing mind of a layman, while the
detective instinct is roused by the mystery and by the call of the chase.
If you look at it calmly, you must agree that I am right.”
“It may be, Mr. Vincent, and I understand that is the way it looks to
you. But I am on the other side, I admit. To me, there seem to be other
avenues to explore,—other clues to follow up.”
“What clues, for instance?”
“Few, if any, definite clues, I admit; but hints, theories,
possibilities,—oh, I am sure such a man as Fleming Stone would have
suggestions to make and ways to try out.”
“Uncle Homer,” said Rosemary, suddenly, “what was that shiny thing you
were hiding in the secret panel as I looked in the window at you that
night?”
“Good heavens, child, what do you mean? I wasn’t hiding anything!”
“Well, what were you putting in there, then? It shone and glittered, and
it wasn’t those two imitation rubies,—for it wasn’t red—it was bright
like gold.”
“Like gold? I don’t know what it could have been—for I have nothing made
of gold there. You may come into my room, if you like, and look over
all the contents of that hiding-place. There is nothing there but some
valuable papers, including all the letters and papers concerning my
brother Carl. Come along, both of you, and I will show you the way to
open it for yourselves.”
The three went to Vincent’s Tower room, and he showed them both exactly
how to manipulate the tiny knob, hidden in the carved design, that opened
the panel.
The hiding-place thus revealed was quite large, and held many bundles of
papers. These Vincent touched as he named them.
“I’m glad this subject came up,” he said, “for it is better some one
should know the secret of this panel. My sister knew, and now, it is well
you young people should know, for if anything happens to me, you will
find all my effects here. This is my will,—as you see, I have left the
bulk of my property to Rosemary. I have, of course, left goodly bequests
to the two Mellishes, who have served me long and faithfully. Also, to
Hoskins and a few other servants. And some trifles to a few friends. The
residuary is for Rosemary, who, though not legally a Vincent, is the
child of my dear brother,—and,—I will refer to this matter for what I
trust may be the last time,—I daresay, if we knew all the circumstances
we might judge my brother more leniently than the world would if the
matter became known. So, if Rosemary does as I wish her to, and lives
here quietly with me, she will eventually have a fortune of her own.”
“What’s that key, Uncle?” Rosemary asked, more interested just then in
the contents of the opened recess than in her future financial prospects.
“That’s the key of the wine cellar, child,” and her uncle smiled. “In
these days, it is wiser to keep such things locked up, for though Mellish
is impeccable some of the newer servants may not be. Why, Rosemary, this
is doubtless what you saw glistening that night. I perhaps moved it as I
hunted for a paper,—I don’t remember precisely.”
“Yes, that was it. It shone like brass and that has a brass tag.”
“Yes, and now run away, you two. I am very tired tonight. Collins, think
twice before you run counter to my expressed desires. I do not like to
have my advice utterly ignored.”
CHAPTER XIV
FLEMING STONE ON THE CASE
Bryce Collins did think twice before he made up his mind to run counter
to Homer Vincent’s advice, but as his second thoughts coincided with
his first ones, he carried out his plan of employing the celebrated
detective, Fleming Stone, to investigate the mystery of the death of Anne
Vincent, and to endeavor to recover the stolen ruby.
On receiving word from Stone that he would come to Hilldale, Collins told
Vincent of his expected arrival.
“Very well,” Vincent returned, “I have no real objection, of course,
since you are willing to assume the expenses of the investigation. As I
told you, I have spent all I care to on the work, and, moreover, I am
convinced that my dear sister has advised me to do nothing further.”
Collins wondered at this, to him, utter foolishness, but he remembered
that, as Vincent had told him, greater minds than his own had gone over
to spiritualism, and there was no reason why Homer Vincent should not do
so.
Now and then, Vincent would tell Rosemary or Bryce Collins that his
sister had told him she would play on the Wild Harp, and always at the
appointed hour they could hear,—or imagined they heard, faint strains
from the direction of the Temple.
Collins pooh-poohed at this, but he was obliged to admit that he did hear
the sounds. Mrs. Mellish, a firm believer in the supernatural, often
heard them, whether others did or not, but the old butler only shook his
head with a patronizing grin, that seemed to pity such foolishness.
Francine, who was very quick of hearing, declared the sounds came
frequently.
“And I can tell,” she volunteered, “when it is that my adored Miss Anne
touches the strings, and when it is the music made by the dead Madame
Lamont.”
And it was into this moil of inexplicable circumstances, into this jumble
of supernaturalism and crime, into this mystery of robbery and murder,
that Fleming Stone was expected to throw himself and, by the skill of
his experienced wisdom and judgment, solve the mystery and expose the
criminal.
The police had become apathetic in the matter. One and all they agreed
that nothing could be done until the missing man, Henry Johnson, was
found. And as there was not the slightest trace of him, as there was
positively no clue or bit of evidence to show which way to search, the
police contented themselves with vague promises and hints of discoveries
that they could not yet make public.
They had done their best. They had worked on numerous theories, had
gone off on several wild-goose chases, had quizzed many people, but no
definite conclusions were forthcoming, except that Henry Johnson was the
criminal and Henry Johnson could not be found.
The few things he had left behind him were now at Police Headquarters;
the room that had been assigned to him at Greatlarch had been cleaned and
put in order, as also had Miss Anne’s room.
So, Homer Vincent advised Collins, there was no occasion, as he could
see, for the new detective to be a guest at his house. Indeed, he must
refuse to have Stone quartered there, as he felt sure he could not stand
such an intrusion on his home routine.
“But he may consider himself free to come and go as he chooses,” Vincent
conceded; “he may make all the investigations he desires, he may
question my servants or myself, or Rosemary, all he wants to. But, I beg
of you, Bryce, do make him hurry up the thing. Don’t have him dawdling
here for weeks, accomplishing nothing. It’s six weeks and more now, since
my sister’s death,—nothing has been done,—nothing will be done to solve
the mystery. But I shall put no obstacle in the way of any one’s effort,
only, do make the man work as expeditiously as possible.”
Collins understood the distaste of Homer Vincent for the thought of the
dreary repetitions of question and answer that they all knew by rote, but
which Fleming Stone must ask and learn for himself.
“I appreciate your feelings, Mr. Vincent,” Bryce assured him, “and I will
do all I can to facilitate Stone’s work and to save you all unnecessary
participation in the whole business. If you wish, I’ll take him over the
house, take him to the servants and all that. You need only answer the
questions he wishes to put directly to you.”
“Good for you, Bryce. Save me all the annoyance you can. Rosemary will
help you, and the two Mellishes. Of course, he’ll want to poke about all
over the house. Let him do so, but keep him away from me, whenever you
can.”
Bryce Collins agreed, and relieved that Vincent was even fairly affable
about it, he went off to the station to meet the detective.
It was nearing the Christmas holidays now, and though Vincent had given
no hint of his recognition of that fact, yet Collins knew that he would
be grateful if Stone could make his investigations and announce either
success or failure before the Christmastide should arrive.
Not that there would be any celebration at Greatlarch this year, but
Vincent’s nature leaned toward religious observances, and Collins knew
the season would be a sacred one to him.
Rosemary took little interest in the advent of Fleming Stone. She had no
hope that any one would ever find Johnson now. She felt that as six weeks
had elapsed, no further search could result in a discovery of the missing
man. And she was so disheartened at her own sad fate that, while she
mourned her aunt and missed her sorely, yet the avenging of her tragic
death meant less to the girl than the tragedy of her own life.
Night after night she cried herself to sleep, now resolving she would
never marry, and then almost yielding to the temptation of consenting to
Bryce’s plea that they be married at once.
But she knew Bryce’s mother, and she was not brave enough to face the
angry scorn of that haughty and aristocratic dame.
Mrs. Collins had learned of Rosemary’s refusal to marry her son, and
thoroughly approved of the girl’s decision. But should Rosemary change
her mind, Mrs. Collins was quite ready to put up a fight.
Bryce Collins was of a sanguine, hopeful nature. His strong will and
his unflinching determination were supplemented by a sublime optimism
that never gave way until forced to do so by absolutely unconquerable
circumstances.
And, quite aside from his firm belief in Stone’s ability to find the
murderer, he also was sure that the detective could be of help in
discovering the mother of Rosemary. And he had a blind faith in that
mother.
For Rosemary’s sake even more than his own, he wanted to prove her mother
of gentle birth,—perhaps a young and innocent girl led into error because
of ignorance or too blind confidence in her lover. Perhaps she had been
deceived by Carl Vincent—tricked by a false marriage, or,—Bryce couldn’t
always formulate his hopes, but at any rate he meant to have Stone look
up the matter thoroughly. It might necessitate another trip to France,
but this thought was no impediment to Collins’ flights of fancy.
He was musing on these things when the train came to a stop at the
station and a tall, good-looking man stepped off, who was, Collins felt
sure, the detective.
He was accompanied by a red-headed, eager-faced boy, whose alert blue
eyes darted comprehendingly about.
“That’s our man, F. S.,” the boy said, “that’s Mr. Collins—aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Collins said, smiling at the lad, whose cap sat saucily aslant on
his thick red hair, but who pulled it quickly off as the two men greeted
one another, and Fleming Stone added, “and this is my young assistant,
McGuire.”
“How’re you, Mr. Collins?” the boy responded, “and to people I like I’m
Fibsy. I like you.”
“Thank you, Fibsy,” Bryce smiled at him. “I hope I shall like you.”
“You bet you will. Where do we go from here?”
Bryce Collins conducted them to the village inn, which was so near-by
that they walked the short distance.
He had already engaged rooms for them, and very soon they were in
a private sitting-room and Collins was earnestly telling Stone the
principal facts of the case.
“I know a good deal from the newspaper accounts,” the detective said;
“what I want to learn is the knowledge they seemed so carefully to
withhold. Who was this Johnson man? Why did they never pick him up again?
Where is he now?”
“That’s just the point of the whole thing, Mr. Stone. Get Johnson,—and
you’ve done it all. He’s the murderer beyond all doubt—”
“How did he get in and out of the locked room?”
“That’s the question. But get Johnson and he can answer that himself.”
“Of course. Perfectly true. Now, to get a missing man, we have to trace
him. Did he leave any indicative clues?”
“That he did not! He went like a wraith—he dissolved like a mist—no one
saw him go, no one has seen him since. He made no tracks, he left no
clues.”
“Oh, come, now, I’ll bet he left clues. Only, those who saw them failed
to recognize them as such.”
“That’s what I think, Mr. Stone,” Collins spoke eagerly. “I believe
that’s right.”
“But of course there are no signs of those clues now,” Fibsy said, with
a deep sigh. “Six weeks must have obliterated all the footprints and
fingerprints there were in the first place.”
“I don’t think anybody thought of fingerprints,” Collins said, looking at
Fibsy with dawning respect. He had thought him merely Stone’s clerical
assistant, or perhaps valet, and was amazed at the boy’s intelligent gaze
and perspicacious remark.
“Not much chance for ’em, anyway,” Fibsy went on. “No use getting
Johnson’s fingerprints, if you can’t get the mitt that made ’em! No use
in getting the prints of the family and friends,—or even the servants. No
s’picion of the butler person, is there?”
“Good gracious, no,” and Collins smiled at the bare thought of suspecting
Mellish.
“No offence to His Nibs,” Fibsy offered, “but you know, quite frequently
sometimes it is Friend Butler.”
“Hush up, Fibs,” Stone admonished. “Now, Mr. Collins, I have, I think,
all the information you can give me. The rest I must get for myself. Can
I go to the house this afternoon? After I’ve had some luncheon here?”
“Yes, surely. You’ll find Mr. Vincent a reserved and perhaps curt man,
but you can depend absolutely on his sense of justice and his willingness
to have you investigate his premises. He prefers to be left out of it all
himself, as much as possible. But I assure you that he is ready to do his
part, and usually, his bark is worse than his bite.”
“Gruff old codger?” asked Fibsy.
“Not a bit of it!” and Collins smiled. “A most polished gentleman. But
bored by people and weary of the futile efforts of detectives.”
“We’re accustomed to that type,” the boy said, winking at Stone; “they
come off their perch, though, when F. Stone really gets busy. Will this
guy mind my goin’ along?”
“I think not,—but I assume you’d go just the same if he did.”
“Sure I would. F. Stone can’t do a thing without his little Fibsy by his
side. He’s that dependent on me, you wouldn’t believe!”
“Why the cheerful nickname?” Collins couldn’t help liking the boy.
“That’s just it! ’Cause I’m such a cheerful liar. Why, it’s no more
trouble for me to tell a whopper than for F. Stone to tell the gospel
truth!”
“There now, McGuire, keep quiet. You’re too chatty this morning.”
“Gotta stop!” and the lad made a wry face. “When he calls me McGuire, he
means business. No more funny chatter from this baby. All right,—here’s
where I shut up.” And from then on, the boy made no remark, but his sharp
eyes showed perception and comprehension and his wise little head nodded
now and then, as Collins discussed the matter somewhat further with
Fleming Stone.
That afternoon the pair of detectives went to Greatlarch.
Collins was there before them and introduced them to Homer Vincent and
Rosemary.
Fibsy was very quiet, acknowledging his presentation by a respectful nod
of his red head, but Fleming Stone was a little more self-assertive than
was usual for him.
Fibsy looked at his chief in silent wonder as Stone shook hands a little
effusively with Homer Vincent, and said, “How do you do, my dear?” to
Rosemary.
It was quite foreign to Stone’s custom to be so familiar, and when he
followed it up by settling himself, unasked, in an easy chair, Fibsy’s
self-addressed “Gee!” was almost audible.
“Wonderful house, Mr. Vincent,” was Stone’s appreciative comment, as he
gazed around him.
They were in the reception room, which was also a Tower room, opposite
the room that Vincent used for his own.
“Yes,” the host replied, a bit curtly, and waited for further speech from
his guest.
Suddenly Stone’s manner changed.
“I am here, Mr. Vincent,” he said, “to discover, if I can, who killed
your sister. But I am told by Mr. Collins, that you do not wish to pursue
this inquiry further, because of supernatural revelations you have had.
Is this true?”
“Quite true, Mr. Stone.” Vincent spoke courteously but wearily, as if
wishing to be done with the interview. “I daresay you do not believe in
the occult—”
“Pardon me, do you consider the occult and the supernatural synonymous
terms?”
“I don’t care to go into the technical definitions of those terms,”
Vincent returned; “my belief in the revelations I have received from the
spirit of my dead sister is not based on study or research into these
questions. It is solely based on the evidence of my own senses and an
inner conviction that my senses in no way deceived me.”
“I am interested,” Stone said; “how were these messages received, may I
ask? Through the assistance of a Ouija Board or a human medium?”
“Neither, sir. The messages were spoken to me by my sister’s voice in the
dead of night—”
“You’re sure you were awake?”
“As wide awake as I am this minute. She spoke low but clearly to me,
and begged me, for her sake, to desist from these futile delvings into
what must ever remain a mystery. Now, Mr. Stone, I am not asking you to
desist nor am I desirous of hindering your search,—only I do want you to
understand my attitude, and be good enough to leave me out as a factor of
your plans.”
“I will do so, Mr. Vincent, as far as I can, without too much hampering
my own work. If, however, you give me your permission to examine the
house, and grounds,—to interview your servants—and to ask you a question
or two, if and when necessary, I think I may safely promise you immunity
from annoyance.”
“Thank you,” and Vincent looked relieved. “I will then, if you please,
excuse myself now, and leave you to your own procedure. Touch the bell
for my butler, and he will arrange for your interviews with the other
servants.”
Homer Vincent rose and left the room, his slight limp appearing a little
more in evidence than usual.
After Vincent’s departure, the detective sat a moment in deep thought.
Bryce Collins put this down to a desire to appear profound and weighted
down by care.
Rosemary thought it was merely the habit of any detective to sit and
ponder at intervals.
But Fibsy knew at once that, somehow, somewhere, Stone had seen or heard
something indicative. Something had demanded immediate and serious
thought. Not for worlds would the boy have spoken then. Nothing would
have induced him to blurt out some of his saucy speeches. He watched
the play of Stone’s features, he gazed eagerly in his face for a sign
of what was passing in his mind. But though grave and preoccupied, the
detective’s face gave no hint of the trend his thoughts were taking.
After a few moments, however, he roused himself and with a brisk air
turned to Collins.
“Now, for an examination of the house,” he said; “though I fear I may
become so engrossed in the marvels of architecture and decoration as to
forget my main business here.”
“That’s what Mr. Johnson did,” Rosemary said.
“You didn’t see him?” and Stone turned to her quickly.
“No,” Rosemary was almost frightened at his suddenness, “no, the butler
told me. He said Mr. Johnson was overcome with admiration and wonder.
Indeed, he must have been, to have wandered about nearly all night.”
“Where do you suppose he wandered?” Stone said, musingly.
“I don’t know, I’m sure, but he couldn’t have been in his room long, as
it was so undisturbed.”
“Oh,” Stone sighed deeply, “if I’d only been here at once. I suppose all
the rooms he might have visited that night, in his tour of admiration,
have since been swept and garnished, dusted and polished to the last
degree!”
“Yes, they have,” said Rosemary. “The detectives looked them all over and
said Mr. Johnson left no clues.”
“Ugh-h-h!” Fibsy’s grunt was one of utter disdain for the detectives who
could find nothing to detect. Without a word, he conveyed the idea that
Fleming Stone would have found plenty of evidence from those cursorily
examined rooms.
“Here’s one clue they found,” Rosemary said. She was anxious to help and
she was deeply interested in the new detective.
Aside from his chivalrous courtesy, Fleming Stone had great charm when
he chose to exercise it, and feeling exceedingly sorry for the girl,
whose story Collins had already told him, he paid her such pleasant and
deferential attention that she was glad to offer any information.
From a table-drawer she took the long-handled cigarette-holder which had
been found out in the grounds.
“This is known to be Mr. Johnson’s,” she said, “and as it was found
outside, we assume he strolled round the grounds.”
“Wasn’t it a cold, snowy night?”
“Not after midnight. I came home about twelve—or, nearer one,—and it had
stopped snowing, though it was cold. But not too cold for a walk.”
“Yet remember he had on no hat or overcoat.”
“Oh, he may have had,” Collins interposed. “He wore none when he went
away, after the crime. But he may have strolled round the grounds before
that, with his hat and coat on, and then he dropped his cigarette-holder.”
“Odd thing to do,” Stone observed. “Yet he may have thought he slipped it
in his pocket and it fell to the ground. You’re sure it is his?”
“Yes, Mellish recognized it as the one he used after dinner,” Rosemary
answered him.
“Let me see Mellish,” Stone said, abruptly, and the butler was called.
“Now, I don’t want a lot of information, Mellish,” Stone said,
pleasantly. “Just tell me anything you can remember of Mr. Johnson’s
conversation at dinner that evening he dined here.”
Mellish looked blank. Evidently he had expected quite different inquiries.
“Well, now, sir, I’m not sure I can remember much of that. I opine
it’s as evidence you want this, and I must have a care that I do not
undervalue its importance.”
Stone suppressed a smile at the rather grandiloquent air of the speaker
and Fibsy stared at him, fascinated.
“Yes, it is important,” Stone assured him, “so tell it as accurately as
you can. What subjects did the visitor choose for conversation?”
“Well, sir, he didn’t do much of the choosing. I should say Mr. Vincent
selected the topics of dissertation. And, as I recollect, two or three
times, Mr. Johnson began a sentence, and Mr. Vincent would say, ‘No,
no, we must not discuss business at the table.’ It is a sovereignal
rule of Mr. Vincent, sir, never to talk on business or any serious
matters at meal-times. He held that table-talk must ever be light and
agreeable,—yes, sir, light and agreeable.”
“And you think the subject of Mr. Johnson’s business with Mr. Vincent was
not an agreeable subject?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, sir. I opine it was agreeable enough, but of a
serious nature,—yes, sir, of a serious nature.”
“Just what did Mr. Johnson start to say, when Mr. Vincent asked him not
to introduce the subject? Anything regarding rubies?”
“No, sir—it was more in the line of remingincence,—yes, sir,
remingincence. Once, I recollect, Mr. Johnson said, ‘You see, I was his
confidential clerk—’ he said that just as I was entering the room with
my tray, and I heard that much, and then Mr. Vincent said, ‘No, no, my
friend, no reference to business just now, if you please,’ or something
like that.”
“Never mind the exact words of Mr. Vincent, but try to remember more of
the speeches of Mr. Johnson. You see, Mellish, it is most important that
we get a line on what sort of a gentleman he was. And I don’t want to
trouble Mr. Vincent in these matters unless necessary.”
“Yes, sir, I see. Well, Mr. Johnson was remarking on the beauty of the
house, you see, and he said, quite impressive like, ‘but it doesn’t make
me forget my real errand here,—I am here for a purpose,—’ and then again
Mr. Vincent told him to wait till after dinner to discuss the business
that brought him here.”
“Any more?”
“Well, he spoke of a trust—”
“Do you think he meant a great jewel trust? Or Jewelers’ Union?”
“Oh, no, sir! Not at all. He meant a trust had been given to him—a sacred
trust, he called it.”
“Oh, then that had nothing to do with the business in hand.”
“Well, I don’t know, sir. Mr. Vincent shut him off again, just the same
way.”
“Perhaps it referred to Miss Anne’s ruby. Was that a trust to her for any
one else?”
“Not that I know of, sir.”
CHAPTER XV
A FEW DEDUCTIONS
Fleming Stone and his red-headed assistant sat in their little parlor at
the Hilldale inn.
They had not said much as yet about the Vincent mystery, but each was
thinking deeply.
At last, Stone, with a straightforward glance at the boy, said:
“Find Henry Johnson.”
“Find Henry Johnson,” Fibsy repeated, but he added a prolonged wink, that
left him with one blue eye staring wide open and the other optic tightly
closed.
“Meaning?” asked Stone, meditatively, gazing at this expressive facial
contortion.
“Meaning,” returned Fibsy, his closed eye once more opening to the world
at large, “that Mr. Henry Johnson is going to be hard to find—very hard
to find.”
“Meaning, again?”
“Why, that a man who has been tee-tum-tee-totally missing for something
over six weeks, isn’t going to be picked up overnight, is he, now, F.
Stone?”
“Perhaps not, Fibs, but the first move on our chess-board is to find him.
Now, for a systematic search, let’s first observe his clothing,—which is,
I believe, at the Police Station.”
“Eccentric guy, Henry,—isn’t he?” and Fibsy’s blue eyes stared out over
his tightly closed fists, on which his cheeks rested.
“As how?”
“As to his occupation all through the night. Say, he pulled off his
robbery and murder stunt at seven A.M., which is what the doctors put the
time at. Then, as Mr. Vincent left his visitor at about eleven, that man
was so interested in the beautiful house that he prowled around it for
eight mortal hours! Going some,—F. Stone,—going some!”
“All right, but what else did he do? We know he didn’t go to bed. He
may have lain down on some sofa or couch for a nap,—and, remember the
cigarette-holder,—that proves he went for a walk round the grounds.”
“Out back to that Spooky Hollow place, I s’pose. Investigatin’ the Spooky
Harp and the Spooky Lady who plays on it. Well, I reckernize all that,
but I still say he was a long time a pokin’ around especially as the
night watchman never caught a peek of him.”
“Then it must be that he did drop down on some convenient couch for a
nap. Lord knows, there are plenty of them here and there, all over that
house. I saw a dozen.”
“Yes, Mr. Vincent is of a home comforts type. Why, the swivel chair in
his private office room is all cushioned and upholstered.”
“And Johnson may have taken his doze in a chair. But it makes little
difference where he spent the night, the point is, where is he now? and
can we trace him from the clothes and clues he left behind him?”
“You can, F. Stone. That’s your business, isn’t it? Why, the man is as
good as caught already!”
“That will do, McGuire, this is no time for foolery. Come along now to
the Headquarters, and for Heaven’s sake, keep your eyes open. The trails
are very stale, and we shall be hard put to it to read much from them.”
But when Stone was given the hat and coat of the missing man, his eyes
lighted up with expectancy.
“This hat tells us a lot,” he said, and Brown and Brewster, who had come
to listen to the celebrated detective’s deductions, drew nearer.
“It is brand-new, it shows that Mr. Johnson has a large head, that he
is slightly bald, that he had just had a hair-cut, that, though this is
a Derby, he usually wore a soft hat,—that he didn’t like this hat at
all,—and that may be the reason he didn’t wear it when he went away.
It also tells us that Mr. Johnson is of a pronounced brunette type,
with dark hair and eyes, and of a strong, vigorous vitality. But these
descriptive bits are of little use, for we already know the appearance
and personality of the man. We are not trying to discover who owns this
hat, but where he is.”
“All the same, your deductions are mighty interesting,” Brown said, his
eyes shining with curiosity. “And, though it may seem a, b, c to you,
won’t you tell us how you got those facts?”
Stone answered this categorically, saying, “His head must be large,
because this hat is seven and a half, and yet it shows signs on the
sweat-band of having been pulled down hard, to fit on his head. He had a
recent hair-cut, because a few short hairs are caught in the tiny bow of
silk braid inside the hat, and he was probably bald, because there is a
faint odor of a certain lotion that I know is used in many barber shops
as a hair stimulant. He was accustomed to a soft hat, for on each side
of this crown you may see rubbed places, where he has absent-mindedly
grasped it in one hand as one does a soft hat. I feel sure he didn’t
like a hat that was too tight for him, and was stiff and uncomfortable
compared to a Fedora, yet it doesn’t seem quite plausible to assume that
as the reason for his leaving it behind him. I think it more likely, that
he wore this hat when out strolling round the grounds, but he did not
have it on when he committed the crime, and that he hastened away after
that, in such a hurry, or in such a distraction of mind, that he did not
then return to his room for his hat.
“Of course the deductions as to his personal appearance are based on
these few short, strong black hairs, which naturally connote a brunette
type and the dark eyes and physical vigor that accompany that coloring.
“But, as I say, these traits of Mr. Johnson are known to Mr. Vincent,
and so are of no further importance. What we want is some clue that may
suggest his possible destination on leaving Greatlarch. Let me see the
coat.”
The coat proved to be an ordinary, fairly expensive overcoat,—new, and
of good style. There was nothing in the pockets but a handkerchief, also
new, and unmarked, a pair of new gloves, that had not even been tried
on, and, in a small pocket, evidently meant for the purpose, less than a
dollar in silver, doubtless to be handy for car-fare or tips.
“All just as we found it,” Brewster told him, and Stone looked
regretfully at the gloves.
“What can anybody learn from new gloves?” he said, dejectedly, “except
the size of his hands and the type of his haberdashery, which is in no
way helpful. But why did the man have this entire new outfit merely to
come up here on a business errand? The fact that all his things are so
very new is a peculiar circumstance in itself.”
“Here’s his umbrella,” Brewster said; “this isn’t so new. You see it has
his monogram on the handle.”
“A monogrammed umbrella is an unusual thing for any one,” Stone said.
“Probably given him by his Sunday-school class,” Fibsy put in.
“More likely by a rich maiden aunt,” Brown suggested. “Makers of
synthetic rubies are not apt to be of a religious tendency. However,
it’s a fine umbrella.”
It was, and Stone examined it closely. Of thick, rich black silk, it had
a silver-mounted handle, which showed an H and a J intertwined in an
elaborate monogram.
The ribs were of the best, and aside from the maker’s name, there seemed
no other details to note.
“Observe the monogram, McGuire,” Stone said, quietly, passing it to the
boy.
Gravely, Fibsy scrutinized the chased letters, and his round, freckled
face drew itself into a frown of perplexity.
A quick glance at Stone showed him that there was something to be learned
from the monogram, but, for once, Terence McGuire was dense or ignorant.
“I can’t see it, F. Stone,” he said, in a chagrined tone. “What is it?”
“Oh, nothing. Just get the monogram fixed in your mind,—carry away a
mental picture of it.”
So Fibsy looked hard at the deeply engraved H and the long, slender J
that ran down through the middle of it, after the manner of monograms,
and then declared he knew it so well he could draw it in the dark, with
his eyes shut and both hands tied behind him.
“What about the monogram, Mr. Stone?” Brewster asked, but Stone only
shook his head, saying: “perhaps nothing, perhaps a signboard pointing to
the truth. As soon as I find out which, I’ll tell you. At any rate the
umbrella, though well preserved and cared for, is not a brand-new one.
Where’s his bag?”
The kitbag was brought, but if the audience expected any sensational
deductions by Fleming Stone, they were disappointed. He ran over
carelessly the few black rubber-backed brushes and the few new, unmarked
pieces of underwear. He glanced at the necktie and handkerchiefs. All
new, and all of fairly good quality, without being elaborate or expensive.
The atomizer interested him rather more.
“Isn’t there a bottle of lotion to go with this?” he asked.
“That’s what we wondered,” said Brown, eagerly, glad to have his thoughts
coincide with those of the great detective.
“There’s almost nothing in it,” Stone went on, “and from the odor I
gather it’s an antiseptic preparation,—doubtless for some catarrhal
affection. Where’s the vial? There must be one, and it may have a
chemist’s name on it.”
“There isn’t any bottle, Mr. Stone, and there was none in his room or his
bathroom. He must have forgotten to bring it.”
“He forgot to bring anything indicative of his identity!” Stone said.
“For a man on a short business trip, he had fewer personal articles of
property than any one I ever saw! It would almost seem as if he were
desirous of hiding his identity.”
“Yet there’s no rhyme or reason to that,” put in Brewster, “he sent his
name in to Mr. Vincent, and his umbrella bears witness that it was his
real name.”
“Who brought him up from the station to Mr. Vincent’s house?” asked
Stone, suddenly.
“Prout, the taxi driver,” Brown said. “The Vincent butler told me so.”
“Has Prout been interviewed?”
“Yes, Mr. Stone, I questioned him myself,” Brewster stated; “he said
nothing of interest. Merely described the man as we’ve already had his
description, said he came up on the New York train—”
“That’s a New York timetable in his bag,” Brown interposed. “And it is
the only scrap of paper he seemed to possess.”
“He took his money and papers with him,” Stone said; “but can I see this
Prout for myself, Mr. Brewster?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll send for him at once.”
And when Prout arrived, he gave, practically, the same description of the
brunette Johnson, that Stone had already heard.
“Tell me of his manner,” Stone said; “was he business-like?”
“Oh, Lord, yes. Spry and sort of up-and-coming, he was. Wanted to know a
lot about Mr. Vincent, he did.”
“He had never seen him before?”
“Well, they say he hadn’t, and I dunno’s he had,—no, sir, I dunno’s he
had. But he did ask me right first-off if Mr. Vincent’s leg had healed
yet.”
“I noticed Mr. Vincent limped a little,” Stone said, “what’s the trouble?”
“He broke his leg some few years ago, sir, and they’ve never been quite
the same length since. Jest a mite of a limp,—as you could see. But this
man musta known that, ’cause he asked me right outen a clear sky, did
Mr. Vincent’s leg get well. So, I says to myself, he’s an old friend.
Well, sir, then he asked me was Mr. Vincent married! Ho, ho,—to think of
Homer Vincent bein’ married! Why there ain’t an unlikelier marryin’ man
on the footstool than Homer Vincent! That there ain’t!”
“But Johnson could scarcely be an old friend without knowing that,” Stone
observed.
“That’s jest it! And yet, he knew of Mr. Vincent’s brother and his sister
and his niece.”
“You’re sure? He didn’t gather the facts of these relationships from
something you said?”
“No, he didn’t. For I said somethin’ about Miss Vincent and he said did I
mean Miss Rosemary.”
“Then he knew of the niece. What else did he say?”
“Not much else. Oh, yep, I spoke of Mr. Vincent as the old man,—not
meanin’ no disrespect, but jest in a manner o’ speakin’, an’ he says,
sharp like, ‘Why do you call him an old man?’ an’ I says, ‘Thasso, he
can’t be more’n fifty.’ An’ he can’t neither.”
“This is all interesting, Mr. Prout, but it only proves that Mr. Johnson
knew some things about Mr. Homer, which he might easily have learned from
hearsay. There’s nothing, so far, to indicate that they had ever met
before.”
“I dessay that’s so,—an’ yet, somehow, he gimme the impression that he
had seen the man. Maybe he hadn’t, though,—maybe he hadn’t.”
“Mr. Vincent said he was an entire stranger,” Brewster stated; “I see no
reason to doubt his word.”
“Me nuther,” said Prout. “An’ when I told Mr. Johnson that Mr. Vincent
was an inventor, he was surprised and interested.”
“He would be,” said Stone, “because of his interest in the manufacture of
his rubies. But I didn’t know Homer Vincent was an inventor.”
“Oh, he just putters about, making up odd tricks,” Brown said, smiling.
“He isn’t an inventor by way of patenting things, or manufacturing them.”
“What line do his inventions take?” Stone inquired.
“Mostly electrical,” Brewster informed him. “Little contraptions to make
bells ring in his house where he wants them. Speaking-tubes from his
rooms to the servants’ quarters. I’ve seen them in use. They’re a little
more elaborate and ingenious than other folks have. And they say he rigs
them up himself.”
“Well, Mr. Prout,” Stone addressed him, “I think you have given me about
all the information you can, and I thank you. Now, one more question.
Merely as an observer of human nature, would you say that your fare that
day was a man bent on a sinister errand, I mean on an errand of evil
intent,—or merely on a matter of business?”
Prout considered.
“Well, sir,” he said, at last, “it’s sorter hard to tell. But, while I
wouldn’t wanta say that Mr. Johnson was on any such devilish errand as he
carried out before he left, yet I will say that he had a more personal
interest in Mr. Vincent and his home and his family than I’d expect from
a man comin’ on a plain matter o’ business. He was sorta excited an’
eager-like,—more’n you’d expect from a agent for a jewelry house.”
“I see,—he anticipated some pleasure or profit from his visit beside the
business proposition he was to make.”
“That’s it, sir. And without meanin’ to do more’n I oughter in the way o’
deducin’—or whatever you call it,—I might make a guess that he was a bit
interested in Miss Rosemary.”
Fleming Stone’s heart gave a sudden thump. Bryce Collins had told him
that Mr. Vincent had hinted that the murderer might be some of the girl’s
disreputable kinsfolk,—on her mother’s side. Suppose this were true!
“Why did you think that?” he asked, sharply.
“Oh, come now, I didn’t exactly think it,—only just the way he said Miss
Rosemary’s name, made me think he might be sweet on her.”
“Oh, that!” Stone was relieved. “But how could he know the girl, when he
didn’t know her uncle?”
“I don’t say he did know her—only, I sorta imagined he sounded interested
in her.”
“Probably it was imagination,” and Stone declared the whole interview at
an end.
As he and Fibsy left the place, the detective proposed that Prout drive
them out to the Vincent home, and as they went the trio chatted casually
of the whole matter. But no detail of importance could Stone gain
further, and when they reached their destination, he discarded the idea
of the taxi driver as a source of information.
Before entering the house, Stone took a short walk round the grounds.
He found the place where, as he had been told, the cigarette-holder had
been picked up.
It was perhaps twenty-five or thirty feet from the broken stone fence
that marked off the dark glade known as Spooky Hollow.
“Don’t wonder at the name? Do you?” Fibsy said, shuddering at the dark
and dense gloom of the tangled underbrush in the thicket.
“No, it’s an eerie place,” and Stone gazed thoughtfully into its depths.
“I don’t want to get all messed up, but I wish, Terence, you’d go in
there some time, and see just what’s inside. Probably nothing at all, and
yet, you might get a pointer.”
“All right, F. S., I’ll tend to that same errand soon’s I can. Or shall I
go right now, immejit?”
“No, tomorrow will do. Wear your oldest clothes.”
“Yes, sir. What’m I to look for?”
“I can’t think of anything,” Stone smiled. “But it seems a place to be
explored, that’s all. A place called Spooky Hollow is suggestive of
spooks, isn’t it? You might find a few.”
“’Tis the same as done, sir,” and Fibsy nodded his red shock in a
promissory way.
In the house they found Bryce Collins and Rosemary, in what seemed to be
a desperate controversy.
The girl’s lovely face was tear-stained and her lips quivered, as she
greeted Stone.
Fibsy’s tender heart was torn, for beauty in distress was one thing he
could not bear to see. At heart the boy was a squire of dames, and his
first sight of Rosemary had enlisted his whole-hearted sympathy in her
cause.
“We’ve been looking at Spooky Hollow,” said Stone, by way of a casual
remark to dispel the awkwardness of the scene.
Rosemary controlled her voice and responded, “It’s a shame to use that
name for such a lovely place, don’t you think so?”
“I do,” Stone agreed, “unless there are really spooks out there. In that
case, it’s appropriate. Are there, Miss Vincent?”
“I’ve never seen any,” she gave a half smile and then her face turned
very serious. “But I have heard the Wild Harp, Mr. Stone,—how do you
explain that?”
“Tell me of it,—describe it exactly, will you?”
“Why, there’s little to tell—it’s just a wave of faint music that sounds
now and then.”
“Like an æolian harp?”
“No—not exactly. It’s more like—well, I may as well say that it sounds
more like ghostly music than anything else I can think of.”
“How do you know how ghostly music sounds?” and Stone smiled at her.
“Why, I don’t—of course,—but it’s so faint and sweet and—”
“Is there an air—a tune?”
“No, not a definite tune—more like a wailing strain, that has no
beginning or end.”
“And that makes it ghostly?”
“Now, you’re laughing at me, Mr. Stone,” and Rosemary’s color returned to
her cheeks, and she was again her own charming self.
“Indeed, I’m not. And, I’m told that this Harp plays at certain times, in
accordance with advices from the spirit world.”
“Oh, not quite that!” Rosemary looked surprised. “But they say when it
does sound, it forbodes disaster.”
“And it sounded the night of your aunt’s death?”
“Yes, I heard it myself, between two and three.”
“Will you call your butler, Miss Vincent?”
Mellish appeared in answer to a summons, and Fleming Stone turned to him
at once.
“Mellish,” he said, “have you ever heard this Wild Harp?”
Though he tried to suppress it, a faint smile came to the face of the
butler.
“Well, sir,—I may say I have. But, if you’re thinking seriously as to its
being of a supernatural persuasion,—I opine sir, as it isn’t.”
“H’m, and what do you opine causes the music?”
“I’m not free of speech, not free to say, sir,—but ’tis my notion that
those who hear it have the imagination strongly developed.”
“Ah, you think it is a freak of their fancy?”
“Just that, sir.”
“Yes; and now, Mellish, I want to check up on something you said. You
know we’re trying every possible way to find Henry Johnson.”
“Yes, sir, I am aware of your endeavors in that direction.”
“Very well. Now, you know he came here to see Mr. Vincent about making
rubies?”
“Yes, sir,—that’s no secret, sir.”
“No, it is not. Mr. Vincent told it himself. But the making of rubies is
not so common a business but that we ought to be able to trace a man who
makes it his calling.”
“Common a business it may not be, but Mr. Johnson is the second man,
within a month or so, to come here to see Mr. Vincent about it.”
“Doubtless the same man—”
“Oh, no, sir, the other man was quite different—”
“I mean, probably from the same firm of manufacturers.”
“It may be. The other man’s name was Markham,—or something like that—”
“Never mind that now,” Stone spoke a little impatiently, “what I want to
know is about the Wild Harp. But, not now, Mellish, it’s later than I
thought. I’ll see you about that tomorrow. You may go now.”
As the butler left the room, Stone said to Bryce Collins, “I suppose, Mr.
Collins, I am to make my report of my findings to you?”
“Why, yes, Mr. Stone,—but if you have any developments of importance to
tell of, it might be a good idea to ask Mr. Vincent if he wants to hear
them. He—well, I don’t want to seem to neglect him.”
“That’s true, call him, if you like.”
Homer Vincent came at the summons. He looked anxious to hear the report
and was most courteous and gracious to Stone.
“I haven’t learned very much,” Fleming Stone said, “but I have found out
these things. The man who came here the day Miss Vincent died was not
named Henry Johnson. His initials were not H. J. He didn’t come to see
about synthetic rubies; he didn’t murder Miss Vincent, and he didn’t
steal her famous jewel.”
CHAPTER XVI
FIBSY EXPLORES
Rosemary and Bryce Collins looked at the detective in blank amazement.
Fibsy sat listening, open-minded and receptive. He knew that if Fleming
Stone said the missing man’s name was not Henry Johnson, it wasn’t. But
he had no data on which to hazard a guess as to what the right name might
be, so he waited.
Homer Vincent, however, showed a decided interest in Stone’s statements.
“Do you know,” he said, “I am not surprised to learn that the man used
an assumed name. I suspected it from his little start of surprise when I
called him Johnson, now and then. Just as a man would, if he were using
the wrong name, and forgot it occasionally. But I don’t understand why
you say those are not his initials on the umbrella. Of course, it might
be somebody else’s umbrella—”
“No, Mr. Vincent,” Stone said, “it is his umbrella all right. But the
initials on it are J. H. and not H. J.”
“Now how in the world do you know that?” Collins exclaimed. “How can you
tell?”
“Because the H is a trifle larger. Monograms are invariably made with the
initial of the surname larger than the initial of the Christian name, and
the H in this case, though nearly the same size as the J, is, in fact, a
little larger and more prominent. See for yourself.”
Stone left the room a moment and returned with the umbrella, which he had
borrowed from the police and left in the coat room of Greatlarch.
They all scrutinized the engraved letters and were forced to the
conclusion that Stone was right.
“This complicates matters,” Vincent said, thoughtfully. “He told me his
name was Johnson and that he lived at the Walford, in New York. Perhaps
that was also a fictitious address. And you think his errand about the
synthetic rubies was also faked, Mr. Stone? Then he came purposely to
murder my sister—”
Homer Vincent was staggered by the thoughts that rushed to his mind
consequent upon these new disclosures of Stone’s.
“But Mr. Stone says that man didn’t kill Antan!” put in Rosemary. “Do
you know who did, Mr. Stone?”
“Not positively,” said Stone. “I shall have to go down to New York and
see what I can do—”
“Perhaps he had an accomplice,” suggested Vincent. “I hadn’t thought of
that before.”
“No, I hadn’t, either,” Stone said. “Perhaps he had. At any rate, I will
go down to New York tomorrow, and I will ask you all to say nothing to
any one of my findings. I speak confidentially to you here, because Mr.
Collins is my employer, and Mr. Vincent and Miss Rosemary are the ones
chiefly interested in avenging the murder.”
“Aside from the identity of the murderer, Mr. Stone, how do you explain
the locked door?”
“That’s hard to explain, Mr. Vincent. The doctors state the murder was
committed not more than an hour or so before the body was discovered.
That makes it about seven o’clock or after. But I have talked with the
little maid, Francine, and she vows no one was in or near Miss Vincent’s
room after six, that morning. She says her room is next to that her
mistress occupied and that she was awake from six o’clock on. She
declares no intruder could have made his way in without her hearing him.”
“Then,” Vincent spoke seriously, “then do you still discard my suggestion
of possible supernatural forces, Mr. Stone?”
“I most certainly do, Mr. Vincent. Had the lady been killed by shock or
fright, there might be a reason to consider an apparition or a phantom
visitant, but not even a spook from Spooky Hollow could stab its victim
to the heart with a real dagger.”
“Of course not,” and Homer Vincent sighed and shook his head.
“Go on, then,” he continued. “Now that you have a definite proposition to
work on and a hope of discovering the criminal, I renew my offer of funds
for the enterprise. Go to New York, Mr. Stone, use every endeavor to find
out the real name of the man who called himself Johnson, and send all
your bills to me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Vincent,” Bryce Collins said, gratefully. “You take a
load off my shoulders! I’m willing enough to stand all the expense, but I
haven’t your resources, and mine are running low.”
“That’s all right, Bryce,—the thing must be pushed through. And since Mr.
Stone seems sanguine, I can only hope his quest will succeed.”
And then, with a murmured word of excuse, Vincent left the room.
“He’s often like that,” Rosemary said, looking affectionately after him.
“He gets weary and sad at this continual discussion of Antan’s murder.
Now, he’ll go and play the organ.”
Which is just what Vincent did. Soon, they could hear muted strains of
soft music rolling through the house.
“Yes, he’s sad,” Rosemary reiterated, as she listened a moment to the
chords. “Not worried or revengeful, so much as deeply sorrowful. I can
always tell by what he plays.”
Fibsy, always interested in an unfamiliar phase of human behavior, went
softly out into the marble vestibule that led to the organ room.
Stepping up into the balcony that overlooked the great church-like room,
the boy listened to the music Homer Vincent produced.
Without musical education Fibsy had a natural appreciation of harmony,
and as he raptly listened he felt almost as if he could read what was in
the mind of the player. At least, he sensed the tragedy that filled the
soul of the man at the keyboard, and realized in part, at any rate, what
he suffered.
Fleming Stone, alone with the two young lovers, was so gentle, so
sympathetic, that before they knew it they were pouring out to him all
the details of the other tragedy of Rosemary’s birth.
“It must be looked into,” Stone said, with decision. “I’m sure, Miss
Vincent, you would rather know the worst, than to live in ignorance of
the truth.”
“Yes,” but the girl hesitated. “I’m not sure. Suppose my mother was—”
“Don’t look at it like that. Your own refinement and good taste point
to an ancestry of the right sort of people. Don’t let yourself think
otherwise.”
But this speech was not entirely sincere. Stone, always sympathetic in
sorrow, merely said what he could to comfort the girl at the moment.
After the murder business was settled, he proposed to take up the matter
of Rosemary’s parentage. But he could not attend to both at once and he
hated to have her grieve unnecessarily.
“And your uncle is right, to a degree,” he said, after she and Collins
had told the details of Vincent’s restrictions. “I don’t know him as well
as you do, but I can see he is a high-minded gentleman with a right
appreciation of his family responsibilities. Also, I see how dependent he
is for happiness on the creature comforts of life. A door left open or
slammed shut, a delayed answer to his summons, an intrusion on his hours
of privacy,—any such things would, I am sure, annoy him to distraction,
when another type of man wouldn’t even notice them.”
“That’s just exactly Uncle Homer!” Rosemary cried. “You read him
perfectly!”
“And I can read you too, my dear,” Stone smiled at her. “You love life
and young society and parties and attentions from the young men. You’d
love to entertain lavishly in this beautiful home,—to fill these great
rooms with gay and merry guests, to have all sorts of wonderful clothes
and jewels,—come, now, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, indeed!” and Rosemary flushed with pleasure at his mere suggestion
of such delights. “But I know I oughtn’t to think of such things and I
ought to be deeply grateful to Uncle Homer because he lets me stay here.”
“That is true, Rosemary.” Stone spoke very gravely. “It might well have
been his way to ask you to live elsewhere. And since he offers you a
home here with stipulations, you should obey him, however unpleasant to
you his restrictions are.”
“I know it,” but the girl’s lip quivered a little and her golden-brown
eyes filled with tears at thought of her stained name as well as her
uncongenial life.
“You’re sure your uncle has no further knowledge of your mother than he
has told you?” Stone inquired. “He’s not the sort of man to conceal some
fact that he thinks might make you even more sad than you are now?”
“No, I don’t think so,—do you, Bryce?”
“No, sir, I don’t. Mr. Vincent has been frank and outspoken in all of our
discussions of the subject. I feel grateful to him, as Rosemary does,
but I think he might allow her a little more freedom. However, as soon
as I can persuade her to consent, I mean to marry her, and take her far
away from all people who know her at all. We shall start a new life for
ourselves—”
“No, we will not!” Rosemary said, decidedly. “I shall never marry
anybody. An illegitimate child has no right to marry.”
“Tell me again,” Stone said to her, “of your homecoming that night. You
saw no sign of a guest in the house?”
“No, but that is not strange. I didn’t look in the general coat room, of
course, and he had left none of his belongings anywhere else.”
“You went around first, and peeped in at your uncle’s window. Why did you
do that?”
“Partly to see if he was likely to hear me come in—it was late—and partly
because I saw from the driveway a very bright light in that room. An
unusually bright light, so that I thought the room was afire.”
“What caused it?”
“Oh, only that uncle’s open fire chanced to be blazing brightly. Then I
saw him, and saw he was so engrossed in his papers and letters that I
could take the chance of slipping in unobserved, and I did.”
“And you saw him putting away something glittering?”
“Yes, that was the key of the wine cellar. I suppose that he had Mellish
get out some special wine for his visitor.”
“Well, my child, I will do all I can for you later on, but now the case
of your aunt will demand all my attention. I want a little talk with your
uncle before I go, but perhaps we’d better not call him from the organ.
I also want to talk with the maid who assisted your butler in serving at
the table the night Mr. Johnson was here. Will you call her, please, and
leave us together?”
The waitress, Katie, was summoned; and, a trifle shy, she came in and
stood before the detective.
“Sit down, Katie,” he said, kindly. “Now, I’m not going to ask you
anything of great importance, just try to remember anything Mr. Johnson
may have said at the table that night. Anything at all. I don’t suppose
you pay much attention to the talk of the guests as you wait on them, but
you may recollect something he said—try now.”
“I don’t remember a thing,” the girl declared, and she was so positive,
Stone wondered at first if some one had forbidden her to speak.
But he discarded that idea when Katie, under the influence of his
encouraging smiles, began to recollect a stray word or two.
“He said the house was pretty—” she vouchsafed at last, with a timid air.
“Yes,” Stone egged her on. “And did he say anything about his own
home—where he lived?”
“Oh, yes,—he said he came from New York,—but I don’t think he lived
there, because he said, ‘what fine hotels there are in New York.’”
“To be sure. And maybe he mentioned the one he was staying at—”
“Yes, he did that! He said he left his trunk at the Vandermore, and that
was why he didn’t have any evening clothes to wear here. He said he
didn’t expect to stay here overnight—but he was glad he did because he
liked the house so much.”
“Just crazy over the house, wasn’t he?”
“Oh, he was, sir. And he said, if he ever had a voice in the matter he’d
cut out a lot of trees,—he thought there were too many.”
“H’m, did he expect to buy the house?”
“Oh, no, sir, he was just joking,—you could tell that.”
“Of course. Anything else?”
“No, sir, but one time I heard him mention Miss Rosemary’s name.”
“As if he knew her?”
“No, sir, more as if he wanted Mr. Vincent or Miss Vincent to tell him
something about her. More as if he had heard of her—”
“I see. Most natural, I’m sure. Well, Katie, you gathered he had never
been here before?”
“Oh, no sir, I’m sure he hadn’t.”
“Well, run along,—Katie. If you think of anything more you heard the
gentleman say, you can let me know. Tell Mellish to bring you to me, in
such a case.”
“Yes, sir,—thank you, sir.”
With a shy little curtsey, Katie went away, and Stone went in search of
the master of the house.
The organ music had stopped so Stone was not surprised to find Vincent in
his Tower room.
The detective was really as much impressed and interested as the
mysterious Johnson in the architecture and decoration of the house, but
he felt he had no time to waste in idle enjoyment of its beauties.
“Wonderful place,” he said to his host, as he entered, after a knock at
the closed door. “You found many secret hiding-places or sliding panels,
perhaps?”
“Several,” Vincent told him. “Not so very secret, though. See, the one in
this room opens by merely pressing this knob. And the knob is not hard to
discern if any one looks closely for it.”
“That’s true,” and Stone watched as Vincent turned the little knob and
the panel slid smoothly and noiselessly back.
It exposed a recess with two or three shelves,—merely a concealed
cupboard, large enough to contain half a dozen good-sized boxes which
evidently held papers of value.
“This is my safe-deposit vault, Mr. Stone,” Vincent said, smiling. “I
have no other. I’m a man of simple habits, and all my papers or documents
of any importance are in here. They are of no value to any one but
myself—I mean they are of no money value. My stocks and bonds are at my
banker’s. But here I keep my will, my deeds to this house, and my private
correspondence.”
“And the papers regarding Miss Rosemary’s parentage,” Stone said. “May I
see those?”
“Certainly,” and Vincent gave him the large bundles of his brother’s
letters.
“It is a distressing subject,” Vincent said. “I have always known that
Rosemary was Carl’s adopted daughter, but I did not know, until young
Collins learned it in France, that she is also his illegitimate child. I
feel that I have my share of sorrow, Mr. Stone.”
“You surely have, Mr. Vincent, and I realize the shock it was to you to
learn this truth about your brother, just after the awful tragedy of your
sister’s death.”
“Yes. And that is one reason why I cannot consent to have guests and
laughter and gayety about my home. Rosemary is not without sensibilities,
not without appreciation of the depth of my sorrow, but she is young and
she is of an exceptionally volatile, light-hearted disposition. And,
though, of course, she does not wish entertainment and frivolities now,
yet she does want the companionship of her young friends, and I confess
their very presence wears on my nerves so that I have to beg her to
refrain from asking them here. You may not understand it, Mr. Stone, but
I am a peculiar man, and the life of a hermit best suits my tastes and
inclinations.”
“I do understand, Mr. Vincent, and I see clearly that you could not live
with any degree of peace and contentment with young visitors about.”
“And if Rosemary were my own niece,—I mean a legitimate Vincent, the case
would be different. But as things are, I feel that I am not overstepping
my rights to insist on conducting my household as I wish.”
“You certainly are not. I feel deeply sorry for you and your niece both.
I could wish you had never learned the truth of her parentage.”
“I heartily wish that, too, but in a way it brings her nearer to me to
know that she was Carl’s daughter, even though born out of wedlock.”
“It is a hard case, any way you look at it,” and then Stone went back to
his quarters at the inn.
Late that afternoon, Fibsy told of his investigation of the jungle known
as Spooky Hollow.
“Gee! it’s some place!” he exclaimed. “I’m glad I put on my old clothes,
for I got well muddied up!”
“What did you find?”
“Mud, muck, and morass,” returned the boy, succinctly.
“Do you know what morass means?” Stone asked, smiling.
“You bet I do. I lived near one at home, when I was a kid. It’s a sort of
swamp that’s mighty hard to walk on, and if it’s morassy enough it sucks
you down in, and you’re a goner! That’s what a morass is.”
“Did you see any reason to think Mr. Johnson might have been sucked in?”
Stone spoke seriously.
“No, F. S., no reason to think so. Of course, he mighta done so,—but I
can’t see it. Why, even if he went strolling about the grounds and got
stuck in the swamp, even got sucked in and sank down outa sight,—why,
of course that would have been in the evening like,—and if he had done
that, he couldn’t have killed the lady. It’s unpossible he could have
done any strolling about after he killed her,—’long about seven o’clock
in the morning. After that murder he had all he could do to hasten off to
hide himself. And, anyway, I don’t know’s the morass is as bad as that. I
tested it,—I took off my coat—it was my old one,—and I wrapped up a big
stone in it. Then I flung it out into the softest-looking spot.”
“What happened?”
“It went down,—it was sucked in. But that was, after all, only a small
bundle compared to a whole man. And, too, if he had found himself
sinking, in a place like that, he’d a set up a yell, wouldn’t he? And
somebody’d heard him, wouldn’t they? No, I can’t connect up friend
Johnson’s disappearance with that quagmirey place. I don’t say a man
couldn’t sink there, but I say there’s no theory of the crime that would
take him out there after the lady was dead.”
“That’s perfectly true. And even if he strolled round the grounds late
that night, it must have been before midnight, or the watchman would have
seen him. And, too, I can imagine his strolling in the gardens, but late
at night a man doesn’t venture into such a messy place as you make out
Spooky Hollow to be. See any spooks there?”
“Not a sign of one. It isn’t such a bad place, you know. Except for a
few mucky holes, it’s fairly good going, and the tangle of vines and low
evergreens is wild and weird in the extreme.”
Stone suppressed a smile at the boy’s diction, for he knew he was trying
to improve his English, and if occasionally he erred on the side of
stilted speech, it was wiser not to notice it.
“You heard the Wild Harp?”
“No, sir, I didn’t, though I listened out for it. Also, I looked good for
wires,—for I’ve been thinking it might be some rigged-up contraption.
But nary sign of wires or æolian harp strings or anything but trees and
shrubs and scrubs and general rank undergrowth.”
“Well, McGuire, how do you size up the whole thing?”
Fibsy was flattered,—doubly so, at being called by his surname, and by
having his opinion seriously asked.
He considered before speaking and then said:
“It’s no use, F. Stone,—I can’t size it up at all. It’s too many for me.
I’ve sometimes had glimmerings of wit about deducing things, but this
time, I’m up a stump for fair. But of one thing I am sure. That there
wild and wicked harp must play, for so many people have heard it. From
His Nibs and Miss Rosy Posy, down to the lowest and littlest of the
servant-girls, most of them have heard it at one time or another.
“Except old Mellish. He vows he never has, and there’s a twinkle in his
eye whenever he speaks of it. So, leave that Harp to me. I’m going to
find out about it,—and, oh, gee! what a dunderhead I am! Why I’ve got it
now! I see through the Wild Harp! Well, I _am_ a dumb-bell, that’s what I
am!”
“Suppose you stop your careful estimation of yourself and tell me your
astounding discovery.”
“Not just yet,—oh, give me a chance to make sure. But I’ll tell you this,
F. Stone, that harp is played by human fingers, and those same fingers
are on the mitt of that dough-faced butler! That’s who’s responsible for
them wailings and goings-on of that phantom harp! Phantom, indeed! If
Mellish is a phantom!”
“So you think he manipulates the Harp. What for, may I ask?”
“Well,” Fibsy was very serious, “I should say as he rigged it up at first
to tease his wife. She’s a scary sort of thing, and terribly afraid of
ghosts. And having Spooky Hollow ready-made for him as you may say, I
take it he just fixed up the harp arrangement for fun.”
“And after Miss Vincent’s death, you think he kept on with his joke?”
“I can’t see any other way out. Some people have a perverted sense of
humor, sir, and he may have thought it added to the dramatic side of
things to have the harp wailing and moaning out there.”
“Just how did he work it?”
“That’s what I’m going to figger out. I can do it, I know.”
“Well, go to it, Fibs. Now, I’m leaving for New York tonight, and I want
you to stand by till I return. Don’t do anything definite, but keep your
eyes and ears open and learn anything you can.”
“Yes, sir, and I’ll get next to the Harp player, and mark my word, it’ll
turn out to be Mellish.”
“Very well, look into it, if you like. But I can’t feel that the
Harp-playing, whether Mellish’s work or not, has any real bearing on
the case. Here’s an address that will always reach me,—I may have to go
further than New York. Go over to Greatlarch now and then, to keep in
touch with what they are all doing. Otherwise, just hold the fort till I
get back.”
“Yes, Mr. Stone, but for the land’s sake, do write me or wire me if you
get on to anything. For I’m burning alive with curiosity.”
“So am I, Fibsy,” said Stone.
CHAPTER XVII
FINCH’S STORY
The first thing Fleming Stone did, on reaching New York, was to visit the
two jewelers whose addresses were on the cards given him by Homer Vincent.
As he had expected, they both denied all knowledge of any one named Henry
Johnson, and declared he must have been an impostor.
Both, also, referred to a man named Markheim, who had a secret process
for manufacturing what are known as synthetic rubies. This man, they
said, was an honest and honorable person, who made no claim for his goods
beyond just what they were. He wanted to make imitation rubies and sell
them for imitation rubies,—that was all.
At Stone’s request they willingly gave him Markheim’s address, and the
detective went at once to see him.
He found the inventor a quiet, reserved, almost sullen sort of a man, but
he roused to a real pitch of fury, when Stone told him of Henry Johnson’s
errand to Greatlarch in the interests of ruby manufacturing.
“What does he mean?” Markheim cried out. “He cannot make rubies! Has he
my knowledge? Has he my secret? Why, sir, he is a terrible impostor!”
“But other men than you may have a formula,—may have invented a process—”
“Nevertheless, he is an impostor. The fact that he used those two
jewelers’ names, proves that! Those men gave me their cards as references
out of their good will and confidence in my honesty. That’s all they
vouched for,—my honesty and good faith. I told Mr. Vincent that.”
“Did you see Miss Vincent?”
“No. I saw no lady there,—only Mr. Homer Vincent, the owner of that great
and wonderful house,—Greatlarch, the place is called.”
“Yes,—now, we must admit there’s a queer proposition here. How did this
Mr. Johnson get hold of those two cards—”
“But any one can get jewelers’ cards! Pick them up from the counter, or—”
“But is it not strange that he selected the very two that you used?”
“It is a coincidence, to be sure,—but they are first-class and
representative firms,—it could be he would choose those—yet,—yes, it is
strange. Still, it is so. He gave the names to Mr. Vincent—”
“How did Mr. Vincent treat you, Mr. Markheim? I mean, was he interested
in your project?”
“Not at all. He treated me most politely, even courteously, but he would
have none of my business. He said his money was all invested in the
sort of securities he liked best, and he would not think of making any
changes. Moreover, he said he didn’t wish to enter into any business
proposition. He said such things wearied him, the financial details
bored him, and he far preferred stocks or bonds where there was no
responsibility or work involved. But he was very nice about it, and after
our chat he invited me to remain for luncheon and I did so. My! what a
house! I never saw its like! And the luncheon! It was fine—without being
too elaborate or magnificent. I enjoyed myself, I can tell you!”
“You remember the butler?”
“Yes, somewhat. He seemed a character in his way,—but his principal
thought,—I may say his life-work, is quite evidently to smooth the
path of his master and keep it free of all thorns or obstacles to his
comfort.”
“You are a good deal of a character-reader. Mellish is just as you
describe. Now, how did you size up Mellish’s master?”
“As a first-class fine gentleman. The real thing, you understand.
No shoddy or _nouveau riche_ there. A gentleman of the old school,
scholarly, refined, musical, and used to the very best of belongings and
surroundings.”
“And you saw no ladies at luncheon?”
“No; now that you mention it, I remember Mr. Vincent spoke of a sister
and, I think, a niece, who were out for luncheon that day.”
“Yes. Well, Mr. Markheim, I am obliged to you for this interview. Oh, by
the way, you left two rubies with Mr. Vincent?”
“No, I did not. I had a few with me, and I showed them to him, but I
didn’t leave any with him.”
“You didn’t forget them,—or leave them by mistake?”
“I’m sure I did not. My rubies are of small worth compared to real
stones, but also, they have considerable market value, and I certainly
did not leave any around carelessly. I left the two cards only. One was
a bit soiled—the other quite fresh.”
“H’m. Now, one last question. Do you know any one who could possibly be
interested in marketing synthetic rubies, even though he did not himself
manufacture them? I don’t mean Henry Johnson,—but, say, some one whose
initials are J. H.?”
“No, sir. I don’t know of any one except myself who is interested in such
things in my way. My process is my own invention and I have carefully
guarded my secret. I suppose there are others on the same quest but I
know none by name, nor do I think any one has the idea that I have. And I
shall yet succeed. I have a patron who is about ready to finance my work,
and I mean to make good.”
“I hope you will, Mr. Markheim, I sincerely do.”
As Fleming Stone went away from the interview, his thoughts ran swiftly
over the situation.
“It’s very strange that two men should approach Homer Vincent on the
same subject so near together. It’s even more strange that they gave
the same two references,—that they both gave the jewelers’ cards. Why
didn’t one of them merely give the firms’ names? But perhaps he did.
Perhaps Johnson only mentioned them as well-known jewelers, and Vincent,
having their cards, gave them up as memoranda. At any rate, Markheim is
an honest man,—and, so far as I can see now, Johnson is a fraud. Yet
maybe he only wanted to conceal his real name until he learned if Mr.
Vincent would put his money in the business. Of course, these inventors
with secrets keep mighty close about their affairs. But I still suspect
Johnson—as he called himself—of double dealing somehow, and I must track
him down. Guess I’ll try the Vandermore next.”
The room clerk at the big hotel was not anxious to help in the search
for an unknown name with initials J. H., but impressed by the hint of a
police investigation, he turned over to Stone the lists of names for the
dates he mentioned.
Allowing that the man had registered a few days before he went up to
Vermont, Fleming Stone set resolutely to work and found no less than six
names during those days whose initials were J. H.
But running down those names was fairly easy, though tedious, and a few
hours’ time showed him that two were respectable citizens of Boston, one
was a visiting Englishman and one a San Francisco millionaire.
This left him with a James Harrison, of Mobile, Alabama, and a John
Haydock, of Chicago.
A hasty telegram discovered Mr. Harrison to be a clergyman attending a
convention, and Stone was left with only one more chance for success in
his search.
Following a sudden flash of inspiration, he went to the Bureau of Missing
Persons.
To be sure, Haydock, if he were the man, need not be missing from his own
home,—but then again, he might.
The officials at the Bureau were most kind and helpful, and after a look
at some out-of-town records, told Stone that John Haydock was a Chicago
broker, was mysteriously missing, and the police had been searching for
him several weeks with no iota of success.
“There’s my man!” Stone cried, “now, where is he?”
But he said this only to his inner consciousness, not yet ready to let
the New York or Chicago police in on the job. He had his own interests
in the case to look out for, and as it was a most unusual and peculiar
case, he concluded to carry it a little farther by himself.
Getting all possible details of Haydock, Stone made for a long-distance
telephone and called the office of John Haydock, in Chicago.
At last he was in touch with one Robert Finch, who said he was the chief
and confidential clerk of John Haydock and was eager for news of him.
“Will you come to New York?” Stone asked, “or must I go out to Chicago?”
“I’ll come right over,” Finch promised. “I’m sure it’s the better plan.
My, I’m excited at even hearing some word of Mr. Haydock! I can hardly
wait to reach you,—but I realize you can’t say much over the telephone.”
But Stone was not so elated as the Chicago man was. It was a hundred to
one that John Haydock should be the man he was after. Finch had said
Haydock was a broker and had no interest in jewels or precious stones.
But Haydock’s interest might have been a secret one. Stone began to
think now, that Haydock was not the ruby manufacturer, but merely
the representative of an inventor. In this case, the broker would,
naturally, keep the matter secret even from his confidential clerk.
At any rate, Fleming Stone determined to try very hard to connect the
missing Chicago man with the H. J. of the umbrella.
Too impatient to wait for Finch’s word on that subject, Stone went to the
haberdashery where the umbrella had been bought.
They could not trace the purchaser, as Stone had not the umbrella with
him, but they declared the monogram had not been put on by them.
Also, as Stone described and drew a rough sketch of the letters they
entirely agreed with him that the order of the two letters was J. H. and
not H. J.
This satisfied Stone that the caller at Greatlarch used a fictitious
name, whatever else his claims to honesty might be.
“And a clever duck, too,” Stone mused; “used a name with the letters
the other way, so his umbrella would seem to be marked right. Shows
an ingenious mind,—and so, probably a crook mind. The fact that he’s
a well-known Chicago broker, is no real guarantee of his honesty and
integrity. And I’ve checked up some of those rash statements I made to
Mr. Vincent and young Collins. Let me see; I said the man who called was
not Henry Johnson, his initials were not H. J., and his business was not
about making synthetic rubies.
“I think that’s all right, so far. But I said, further, that he didn’t
murder Miss Anne, nor steal her ruby. Some work to prove that! Guess I’ll
await the Finch person and see where he lands me up.”
But his waiting hours were fraught with wild and hazy conjectures.
Where had John Haydock hidden himself? Why had he gone to Greatlarch on a
secret errand? Did his whole ruby proposition merely cloak some other and
greater intention? Did he go there with the sole purpose of killing Anne
Vincent,—and if so, why?
Again came the idea of his being an old lover of the lady,—perhaps he had
sworn to kill her, because of—pshaw! all too melodramatic. Miss Vincent,
as he pictured her from all he had heard, was a mild and inoffensive
lady, with no dark past,—yet, who could tell as to other people’s dark
pasts? And the stranger had known Miss Vincent before,—the man Prout had
disclosed that fact.
Then, say it was the theft of the ruby that took him there. Ah, that was
a little more plausible. Say he knew Miss Vincent of old, say he knew of
the great ruby, and so, he went there, using an assumed name, and taking
his time to compass his design. Probably he had no intention of murder,
but that was necessary to save his own skin.
Stone had said that the man who called himself Johnson didn’t commit the
murder or steal the ruby,—but—the detective had learned a few things
since then.
The next day Finch came. Stone had rooms for them both at the Vandermore,
and as soon as the young man could get freshened up and eat some
luncheon, they started in on their confab.
“Begin at the beginning,” asked Stone. “Tell me all you know of John
Haydock, from your very first acquaintance.”
“It won’t be a very long tale,” Robert Finch replied, as he lighted his
cigar. “About three years ago, I chanced to hear, through a friend, that
Mr. Haydock wanted a clerk. I applied for the position and got it. I
tried my best to make good and did. He advanced my salary several times
and looked upon me as his trustworthy and confidential clerk. I gave him
my best efforts, and since his disappearance, I have carried on the
business just as he always did. It’s largely routine work, or I couldn’t
have left the office just now. But I have an excellent and able assistant
who will look after things and I felt my duty was here, to find John
Haydock if possible. Where is he?”
“I’ve no idea. But we’ll come to that later. Tell me more about the man.
Describe him, please. Was he dark?”
“Dark? I should say he was. I never knew a darker white man. But that
did not mean he was anything but white in his dealings. As honest as the
day, just, rather than generous, and so silent and reserved about his
own affairs as to be considered secretive. He never chatted with me. He
talked over the necessary business matters, he was pleasant, amiable,
courteous,—but never chummy or confidential.”
“All right so far. Now tell me about the day he went away. Where did he
say he was going?”
“To New York. Said he had worked hard and had earned a vacation. Said he
would be gone maybe a week, but not more. Said I needn’t write unless
something of unusual importance turned up, which wasn’t likely, for I
know as much about the business as he does.”
“What did he take for luggage?”
“I don’t know. He rarely went off on vacation trips, but when he did he
took little luggage. Probably a large suitcase and an ordinary overnight
bag.”
“You mean a suitcase too big to cart around much?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. He’d check that somewhere and go around with
a kitbag. At least, that’s only my supposition, but it’s probably about
right.”
“And you never heard from him after he left you?”
“Not one word.”
“Didn’t that surprise you?”
“For a week or so it didn’t, and after that, you bet it did! Why, I’ve
been more and more surprised each day! And surprised isn’t the word! I’m
utterly dumfounded, flabbergasted, stunned, shocked, down and out! I
don’t know where I am at! And if you can give me a hint or a clue, I’ll
follow it to the ends of the earth. Why, quite aside from my business
acquaintance with him, I’m fond of the man. As I said, he’s not very
friendly in a chummy way, but he’s a strong, staunch, loyal heart, and
I’m grieving quite as much as I’m wondering.”
“You have no doubts then of his integrity of soul?”
“Oh, come now, integrity of soul means a lot. I don’t know Mr. Haydock
well enough to talk like that about him. But I’ve no doubt of his
business honesty or his honorable dealing toward me. After that, I know
too little of him to discuss him. Why, you’ve no idea how reticent he was
as to himself,—personally, I mean.”
“Where did he come from? Where was he born?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. It isn’t that I was afraid to ask him of
such matters, but we never met outside of business hours and as he was
not informatively inclined, it would have been silly for me to pester him
with questions.”
“I see. And you’ve no idea whether he lived in Chicago all his life or—”
“Oh, yes, I know that much. He came to live in Chicago about five years
ago—”
“From where?”
“Don’t know that, except I have a dim idea it was from the West.”
“Was he like a Westerner?”
“Not specially. He looked more like a foreigner, with his dark hair and
sallow skin. But he was one hundred per cent. American, as far as I could
see.”
“Well, details about him don’t seem to get us anywhere. Did you ever
surmise that he had any secrets in his life? Any hobby he was following
up, or any love affair?”
“I never heard or saw anything to base any such supposition or surmise
on,” Robert Finch replied, slowly.
“You’re holding back something,” Stone said, intuitively.
“No, that’s the exact truth. His only hobby that I can think of was
writing in his diary. He rarely did any of it at the office, but the few
times he did, he worked at it like a man engrossed in his occupation.”
“Where is his diary?”
“He always kept it locked up—”
“But you know where.”
“If I do, I shall not tell, until I have more reason than I have now to
think I shall never see Mr. Haydock again. What sort of a confidential
clerk should I be if I gave up his private papers because he went away
and stayed a few weeks without writing to me? And, now, Mr. Stone,
suppose you tell me what you know, and why you want to find him?”
Robert Finch was a good-looking, earnest-faced young man, of a type to
be found by hundreds in the great business offices of our cities. But he
was rather above the average in his appearance of sincerity and fealty to
his trust. Stone sized him up for a faithful custodian of his employer’s
secrets if he knew them, or of his private papers if he had them.
In as few words as possible the detective told Finch the story of the man
who went to Greatlarch, and called himself Henry Johnson. He told of the
various matters that pointed to this man’s really being John Haydock,
and, though at first unwilling to believe it, Finch was finally convinced
that it must be true.
“That umbrella!” he exclaimed as Stone described it minutely; “I know
it well! I ought to, for I gave it to him myself, more than a year ago,
on his birthday. I thought he’d like it,—and I guess he did, only—well,
he seemed to think I was a bit presumptuous to do it. He made me feel
a little ashamed and I never offered him a present again. However, he
often carries it, and I think he likes it.”
“Would he use plain black rubber-backed brushes, and only moderately fine
underwear?”
“Yes, exactly. He had money enough, and he was not at all parsimonious,
but he was—well, I think, frugal is the word. He was always well-dressed
but not at all extravagant.”
“All the things in his kitbag were brand-new,” Stone vouchsafed.
Finch smiled. “Probably found himself at low tide when he started away.
Didn’t like to go to a decent hotel with ragged things in his bag, so he
stocked up. Yes, I have to confess it all sounds like Haydock, and as
your people mention his dark coloring, I can’t see any reason to doubt
that it was he who went to Greatlarch and who introduced himself as Henry
Johnson. Why, I cannot imagine.”
“You never heard him speak of any one named Vincent?”
“Never. But I never heard him speak of anybody outside our business
lists.”
“What did he do evenings?”
“He lived in a good bachelor apartment, and he went into good society. He
was moderate in everything. He went to the theatre and concerts now and
then, he went to dinners and all that, but he wasn’t what you’d call a
regular society man. I daresay lots of his evenings he spent quietly by
himself. But I never asked him, of course, I’m judging only by my general
knowledge of him and from such few remarks as he might casually drop
while we talked business.”
“Where do you suppose he got hold of this ruby idea?”
“I don’t know. But if somebody put it up to him as a good money-making
scheme and if he thought it was, I can imagine his going up there to
interest a millionaire—”
“And using a false name?”
“Possibly.”
“And stealing a real ruby and murdering a good lady?”
“No—” Finch spoke cautiously, “I can’t say I imagine his doing that—I
can only repeat I don’t know the man, and I can’t say what he would or
wouldn’t do.”
“Mellish, the butler,—who, by the way, is no common personality,—says
that the man he calls Henry Johnson has the face of a murderer.”
Finch smiled. “Is there such a thing,” he asked, “as the face of a
murderer? As I said, Haydock’s face is as dark as a Spaniard’s, but that
doesn’t imply a dark heart. I’ve been told a murderer oftenest has a
clear bright blue eye.”
“I’ve been told that, too; in fact, I’m ready to say there is no such
thing as the typical face of a murderer. And I believe that Mellish
founded his suspicion on the fact of this man’s very dark effect.”
“How about suspecting the butler himself of the theft and of the murder?
Is he entirely free from suspicion?”
“I think so. There’s no clue or evidence against him. In fact there’s
none against anybody but Haydock,—as I shall now call him, for I am
convinced of his identity. But it does seem to be a clear case against
him. He appears from nowhere, gives a wrong name, offers a business
proposition which is clearly a faked one, spends the night, and before
dawn disappears. Almost as soon as he is gone, a murdered woman is
found, and an enormous gem is missing. He is never seen again and his
whereabouts cannot be traced. What’s the answer?”
“It looks black,” conceded Finch. “You know the Chicago police have been
hunting him, but of course they never traced him to Vermont.”
“Then that proves he went there secretly. Had he gone with no attempt
at concealment, he could easily have been traced. I’m sorry, Mr. Finch,
but every detail we learn from one another seems to draw the net still
tighter round the man who was your employer.”
“And how do you think he got away? Aside from the locked door,—and I
cannot see how he had a mechanical device handy to turn that key from the
outside, when he could not have foreseen the exact circumstances that
would come to him,—aside from that, how did he get away from Hilldale, on
a cold winter night, without hat or coat—”
“Oh, that he might have managed easily,—the getting out of Hilldale, I
mean. But I don’t yet understand that locked door. And I do think that
the solving of the mystery hangs on that.”
CHAPTER XVIII
THE TERRIBLE TRUTH
Robert Finch willingly accepted Stone’s invitation to return to
Greatlarch with him. The clerk felt that he must do all in his power to
ferret out the mystery of his employer’s disappearance, and surely his
way lay in the direction of Hilldale.
On the journey up, Stone had told his companion of Fibsy, his young
assistant, so Finch was not surprised to see the red-headed lad waiting
for them on the steps of the inn.
“I have some finds,” announced Fibsy. “Have you any, F. Stone?”
“Well, yes, Terence, I think I may say I have,—though I haven’t yet quite
made out what they mean.”
After the three were settled down in Stone’s sitting-room, and after
Stone had told the boy a general sum-up of what he had learned from Finch
and from the jewelers, Fibsy took his turn at recital.
“Well, sir,” he announced, “I found out who plays that Spook Harp, and
as I just felt sure, F. Stone, it’s none other than Friend Butler.”
“Mellish!”
“The same. He has a wireless telephone—”
“From the house?”
“Yep, from the house, and, well, I can’t ’zackly explain it, but it’s
this way. He connected a phonograph with a wireless sending set in his
workshop, and then he transmits the music to a large horn connected with
an amplifier which is concealed in a tree down in that Spooky Hollow.”
“I understand,” Stone said, “you needn’t try to explain the details of
the mechanism, Fibs; I see how it is done. But—Mellish never contrived
that himself!”
“That’s what I think, F. S. I think His Nibs is at the back of it—”
“Mr. Vincent! Nonsense! More likely that chauffeur, he’s a clever
mechanician. However, I’ve felt all along that the Wild Harp had nothing
to do with the real mystery or the tragedy; so work on that, Terence, if
it amuses you, but if you’ve any news of real importance, let’s have it.”
“Well, sir, I have. I found the bottle that belongs to that atomizer
thing.”
“You did! Now that’s something worth while. Let’s see it.”
Proudly the boy produced a small vial. It was half full of an antiseptic
preparation, and its label bore the address of a Chicago chemist.
“That’s his,” Robert Finch said at once. “That’s Mr. Haydock’s—I’ve often
seen him use it in his atomizer, during business days, when his catarrh
troubled him. Where did it come from?”
Stone looked at Fibsy.
“Now that’s the queer part,” the boy said. “I burgled Greatlarch, you
see—”
“How?” Stone asked.
“I took a chance when Mr. Vincent was playing on his big organ so hard he
wouldn’t have noticed the German army if they’d marched through him! Yes,
sir, he was just absorbed,—he was what you call it? improverising, yes,
that’s it, improverising. And I slipped into his Tower room, it’s never
locked, and I investigated that panel. You know he told us himself how to
open that panel.”
“Yes, McGuire.”
“Well, sir, I felt sure there was more to it than he told us about. And
there was. By pokin’ around good and plenty, I found another little
weeny knob and I pressed it, and there was another secret panel,—you
know—inside the first one, way at the back part.”
“And this bottle was in there?”
“Oh, Lord, no, sir, that bottle wasn’t in there! I got my yarn mixed up,
I’m that excited! No, sir, that bottle was in Mr. Vincent’s own little
medicine chest in his bathroom, just a settin’ there.”
“In Mr. Vincent’s chest, then what has it to do with the Johnson man?”
“Well, it’s a bottle of stuff that could belong to that atomizer thing.
It’s a Chicago prescription, so maybe it ain’t Mr. Vincent’s, and it
was sorta hidden away at the back, so I take it, it was meant to be
concealed.”
“McGuire, your zeal has run away with you.” Fleming Stone smiled
good-naturedly. “More likely, one of the housemaids saw this on Mr.
Johnson’s washstand, and thinking it belonged to Mr. Vincent, she put it
in his bathroom.”
“Maybe, sir,” Fibsy’s freckled face fell, “only, Mr. Vincent hasn’t one
snipjack of catarrhal trouble,—I asked Mellish,—and the other man had.
And there’s the Chicago label.”
“But what are you getting at? You can’t mean that Mr. Vincent concealed
this thing, purposely—”
“Well, somebody did. That Chicago bottle, that just fits up with the
atomizer, has no right to be in the back part of Mr. Vincent’s medicine
chest—”
“That’s so, Fibs,” and Stone looked more thoughtful. “Well, what was in
the back part of the inner secret cupboard?”
“Why, in there, sir, there was nothing but a lot of keys and tags and
such things.”
“What do you mean by such things?”
“Well, there was a key to what is most likely a safety deposit box,—you
know how they look. Then there was the key to the wine closet,—I know,
for it was labeled. And a key to the big organ,—a duplicate, I suppose.
And an old-fashioned watch-key,—oh, quite a lot of keys, mostly tagged
with brass tags or pasteboard labels.”
“Any of definite importance to us?”
“There was, sir. That one, though, wasn’t a key at all.”
“Go on.”
“It was a check,—a metal trunk check, from the Hotel Vandermore.”
“Well, any one can have a check from any hotel, can’t he?”
“Oh, F. Stone, I thought it was a check Johnson had for his trunk, you
know, and he brought it up here, and—somehow he—it had got hidden away in
there,—and I sent for it—”
“You didn’t! Fibs, you’re crazy! Whom did you send?”
“I sent Prout, the taxi man—”
“Good Lord, child, I’ll never dare go off and leave you again! It’s
probably a suitcase with Mr. Vincent’s dress clothes, that he keeps in
New York to go to a party now and then. Lots of men do that.”
But Terence McGuire was so evidently on the verge of tears, that Stone
tried to cheer him up.
“Never mind, old chap,” he said, “I’ll take the blame. If it’s Mr.
Vincent’s property, as it must be, I’ll tell him I sent for it in an
overzealous endeavor to find a clue!”
But Fibsy would not be comforted. He felt he had done a crazy,
unpardonable act, and Stone knew he would brood over it for a time.
“All right, little chum,” the detective said, “you sit here awhile, and
think out some more bright clues to follow up, and I’ll take a run over
to Greatlarch.”
Though this speech sounded sarcastic to Finch, it comforted Fibsy, for he
knew when his chief jollied him to that extent he was not displeased with
him. So he sat thinking, while the other two started off for the Vincent
home.
First of all, Stone went for the butler, as that worthy admitted the pair.
“So you’re the Spook that plays the Harp, are you, Mellish?” he said, and
though his tone was light, he spoke in earnest.
“Well, yes, sir,—and yet, I may say I see no harm in it.”
“No harm, of course, Mellish, but you never rigged up that contraption
alone. Who did it for you? The chauffeur?”
“Not he! He hasn’t brains enough to play a jews’-harp. No, sir, I—I just
did it by myself—to tease my old woman, you see.”
“And you turn it on and off as you like?”
“Yes, sir,—see, here’s the thing.”
Deeply interested, Stone and Finch followed the butler into a small
entry, where, sure enough, was rigged up a rather elaborate bit of
mechanism.
“Mellish,” said Stone, sternly, “you never did that yourself in this
world! Moreover, only a very ingenious inventor could have done it. And
I know who it was. It was Homer Vincent! He’s the man who rigged up the
wireless and the phonograph, and he’s the man who makes the records on
his organ! Too easy, Mellish,—own up.”
“Well, sir,—I may not be free of speech—”
“I’ve heard you use that phrase before. I know now what you mean by it.
You mean you’re not free to tell—”
“Yes, sir, that’s it. My master, he’s a man of strict orders, and I am
not allowed to babble, sir.”
“Your master is a strange jumble of talents,” and Finch looked curiously
at the wires and strings of the device.
“Mr. Vincent is a man of luxuriant temperament, sir,” and Mellish raised
his hand as if to ward off further remarks. “And nothing disturbs him
more than to have me chatter. So, if you will excuse me, gentlemen,—” and
Mellish simply faded away.
As Stone had supposed, he found Homer Vincent in his Tower room, and
unannounced, he led Finch there.
“I know you will be glad to meet this man, Mr. Vincent,” he said, “for he
is the confidential clerk of the man we have been calling Henry Johnson,
but whose name, as it turns out, is John Haydock.”
Vincent looked up interestedly.
“Take seats, gentlemen,” he said, pleasantly, and then acknowledged
Stone’s more definite introduction of Robert Finch.
“John Haydock,” he repeated, and it was plain to be seen from his manner
that the name meant nothing to him. “And why did your employer, my dear
sir, come to me under an assumed name?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out,” returned Finch, not so much bluntly
as determinedly. “Suppose, Mr. Vincent, we all put our cards on the
table, and see what conclusions we can come to.”
“By all means, Mr. Finch. Only, I may say, I have already put all my
cards on the table. If I haven’t, ask any questions you like.”
“I’ll do that, then,” Stone said, quickly. “Why did you not tell us that
you were responsible for the music of the Wild Harp?”
Vincent gave a little smile.
“That’s true, Mr. Stone, I haven’t been quite frank about that. But it
is a case of in for a penny, in for a pound. I rigged up that thing
merely for the amusement and bewilderment of my friends and my servants.
There were stories of hauntings and weird sounds and sights in the wild
garden they have named Spooky Hollow, and I thought I’d just give them a
jolt now and then. And, later, when it began to affect my household and
family, I still kept on, to surprise and astound them. Mellish helped me,
he turned on the instrument when I ordered him to. And he enjoyed his
wife’s thrills at the seemingly supernatural music.
“Then, Mr. Stone, when tragedy came to me, I didn’t feel like revealing
the secret of my joking deceit, so I let the matter rest, even using
it now and then when I felt inclined. I am a strange man, Mr. Stone,
many call me a freak or an eccentric. But, really, all I ask is to be
let alone, all I wish to do is to enjoy myself in my own way, which
never interferes with the doings of any one else. I am perhaps a slave
to my creature comforts, I own I like luxurious living and beautiful
appointments, but surely those are innocent hobbies if a man can afford
them.”
“Entirely so,” Stone said; “now, Mr. Vincent, we are striving to find
this Haydock, as we now call him. You never heard of John Haydock?”
“Never, Mr. Stone. Who is he?”
“A Chicago broker. Will you please let me see those cards he brought you?”
“Certainly, here they are.”
Stone scrutinized them and noted that one was considerably soiled, the
other comparatively fresh.
“Mr. Vincent,” he said, “these cards were given you by Mr. Markheim, who
came first to see you about synthetic rubies. Not by Mr. Johnson, as he
then called himself.”
“I daresay,” Vincent spoke disinterestedly. “I don’t remember saying that
Johnson left the cards here. I only said Johnson gave those references,
and I gave the cards to the detectives as a memorandum of the jewelers’
addresses.”
“I see. Now, as John Haydock was not interested in making rubies, so Mr.
Finch tells me, and as he gave you a wrong name, do you not think the
man’s motive in coming here was something other than ruby making?”
“Good heavens, man, of course I think so. He came here to kill my sister,
to steal her ruby, and perhaps to kill me, too! Of course, his ruby
story was a blind! Probably in order to induce my sister to exhibit her
wonderful jewel.”
“But I think he knew you before he came, Mr. Vincent.”
“Impossible, or he would never have given the wrong name.”
“Perhaps you knew him by both names.”
“I never knew him by either name. He was a total stranger to me. They say
he knew of my broken leg, some years since. That he knew of my sister and
my niece. These things may all be so, but he never knew me, nor did I
know him.”
“Well, here we are!” and a young voice announced the arrival of Fibsy,
accompanied by Prout, the taxi man, lugging an enormous suitcase.
They were followed by Rosemary and young Collins, who were anxious to
learn the cause of the excitement.
Prout set down the suitcase, which bore the initials J. H., and Finch
said, at once, “That is Mr. Haydock’s.”
“Aha,” said Fibsy, with a side wink at Stone, knowing full well that if
the thing turned out to be of importance, Stone would be the first to
praise him.
“It’s locked,” said Stone, “call your butler, please, Mr. Vincent.”
Homer Vincent pressed a button, and Stone dismissed the taxi man, saying
he would be paid for his time and trouble later on.
“We don’t want him about,” he said, “this may be of importance as
evidence.”
Without asking permission, he ordered Mellish to bring a wrench and
hammer, and in a few moments the suitcase was opened.
It appeared to be filled with the ordinary clothing of a plain business
man, and nothing of interest was seen until near the bottom they found a
small thick book.
“That is Mr. Haydock’s diary,” Finch said. “Give it to me.”
Without a word, Stone handed it over, but he gave a look at Finch that
said volumes.
In a moment Finch was absorbed in the contents.
“I feel,” he said, “that though this is not meant for other eyes than his
own, yet because of the stigma already cast upon him, and his inability
to speak for himself, this diary,—some parts of it, at least, should be
read aloud.”
“By all means,” said Homer Vincent, seeming truly interested at last,
“let us hear it.”
The portions that Finch read were written during the days just preceding
Haydock’s late departure from Chicago for New York.
And to the amazement of everybody, he had gone to New York, and from
there to Hilldale, to see Rosemary Vincent!
It transpired that five years ago, at the time of Carl Vincent’s death,
Haydock had been Carl Vincent’s clerk. He had seen and admired Rosemary,
though she had never specially noticed him. He was eight or ten years
older than the girl, but he had never outgrown the infatuation that he
felt for her. He determined to work hard and earn a fortune, and when
this was accomplished, he proposed to go in search of Rosemary and try to
win her for his own.
All this he did, and the diary detailed his journey to New York, his
outfitting himself with new clothing, and his departure for Vermont.
He had left the diary in his large suitcase, checked at his hotel, and
it was the check for this that Fibsy had found in Homer Vincent’s second
secret panel and had sent down to the hotel by Prout.
The advent of John Haydock was explained. There was no further doubt
about that. For nobody could question the sincerity of those entries in
the diary that told of his never-forgotten admiration and his hopes of
yet winning sweet Rosemary Vincent.
The tears came to the girl’s eyes as she heard the simple, homely tribute
to her charms. She almost wished she could see and thank the man who
admired and loved her like that.
Bryce Collins looked stupefied. Who was this man coming to seek his
Rosemary? But even these thoughts were quickly supplanted by Fleming
Stone’s stern query, “How came the check for this suitcase in your secret
cupboard, Mr. Vincent?”
“Bless my soul, I don’t know!” and the man looked utterly bewildered. “I
can only suspect some of my servants—or some intruder—”
“The same one that put the Chicago man’s bottle of medicine in your
bathroom, maybe,” suggested Fibsy.
“Here’s another reference to your father, Miss Vincent,” Finch said, as
he skimmed through the diary.
The item referred to some papers of Carl Vincent’s that Haydock had
only recently found. He mentioned coming across an old box, that he had
thought contained merely old check-books, but on turning them out, he had
discovered underneath a packet of papers which he thought would be of
interest to Rosemary and he proposed to take them to her.
“Where are they?” asked the girl, looking wonderingly about.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” her uncle said. “I, too, am interested in
anything pertaining to my brother, Rosemary.”
“Yes, Uncle, of course you are. Oh, where do you suppose Mr. Haydock is?
Uncle, the man that wrote that diary, never could have killed Antan!”
“It doesn’t seem so, certainly,” said Vincent, seeming nonplussed. “Mr.
Stone, here’s a big problem for you now. Can you work it out?”
“I can,” cried Fibsy, “at least, I can help. I can tell you where Mr.
Haydock is,—probably.”
The lad looked solemn, and Stone gazed at him curiously. Was he getting
greater than his master? This was no feeling of jealousy or rivalry on
the part of the older detective. He loved the boy, and took pride in all
his successes. But he was afraid, in his eagerness and intrepidity,
Fibsy might over-reach himself.
“He’s down in Spooky Hollow,” he said, with such a lugubrious face that
they all felt horrified.
“Sure, McGuire?” asked Stone.
“No, sir, I ain’t quite sure,—but I don’t see where else he can be.
First off,” he looked round solemnly at his hearers, “there’s a fearful
quagmire down in that hollow. It’s about six feet from the east border.
And, you remember, that cigarette-holder was found on the east lawn.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” exclaimed Collins.
“Well, now,” Fibsy went on, too earnest to note the interruption, “I
tried tying up a stone in my coat, and it sunk in the place. Yesterday
after dark, I—” he seemed to hesitate to tell of his deed,—“I bought a
whole pig of the butcher, as big a one as I could manage, and I pushed
that in. It went down in the quicksand of that swamp in less time than
it takes to tell it! The muck is all dark-brown and quivering. The
approach to it is slippery and treacherous, but there it is. Now listen
here. After Mr. Vincent left that man to go to bed that night where’d
he go? He never prowled the house all night long. He went out in the
grounds and he—he fell into that place. As he went down, he flung his
cigarette-holder as far as he could, as a sort of guide to where he met
his death.”
“That’s why he had no hat or coat,” Stone said, musingly. “Probably
stepped down off the verandah, not meaning to stay out long.”
“Poor fellow!” said Vincent, “how horrible. I had no idea that pit was as
bad as that! I’ve been intending to have it drained and dried; I shall
certainly do so. At least, we can avert another such tragedy.
“But, do not avoid the issue, gentlemen. Did not Haydock necessarily come
to his death after he had killed my sister?”
“Mr. Vincent,” Stone said, “you know I told you the man who came to see
you was not named Johnson, was not initialled H. J., did not come to
discuss making rubies, did not kill your sister, and did not steal her
ruby. To all of those statements I adhere.”
“You do? Then find the murderer! Find the man who killed my sister! Can
you do that?”
“I think I can,” and Stone nodded his head, thoughtfully.
“Listen, please, all of you. This murder of Miss Vincent is in every
respect the worst I have ever known—the most fiendishly contrived and the
most brutally carried out. The murderer is—Homer Vincent.”
Vincent stared at the speaker, but smiled a little indulgently, as one
might at a harmless maniac.
“Then,” Fibsy spoke in an awed whisper, “then he’s a double-dyed dastard,
for he murdered John Haydock!”
“What?” cried Finch.
“Yes, he did. Out there beside the quagmire is a piece of planking that
has footprints on it. Those are Mr. Vincent’s prints, but Lord, there’s
enough else to prove everything!”
“There is indeed,” Stone added, “and here is the motive. After you found
the second secret panel, McGuire, I thought there might be a third. There
is. The tiniest speck of a pinhead knob, when pressed sideways, opens a
third concealed recess, and in it I have found,—first, Miss Vincent’s
ruby, now Miss Rosemary’s property, and what is even more valuable to
her,—is this.”
He gave her a folded paper, while Homer Vincent sat as if turned to stone.
“You fiend!” he said to Stone, “you devil incarnate!”
“Keep those epithets for yourself,” the detective said, coolly. “Are you
going to confess?”
“I am.” Homer Vincent’s voice rang out. “I’m going to tell the truth for
the last time in my life. I did kill John Haydock, because he knew the
secret of my niece’s birth—knew that she is the legitimate daughter of
my brother and his wife, Mary Leslie. They were married twice, really.
The first time, secretly, because her mother objected. Her little girl
was born and baptized, also secretly, but entirely legally, in France,
and put in an asylum there, because Mary’s mother would not have forgiven
them had she known of it.
“Later the mother died, and my brother and his wife were married again,
publicly. Then, when their baby was born and died, they adopted from the
asylum the little Rosemary, who was their own legitimate child. But,
when my brother died, five years ago, and left me trustee of Rosemary’s
fortune, I was tempted and fell. I took it all myself, bought this
splendid house, and have lived here in the luxury I love ever since.
“When Haydock came,—yes, the ruby story I made up entirely
myself,—Haydock never spoke to me of rubies,—he talked only of Rosemary’s
parentage, so I, remembering the other ruby man, pretended Johnson came
on the same business. He told me himself that he sent in his name as
Johnson, for fear I would refuse to see Haydock. Lord, I had forgotten
him entirely! Well, when he told me that he knew all about Rosemary, and
threatened to expose the whole story unless I forced her to marry him, I
couldn’t see any way to keep my beautiful home and to save the girl from
a loveless marriage except by putting Haydock out of the way.
“It was not difficult. We strolled in the garden, went down to inspect
Spooky Hollow, and—I pushed him in. He struggled like fury,—flinging his
arms about. You know the more they struggle, the quicker they sink.”
“And your sister?” said Stone, hardly able to overcome his repugnance at
speaking to this creature, scarce human he seemed.
“Well,” Vincent looked reminiscent. “I didn’t want to—but she declared
she was going to tell the truth about the girl. I couldn’t have
that,—can’t you understand”—he spoke almost pettishly—“I couldn’t live
elsewhere than in this house,—and of course I couldn’t live here if
Rosemary took all her money. I have no money at all. I spent all mine for
this place; it is what my brother left that runs the establishment.”
“How did you kill your sister?” asked Stone, his dark eyes fixed
inexorably on Vincent’s face.
“That you will never know,” and, with a smile of diabolical cunning,
Vincent slipped into his mouth a small object which Stone knew to be a
poison tablet.
But it was too late to stop him, and Stone thought pityingly of Rosemary.
Perhaps that death for her uncle was easiest for the niece.
And while there was yet life in the body of the wicked man, Stone shouted
the truth at him.
“I do know. You stabbed her yourself, after the door was burst open. You
gave her extra sleeping drops to be sure of her sleeping late in the
morning. When they couldn’t waken her, you broke through the door, rushed
in, and bending over the living woman, stabbed her to the heart, and with
the protection of her long, heavy bed-curtains, you were able to draw out
the knife unseen. The knife you probably threw into the quicksand. Also,
you stole her ruby! Am I right?”
And with a smile, still horrible, even demoniacal, the dying man
murmured, “You are right.”
He never spoke again.
At a gesture from Stone, Bryce Collins led Rosemary away.
“Don’t cry so, dearest,” he said, tenderly. “Such a fiend isn’t worth
your tears. Come, I will take you at once to my mother—oh, darling, just
think, there is no reason, now, why she won’t receive you!”
“Thank God for my birthright,” said the girl, reverently. “And,” she
added, looking into his eyes, “for your love, dear heart.”
“My beloved,” he whispered, as he held her close, “as you know, I wanted
you with any name or no name, but I am glad,—_glad_, dear, that we can
give our children a goodly heritage. Bless you, my Rosemary, my darling.”
THE END
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